The Other Side of Sorrow (11 page)

‘That's illegal,' he said.

‘So's kidnapping.'

‘We don't know that's happened or anything like it.'

‘Well, let's try and find out what
has
happened.'

We mounted the steps to the porch and I pressed the buzzer. The door opened and we went into the standard hallway that had been blocked off before the stairs. The block steered you into the front room where there were chairs, a table with magazines and a receptionist behind a desk. She wore a version of a nurse's uniform and was middle-aged and comfortable looking.

‘Can I help you?'

‘My name's Hardy. I rang a little while ago for an appointment.'

‘Ah, yes, Mr Hardy. And this is …?'

‘Geoff. My son. He's here to lend me moral support. I'm a bit anxious about this.'

‘How nice,' she said. ‘There's certainly no need to be anxious. If Geoff can just wait here. I'll get some details from you. I take it you're in a health fund.'

I said I was and gave her the details.

‘Fine. I'll take you through to the patients' waiting room and see how long until Dr Pradesh can see you.'

I nodded to Geoff and let her lead me away, moving as slowly as I could. We went through a passage that had been created by partitions to a small room at the back of the house, one of three. There had been a lot of dividing of space back here.

‘Please wait here, Mr Hardy. I'll have to ask you not to leave the room until you are called for.'

‘Why's that?'

‘Our patients demand and expect privacy. I'm sure you understand.'

‘Of course.' I tried to look as if I'd be worried that someone would see me there. Come to think of it, if I was impotent, I would be.

I delayed her for as long as I could with a few questions but she was obviously keen to get back to her station. The magazines were soft-core pornography and there was a stack of videos of the same kind on a shelf. Good healthy in-out, in-out stuff. I leafed through, admiring the supple bodies and feeling distinct stirrings. I had an image of Annette doing it in her bride's outfit with a man in a dinner jacket. I was smiling when the doctor opened the door.

‘Mr Hardy? Would you come this way, please.' He was Indian or Pakistani; small, neat, with a winning smile. We went into his surgery and assumed the traditional postures—him behind his desk, me in front. Doctor and patient, god and non-god.

‘You are having trouble with your erections? Is that achieving or sustaining?'

‘Both.'

‘I see.' He made a note. ‘Otherwise you are in good health? You look fit.'

‘Fit enough,' I said. ‘I've got a touch of sugar. Controlled by diet.'

Another note. ‘Heart? Kidneys?'

‘Recently checked and okay.'

‘Do you smoke?'

I shook my head.

‘Drink?'

‘Moderately,' I said, giving myself a fair bit of latitude.

He took down the details of my age, medical history and occupation which I gave as ‘security officer'. I gave him the name of my doctor, Ian Sangster, who'd confirm any lie I told. I claimed to have a partner who was aware of the steps I was taking.

He gave me a fairly thorough examination, paying particular attention to my eyes. Then he reached into his desk for a pair of surgical gloves. ‘Please remove your jacket and lower your trousers and underwear so that I may make an examination.'

I did and he did. He examined my genitals and probed my prostate. I stood and tried to think that at least I was getting paid for it.

‘Thank you. Please sit on the examination table.'

He stripped off the gloves and dumped them in a bin. Then he put on another pair and began fiddling with a bottle, a syringe and a plastic device.

I was alarmed. ‘What the hell is that for? Excuse me, doctor, but I thought … Viagra.'

‘Indicated in some cases, not in yours. One of the side-effects of Viagra is interference with the eyesight. Unimportant mostly, but with that old damage to your eye, not to be risked.'

‘I see.'

‘You should not worry. The therapy simply involves injecting the penis with a combination of substances including prostoglandin. These permit the blood to flow past any blockages or narrownesses and facilitate an erection. The device is spring-loaded and enables you to do the injection without discomfort or pain. What I am going to do now is give you a tiny dose to check your reaction. Both my examination and your medical history suggest that you are a suitable subject for this therapy. Do you wish to proceed?'

