Aftershock Page 6

  8

  Sometime during the night one of the Jacobses must have looked in on me. There was a glass of water on a low table near the couch. I swilled it down my parched throat and lay back wondering how I’d ever got up at dawn to surf, or to go on jungle patrols or drive from Sydney to Kempsey … Well, that hadn’t been so long ago. The room was dim but I could tell there was a very bright day out behind the heavy drapes. I’d lost one sock during the night and one of my feet was cold. I swung my feet clear of the blanket and tested the strength in my legs by just putting them on the carpet and pressing down a little. Not bad. Might even be able to stand up if I had another glass of water.

  It was 6.30 and the house was quiet. It isn’t too polite to go prowling through people’s homes that early, but what does the bladder know about manners? I went as quietly and directly as I could to the toilet—that is, I made a couple of wrong turnings and and found an en suite bathroom off one of the bedrooms. It was a big house, fairly new and furnished in a plain style that harked back to an earlier period. I examined myself in the mirror and didn’t much like what I saw—stubble, scabs forming on half a dozen facial cuts. The iridologist who used to work in my building once looked at me professionally, clucked her tongue and shook her head. I don’t think she would’ve liked the look of my eyes this morning. When I came out of the toilet I could hear noises that suggested coffee and fruit juice, maybe even aspirin.

  Horrie Jacobs, wearing navy blue pyjamas and a white silk dressing gown, was making tea in the kitchen. In my crumpled pants and one sock he made me feel like a tramp.

  Nothing wrong with his hearing. He swung around before my bare foot squeaked on the lino tiles. ‘Cliff, I was going to see if you wanted anything. How’re you feeling?’

  It wasn’t a comfortable situation. I was supposed to be the tough, capable professional and here was this old guy, and a client at that, nurse-maiding me. It made me surly. I sat down at the kitchen table. ‘I’m okay, Horrie. Any chance of some coffee?’

  He nodded and included a cup of instant in his preparations. He didn’t speak. He put the coffee and a carton of milk in front of me and went off with the tea tray. When he came back he put my shirt, which had been washed, over a chair. ‘Guest bathroom’s at the back. Towels and a razor should be there. See you in half an hour.’

  He did when I was showered, shaved and dressed and in a better mood. I had another cup of coffee and felt human again. Horrie was dressed in shorts, T-shirt and sneakers. He looked a little like Harry Hopman. May didn’t emerge and Horrie said she liked to sleep in. ‘Got bugger all chance to when the kids were around and I was working.’

  I nodded. ‘Are you planning on going fishing or what?’

  He grinned. ‘Don’t know much about fishing do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Too bright now. Have to get down early. Fish don’t like the sunlight. Anyway, I haven’t done much since Oscar died.’

  There was a sad eagerness in him and I realised he expected to tag along with me at whatever I was going to do. That’d be all right for now, but not for long. I asked him about Oscar Bach’s estate and business.

  ‘Funny that,’ he said. ‘I didn’t find a will.’

  ‘You didn’t. Wasn’t there anyone handling his affairs? A solicitor or …’

  ‘Nope. It was bloody strange. You couldn’t really say he had any affairs. He just rented the house and ran his little business. There wasn’t anyone else to do it. I went through the house and collected up his stuff. Didn’t amount to much. Young bloke who worked for him part-time is sort of running the business while everything gets sorted out. There’s some office or other handling it. I forget what it is.’

  ‘The Public Trustee?’

  ‘Yeah. I got a letter. I wrote back and said I didn’t know anything about a solicitor or bank accounts or next of kin. They said they’d let me know what happened next. But I haven’t heard anything. Do you want to see the stuff?’

  ‘Yes. Did you really search the house thoroughly?’

  ‘Pretty well. ’Course, I’m not an expert. You can do it yourself. Place’s still empty. The roof leaks and the bloody landlord hasn’t got around to fixing it.’ He gave a short laugh.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Old Molly who lives next door tells everyone who comes to look at the house about the leak. She was born in the place and can’t bear seeing it go to rack and ruin. She reckons if she keeps people away the landlord’ll have to fix it. Worked so far and there’s a fair amount of pressure on rented houses around here.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Students from Newcastle, teachers, people wanting weekenders.’ He laughed again. ‘Dudley’s a go ahead place. You fit for a walk?’

