ThornyDevils (35 page)

He spun around to see an exhausted McCracken. ‘You’re looking old, Dale,’ he observed. ‘It must have been stressful not knowing how the siege would turn out. It’s lucky you didn’t have a dead hostage on your conscience.’

‘I knew Sam wasn’t in any danger.’

‘Thanks to me,’ Peter added. ‘I’m the one who worked out where Ivy O’Leary might be.’

‘Well you can crap on about what a hero you were in your column.’

‘I suppose you want the photos?’

Peter pulled out his car keys, opened the passenger door and took the envelopes out of the glove box. He handed them to McCracken who tucked them inside his coat. ‘That’s it, then.’

‘Don’t ever try to cross me again, Clancy,’ McCracken growled as he walked off.

‘We’ll catch up,’ Peter laughed. ‘Over lunch maybe?’

McCracken shook his head and kept walking.

‘Can you shut up with the smartarse comments?’ Dave grabbed his arm.

‘He deserves it,’ Peter fumed, pulling away. ‘He’s another Max Hillard. Thinks he’s fucking king-dog. I can’t stand them.’

Dave was still putting on his seat belt when Peter threw the Stag into first gear and sped away, tyres squealing. ‘Front page,’ he announced as he sped along the wharf. ‘Two dead in hostage drama at docks. Killing of a hostage narrowly averted by the courageous mother of the O’Leary brothers, who broke the siege with her tearful pleas. Ivy O’Leary was located by investigative reporter, Peter Clancy during the
tense standoff, which was nearly bungled by the actions of the police officer in charge, Detective Senior Sergeant Dale McCracken. How’s that sound?’

‘Are you crazy?’ Dave said. ‘McCracken is going to hate that.’

‘He may think he’s won this round but I haven’t finished with Dale yet.’

Peter got to the hospital as quickly as he could after filing the story. He hadn’t seen Bob in two days, but he had been extubated and was trying to talk. Peter was confident that Bob would come back to work and everything would get back to normal.

At least, that was what he thought until he left the lift and waited to be let into the intensive care unit. Dr Cross came through the door, hardly daring to look him in the eyes. Peter knew before she opened her mouth. He knew by her eyes. Bob was dead.

‘Bob suffered a massive heart attack thirty minutes ago,’ she explained. ‘Unfortunately he did not survive it. We did everything we could to save him. I’m really terribly sorry.’

At least it was quick
, he thought. ‘I was working on an exclusive. I would have got here quicker.’

Dr Cross nodded. ‘Don’t punish yourself, you weren’t to know. From what I’ve heard that’s how it is with you journalists. The news has to get out there, no matter what. I’m sure he would have understood.’

Peter didn’t know what more to say, but he knew one thing. Without Bob at the helm, Peter’s life at
The Truth
would never be the same again.

‘Well, mate,’ Peter began softly, as he drifted past the coffin. ‘The siege is over. Everyone’s safe. The story’s done and Dave took some great photos. It’s a great story. The best the paper has done in a long time. I think we won’t be just the sleaze rag anymore. I was all due to you, Bob. It’s a pity you’re not here to share the success. In a way I feel that you know about all this. We’ll miss you, mate. Really will. The old
Truth
won’t be the same without you.’

Another funeral. Saint Patrick’s again. A bright, sunny day for a change. A good day for footy, as Bob would have remarked. Peter was beginning to feel like he had attended every funeral in Melbourne in the past month as he sat in one of the pews with Poppy, Dave, Shazza and Sam beside him. He’d asked Stella to join them but she’d declined politely, saying that she preferred to mourn Bob’s death alone.

It was Peter’s first public outing with Poppy, and Sam was supposed to still be in hospital but Sam being Sam, he had signed himself out that morning. Peter felt a lot better with Poppy beside him. He turned and looked at back at the numbers of mourners filing into the cathedral. It looked like hundreds were coming to pay their respects. Bob was a great man but Peter hadn’t realised how many people had thought so. The Collingwood board members were there, along with legends and current players of the club, politicians, horse racing notables and celebrities. Probably all connected with the Collingwood Football Club.

Yes, this one was special. Even Ilmo was there to pay his respects. He nodded once at Peter as he filed past. The Owners of
The Truth
had
come out of lofty isolation to attend. Bob would have wondered what all the fuss was about. He wasn’t a footy legend so why the fucking fuss? That’s what Bob would have thought. To Peter it was more than the death of a boss and mate; it was the death of an era. In a single moment everything, even Melbourne, had changed. He couldn’t explain why, but it did.

