Torn Apart (2 page)

I got up and we shook hands.

He laughed. ‘You're surprised.'

‘You aren't?'

‘I saw a photo of you in a newspaper. I was surprised then all right.'

He insisted on shouting. We took our pints of Guinness into a corner and touched glasses.

‘So,' I said, ‘second cousins. I didn't know I had any. The Malloys and the Hardys weren't exactly great breeders.'

‘Likewise. My mother was an only child and I'm the same.'

I told him I had a sister who had two children I'd scarcely ever seen because they lived in New Zealand.

‘A nephew and a niece, eh? I suppose they're some relation to me, but I'm buggered if I know what you'd call it.'

The similarity in our voices and manner seemed to have the same effect on us, making both of us quiet, unsure of what to say. He wore slacks and a blazer with a business shirt and no tie. I was in cords, a football shirt and denim jacket.

‘Well, Patrick,' I said, ‘there's one difference at least—you dress up a bit.'

He laughed and that broke the ice. We finished the drinks and I got up to get a round. ‘I might . . .'

‘Make it just a middy,' he said, patting his stomach. ‘Got to watch the flab.'

That was exactly what I was going to propose and for the same reason. I watched while the drinks were being poured. Patrick seemed at ease, very still, perhaps unusually so. The beer loosened us up and we chatted. He told me that his grandfather had been adamant that he came from a line of Travellers, not gypsies, and that recently he'd taken an interest in the subject and had looked it up in books and on the web. Malloy was a Travellers' name, he said, but so were lots of others.

I drank and nodded, mildly interested, but with a question looming larger in my mind.
Who is this guy and what is he?

He broke off. ‘I'm boring you.'

‘Not a bit.' I touched the scar tissue above my eyebrows. ‘Weird that we've both got this. You boxed?'

‘In the army and very, very briefly as a pro. Saw the error of my ways and quit. You?'

‘Amateur only. Before the army and after.'

‘Jesus,' he said. ‘Talk about parallel lives.'

A few stories had appeared in the papers about me in recent years, all negative and to do with the loss of my PEA licence. I'd withheld evidence, been accused of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, and been given a lifetime ban. So he knew about me. Time to get on a level footing.

‘What's your game, Patrick?'

‘I've done a few things in my time, Cliff. Did a law degree after the army and worked for a couple of unions. Then I went into buying and renovating old pubs around the place. Here, there and everywhere. Made a good quid at that. Now I've got some investments and a share in a small security firm. That's mostly hands-off but occasionally I have to step in and do a bit. What're you up to these days?'

‘Nothing much. I've got enough money to skate along.'

He nodded. ‘Tell you what, my firm's handling the security for the Moody/Sullivan fight on Wednesday week. It's sold out, they tell me, but I've got some tickets. How'd you like to come along as my guest? Be ringside.'

The Moody he was talking about was Mick ‘Mighty' Moody, the current Australian middleweight champion and the son of Jacko Moody, who'd held the title twenty years before. I'd had some dealings with Jacko and other La Perouse Aborigines back then, and I'd followed Mick's career in the papers. There was talk of a non-title fight with Anthony Mundine but his management was bringing him along cautiously. Time was on his side. Mick was only twenty and these days, with better diet, training and fewer, shorter bouts, boxers can last into their thirties. I was keen to see the fight and said so.

‘Great,' Patrick said. ‘I'll send a car to pick you up. Parking's a bastard at the pavilion.'

‘I can get a cab.'

‘You'd be going as my guest. It's my pleasure.'

I thanked him and gave him the address. We shook hands again and went our separate ways. That put my holiday on hold for a while, but I hadn't come up with a workable plan anyway. I spent my time in the ways I'd begun, reluctantly, to get used to—going to the gym in Leichhardt, swimming at Victoria Park, hanging out with Frank Parker and Hilde, dropping in on my daughter and her partner Hank Bachelor. I was reading through a batch of Penguin Hemingway novels I'd picked up second-hand in Gleebooks and playing pool with Daphne Rowley in the Toxteth Hotel. And religiously taking my meds.

I was collected by a guy driving a white Commodore and wearing a uniform with patches that said ‘Pavee Security'. The word rang a bell but I couldn't place it. His name tag read Kevin Barclay and I was glad that he didn't say he was there to help. Too many Kevins these days did. He didn't talk much on the drive. The fight was a big event with extensive media interest and Patrick was right—parking was a problem all around the Hordern Pavilion and the driver had to keep his mind on the job to avoid angry motorists and work his way to where only the privileged few could go. He got me close to an entrance and handed me a ticket.

‘Enjoy the fight, Mr Hardy.'

‘Thanks. Will you be inside, Kev?'

‘Some of the time.'

‘Expect any trouble?'

‘Nah, well, I could let you in on a secret.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Better not. I'm saying Moody by a knockout in the fifth.'

I puzzled over his remark as I presented the ticket and was escorted down a couple of levels and along an aisle to a seat in the second row with a square-on view of the ring. There's something unique about a boxing program that infects the audience before it starts. You know a fight can be a long, testing affair or over in a matter of seconds. No other sporting contest is like that. The place was packed and noisy and that atmosphere of tense uncertainty drove other thoughts from my mind. The front row is too close. It spoils the perspective, and further back you miss some of the nuances. Row two is perfect.

The preliminaries weren't much. A couple of footballers were making their debuts, one as a heavy and the other as a light-heavy. They won against opponents even less skilled than themselves. Seemed to me they should have stuck to football. The six-rounder before the main event was better. A fast, rangy Lebanese lightweight named Ali Ali boxed the ears off a stocky opponent for four rounds before unwisely deciding he could mix it in the fifth. A solid left rip to his unguarded mid-section put him down and after taking an eight count he walked into a straight right that ended his night.

