‘He twigged to what I was doing.’
‘This isn’t working, is it?’
‘Not as well as I hoped. Wait on, he’s back. Jane, I want to try something drastic. Just do exactly as I say, okay?’
She nodded.
We’d had dinner in Randwick. I drove back to her place, parked outside and escorted her up the path. The car that had followed us cruised slowly into view. Halfway to the entrance doors I grabbed her and kissed her.
‘Shove me away hard and hit me,’ I said.
She did it. I slapped her quite solidly, held her and slapped again, trying to make the second slap look harder but pulling it. I swung her around and pushed her down without letting her fall. I kept a firm grip and dragged her to the entrance, pretending to shout at her.
‘Struggle,’ I said.
She struggled.
We got to the entrance, where we couldn’t be seen from the street and I put my arms around her.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to provoke something. It was the only way. Are you all right?’
She was breathless and hung on to me for a minute before breaking away.
‘I’m all right. It hurts a bit. I’d hate to be hit by you if you meant it.’
‘You’re terrific, Jane, just terrific. Go in now. I’ll ring you tomorrow. I’m hoping this’ll bring things to a head.’
She put her hand to the side of her face. ‘Be careful,’ she said.
I waited until she had gone inside and then I came out and walked back to my car. There was no movement in the street. I drove back to Glebe as slowly as I could. I wasn’t followed. I gave myself a physical check as I drove. I was still stiff and sore in various spots and there was no point in pretending I was the fighter I’d once been. But I was still strong and quick and could put up a good show at least for a short spell. And most street fights are over within seconds. I’d been in quite a few and seen others and never one that lasted as long as they do in the movies.
He was waiting for me as I suspected he would be. It was late and the street was quiet. The white Commodore was parked four or five car spaces from my house. I stripped off the light jacket I was wearing as I got out of the car. I approached my gate and he stepped out from behind my neighbour’s giant 4WD. The spot isn’t well lit, but it was light enough for me to see that he was big and bulky with a prominent jaw and a beard.
‘You’re going to be sorry you were ever born, arsehole,’ he said.
‘You’re repeating what your boss said. Don’t you have any ideas of your own?’
That annoyed him, which was his first mistake. He rushed at me. I stepped aside and almost tripped him but he was nimble and got his balance back before I could hit him. He got in one straight punch to my still tender shoulder and I gasped and had to step back. That encouraged him and he made his second mistake. Kick-boxers think they have an extra weapon but they don’t really. As soon as they swing that foot their balance is a factor and in the ring their opponents aren’t permitted to grab hold. I was waiting for the kick. It came and if it had landed it would have done serious damage. He wore a pair of heavy boots, but that was another mistake. He’d have trained and competed in light shoes and the boots slowed him and affected his timing just a little. Just enough. I caught the foot in both hands and twisted hard as his weight came forward. He screamed as his knee ligaments and tendons stretched and tore and he went down. His head hit a brick pillar and he flopped onto his back. His eyes rolled up and closed.
It had only taken a few seconds and was quiet apart from his yell. I grabbed a handful of his shirt and coat collar and pulled him through my gate and up onto the porch. He was stirring but he wasn’t going anywhere with that knee and a probable concussion. I hauled him through the door, dragged him inside and shut the door. He tried to stand and gasped as his weight went onto the knee. He didn’t seem to know quite what had happened and he let me half carry him down the passage and drop him into an armchair.
His thick hair had protected his head, but blood was oozing out and trickling across his forehead. I wet a washcloth in the bathroom, filled a glass with water and brought them to him. I put the cloth up to his head and lifted his hand to hold it there. I put the glass in his other hand and lifted it to his mouth.
‘Drink it,’ I said.
He was dazed and uncoordinated but he gulped down some of the water and kept the cloth in place. My shoulder hurt where he’d hit me but compared to him I was in very good shape. His leg twitched and he yelped as the knee hurt him. The pain seemed to clear his brain and he stared at me as if he couldn’t believe someone so much older had taken him so easily.
‘You’d be Alexander Mountjoy,’ I said. ‘Michael Tennyson’s pimp and gofer.’
‘Fuck you,’ he said.
‘We’re going to have a talk, Alex, but first I need a drink.’
‘My leg’s. .’
‘Badly damaged and the longer it stays without treatment the worse it’ll be. You might try this new synthetic stuff the footballers go in for. Not sure if it’ll work for the medial and the cruciate, but. .’
‘Talk about what?’
‘Hang on.’
I went upstairs and got the miniature tape recorder Hank had given me as a birthday present and put it in my pocket. Then I got a bottle of scotch and a couple of glasses from the kitchen. I poured two hefty drinks, gave him one and put my hand in my pants pocket to turn on the recorder.
‘Let me get a few things straight. You’ve been helping Tennyson harass Jane Devereaux-delivering obscene material, following her, and you broke into her flat and stole some letters, right?’
‘Fuck you again.’
‘The longer it takes, the worse for the leg.’
‘Okay, okay, yes. I did what I was told to do. No one got hurt.’
‘Why is Tennyson doing this?’
‘He’s crazy, he’s obsessed with the ugly cunt.’
‘And you drove your car at Mary Oberon. Was that on Tennyson’s instruction, too?’
‘Yeah, that bloody whore fucked up. She was supposed to screw Forrest up good and proper, but she wasn’t up to it. She was supposed to get photos and she fucked that up.’
‘And she wiped the emails.’
‘Right, the dumb cunt.’
‘Tennyson’s an unforgiving employer, eh?’
He didn’t respond.
‘All right, here’s the big one. Why did you shoot Bobby Forrest?’
He’d drunk most of the scotch and was wincing with pain but suddenly his manner changed. He gaped at me.
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
‘I didn’t shoot him.’
‘Tennyson said he’d have him killed.’
He shook his head and the movement hurt his leg. ‘Look, Tennyson’s crazy but he’s not that crazy. He’d have got me to beat him up, sure, and I’d have been glad to do it-cocky ponce. But that’s all.’
It wasn’t what I expected to hear and I had to struggle to control my reaction. The trouble was, I believed him. His surprise and alarm were genuine, no doubt about it.
‘You followed him and Jane Devereaux in a white Commodore. Forrest spoke to me just before he was killed and he was being followed by a white Commodore.’
‘There’s a million fucking white Commodores.’
That was true.
‘Tell me what happened tonight.’
He told me that he’d phoned Tennyson and reported that I’d hit Jane Devereaux. Tennyson told him to wait for me and hurt me.