  Outside I saw what Horrie had got for some of his winnings. His house was at the end of the street with a forest in front of it and the ocean in front of that. There was a deck around three sides and the view would be slightly different from each side—here more bushy, there more water. The garden was mostly native trees and shrubs with some landscaping—all in keeping with the plain, good taste of the whole place.

  Horrie seemed to gain an inch or two when he saw me admiring the set-up. ‘Not bad, eh?’

  ‘Bloody nice. You picked a great spot.’

  ‘Had my eye on it for years, just never had the money. Then I did. Come on, Oscar’s place’s just down Ocean Street.’

  We walked past a selection of houses that varied from the bookmaker-special type to the plain fibro. Many of the bigger ones had had extra storeys built to take advantage of the view. There was water on both sides—enough for everyone, but as we got closer to the top of the street the land dipped and only the houses up on pillars would have the view. Horrie set a good pace and I found my head clearing and that I was feeling better with every step. The air was cool and clean, and breathing it in deeply seemed like a good thing to do. Three doors short of the pub on the right-hand side of the street, Horrie stopped outside a small, one-pitch cottage.

  ‘Miner’s cottage,’ he said. ‘’Bout eighty years old. Jesus, what’s going on?’

  A man, wearing overalls and swinging a hammer, came from the back of the house and walked down the narrow path towards us. The little cottage was tucked into its block with very little room to spare on either side. Looking past the man with the hammer, I could see that the land ran back a good way and rose. I wondered if there was a water view. Maybe from a few branches up in one of the big gums that grew in the yard. The man with the hammer was paying more attention to the condition of the weatherboards than to Horrie and me. After the experience of last night, that was a relief.

  ‘Mornin’, Horrie. Nice day.’

  An old woman had come out of the house next door. She was carrying the morning paper and obviously intended to sit down on her front porch. Her voice was strong and easily carried to the gate.

  ‘Morning, Molly,’ Horrie said. ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘Fixin’ the house. What d’you reckon? Morning, Jeff.’

  Jeff tapped a weatherboard gently, searching for the stud. ‘Morning, Molly.’

  There was a bit more of that country stuff—how’re the kids and how’s the wife?—before it became clear that Jeff and his mate, Neil, had been hired to fix the leak and do some other repairs in the cottage. They’d begun work yesterday and already had the floors up in two rooms and were working on the roof.

  ‘Real mess,’ Jeff said. ‘Like a lot of jobs, mostly fixing other peoples’ … mistakes.’

  I had the feeling that his language would have been saltier but for Molly. Jeff went on to say that they’d cleaned the cottage out and burned everything they found. Owner’s orders.

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘I might want to rent it. That’s why we’re here, right Mr Jacobs?’

  Horrie nodded. All the good mornings and other solicitations apparently constituted an introduction. ‘Mind if we take a look around, Jeff?’

  Jeff had no objection. We left hi
m to the weatherboards and Molly to the paper, and went around to the back of the house. The yard was very long and the trees were as old as the building. Barbecue area, considerably overgrown; a flowerbed or two, likewise.

  ‘Oscar wasn’t much of a one for gardening,’ Horrie said.

  Nor for house-keeping, according to Neil. He was wrestling an electric stove away from the kitchen wall when we went in. He got it clear and rolled a thin cigarette from a packet of Drum, glad of the break.

  ‘Bit of a shit-hole,’ he said. ‘Hasn’t been cleaned in years. Mind you, not much cooking ’n’ that went on. Bathroom’s as clean as a whistle, but.’

  There wasn’t any point in looking through the house; the floorboards were up in the hallway and two rooms and the place smelled of fresh sawdust and old damp. The bathroom was an outside building connected to the cottage by a galvanised iron roof. The bath was a big, old claw-footed job and the fittings were of similar vintage. Everything looked and smelled clean although a bit dusty. I wandered down to the end of the yard and confirmed the impression that to see the sea you’d have to climb one of the trees.