Patrick arrived just as the referee reached ten and the crowd, as crowds will, roared its approval of the KO.

‘Evening, Cliff. How's it going?'

‘Pretty good. Ali should've stayed on his bike.'

‘You're right.' Patrick, wearing a dark suit over a white T-shirt, looked around. ‘Bloody good house. We'll make a quid.'

‘You're the promoter?'

‘One of them. I've got a piece, as the Yanks say.'

‘Expecting any trouble security-wise?'

‘Never can tell. Boxing 'n' booze are a potent combination. Fancy a drink?'

The ringside area was catered for by a squad of waiters wearing a smarter version of the Pavee uniform, and the rest of the auditorium was serviced by a bar at the back. I don't like the idea of drinking while men are sweating and hurting each other and I refused. Patrick nodded, ordered mineral water from the waiter, and settled back as Sullivan and his party came down the aisle to the ring.

As always, the half-naked women who hold up boards for the round numbers waited to greet the fighters. It's a fairly recent addition to the circus, geared to television, and the traditionalists don't like it. But if they'd had the idea in the old days and could've got away with it, they'd have done it.

There was nothing flash about Moody. He entered the ring only a few minutes after Sullivan and no martial music played. Sullivan was the number one contender for Moody's title, a crown he'd held himself in the past. He was a veteran with an impressive record but a couple of losses that had stalled his career. He was stocky, pale, heavily tattooed. Moody was tall and lean, teak-coloured and severe-looking in a grey hooded top and dark shorts. The announcer gave their names the usual pizzazz; they were both under the middleweight limit so the title was definitely on the line. The referee gave them their instructions and the bell sounded.

From almost the first few minutes it was clear that Moody had the edge. Not that Sullivan was unskilled; he knew how to defend and attack, but, compared to the younger man, he was slow. Not by much, but in boxing split seconds are crucial. His speed advantage by hand and foot enabled Moody to land his punches more cleanly and more often and to avoid most of Sullivan's responses. The crowd urged Sullivan on, but by the seventh round he was tiring and frustrated. He tried a bullocking rush; Moody sidestepped and caught him flush on the ear with a stiff left. Sullivan floundered and Moody, his moment having arrived, drove him to the ropes and landed heavily on his head and body. The referee stopped the fight.

‘He's good,' Patrick said as we moved to leave. ‘Picks his spots.'

‘Have you got a piece of him, too?'

‘Hey, come on, what d'you take me for?'

‘Sorry,' I said. ‘I have a love/hate relationship with the game.'

‘I know what you mean. No, I steer clear of the managerial side. Strictly an administrator.'

We went out to where the white Commodore was parked and Patrick said he'd given Kevin the night off and would drive me home. I felt obliged to invite him in for a drink and we talked amicably. He saw
For Whom the Bell Tolls
lying open and said he was a great admirer of Hemingway. I asked him about the name of his security outfit and he said Pavee was the name the Irish Travellers gave themselves. I'd read that but forgotten.

‘You're really into all that, aren't you?'

‘I am. Dunno quite why. It's an interest.'

We parted as something like friends.

The next time I saw him was a week or so later at the Victoria Park pool. He swam more laps than me with a slow, powerful stroke better than my surfer's choppy action. We had a coffee afterwards and he drew a line down the centre of his chest with an index finger.

‘You're in the zipper club?'

‘Yep. A while ago now. I had a heart attack in America. Lousy medical system if you're poor, but probably the best in the world if you're not.'

‘That's what killed my dad. Quite young, poor bugger.'

‘Mine too. You look fit, Pat. You
are
fit, but you must be about the same age as me and with the family connection and all it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to have a check-up. I didn't see it coming.'

‘I'll do that.'

He rang me a few days later to say that he'd had the tests and they'd found a blockage.

‘Not as serious as yours must've been,' he said. ‘I have to have this thing called a stent. No big deal. But I'm glad you alerted me. Look, they want me to go into hospital for a day or two. D'you mind if I put you in as next of kin? Just a formality.'

‘Sure. I never asked—no wife or kids?'

‘Divorced years ago. No kids that I know of.'

‘I'll visit you.'

I did. He had a private room in Strathfield Private Hospital. The nurse who escorted me to the room looked at me with wide, startled eyes.

‘I know,' I said, ‘we're cousins.'

‘You look like twins.'

He came through the minor procedure with no trouble but was annoyed to learn that he'd be on a couple of medications for the rest of his life.

‘You get used to it,' I said. ‘And the daytime ones you can wash down with a glass of wine.'

He grinned. ‘Is that what you do?'

‘Between us, yes, sometimes.'

‘Well, thanks for coming and not bringing grapes.'

I handed over the Hemingway novel, which I'd finished, shook his hand and left. At the nurses' station I heard a man asking where Patrick was. He was pale and ginger-haired and he did a double-take when he saw me.

‘I'm Patrick's cousin,' I said. ‘He's doing fine.'

‘Glad to hear it. God, I thought you were him making a break.' He laughed and stuck out his hand. ‘Martin Milton-Smith, a colleague of Patrick's. Good to meet you.'

We shook. ‘Cliff Hardy.'

I thought he reacted to the name but I couldn't be sure. He smoothed down a silk tie that nicely matched his suit, and went down the corridor in the direction the nurse had given him.

‘Does Mr Malloy get many visitors?' I asked the nurse.

‘So far only two—you and him.'

A few days later Patrick appeared at my door in the late afternoon. He had two cans of draught Guinness in a paper bag and the Hemingway book in his hand. He came in and we went out to the back area I'd bricked amateurishly years ago. I could have had it relaid when the other work on the house was done but there was something about it, lumpy and with grass growing through the cracks, I liked. We lifted the tabs on the cans and poured the brew carefully into glasses.