The Greenwich Apartments (12 page)

‘Why the hell couldn't you have just told me this?'

‘Darcy told us how you acted when you broke in on him. The girlfriend told us about the phone call. You were getting warm, right?'

‘I suppose so.'

‘We knew you'd get somewhere at the bank, one way or another. Or somewhere along the line. If you'd looked into the leasing of the house on the island you'd have been led somewhere else. Another house. It's the way they lived. The trail's there to be followed. I mean that's
why
it's there. And we didn't need you tramping around on it.'

‘Still …'

‘Still nothing. You've got a reputation, Hardy. You know what for?'

‘Sustaining physical damage?'

‘Stubbornness. I was told I'd have to convince you. You looked pretty convinced back there in the park. Are you convinced, Hardy?'

‘I'm convinced,' I said.

‘Rolf'll drive you home. You'll have to get that eye seen to. It looks pretty bad.'

I don't know what time it was when I got home. I was barely conscious. Rolf got me into the house and Helen set to work with hot water and cottonwool. She phoned Ian Sangster who left his Friday night bridge game to come.

‘Christ,' he said. ‘You look like you've gone a few rounds with Fenech.'

‘Try a tree,' I said. ‘Or more precisely, a branch. How bad is it, Ian?'

He put his bag of tricks down, took out one of the medieval instruments they use, and examined the eye closely. ‘It looks bad, Cliff. You need a surgeon. I'll get you into hospital tonight and with luck I can get one of the best men in Sydney on it tomorrow.'

‘One
of the best?' Helen said.

‘It's a competitive field. They argue about it. Why's he sitting all hunched like that?'

I was on the couch in the front room still wearing my jacket because I couldn't move the arm enough to slip it off. Helen's attempt to do so had called forth an unmanly scream. I'd taken off the wet footwear though. ‘Shoulder,' I said.

‘Jesus, Cliff, you're …'

‘I know. Too old. I'm too old, Helen.'

‘You're babbling. He wants whisky, Ian. What d'you reckon?'

‘Why not? It has important medicinal qualities. I'll take some of the same medicine. Let's have a look at the shoulder.'

‘After the Scotch,' I said. I had a stiff one and heard about the hand Ian had been holding when Helen called. I had another and hardly screamed at all as he eased the jacket off.

‘You could almost do the Elephant Man,' Ian said. ‘With the eye like that and the back all swollen.'

‘Thanks,' I said. ‘Quasimodo'd be more like it. It feels like a hump.'

‘Richard III, then,' Ian said. ‘Don't go down-market.'

‘You're both crazy,' Helen said. ‘It's bloody blue!'

‘Bruised.' Ian finished his whisky and tapped the glass. ‘More, if you please. This the first time you've seen him like this, Helen?'

‘Yes.'

‘You're lucky. Cyn …'

‘Ian!' Pain shot through me as I spoke. ‘Drop it, Ian.'

‘No. Tell me.' Helen poured more whisky for Ian and one for herself. I nodded and she added a few drops to my glass. Ian was probing at the shoulder; his hands were cool and firm. It almost felt better under them.

‘This is dislocated and strained. Nothing broken, I think. He was a wild boy in those days, I can tell you. Liked to mix it, would you believe? I stitched him and set him in plaster. Quite often.'

‘No good for the sex life,' Helen said.

‘Funny, that's what Cyn used to say.'

‘D'you mind?' I said. I felt myself slowing down and drifting, stress and Scotch will do that to you. ‘Shouldn't you ring this fuckin' wizard of microsurgery … whatever?'

Ian was fiddling with a syringe and a bottle with a rubber membrane on the top. ‘Blah, blah mls of scotch whisky, blah, blah mls of this,' he mused. He gripped and pressed until a vein stood up in my arm. He slid the needle in. ‘Goodnight, Cliff. I promise to respect your woman.'

I woke up in a private hospital in Hunter's Hill. I didn't know then that it was Hunter's Hill, but the water and trees and gracious rooftops I saw from the window told me that it sure as hell wasn't Glebe. I was wearing a nightshirt—something that had lain in a drawer since the last time I was in hospital, about eight or nine years back—long stubble and a plastic bangle around my wrist with my name on it and some coded things I couldn't understand. My watch was on the bedside table. It was 7 a.m. on Saturday: time to lie in bed with Helen and read the papers, check the quotes of the week and if there was a movie on we wanted to see. No Helen.