  Walking back along Ocean Street, Horrie felt a need to justify himself. ‘I tried to help him. Offered to lend him money to expand his business, suggested he put a deposit on a house. Could’ve helped him there, too. My bank thinks I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread. But he wouldn’t be in it.’

  ‘Very private sort of person, was he?’

  ‘That’s it exactly. I saw a fair bit of him. Couple of times a week I suppose. We went fishing every other weekend. He was out of the area a few days a week doing jobs here and there. Up towards Cessnock, down to Lake Macquarie. All over the place. As I say, I never went past the kitchen in the house, but I knew it was no palace.’

  There was some puzzlement in his voice and I pressed him. ‘But you were surprised at how little he had, eh? How little business there was.’

  ‘That’s right. I should’ve helped him more.’

  ‘Who owns the house, do you know?’

  Horrie shook his head. ‘Oscar paid the rent to an agent in town. Bit of a coincidence. Them getting to work on it just as you come up to take a look.’

  I agreed that it was and we walked in silence back to his house. May was up and working in the garden. She and Horrie kissed affectionately and he told her about the renovation of the cottage. May sniffed, ‘About time. That place was falling down. How are you feeling, Cliff?’

  ‘Pretty good,’ I said. ‘Thank you for everything.’

  She clicked her secateurs. ‘For what? And now what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to show Cliff Oscar’s stuff,’ Horrie said.

  She sniffed again and snipped through a rose stem. I followed Horrie into the house and through to a smallish room where there was a desk, a bookcase and several cardboard boxes and black plastic garbage bags. ‘They call this the study,’ Horrie said, ‘but the only thing I ever studied in here was the form guide. The stuff’s in those boxes and bags. Take your time, Cliff. I’ll go and see if I can get back in May’s good books.’

  ‘I’m not doing you much good there.’

  He pulled up a blind to give me more light. The ocean looked to be only a few metres away, as if you could throw a stone into it. ‘Can’t be helped,’ he said.

  I lifted the plastic bags onto the desk and unwound their ties. I’ve sifted through the physical remains of a person’s life a good many times and the feelings have always been the same—is this all you really had to leave behind? Is this the way you meant it to look? Why didn’t you do something about that when you had the chance? The effects are always exactly what the word suggests—incomplete pieces, broken threads, interrupted business. It doesn’t matter who it is—friend or enemy, lover or stranger—the feeling is of something left unsaid.

  The effects of Oscar Bach triggered none of these sensations.

  I went through it all very carefully—the business papers, documents, books and magazines. I lifted the tools and fishing gear and shaving kit out of the boxes and examined the clothes and shoes and fountain pen. There were no photographs, no pictures to hang on a wall, no personal letters, nothing old and useless, kept because it was loved. I remember telling Harry Tickener that there was a time when I could fit everything I owned into an FJ Holden. Harry said he’d once been able to fit everything into a Volkswagen. Oscar Bach could’ve topped us both—the whole of his belongings would have fitted into a supermarket trolley.

  Horrie Jacobs brought me in a cup of coffee. I remember thanking him but I couldn’t remember drinking the stuff later. I was thrown into that state which is half cerebral, half instinctive. Bach’s things had convinced me that he was truly a man of mystery. I was sure of only one thing—all these signs of the reclusive, anonymous bug sprayer and beach fisherman, did not point to the real man. He was someone else who did other things in other places.

  There had to be a clue to the other man, but maybe it was in the cottage being gutted. Maybe I’d never find it. I went through all the stuff for a second time, as is my methodical way. I probed and rattled things and turned them upside down. An old leather jacket creaked and rustled as I felt in its torn pockets. I shook it and it rattled with more noise than the metal zip fastener should have made. I took the jacket across to the window for the light, turned it inside out and began to feel around the lining and stitching. There was something loose and metallic inside the lining near the waistband. I worked it around to a hole and poked it out. Two keys on a ring, one big and new, one small and old.

  I put everything back the way I’d found it and took the keys and the empty coffee mug out to the kitchen. May was sitting at the table doing the cryptic crossword in the Sydney Morning Herald. She looked up. ‘What a beast to breathe on her,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s the clue—what a beast to breathe on her.’