Stella, Peter and his guests were given a privileged position right behind the coffin, and for the next hour they sat as the bishop said the mass and a select number of mourners gave humorous eulogies about Bob’s life as a war correspondent in the Middle East, as a reporter at the
New York Post
and his long and tireless contribution to the Collingwood Football Club. Peter glanced at Stella when the mourner had spoken about New York. Her face was obscured by sunglasses and a veiled hat. They made an impenetrable barrier. Even in the midst of a crowd, she was still determined to mourn alone.

Suddenly Stella rose to deliver a heart-rending, tearful eulogy. She spoke about how she had been influenced by Bob, who had been her mentor in many aspects of her professional life. But there were also revelations. Bob had once lived, worked, married and divorced in London. He and Stella had been engaged to be married. Bob was like a house full of rooms that some people were allowed into and then there were the darkened, closed rooms where no one went. Now Peter felt like he hadn’t really known Bob Connolly at all.

As he watched Stella come to the conclusion of her eulogy, Peter turned to his right. He could hear someone sobbing not far from him. It was Poppy. Strange.

‘Are you all right?’ Peter whispered as he took hold of her hand. Poppy pushed him away and stood up without replying. She brushed past him and walked briskly down the aisle before he could say any more. He left his seat and followed her as the bishop returned to the lectern.

Poppy was on the front steps, sobbing into her hands when Peter caught up with her. He sat down beside her and draped his arm around her.

‘No. No. Please,’ Poppy sniffed as she pulled away. ‘I don’t want to be touched. Please.’

‘Sure,’ Peter said as he dropped his arm limply back onto his lap. ‘I’m here for you.’

‘I know,’ she attempted to smile as she dried her eyes with a tissue. ‘I didn’t want to make a scene in front of your friends.’

‘I’m sure Bob didn’t mind,’ Peter chuckled. ‘He was probably getting bored with the whole proceedings. Bob never liked fluff.’

They fell silent for a while. Poppy spoke first. ‘When everyone spoke about how nice and great Bob was, it reminded me of everything my father wasn’t.’

‘Your father wasn’t a nice man?’

‘My father was a… Well, there’s a word for what he was.’ She stopped. ‘I don’t want to talk about it right now, Peter. Sorry.’

‘Okay. When you’re ready.’

‘I’m going to go,’ she leant across and pecked him on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you soon.’ Poppy grabbed her handbag and stood up.

‘Don’t you want a lift back to work?’

‘No. It’s fine,’ she replied, ‘the walk will do me good.’

‘We’ll catch up soon?’ Peter asked as Poppy walked down the steps.

‘Soon. I’m going to make it up to you in a special way,’ she smiled.

Peter watched her leave the cathedral grounds and continue down the street. He hadn’t really known about Bob, and now he felt as if he knew nothing about Poppy. He was discovering that she, too, had darkened rooms in her house, and possibly ones she had boarded up long ago. He watched her disappear around a corner. He was still thinking about her as the coffin was carried out of the church, escorted by several current players from the club.

He excused himself from going to the cemetery, telling Sam and Dave he would catch up with them at Victoria Park for Bob’s wake. Peter was getting tired of death. Death and crime investigation stories were so tightly intertwined that he didn’t want to see another corpse, go to another funeral or visit a cemetery for a while. He wanted to lie in the sun and make love with Poppy and forget it all.

He decided to get to Victoria Park before everyone else. He was dying for a drink. As he drove east along Johnston Street and then north towards the Collingwood Social Club his thoughts drifted back to Poppy. How should he feel about her? There may have been a hint of uncertainty but he still had to see her. He wanted her regardless of her secret fetishes.
It’s the 1980s, for heaven’s sake. People are allowed to be kinky.
But occasionally, Peter just wanted to make old-fashioned love to her. What was wrong with missionary every now and again?
And what about a traditional relationship? Poppy was special. Yes, everything was changing.

Peter got to the function room behind the new Bob Rose Stand before anyone else had arrived. He sat near the large glass window overlooking Victoria Park; same spot where he and Bob used to watch a game and have a good piss up, win or lose. He remembered the first game of Aussie Rules he attended. Bob had taken him to a Collingwood versus North Melbourne game at VFL Park. Bob had told him to wear a Collingwood scarf while he’d worn a Collingwood beanie. His initiation to the game consisted of being hit over the head by a gang of umbrella-wielding grannies wearing North Melbourne duffel coats, who were sitting behind them. Bob had remarked that the old dears would run out of steam soon, which they did. Then he had remarked that being a Collingwood supporter was an honour but it came with a price: the most beloved Aussie Rules team was also the most hated. From then on, Peter was hooked.