A nurse came around at 7.30 and took my pulse and temperature.

‘When's breakfast?' I said.

‘Tomorrow for you.'

‘Eh? What is this, the Gulag?'

‘You're fasting, Mr Hardy. You're being operated on at ten o'clock.'

I realised for the first time that I was only looking through one eye. The other was closed, covered with a pad and throbbing. Through one eye, the nurse looked fresh, clean-scrubbed and young.
Invisible Man
jokes,
Prisoner in the Iron Mask
jokes, wouldn't mean a thing to her. My shoulder was stiff but not as sore as it had been. I wriggled up in the bed. ‘What am I being operated on for, nurse?'

‘Torn cornea.'

'It sounds like a rock group,' I said. A soft, warm wave called sleep hit me in the face and I slid down the bed and off it onto a soft, warm cloud.

The next time I awoke, two men in white gowns were bending over me. One was looking at my eye, the other was asking me my name.

‘Cliff Hardy,' I said.

‘How did you sustain this injury?'

‘I ran into a tree branch.'

‘My name is Stivens, Mr Hardy. I'm a surgeon.
The sight of your right eye is endangered but the operation I am going to perform has a 90 per cent success rate. Do you understand?'

‘What d'you like at Randwick in the fifth?'

‘I beg your pardon.'

‘It sounded like you were quoting odds.'

‘Yes, Ian Sangster told me you have a sense of humour. I have not. This is Dr McGregor, he is an anaesthetist. I believe he has a sense of humour too.'

The other white-gowned figure nodded and grinned. ‘Dr Stivens,' I said.

‘Mister.'

‘Mister Stivens. Could you just hold out your hands for a second. Like this?'

‘I told you I have no sense of humour.'

‘Please.'

He held out both hands; dark hairs sprouted around his wrists. I let myself go back and relax. ‘I'm sorry about the sense of humour,' I said, ‘but in your case I'll settle for the steady hands.'

‘Dr McGregor?' Stivens said.

‘You'll feel a prick, Mr Hardy. Then I'll count backwards from ten and at five I'll tell you a joke. Ten, nine, eight …'

I didn't hear the joke.

It was a private room. I'd never had a private room in a hospital before. I couldn't have afforded it. I couldn't afford it now. Helen and Sangster were there.
Where's the cat?
I thought. But you know cats, they're never around when you need them.

‘How does it look?' I said. ‘Get it? Eye operation? Look?'

‘Jesus,' Helen said.

‘You must never touch narcotics, Cliff,' Sangster said. ‘They'd be too nice for you.'

‘Okay,' I pulled my right hand out from under the bedclothes and put it up to my eye. Big patch, very
tender. Helen gently took my hand away and held it. Her fingers were cool and smooth. I played with them. Sangster cleared his throat and stood.

‘Vance Stivens'll be back tonight,' he said.

‘Vance?'

‘That's right. He told me to tell you he'll adjust the sutures under local anaesthetic tonight.'

‘Terrific,' I said. ‘I hope he's had a nice day.'

‘We played golf this morning after he'd worked on you.'

‘Good. What did he shoot?'

‘Eighty-one. He'll be happy with that.'

‘I'm glad.' I gripped Helen's hand and felt a strong sexual urge. Sangster moved away from the bed.

‘He also said to tell you that when he's finished it'll feel like there's a house brick under your eyelid. That'll last for a couple of weeks. You're not to worry.'

‘I won't. Thanks, Ian.'

‘Ciao.'

Helen was wearing a silk dress I liked and she smelled wonderful. Our hands were gripped together.

‘Not much we can do about it here. When do I get out?'

‘Tomorrow. But you could be on hand jobs only, for a while.'

‘We'll see. You didn't get put off, did you? By that stuff about Cyn, and me getting beaten up?'

She shook her head. ‘I was surprised though. It sounded as if you went out of your way to find trouble.'

‘I did, I suppose.'

‘Why?'

‘Something to do with the way things were with Cyn and me. Now I want to stay in one piece, all systems go. Mind you, a few hand jobs wouldn't be so bad.'

‘Did you do it that way with Cyn?'