  I rinsed the mug and put it on the sink. ‘How many letters?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Panther,’ I said.

  She wrote it in. ‘It fits. Do you do the crossword?’

  ‘No. It was just a guess. Can you tell me where Horrie is?’

  ‘He’s in the garden. Did you find anything interesting in his things?’

  There was something so direct and honest about her that I didn’t consider lying. I noticed, though, that she didn’t use Oscar Bach’s name. I showed her the keys.

  She shrugged. ‘Horrie might know what they are.’

  ‘Have you two made it up?’

  ‘Nothing to make up. I’ll love that man till the day they put me in the ground. I just wish he didn’t have all this trouble.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What trouble? You’re rich. He lost a friend but …’

  She put down her ballpoint and turned her dark, slanting eyes on me. ‘You don’t look stupid but you say some dumb things. Like all Australian men, you think women don’t really know what’s going on. I know, believe me, I know.’

  ‘I’m sorry, May. You’ve lost me. What do you know?’

  ‘I know who attacked you the other night, or who ordered it. Horrie doesn’t know and you mustn’t tell him. It would make him too unhappy. Go and talk to him, Cliff, but be careful.’

  ‘What can you tell me about Oscar Bach?’

  She shook her head and the fine, grey hair flew around her wise face. ‘Nothing. But when you find out some more come and talk to me. Talk to me before you talk to Horrie.’

  ‘What about Ralph?’

  She picked up her pen and filled in an eight letter word.

  9

  I found Horrie weeding a garden bed. I’m no gardener, but the green things sticking up out of the ground looked like the tops of vegetables. He was on his hands and knees, bending forward and back easily. I wondered if I’d be able to move like that when I was his age. Maybe if I ate more vegetables? The sun was high and hot. Horrie wore a stylish wide-brimmed hat and, despite my thick head of hair, I felt the n
eed for a hat, too. I showed him the keys.

  ‘That looks like a key to Oscar’s van,’ he said, fingering the larger key. ‘Don’t recognise the other one.’

  ‘There was no trunk in the house? Tool box, sea chest, nothing like that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s this van? You didn’t mention that before.’

  ‘Must’ve forgot. Oscar had an old Bedford van for his work. Real wreck, but he kept it running. He must’ve been a pretty good mechanic. The young feller who’s doing the work now’s got it. Mark Roper. Leastways, he did have it a couple of weeks ago. I saw him in town. Said it was running all right. Is it important?’

  I said I didn’t know what was important yet, which was true. I got Roper’s address in Lambton from him and told him I was off to pay a few visits.

  He brushed dirt off his hands and stood up. ‘You feeling all right? Need any help?’

  I said I felt fine which was half-true and that I didn’t need help. That disappointed him. He looked down at the garden bed as if he didn’t care whether the things grew or not. It brought home to me again how important this matter was to him. I asked him to thank May for her hospitality and reassured him that I’d stay regularly in touch.

  ‘If you need money …’

  ‘I’ll ask for it. Don’t worry. No need yet.’

  He took off his hat and wiped sweat from his forehead with his hand. ‘Can you tell me this? Do you think I’m crazy or is there really some sort of mystery here?’

  I still had a slight headache; I had a broken car window, a hostile son and a man who left fewer traces behind him than a bird flying across the sky. ‘There’s a mystery, Horrie,’ I said.

  Glenys Withers took one look at me and said, ‘I knew you were trouble the minute I laid eyes on you.’

  ‘That’s not a very compassionate attitude, Senior. I’m the innocent victim, not the vile perpetrator.’

  ‘Attacked, were you? Did you report it to the police? I thought not.’

  She took two steps down towards me, better than backing away, but I still felt I was losing ground. I’m no more of a fetishist than most men, but there was something about her strong, shapely body in the crisp uniform that was doing things to me. If I’d been forced to describe it, I’d have called it pre-sexual. First off, I wanted this good-looking woman to like me. Right then, I wasn’t sure that she’d have a cup of coffee with me. I hadn’t counted on kindliness. She stood a step above me which made her only a couple of inches shorter and looked at my face. ‘My god,’ she said, ‘you have taken a battering over the years, haven’t you? What happened to the nose?’