Victoria Park, strangely enough, was one of the few places where, even in a crowd, Peter felt solitude and calm. He loved it all: the earthy scent of a muddy, clod-flinging game on a wet winter’s day, the pungent smell of the Goanna oil. The players were supreme athletes, as well-muscled as the finest thoroughbred and as surefooted as an old stockhorse. He was happiest having a beer overlooking the ground, watching a game or watching training.
Sacred ground. Perfect. Except Bob’s missing
. Peter had finished his second beer and was slaking his amber thirst with a third as the first guests arrived.

What a wake, Peter thought as he weaved and dodged his way to the bar for another refill. Three hours had passed already.
What the fuck? Free beer flowing. Why does free beer taste so good?
Then a couple of straight Jameson’s for comic relief and Peter was heading to pissed kingdom on his boozy chariot. Bob’s favourite music blared: Frank Sinatra, Irish music and Lou Reed. Everyone singing the club song:
Good old Collingwood forever. We know how to play the game
…

Club heavyweights and legends were in abundance. The beer and conversation was flowing. Bob would have loved to be here.
I’m going to have my wake before I kick the bucket
. Peter surveyed the crowd in an intoxicated haze. Was that a former prime minister and one of Australia’s greatest female singers that he’d just had a deep and meaningful conversation with? What was the topic again? That’s right,
the strength of the Collingwood family. He was pissed. Definitely. Having silly and meaningless discussions with strangers was a sign he had crossed over to the dark side. Time to leave before the symptoms became any worse. Before it became terminal. Next stage was offering abiding love and friendship to total strangers, and possibly even charity.
Run now
. Peter swallowed his beer fast and headed for the exit before the attack could occur. Stella was standing between Peter and the exit, sipping a glass of wine.

‘Are you going to be able to drive home, Peter?’ she asked as he staggered past.

‘I don’t have to go far,’ he slurred as he adjusted his jacket. ‘The old Stag runs on auto pilot.’

‘I could drop you home.’

‘I’m going to be fine. Right as…pain. I mean rain.’

‘I wanted to catch you before you left. I wanted to tell you how much you meant to Bob. He looked on you like a son.’ She took a deep breath. ‘He told me how much you reminded him of himself.’

‘I’m honoured,’ Peter returned. ‘I wish I’d known more…About you and Bob.’

She drew breath. ‘And in case you’re wondering, I’m going home after this.’

‘Aren’t we all?’

‘No. I’m going home. To New York. I can’t see any reason to stay.’

‘But the story?’

‘I’ll leave you my notes and my number. Call me if you need a hand.’ She paused. ‘You’ll do just fine without me. I need to get out of here. I can’t breathe now that Bob’s…’

Peter was drunk enough to be inappropriate, but he wasn’t quite drunk enough not to feel uncomfortable.

‘I’m sorry,’ Peter muttered as he placed a hand on Stella’s shoulder.

Stella put down her glass. ‘You should go home. Life’s a drama isn’t it, Peter? And it doesn’t even make the papers.’

***

Peter lurched back to the Stag, which he vaguely recalled having parked in a laneway near the social club.
Not so drunk, see?
The Stag was exactly where he remembered. Forget the ten minutes that he had wasted going up and down Trenerry Crescent. He was hoping that any
cops on tonight were Collingwood fans or he could be in a pickle. The Stag wouldn’t let him down. Just drive via the back streets and don’t drive like an old man. Look confident.

He leant against the car fumbling through his pockets for the keys.
Found them
. But before he was going anywhere he needed a piss. A well-earned one. He walked part way up the laneway, took a look around, took position near a brick wall and undid his fly. He immediately felt relaxed as his stream flowed and flowed.
Zen.

Shit!
The sting of a hand pushing his head into the wall. Peter’s immediate reaction was to cover his exposed genitals. Then he realised. He was still pissing and he was pissing on his hands. He tried to move. A sharp punch to the lumbar region. He froze. A gloved hand pushed his face hard against the brick wall. The wall smelt musty and damp. Thankfully the peeing soon stopped.