White Dog (23 page)

Barry’s window slid down. He lit a cigarette with a lighter.

‘Clearly person or persons didn’t like the boy,’ he said. ‘The file’s open, empty basically, no one saw anything, one other customer that night, it’s a Sunday, he heard nothin. The bloke who runs the place, he’s asleep. More asleep than is usual as I read the document. Medication.’

He scratched his head. ‘That’s it.’

‘What was Dilthey doing out there?’ I said.

‘There’s a map in the car, he’s written down mileages to buggery in South Australia.’

He lit a cigarette, slit eyes on me over the flame. ‘Read your statement,’ he said.

‘Like the way I express myself?’

‘Pure fucken poetry,’ he said. ‘You get there, it’s an appointment, in the door. But you don’t go down to the business end, you fuck around for a bit, lookin at the art shit. Then when you’re what, ten metres away, the bang?’

I didn’t like what was coming. I didn’t want to hear it. ‘More or less the way I phrased it,’ I said, ‘but I put lots of work into the rhythm.’

Sucking on the filter cigarette, eyes on me. ‘Behaved the way you should’ve, you’re not sittin here thin but nevertheless fucken alive.’

‘The bang gang couldn’t find anything.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Possibly cause they’re not dealin with a cunt tries to send the Frankston falafel shop to kingdom come with the barbie gas his cousin’s husband cleverly took the trailer to Geelong to buy.’

The gloss off the evening.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘you’d like to know for certain, wouldn’t you?’

Barry shook his head, eyes closed. ‘Christ, Jack,’ he said, ‘you don’t need to know anything for certain. I go into that fucken hospital, you’re lying there looking dead, white like a tissue, stuck full of tubes, fucken wired for ten speakers.’

The wind had strengthened, it was whip-cracking the thin oak branches outlined against the streetlight. At the light’s faint edge, I could see two figures on the open ground: a man being pulled home by a large dog.

‘You don’t need to know,’ Barry said, looking ahead, into the dead glass. ‘Never mind fucken certain, you don’t need to know anything.’

‘Yes, well, I’ve got something on the stove,’ I said. ‘Thanks, mate.’

He looked at me, I couldn’t bear the gaze, nodded, said goodbye, left the car.

The quick, neat swing of the vehicle, red tail-lights burning for a few seconds, gone. I went upstairs, poured wine, sat in front of the fire, uneasy now.

When I came back from hospital to the long-empty house, there were no messages on the machine; no blinking red light greeted me. The thought came from nowhere, released by Barry Tregear’s words.

In all that time, not a single message? Had I forgotten to switch on the machine that morning? Pushing the button was part of the ritual of leaving, but sometimes, distracted, I forgot.

I was pouring another glass of wine when I remembered Sarah on the mobile, I was outside Enzio’s:
I tried you at home, left a message. I’ve had a call from someone, a man.

That message at least should have been waiting for me. My machine had been wiped.

I couldn’t push it away anymore. Whoever murdered Mickey murdered Sarah. And I was supposed to die there too, in the brick and tin shed, blown to pieces, just collateral damage.

I rang the most recent number I had for Cam, left a message. He rang back in seconds. When I told him what I was after, he said, ‘Jesus. Well, I can ask around in the hospitality industry. Don’t hold your breath.’

‘She’s upmarket,’ said Cam. ‘My bloke says they must be paying top dollar, she only goes out once or twice a night.’

We were in South Melbourne, in the area behind the Arts Centre, parked down from a new six-storey apartment block faced with a marble-looking material.

Cam was behind the wheel. I hadn’t seen the car before, an HSV, a Holden given performance-enhancing substances so that it growled like a refined cousin to the Lark. ‘Goes out alone?’ I said.

‘The boyfriend, he fetches and carries.’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘The pimp.’

‘And now?’

‘She’ll come out with the dog in a minute or two,’ he said. ‘I’ll see if she’ll have a word.’

‘Beware of the dog.’

‘That’s her.’

A tall woman in a raincoat over black pants and wearing a headscarf was crossing the narrow forecourt leading a dog the size and shape of a football. She turned to come our way, down the wet pavement.

‘Vicious-looking brute,’ I said.

‘There’s a gun in the glovebox,’ said Cam. ‘Shoot the thing if it goes for me.’

‘Just pick it up, drop-punt,’ I said. ‘See if you can hit that Merc on the other side.’

