Peter Temple - Black Tide

‘Sometimes he said it was secret work. For the government. He speaks Thai and Vietnamese and Mandarin. That’s a kind of Chinese. His mother was half-Thai. Never met her. Never met anyone in his family.’

I looked around. Secret work for the government. Parliament House. This was an excellent spot to be discussing someone who did secret work for the government.

‘Any idea what kind of secret work?’

Helpless look. Shake of the head.

‘And he didn’t tell you where he was going this time?’

Shake.

‘Or how long he’d be away?’

Shake.

This was fishing without a hook.

‘The men who came to tell you. Who were they? Police?’

‘Didn’t say. You don’t ask, do you? Said Dean might have had an accident. That he was doing secret work…’

‘For the government?’

She shrugged. ‘Didn’t say that. Can we go out? I need a smoke.’

We went out and found a smoking spot, in the wind, evidence vanishing as it left her mouth.

‘They said I couldn’t tell anyone about it.’ Deep draw, expulsion, instant disintegration of smoke. ‘They said we’d be taken care of. Mortgage paid out. All that. But I couldn’t tell anyone.’

She had two more quick, shallow draws, threw the cigarette away, leaned towards me, took my left hand in both of hers, long fingers, squeezed. Eyes on mine, pale blue eyes. ‘I thought, just forget Dean? That’s what they want. Sorry, Dean’s missing. End of story. Here’s some money. Don’t tell anyone. Sorry about the girls. I thought, fucking hell, do they think I can buy another Daddy for the girls? One day, they’re grown up, and all they know is their Daddy went away and never came back.’

The end of the day was in the wind, a cold end. I looked out over the city. Designed by Americans, the city and its citadel. Built from scratch. Our Brasília.

‘When Dean rang from Melbourne, did he give you any idea of what he was doing? Anything at all?’

She made a helpless shoulder movement, looked away. ‘I shouted at him, started crying. I’d had it, it was all too bloody much. Birthday party, no-one to help me. Then Lorna, the little one, they’re all rushing around, she fell and hit her head against one of Dean’s bloody garden boulders, I never wanted the ugly things. He wanted these rocks, I couldn’t see the point. Little girl lying there, not making a sound, blood pouring out of her head. I thought she was dead…’

She let go of my hand.

‘Anyway, when he rang, it was after eleven that night, the girls were asleep, I wasn’t going to wake them, just went ballistic, how can bloody work be so important that a father can’t be at home for his little girl’s birthday? Said that sort of thing. I mean, can you blame me?’

This was possibly therapeutic for Meryl but it wasn’t helping me. The view was palling, too.

She fired up another cigarette. ‘So, he said, Dean said, listen, pull yourself together, I’m not having a holiday here. He was cross. Really cross. Shouting. Never like that. Never.’ Tossed her head.

Silence. I could feel her shivering.

‘Christ, it gets cold. Then it’s hot. Never felt well since the day I came here. Never. Hate the place.’

She shook her head, scratched her face. Chemical relief was needed. She turned to me, tears down her face, put out a hand, put it on my chest, on my heart, leaned her head. ‘Love him so much,’ she said. ‘I just couldn’t cope. Stupid, weak person.’

I put my right hand over hers, pressed it. ‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re a strong, brave person. What was he shouting?’

‘He said, he’d been drinking, I can always tell, he said, “Two more days with this bastard Connors and I’m home and fucking Black Tide’s over.’’’

‘The name. Connors. You sure?’

‘Yes.’ Sniff. She sat back. ‘Connors. That’s what he said. This bastard Connors.’

‘The other thing. Black Tide? Is that it?’

‘Yes. Black Tide.’

‘You knew what that was?’

‘No.’ Sniff. ‘Well, knew the name, didn’t know what.’

I waited.

Sniff. ‘We went to a barbie at the Conroys’. Friends, well, Tony’s a friend of Dean’s. She says she can’t talk to me any more.’

‘Who?’

‘Deirdre, Tony’s wife. I rang her after they came to tell me.’ She looked around, distracted.

Prompt: ‘And at the barbie…’

‘Tony said to Dean…They were doing the meat. I came out with beers and I heard Tony say, Black Tide’s running again. So I asked Dean on the way home, what’s Black Tide? A horse? And he said, forget you heard it. Don’t ever mention it to anyone.’

She put a hand to her hair, stood up. ‘Stuck in my mind. Black Tide. S’pose I shouldn’t mention it to you. What the hell does it matter now? Got to go. Kids.’

I stood up. There was an intimacy between us. She came closer. ‘He’s everything,’ she said. She touched her head to my chest. I put my lips to her pale hair, sweet-smelling, my hands on her shoulders. Total strangers on a former hilltop.

‘Listen, Meryl,’ I said. ‘I’ll try to find out about Dean. Don’t sign anything, don’t accept any offers these people make. I’ll get a lawyer to ring you.’

She said, muffled, ‘Aren’t lawyers all crooks?’

I crossed my fingers. ‘That’s a myth,’ I said.

Meryl gathered herself. She took something out of the top pocket of her jacket and offered it to me. It was a photograph of a man with a child on his shoulders.

‘Dean,’ she said. At the door, she looked back, raised a hand, feigned a smile. I raised a fist, felt stupid immediately. It was a symbol of strength, solidarity, hope. What did I know of strength, solidarity and hope?

I waited a while, went back inside, wandered around to the lifts. When one came, I politely allowed everyone in, decided to take the stairs. Caught another lift on the next floor. Getting into a cab, outside the front entrance, I looked back. The only person looking my way was a tall man in a grey suit, convict haircut, bony face. He was moving, bringing dark glasses up to his face. And then he found them uncomfortable, stopped to adjust the fit.

Could be nothing. Could be otherwise.

More than two hours to kill. I got dropped in the city centre, or that’s what the man said it was, walked around, found a bookshop, bought a promising-sounding novel called In the Emptiness of Time, found a cafe, drank coffee, reasonable coffee. I saw many men in rubber-soled brown shoes, spotted a number of women with buns: insufficient evidence to back up Shane DiSanto’s generalisation but certainly a worrying incidence. Enough to justify a large university research grant.

I didn’t see the bony-faced man in the grey suit. But not for want of looking.

And still I was early for the plane. In the tawdry bar, I asked for a beer with half a shot of lime.

‘Dynamite combination,’ said the barman. He was young and pale, long nose, sleek fair hair, very likely a final-year student at the local university, cultural studies student perhaps, deconstructing our encounter.

‘Beer cocktail. What kind of glass? Martini glass?’ He had a look, a smart amused look.

Bartending was clearly a fun experience out here at Canberra airport. Low-level politicians. Public servants. Assorted jovial political parasites. Polite people. No hard-core drunks, no unpredictable people to take offence at your smile, throw a full ashtray at you, climb over the counter, get you in a headlock and try to drown you in the drip tray. Around here bartending was just a source of income and good party stories. About how you said all these smart things to this old fart who wanted a beer with lime.

Beer with fucking lime. I ask you.

These thoughts came to me while looking at the person. I was tired. I didn’t say anything, just looked at him. He looked back, smiled another kind of smile, looked away. After a while, even the young and smart and playful recognise men at the edge of endurance.