Catching Andrews

6

Catching Andrews

    “There,” said Perry in a horribly neutral voice.

    “Yes,” I agreed feebly. The large old car was parked over two parking slots outside Art For Art’s sake and was, indeed, fuchsia.

    “Right: now we got the choice of sitting here and getting spotted, or coffee in The French Café,” he noted.

    Behind us in the said café afternoon business had slowed to a trickle after what had presumably been their busy period at lunchtime. The window tables were occupied by one elderly couple and a lone coffee drinker, all of whom gazed incuriously and blankly out at the street. It was doubtful if the two of us sitting in the 4x4 in front of the place had registered with them at all.

    “Or,” I suggested, “I could sit here hiding behind my newspaper emanating ‘Waiting for my boyfriend’ while you walk past the gallery doing an imitation of a customer heading for that dry-cleaning establishment along the street.”

    “Thanks,” he said drily. “Sit here, then. Just make sure ya do hold that paper up—profiles, especially cheekbones, are incredibly easy to identify, never mind that unlikely canvas hat of Jim’s you’re wearing.”

    “Are they?” I said feebly.

    “Yeah. Good as fingerprints, any day. Bear it in mind. I’ll walk past the gallery giving an imitation of a bloke walking his dog.”

    “Oh,” I said feebly. “Of course.”

    He looked at his watch. “Jim should be here in about ten minutes.”

    “Right.”

    He got out, opened the back door for Fifi, clipped her lead on, and off they went. I slouched down in my seat, holding the paper well up, though over the road at the little gallery there was no sign of the quarry.

    Perry and Fifi went right along to the end of the street, which wasn’t very long—it wasn’t a main street, but presumably close enough to the main thoroughfare for the gallery and the café to attract business. The presence of the dry cleaners would make it a good location, too, I thought. Er—if people needed much dry cleaning in this subtropical climate? So far all the men I’d seen in Byron Bay and environs had been jacketless and all the women in very light clothes. Many of both sexes, in fact, had been in shorts. Not necessarily attractive ones, no. Longish and baggy with a tendency, on the fuller figures, to ride up between the pudgy thighs.

    Perry and Fifi wandered back, she still looking eager and he with the typical dissociated look of a dog owner whose pet’s just relieved itself on someone else’s tree, gatepost, front lawn, etcetera.

    “He’s in there, all right,” he reported, getting back into the car. “Far’s I could see, chatting up some dame with white hair. She was giggling like a kid and he was smirking like billyo. No sign of Elizabeth.”

    “Probably just as well.”

    “Yeah. –Here’s Jim,” he spotted.

    So it was. We watched as Jim sauntered along the street, paused at Grace’s Giftes, evidently rejected the offerings in its window, wandered on again, and paused outside Art For Art’s sake.

    “Doing an imitation of a bloke that’s real keen on portraits of Riddlesworth,” drawled Perry.

    “What?”

    He gave me a mocking look. “After Jim rung me I started wondering whether these paintings the bloke had turned up with might just be as crooked as he is, so I done a bit of homework. Ferneley, is it?”

    “Yes,” I said weakly.

    “Bit of cheek, eh?”

    “What? Oh: copying it? Yes, indeed. Cheek apparently runs in the family.”

    “Right. Now, you clear on what to do?”

    “Yes. You are sure the back door’s unlocked, are you, Perry?”

    He gave me a very dry look. “Unless the ruddy woman’s changed her mind, yeah.”

    “Mm.” He hadn’t risked one of us ringing the gallery, in case Andrews got suspicious hearing a man’s voice. He’d rung Lisbet and got her to make sure that Elizabeth would unlock the gallery’s back door and leave it like that.

    “Okay!” said Perry cheerily. “There goes Jim!”—as Jim wandered into the gallery. “Here we go!”

    We drove off round the block and stopped for me to get out near the gallery’s back door. Then he and Fifi walked down the street towards the corner.

    I waited for five minutes exactly by my watch, as instructed, and then tried the door. Unlocked. I’d never done any sort of undercover anything in my life. I was all too aware that I wasn’t the stuff of which heroes are made. My heart was beating uncomfortably loudly and my palms felt sweaty, though in this humidity they’d have been damp anyway. I took a deep breath, inched the door open, and slipped in.