When she was ten metres away, Cam got out. He was in a charcoal suit, a decent bit of white cuff showing. He walked around the car. I could see that she’d seen him, a flick of a glance. She was a handsome woman, long nose, full lips.

Cam stepped onto the kerb. He said something. She stopped, the dog stopped. Cam went up to her, not too close. The dog strained at its leash. I could see her face while he talked. She wasn’t happy but she wasn’t alarmed.

Cam turned and she followed him, reeling in the dog and picking it up, hand under its body. They came up to the car. Cam opened the back door for her. I turned my head. She was holding the dog on her lap, a hand under its mouth, stroking. It had an amiable expression, bright brown eyes, little ears like furred seashells. It didn’t mind being in the car.

‘Someone’s given Sarah Longmore an alibi for that night,’ I said. ‘For the time when you said you saw her.’

‘Alibi?’

‘The person lives across the road from her place. He’s a peeping Tom. He was watching her windows that night.’

‘You’re fucking joking,’ she said. ‘Got a smoke? Don’t take mine on a walk.’

‘French,’ said Cam, taking out a packet. ‘They’re strong.’

‘I can smoke fucking rope,’ she said.

Cam offered her the packet, lit her cigarette with a lighter. The car was suddenly full of pungent Gitane smoke, Donna’s perfume still there, like ermine edging on a goatskin cloak.

She coughed once, smothered another. ‘Fucking perve? Believe him? What took him so fucking long?’

‘Scared,’ I said. ‘Very scared. He’s got a conviction for it. Thought he might go inside, they like perves inside.’

I could hear her breathing.

‘You were the prosecution’s key witness, Donna. And you were committing perjury. Making a false statement, that’s always bad. But this, this could’ve led to wrongful conviction for murder. That’s terrible. Eight years a bloke got for that, minimum six to serve.’

Just the sound of Donna’s breathing, quick and deep. The dog made a yawning sound, its small jaw cracked. I looked around again. She released the dog and it walked up and down the seat, neat turns, sniffed the crack, something down there?

‘What do you want?’ said Donna. ‘I’m going to fucking confess to something? You think that? Think a-fucking-gain, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘That’s a nice building you live in,’ I said. ‘Unit’s in your name, is it? Got a vote on the body corporate?’

‘Where’s the fucking ashtray?’ Voice harsh now, not hoarse.

Cam put a hand back, took the butt from her, opened his window and shot out the stub, sent it a long way, despoiled the street.

‘We would think,’ I said, ‘that only a mad person would just come out and tell a lie like this. So that rules you out. Then we have to ask why you did. What’s in it for you? Do it for someone? Do eight years inside for someone?’

Silence.

‘Do it for someone?’ I said. ‘We’re giving you a chance, it won’t come twice, believe me. This is your chance, Donna.’

‘Eight years?’ she said. ‘Eight years? Well, eight years is a whole lot better than fucking dead, so why don’t you get out your fucking perve and charge me and go for your fucking lives.’

Donna had some trouble opening the door but she did it, tried to slam it behind her but it just thunked. She dropped the dog on the pavement, from too great a height, I thought. It looked up, offended. She walked, jerked the animal with her.

I brought down my window and shouted after her, ‘What happened to Janene, Donna? And Wayne?’

Donna stopped, turned, came back, pulling the dog. She wore a golden crucifix on a golden chain. The little cross was in the hollow of her throat. ‘What’s that mean?’ she said.

I said, ‘You know what it means. Want to reconsider your position?’

‘You’re no fucking cops,’ she said. ‘Piss off.’

She went. We sat. Cam looked at me.

‘I liked that dog,’ I said. ‘I never thought I’d say that about a small dog.’

‘You change,’ Cam said. ‘I never liked small women.’

He started the car. ‘Coffee, feel the need?’

‘Serious need.’

Cam dropped me in Brunswick Street to get my mail and I walked back to the office, sat at my desk, opened the letters, got out the files. I had been a neglectful solicitor and that was unforgivable. It would cease now. Wallowing in self-pity, the curse of the single male. Single male with interruptions, in my case. But single was the steady state: I always reverted to being alone, seldom of my own volition.

I didn’t get much done, thinking about Donna. Eight years in jail was better than dead, she said. The suggestion was that whoever got her to lie about seeing Sarah would have no qualms about killing her. I had no difficulty understanding why she thought that.

A knock on the door.

I got up and went to open it. Once I’d left it off the latch.

