21
The hospital had a balcony running around three sides. The private rooms had French windows letting out onto it. I got out of bed and walked gingerly to the window. Just undoing the catch put a strain on my side and made me wince. I forgot about my trussed-up jaw and swore and that hurt as well. Out on the balcony I sucked in the warm air and moved along and around one side of the building until I could see the hospital car park. I saw Clinton almost jogging towards the Tarago. He got in and drove off, burning rubber.
It was good to be breathing fresh air again and I lingered on the balcony. There was a good view back towards the river and I remembered some good times I’d had in the picnic grounds there with Helen Broadway years ago-salad rolls, white wine and grappling under the trees. I could smell the smoke from her one-a-day unfiltered Gitane and I missed her.
‘Mr Hardy! What are you doing?’
The Matron was standing by the French window looking as if she’d like to throw me over the balcony.
‘Taking the air,’ I said. ‘Wondering when I’ll get parole.’
‘You’re not a prisoner, you know.’
‘Right.’ I walked towards her with as much freedom of movement as I could muster. ‘And I think I’m going to have to leave. I’ve got things to do.’
She shook her head. ‘Back to bed. Dr Sangster says when you’ll leave.’
I stood my ground. ‘No, Matron. I’m leaving now. Just bring me the ten or twelve forms I have to fill out and I’ll be on my way. I’ll need my clothes, of course.’
For a minute I thought she was going to use that admission as her leverage, but she relented, probably glad to see me go after the Scotch incident and my refusal to see the chaplain. After a few minutes my washed and pressed clothes arrived together with my wallet and car keys, shoes and socks. I dressed with difficulty and made my way down to the front desk where I answered questions and signed forms that seemed to waive all responsibility for everything and authorised my medical fund to open the vaults.
‘Thank you,’ I said to the receptionist as I signed the last form.
Barnes, the administrator, appeared and inspected the forms. He signed in various places himself and looked at me as if I’d lifted his wallet.
‘I think you may find the interior of your car… ah, a little offensive.’
‘That’s okay, Mr Barnes. I’m expecting to find four cans of beer on the seat. If I don’t you’ve got a pilferer and I’ll be displeased.’
He frowned. It wasn’t much of a parting shot but the best I could do with my neck, jaw and ribs hurting like hell.
The car was parked partly in the shade, but it must have heated up at times and something of the smell of my urine remained. The beer was on the seat and the cosh was in the glove box but my blood went cold when I saw that my pistol wasn’t there. The only explanation for its absence was Clinton and that made me very worried. According to the firearms regulations I was supposed to report the loss of the weapon immediately, and how was I going to do that without screwing everything up? Worrying about it made me almost forget the pain as I drove home. An irrational young man, inexperienced with firearms, in possession of a high-powered weapon and eight rounds of ammunition was a recipe for disaster. And what was I going to tell his father?
The counter on my answering machine told me there’d been six calls. Three of them didn’t matter, but three were from Rex Nickless. I checked the office number and found he’d called there the same number of times. On the third call in each case he sounded very testy-more the building site foreman with the hard hat and the rough tongue than the besuited executive. He demanded an update on my activities.
I rang his office and was put straight through. ‘Hardy,’ he said. ‘I got your report and then heard fuck-all. Where’ve you been?’
‘In hospital. I got knocked about.’
‘You sound funny.’
‘A broken jaw’ll do that.’
‘Was it Cousins?’
Easy to evade that one. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Stop pissing me about. I’m still paying you. Have you found him or not?’
‘I’ve spoken with him, yes.’
‘Did you tell him what I wanted?’
‘He doesn’t trust you or me.’
‘Who cares? He’s in trouble if he doesn’t do what I want. Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Jesus! You let him go?’
‘Mr Nickless, I was lying in a hospital bed with my jaw wired up and a couple of metres of strapping around my chest. He’s six foot two and fourteen or fifteen stone. I wasn’t exactly in a position to detain him.’
It’s strange how you can visualise the behaviour of a person on the other end of the phone when they’re not talking. I suppose it’s something you pick up from the breathing, the pauses. I could see Nickless gripping the receiver with whitening knuckles and loosening his silk tie with the other hand as he fought for control over himself. His money usually gave him all the control he needed over other people, except his wife and ‘George Cousins’. And me.
‘Listen, Hardy, if you’re out of hospital you must be okay. Maybe you can’t drive. We have to meet. Tell you what, I’ll send someone around to your place to pick you up.’
I thought about that very quickly. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Make it in an hour or so. My doctor’s coming around in a few minutes to look me over again.’
‘Right. I’ll see you soon.’
I rang Ian Sangster and told him what I’d done. He swore and said he’d come to see me after his surgery hours. I said I’d be at his place instead, inside fifteen minutes.
‘Can you walk?’
‘Just.’
Clive’s taxi was in the street so I limped next door and asked him for my mail. He was surprised to see me and told me how crook I looked. I thanked him and took the couple of uninteresting-looking letters.
‘Did your mate call in?’ he asked.
I’d moved away and turned towards the gate, now I turned back and felt pain shoot through my chest.
‘What mate?’
‘Bloke knocked at the door yesterday as I was going out. Young guy. Tough-looking. Said he was a friend of yours. I told him where you were.’
I didn’t like the sound of that, but there was no point in putting Clive on the spot. ‘Oh, him, yeah, sure. He dropped in.’
‘Right, Cliff. Take it easy.’
Good advice and I’d have been glad to adopt it if I hadn’t had at least six things to worry about. The exertion had tired me. I put a banana and some milk in the blender and slowly drank the result. Then I had a large Scotch and drove the short distance to Sangster’s surgery.
He smelled my breath. ‘I see you’ve been on the mother’s milk.’
I consulted my ancient Swatch. ‘This can’t take more than thirty minutes.’
‘You’re going to a disco?’
‘Hah.’ With difficulty, I stripped off my shirt. Ian removed the strapping, inspected the damage and re- strapped me. He examined my jaw, took my temperature and manipulated my neck. It all hurt but I was stoical.
‘Tough guy,’ he said. ‘You think I don’t know what you’re suppressing?’
