hundred metres back from the ocean. I carried Felicia’s overnight bag through the rather gloomy passage to the back of the house. The light was held out by bamboo blinds drawn down low on all windows. When Felicia lifted the blinds I saw that the view of the water was a bit blocked by trees and other houses, but there was more than a glimpse.
‘When can I see Lawrence’s ghost?’
She pointed out the window at a narrow stretch of rocky beach at the bottom of a steep path. ‘Down there at high tide. Or is it low tide? I forget.’
I put the plastic shopping bag that held my few possessions on the floor and moved quietly around the big room. It ran the width of the house. The room had a closed-up, musty smell. It occurred to me that this was probably her first visit since Barnes’ death. We both felt the awkwardness. In holiday houses people have fun, drink and eat a bit, spend a lot of time in bed and forget their cares. That’s what those places are for. We were both wondering if the mood was transferable.
‘I think I’ll do some drawing,’ she said.
I nodded. ‘I’ll go into Bulli and poke around.’
‘We’re well back from the scarp here. It stays warmer later. It’d be good to have a swim around four.’
It was just past eleven. She was giving me my marching orders for five hours while she dealt with her memories and emotions.
‘Right,’ I said. I kissed her on the forehead. ‘What provisions should I get?’
‘Nothing. I’ll take a walk to the shops. If you want Drambuie or something exotic you’d better get it yourself. Jesus!’
‘What?’
She had opened a door that led to a narrow passage and out onto the deck that ran along the back of the house. The intense light outside showed where the door to the deck had been jemmied open and later pushed back into the frame.
‘Have a look around,’ I said. ‘See if anything’s been disturbed.’
I went out onto the deck. An agile person could have reached it easily from the overgrown garden. Behind the house was a narrow lane and the backs and sides of other houses. No problem. The surf crashed on the beach around the headland. Felicia had taken off her sandals and I didn’t hear her on the deck until she was beside me.
‘Someone’s been through the place,’ she said. ‘Nothing taken, nothing damaged. I suppose they’re going through the Redfern flat right now. Unwrapping the tampons. What is this, Cliff? What’s it all about?’
‘I don’t know. You’d better come with me.’
‘No chance. This is my house and I’m staying here.’ She stalked away and when I went back into the house I found her clicking bullets into the magazine of a. 22 repeating rifle.
‘Hey. What’re you doing?’
‘Go and earn your money, Cliff. Don’t worry, I know how to use this. I’ll be all right.’
‘Those things’re illegal now. Don’t you read the papers?’
‘I don’t give a bugger. This government’s on the way out. Bloody fools. They can’t enforce that law. Every country cop’s got a couple of guns himself. It’s madness.’
A gun lobbyist, for God’s sake. I left.
Sergeant Trevor Anderson wasn’t a whole lot of help. He was youngish for his rank, anxious to please but new in the district and very light on for experience.
‘I don’t think I can add anything to what you already know, Mr Hardy,’ he said. ‘There were a couple of witnesses or people on the scene pretty quickly. You’ve got their names.’
‘Yes. Was there any other traffic on the road?’
He pushed back his sandy hair, which was a bit longer than normal for a cop. He also wore spectacles. It looked as if he was hoping to rise to Commissioner by force of intellect. He checked his notes carefully. ‘Apparently not.’
‘What does that mean, sergeant?’
‘None of the witnesses mentioned any. Is that all, Mr Hardy? I’ve got work to do.’
Merv Simpson, one of the firefighters, was at home. He had recently been laid off from a coalmine and he was happy to pass the time of day. Trouble was, he couldn’t tell me anything. He had seen the fire, not the accident, and he was sure that Clarrie Bent, who had helped him, was in the same boat.
‘Talk to Warren,’ he said. ‘Warren Bradley. He got us on the blower. Poor bugger sits up all night. He mighta seen a bit more.’
Warren Bradley’s wife read my card carefully, studied my face and then showed me through to the back verandah of the house, which was in a bushy setting back from the steeply descending road. Bradley was a heavy-set, middle-aged man with grey hair and a pale, pudgy face that looked as if it had once been tanned and hard. He was sitting in a wheelchair, staring out over the treetops towards the water.
‘Be patient with him,’ Mrs Bradley whispered. ‘He’s a bit difficult.’
‘I’m not bloody difficult, Mildred,’ Bradley said, ‘and I can hear your whispers a hundred yards away. Who’s this?’
I went up to him and stuck out my hand. ‘Name’s Cliff Hardy, Mr Bradley. I want to have a few words with you about the accident on the Pass a few months back.’
Bradley shook my hand. His palm was soft but there was strength in his grip. “Bout time someone did that. Take a seat.’
I sat on a straight-backed chair beside him. Mrs Bradley hovered. She was a thin, nervous woman who looked as if she had never known the right thing to do.
“What about a couple of beers, Mildred?’ Bradley said.
‘Do you think you should, dear?’
‘Yes. I think I should. Stop worrying, love. The money’s due any day.’
‘It’s not the money. It’s your health.’
Bradley let out a bellow of laughter; his big, deep chest gave the sound resonance and volume. ‘My health! Just get us a drink, there’s a good girl.’
She left the verandah, closing the screen door quietly behind her. Bradley slapped the tops of his thighs. ‘Mine accident,’ he said. ‘Both legs buggered for good. Compo’s coming through, but.’
I nodded. ‘No hope?’ I said. ‘Physio? Operation?’
Peter Corris
CH12 — O'Fear
‘Stuffed,’ he said. ‘Mind you, I miss the fishing more than the bloody work. What d’you want to talk about?’
‘Sounded to me like you wanted to talk.’
‘Yeah. Well, I was in a shitty mood back then! Having a bad time with all this.’ He touched his legs again. ‘Couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t what you’d call co-operative. I was giving Mildred a bad time. Everybody.’
Mrs Bradley came back with a tray on which were four cans of Fosters, two elaborately shaped glasses and a bowl of peanuts.
‘Good on you,’ Bradley said. ‘Do you, mate?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thanks. What about you, Mrs Bradley? Are you having a drink?’
She smiled, shook her head and drifted away.
‘Never touches it,’ Bradley said. He popped two cans and pushed one towards me. He poured a little beer into one of the glasses, swilled it around and drank it. Then he took a pull from the can. ‘Can’t stand those bloody glasses, but it’s not worth the trouble to say so. Cheers.’
I repeated his manoeuvre and took a swig of the cold beer. Fosters isn’t my favourite, but it was my first drink of the day, which helped it along. ‘I got the feeling Sergeant Anderson didn’t have too many clues.’
Bradley snorted. He took a handful of peanuts and put them in his mouth. He chewed and spoke around them. ‘Doesn’t know his arse from his elbow. Sent some kid of a constable up here to talk to me the day after. Bugger that.’
‘What did you see, Mr Bradley?’