A big man in a suit, black-framed dark glasses, big bulges over his eyes, nose large and spread out.

‘Mr Irish?’ he said. His hands were on his hips.

‘Yes?’

‘Have a word?’

‘Come in.’

I stood back.

He took a step in, his left leg, and he hit me off his right leg, in the chest, just under the collarbone, my hands came up and he hit me again, in the chest again, his fist went between my forearms. He tried to hit me in the throat but my chin was down, then he hit me in the stomach, left hand, right hand. I was going down in a mist of pain.

He kicked me in the chest, I felt my head hit the desk behind me, bounce forward, I was on my knees, I was fainting, the light was dim, a terrible pain in my chest.

He gripped my head by my hair, held my head up by my hair in one hand.

He slapped my face. Over and over again. His palm and his knuckles. ‘Smart boy,’ he said. ‘Clever fucken boy.’

He let me go and I fell forward, lay in my pain and tears, my face on the old rug. I felt something warm on my head, in my ear, running down my face. The smell came to me, feral, salty.

He was pissing on me.

‘Don’t mess with this business anymore,’ he said. ‘Hear me, Irish? Next time I’ll bring someone round, and, when I’m finished, he’ll fuck you, okay?’

I heard his zip and I heard the door open and close. I heard a car rev and pull away. After a while, I got up and went home, stood under the shower for a long time, washed my hair three times. I dressed, found a plastic bag and put the clothes I had been wearing into it, tied the top, took it down to the big bin.

Upstairs, I poured a neat single malt, took the near-full bottle and sat in my chair. My hands were shaking, just a tremor, barely detectable. My face hurt, I could feel the puffiness, but I didn’t want to look in the mirror. I drank steadily, it grew dark. I didn’t put on the lights, sat in the dark drinking, and, at some point near the bottom of the bottle, I fell asleep.

I woke in my bed, clothed, shoes on, face stiff, hurting everywhere, dehydrated, the shame undiminished, the soiled feeling still upon me.

I showered until the hot water ran out, dressed, stood in the kitchen. It was past 10 am. I wasn’t hungry, I was still more than a quarter drunk.

A drink would take away the pains. Medicinal drink. Vodka. Linda liked vodka and orange juice sometimes. Vodka and vitamin C. The old VC, did more good than harm, a health drink.

I touched the tabletop, steadied myself, closed my eyes and said the mantra, not said even after the hospital. Then I drank a glass of milk, put on the heating, lay on the couch, arms folded across my chest. Hugging myself. Weak sunlight crossed the floor and lay upon me. We had often shared our couch, Isabel and I, lying as if in a bath, facing each other, feet in socks, legs enclosing legs, legs passing between legs, reading the papers, reading books, tweaking toes, tickling insteps, one thing leading to another, hands invading pants.

I drifted off and when I woke it was afternoon, the light thin, the day sliding away, most of a day gone, a day subtracted from the total, the wounded creature’s cave would soon be darkening again.

No.

I got up, unsteady, almost fell over, went to the bathroom. Now I looked in the mirror. There were welts on the bridge of my nose, on my cheekbones, down my face, dried blood in places.

He didn’t mind that I saw his face. He didn’t care or he wanted me to see his face.

Next time I’ll bring someone round, and, when I’m finished, he’ll fuck you, okay?

No.

No. No next time.

I took the toilet disinfectant, the chlorine, drove to the office, took the carpet by a corner, his piss was in it, my tears of humiliation. I dragged it across the street and threw it into McCoy’s skip, came back, sprayed the floor with chlorine, threw buckets of water over it, brushed it, brushed the water out of the front door. I was standing with the broom in my hand, feeling weak, eyes down, the door open.

‘I pay for that fucking skip,’ said McCoy. ‘Not a public facility for anybody to dump their junk.’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Send me the bill.’ I turned my back on him but I wasn’t quick enough.

‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘Accident,’ I said.

McCoy blocked the door, the light. ‘Bullshit,’ he said, offended. ‘I know fucking fighting. You’re supposed to be a lawyer, what are you doing fighting?’

‘It wasn’t exactly a fight,’ I said. ‘I got king hit and the rest followed.’

‘Client?’

‘No. A bloke who knocked on the door. Never seen him before. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’

McCoy gave me a good staring. ‘For Christ’s sake, check who’s outside before you open the door,’ he said. ‘Give me a buzz, I’ll give them a fucking checking over.’