Reluctant wasn't the word, but I nodded. He showed me how to use the injection kit. A click, a slight sting and it was done.

‘I will now ask Mrs Merryweather to prepare the waiting room where you can watch a video for a few moments. Then I can check the results.'

‘Okay,' I said. I was thinking:
Fine, more time for Geoff to do his stuff
.

He spoke to Mrs M and it was quite a few minutes before she buzzed him back. He showed me into the waiting room again and I settled down to watch a bearded man fuck a woman who had hair only on her head. He did it well in several positions. He appeared to enjoy it more than she did but he might just have been a better actor. It was pretty undemanding in that sense. Dialogue was minimal. Glen Withers and I used to watch porn from time to time for fun and this was fair average quality stuff. I usually responded but not as quickly or as strongly as this. I found myself getting uncomfortably hard.

Dr Pradesh returned and we went back into his surgery. Down came the strides and underpants and on went the rubber gloves. I was fully erect and he stood and looked at me.

‘That's impressive, Mr Hardy.'

‘I'm very encouraged, Doctor.'

‘I imagine so. Well, I usually give patients a six month supply of the medication, but in your case I suspect your problem is basically psychological and I would be hopeful that a few successful episodes of intercourse would help considerably. Ah, you may adjust your clothing.'

‘Thanks, doctor,' I said as I struggled to stuff myself back inside my pants, and they were by no means tight. ‘I'd say I feel better already.'

He smiled. ‘If you will wait a few minutes out at reception Mrs Merryweather will supply you. I'll just check that the coast is clear.'

He established that and we shook hands.

‘Hurry home, Mr Hardy.'

‘I will, doctor. I will.'

Geoff gave me a nod as I re-joined him in the waiting room. Mrs Merryweather looked anxiously at her watch and I guessed that another patient was due to come out into public view. She got the buzz from inside, whipped away and returned with a cardboard container about half the size of a shoe box.

‘Your medication, Mr Hardy. Plus syringes, swabs and the injection device. With the consultation fee that comes to two hundred and eighty dollars. Part of the cost of the medication is reclaimable from your health fund.'

I wrote a cheque and took the box. She gave me a receipt and a motherly smile. I thanked her. ‘It seems to be a marvellous treatment.'

She said, ‘Oh, yes, oh, yes,' and I'd have bet a thousand bucks that she and Mr Merryweather were satisfied customers.

We got outside and I drew in a deep breath. Geoff jiggled the car keys. ‘Want to drive?'

‘No. How'd you go?'

‘I think I can do it. I'll have to get my laptop. Might have to talk to someone who's cluey on this sort of thing.'

‘I thought
you
were cluey.'

‘Can always use help. Why're you so shitty? Weird place, that. You can hear people moving around but you don't see anyone. What did they do to you in there?'

‘Never mind. I need a drink. Several drinks.'

‘Why're you walking funny?'

‘Am I?'

‘Yes, you are.'

‘Son, I've got a hard-on that Gary Cooper would've been proud of.'

‘Who's Gary Cooper?'

‘Just drive.'

Thirty years ago, Sydney University students lived in Glebe and Newtown in ratty terraces and crumbling squats. Gentrification forced them slowly west, to Annandale and Leichhardt and then further out towards Marrickville and even beyond. Geoffrey Samuels shared a house with three other students in Lewisham. It wasn't a bad looking house but it was easy to see why it was a better proposition as a student rental than owner-occupied—there was a main road out front, a factory next door and the train line ran right past the back fence.

Being a polite young man, Geoffrey invited me in, but I'd seen all the student houses I ever wanted to see and opted to stay outside, saying I had phone calls to make. For a minute I thought he was going to ask me who to, which would have been difficult to answer because I was lying. In fact I wanted to get out of the car and stand somehow so that I didn't feel I had a salami inside my pants. Maybe a few deep breaths of fresh air would help.