It was the first time she'd ever asked me about my sexual past. I hadn't asked much about her and Michael either, but, from what I'd heard of him, it sounded as if he'd hardly have the time. ‘No,' I said.

‘What about with Ailsa?'

I'd told her a bit about Ailsa. I could hardly avoid it; there were things she'd given me lying around the house. ‘No', I said. ‘Not with Ailsa either. Look, where's this heading? What's wrong?'

‘Oh, I don't know. I just feel shitty. You getting all banged up like this. And the flats …'

This seemed like safer ground. ‘How's that going?'

She didn't answer for a while. She stared out at the expensive view and I had to scratch her palm to bring her round. ‘Hey,' I said.

‘Sorry. Well, I found one I like.'

‘Good. Where is it?'

‘Bondi.'

‘Bondi!'

‘Tamarama, actually.'

‘Jesus, Helen, that's miles away.'

‘I really like it. It has this big balcony and a view of the water.'

I felt depressed; I'd envisaged her across the street or over the back fence, not half an hour away. ‘What sort of a place? Units or what?'

‘It's a big block. Eighty flats. It looks like one of those places along the coast in Spain, but not as flash. You know?'

‘No.'

‘I knew you'd be against it.'

‘All those joints have concrete cancer, did you know?'

‘What?'

‘They were built with crummy concrete back in the sixties. That'd be about the vintage wouldn't it?'

‘Yes.' Our hands had moved apart now and her
face was setting into hard lines. Impatience was here with hostility just over the hill, but I couldn't stop myself.

I said, ‘I've heard about these places. They're all going to fall down in ten years unless …'

‘Unless what?'

‘Unless everyone in them kicks in lots of dough and has the job fixed.'

She'd turned her head away and was examining the view again. ‘It was cheap,' she said softly. ‘I thought it was cheap.'

I felt crummy of course. My eye was aching and my throat was dry. I was hungry and thirsty; the sexual feeling had gone, leaving us washed up on separate beaches.

‘I'm sorry, love. I could be wrong.'

She stood up. ‘Yep, you might be. I'll check it out on Monday. Well, I'd better be off. Dr Stivens'll be here soon.'

‘Mister Stivens.'

‘You're the expert.' She bent and kissed my cheek; the touch thrilled me and I wanted to unsay everything. Shit, why couldn't
I
move to Bondi? What was sacred about Glebe? ‘Helen, I could …'

‘Bye, Cliff. I'll come and get you at ten tomorrow.'

‘We'll go and look at your flat.'

She smiled from the door. ‘Have a nice suture adjustment. Bye.'

Stivens arrived with light and mirrors and surgical gloves. He took off the patch, put drops in my eye and fiddled for a few minutes. I didn't feel a thing.

‘Good,' he said. ‘Not everyone can take that.'

‘I couldn't say I enjoyed it. What's the outlook? Sorry, I can't seem to stop saying things about looking.'

‘It's a common response. The prognosis is very good. Look after yourself …'

‘You're doing it too.'

He smiled. ‘Take care. Use these drops I'm going to give you as often as you like. When you need them. Keep it covered at night and try not to lie on it. I'd like to see you in a week.'

‘No lasting damage then?'

‘You were lucky.' He packed his bag. ‘You said some strange things under the anaesthetic, Mr Hardy.'

‘Like what?'

‘You talked about Bermagui. Lovely spot, I've got a small place there I get down to now and then. Have you got a place on the coast?'

I shook my head which hurt a lot. I winced.

‘You'll have to watch that. No violent movements for a couple of weeks.'

‘Sex?'

‘Gently does it.'

‘Sometimes,' I said. ‘Well, thank you. All I have to do now is pay for it all.'

He busied himself with his bag; they never like to discuss the sordid side. ‘You have medical insurance surely, in your profession?'

‘No.'

‘Most unwise. Well, I suppose you sustained the injury in the line of duty. Your employer could be liable.'

‘Maybe. Thank you, Mr Stivens.'

‘Call my rooms on Monday for an appointment.'

‘See you in Macquarie Street.'

‘Good evening, Mr Hardy.'

That, of course, left me with thoughts of Carmel and Leo Wise and the case I'd had with all the threads. Suddenly, most of the threads had been pulled and they'd led nowhere. It was hard to accept that the Agnew-Bourke trail was a red herring but there it was. I tried to think about what remained of the case but the effort made my eye throb.