‘It’s different from an affair ending. Worse in some ways, of course, but different.’
‘Are you saying you feel unfaithful?’
‘A bit like that, but not really. It’s all right. I’m glad you knew Barnes. I’m bound to talk about him.’
‘Bound to. So am I.’
She moved away and sat up with the sheet pulled up around her shoulders. ‘It’s bizarre, isn’t it?’
‘It doesn’t have to be. Not if we don’t let it.’
‘Not just a quick fuck for you, then?’
I reached up and pulled her down gently. ‘No. Nothing like that, Fel.’
‘Good. Let me up. I’m going to make coffee.’ She found her striped shirt on the floor and put it on; she gathered up two empty coffee mugs, both from the same side of the bed, and went out. It wasn’t a bad room to be post-coital in- low bed, polished floor, clothes in those white wire Swedish drawers and some framed drawings on the walls. There were no male clothes or items around. Paperbacks lay around the bed in piles- mysteries, poetry, travel-but books are gender-neutral.
Felicia came back with the coffee and we sat on the bed and drank it and didn’t say anything. I looked at the drawings-nude studies, front and back, male and female.
She saw me looking. ‘Barnes,’ she said.
I nodded.
‘I cleaned all his clothes out, shoes and that.’ She wept then, long and hard, with her body-shaking and the grief buffeting her, until she was drained and quiet. I sat close to her on the bed, sharing the space but not touching her while she went through it. At last she pulled up a bit of the pale yellow sheet and wiped her eyes. A lot of black stuff came off on the sheet, and I realised that eyeliner was the only make-up she wore.
‘OK?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m…’
‘Don’t say sorry. It’s all right. You’ll miss him and things about him for years, probably. I still miss Cyn, sometimes.’
‘Cyn?’
‘My wife. Someone else’s wife for ten years or more, but still…’
I put my arm around her shoulders and she relaxed against me. ‘And who was it a year ago?’
‘Helen.’
‘D’you miss them all, Cliff?’
‘There aren’t many.’ I pointed to the bean bag and the cane chair and the wicker chair on the balcony. I patted the bed. ‘We wouldn’t need many more seats than this for my roll call. A few, but…’
She laughed. ‘I know what you mean. They’re always with you if you let them, but they don’t have to be.’
‘Right.’
She took my right hand. ‘You haven’t told me about this.’
I told her what had happened in Coogee. She got off the bed and straightened one of the pictures on the wall. ‘What do they want, for Christ’s sake?’
I shrugged. ‘Barnes’ paintings? Documents?’
‘I don’t know anything about any documents. The paintings and photographs’re with a friend in Bulli. I’ve been thinking about them. I’m going to go down and get them. I’ll offer them to Piers Lang for an exhibition.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Leon Willowsmith’s arch-enemy.’
‘Sounds good to me. I’m waiting for everything-for O’Fear’s release, for Anna Carboni, for Michael Hickie to fill me in on some business matters. I want to talk to the Bulli cops and some witnesses. Can I come with you to the coast?’
‘Is it just business?’
‘No.’ I put my hands on her smooth shoulders and she came back onto the bed, and we did some of the same things and some new things, and it was even better the second time.
13
We ate and drank whatever was in the fridge. Felicia touched up her drawings and developed some of her pictures in a darkroom that was part of the flat’s second bedroom. I dipped into Robert Hughes and wondered whether I was related to the old lag Henry Hale, who arrived on the Third Fleet and endured the hell of Toongabbie. My maternal grandfather had been a Hale. I praised the photographs, which seemed to capture every detail of the park and add something to them. Perhaps Felicia’s grief. But we spent most of the time together in bed.
At nine o’clock the next morning we were on the road to the south coast. I was wearing the clothes I’d worn the day before; but I keep a towel and swimming trunks, a sweater, shorts, thongs and sneakers and a jacket in the car, so I wasn’t ill-equipped for the trip. I had my Autobank card and my answering machine was switched on. I had the device to monitor it sitting in the glove box of the Falcon, about ten centimetres from the Smith amp; Wesson. 38. I had a woman who made me laugh and felt like a friend and a lover and a sparring partner. What the hell else did I need?
It was a grey but not threatening day. I’d done work in Wollongong and Port Kembla and some of the farther-flung south coast towns before, but some years back. I thought I was familiar with the route, but Felicia had to jog my memory at a couple of the turns and bypasses.
‘Did you know D.H. Lawrence lived in Thirroul for a while?’ Felicia said as we went into the National Park.
‘I saw the film.’
We talked about the film of Kangaroo and related matters all the way over the Audley crossing and past the turnoffs to Maianbar and Bundeena. On the other side of the park the sky seemed to clear; a couple of hang- gliders hovered, high above the coast from Otford Heights.
‘Things I’ve yet to do,’ I said. ‘That and scuba diving.’
‘What about parachuting?’
‘I’ve done that in the army.’
‘How was it?’
I looked at the hang-gliders; one of them executed a turn and swoop, and soared far out over the sea. ‘Not much fun.’
‘Do you find your work fun, Cliff? All this questioning and digging into lives and pushing people around?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I like che blondes and brunettes.’
She looked out the window, and I felt the chill.
‘Sorry. That was dumb. There isn’t much of those things you mentioned. Just now and then. Mostly it’s dull routine stuff. I don’t mind it- I’m independent, I can think my own thoughts.’
‘Mm. This is awkward, isn’t it? You screwing the widow in the case. Ever done this before?’
‘Come on, Fel. You’re not the widow in the case to me. That’s not how it is. You’re you, I’m me, Barnes was Barnes, the job’s the job. Things can be kept separate.’
‘Can they?’
‘Look, I know a guy who married three sisters. Three. The first one died and the second marriage didn’t work out because she left him. He’s been with the third sister for fifteen years. He told me that when he thinks about it, he never thinks of them as sisters. They’re individuals.’
She smiled. ‘That’s a nice story.’
‘It’s true.’
‘I don’t care whether it’s true or not. It’s a nice story.’
The temperature was more pleasant for the rest of the drive.
The Todds’ holiday house was a 1930s-style, double-fronted weatherboard bungalow, on a bluff about a