Geoff shrugged and bowled up to the house with his hair flying in the breeze, a quick spring taking him to the top of the front steps in one jump. That action reminded me of the Tadpole Creek protest and Tess's account of Megan French as a springheel Jack. The thought sobered me after the farce of the clinic and I tried to focus back on what we were doing. I had no real reason to suspect that Talbot would harm Megan seriously, but he sounded unstable to start with and the pressure he must be under now wouldn't help.

Geoff disappeared inside and after a few minutes a young woman came out, leaned in the open doorway and looked at me. She was large and overweight and if she stayed where she was Geoff would have trouble getting past her. Maybe that was her plan. I wondered what he'd told her about me that had excited her interest. I tried to look nonchalant as I mimed making a phone call. She looked disgusted and vanished.

Anti mobile phones,
I thought. That's okay, so am I.

Geoff came back carrying something not very heavy in a not very big case. He deposited it on the back seat carefully and got behind the wheel.

‘What did you tell your housemate about me?' I asked. ‘She came out to get an eyeful.'

‘Oh, Jules. Yeah. I told her you were my uncle.'

‘Well, I am one. I'm an anti-godfather, too.'

He started the car and I was pleased to see that he didn't rev it unnecessarily. ‘What's that?'

‘A godfather who doesn't believe in God. How long's this going to take?'

‘All depends.'

Ask an ignorant question, get a non-informative answer.

Back at my place I left him in the spare room plugged in to the phone line I had installed upstairs when I'd toyed with the idea of getting on the e-mail and internet myself. So far, I hadn't done anything about it, but the day was coming. Down below I phoned Cyn, got her machine, and told her that Geoff and I were getting along okay but there were no further developments. It's easier to lie to a machine than face-to-face with a person dying of cancer.

I itched to know how the police were doing in their hunt for Talbot, but since Glen Withers left me and Frank Parker retired, I've lost my access to information the police don't necessarily want citizens to know about. It was time for me to set about cultivating another contact but it's got harder to do. Friendship was always the best method and money came next. These days, both avenues have more or less closed down except in peripheral areas like motor registration and such because cops have become paranoid and suspicious. Understandably. The funny thing is that the ‘cop culture' all the reformers wanted to crack open has just hardened under the pressure.

It's much the same with the journalists. Back when they worked for owners, not corporations, and could smoke and drink in the office, they were willing to tell you things off the record in exchange for off-the-record information from you. Not anymore; now the news is so processed and sanitised almost nothing gets out that could ruffle corporate feathers. The politicians take some heat occasionally, but the money men are safe. A journalist these days would rather find out that Princess Diana had had an ingrowing toenail than that the head of a multinational had embezzled a hundred million.

Well, with my computer expert working upstairs at least I was moving with the times. I took him a cup of coffee and inhaled a little of the marijuana smoke.

‘How's it going?'

‘Getting there. The security's not as good as it should be. She left the server software in a desk drawer, so that was easy. Now I have to get the user name to get into the database.'

‘How will you do that?'

‘It'll be something they can all remember—the name of the receptionist or one of the doctors, the street they're in—something like that. I collected up a few cards while I was there.'

‘You're a natural.'

He took a sip of his coffee and a drag on his joint. ‘Leave me with it, unless you can help.'

‘Just be as quick as you can. I've got another job for you when you finish that.'

‘Okay. What's my rate of pay?'

‘Room and board, son, room and board. D'you know the paperwork involved in actually employing someone these days?'

‘Yeah, the country's fucked.'

‘Not quite. But they're trying.'

I left him to it and discovered, when I got downstairs, that my erection had subsided. It was the first time I'd ever been relieved about that. Out of curiosity I opened the box Mrs Merryweather had given me and removed several packets of fine needles designated for injecting insulin; the plastic injection kit and a leaflet on how to use it, another leaflet on priapism (a possible and very unwelcome side effect of the treatment), and a small bottle of the magic elixir. I studied the leaflets. ‘S
TORE IN REFRIGERATOR
' the sticker on the bottle read, so I did.

‘Hey, Cliff!'

I raced up the stairs, glad to have that freedom of movement back.