    It was, I suppose, typical of the back room of any little shop, only the goods stored there differing with the type of commerce involved. Elizabeth’s back room had a triple row of large art storage shelves on one wall, not full by any means, a sinkbench with an electric jug on it, some stacked cardboard cartons, a filing cabinet, and a small desk with a computer on it and Elizabeth sitting at it.

    She had jumped, but she said nothing and tried to smile.

    I nodded reassuringly, and put my finger to my lips.

    She nodded back and pointed unnecessarily to the curtained doorway to the shop.

    Beyond it I could hear Jim’s voice saying: “That’s quite nice,” and an enthusiastic woman’s voice agreeing: “Oh yes, it’s very pretty, isn’t it! I said to Malcolm, why don’t we get one of those, dear, but he said they’re like something out of that barmy Picnic At Hanging Rock and he couldn’t live with them, aren’t men silly?” –High-pitched titter. “He wants one of these horse pictures. Well, they are good, of course: very clever; but I said to him, are they even of any horse you know, Malcolm? Why not look for a nice photo of darling little Makybe Diva and have it nicely mounted? But he said no, he’d rather have a real painting, and after all it’s his birthday, so I said if that was what he fancied, but it’d have to go in the lounge-room, they are clever but they’re just not pretty enough for the bedroom. Don’t you think, Bredon?” –Very silly titter.

    A voice that I had hoped never to hear again said, but not in the accent I was accustomed to hear from it: “No, right, Mrs Wilmot. I think this one would look good in the bedroom: the two ladies sitting in the garden. Though I suppose it might be a bit picnicky for Mr Wilmot’s taste!” –Silly laugh.

    “Blow him! Yes, I really like that one… So what do you think for the lounge-room? The one of the man riding the horse, or the sweet one of the two ponies?”

    What? Again? I had an impulse to shake my head, as of one with water in the ear.

    “That is lovely, isn’t it? One of that artist’s best, I’ve always thought.” –Oozing charm: I grimaced. “But if Mr Wilmot’s keen on the races, I’d choose the one of the horse and jockey, if I was you. Very realistic, isn’t it? Just like at the Cup, really!” –This time the laugh was positively chummy.

    “I’d plump for that one, meself,” Jim’s voice agreed. “Practically breathing, isn’t it? Mindjew, I’m no expert! But if you don’t fancy it, I wouldn’t mind—”

    “No, I’ll take it,” she said quickly. “But it’s a surprise, of course, Bredon, so would it be an awful bother to wrap it up nicely and keep it for me until next week?”

    “No bother at all, Mrs Wilmot!”

    I waited.

    Both paintings apparently got put aside, there was some slight bother with the credit card—“Oh, dear, I can never work the silly things!”—he capably took over, and the sale was made. And Mrs Wilmot finally took her departure with coy thanks and more giggles and: “Bye-bye for now, Bredon, dear!”

    “Blow,” said Jim’s voice. “I really liked that one.”

    “Yes? We do have a couple more by that artist, sir.” –Ultra-smooth. “Over here.”

    “Righto, then: give us a decko!” said Jim heartily.

    This was my cue. I grimaced, took a deep breath, pushed the curtain aside and went in.

    “Hullo, Anson. Fancy meeting you here,” I said as neutrally as I could.

    He swung round with a gasp.

    “You!”

    “As you see,” I replied, wishing that I’d had some idea of the layout of the damn place: the counter was between him and me. He was standing over to my right, where there were several paintings on the wall and a few more leaning up against it at floor level. Jim was to my left, more or less between him and the door.

    “Uh—look, Cartwright, bygones are bygones, eh?” he said, beginning to recover his wits.

    “Well, yes, they were,” I agreed, edging along to the end of the counter, “until you burned down my new stables, Mr Brownloe or whatever you’re calling yourself these days.”

    His face contorted in a snarl of fury. “You shit!” he hissed. He took a step towards me.

    By this time I was at the end of the counter, blocking his way to the rear entrance. He thought better of the move, and whirled round.

    “I wouldn’t, mate,” said Jim, standing in front of the door.

    We should have seen it coming. He was so quick I couldn’t believe my eyes. In one smooth movement he’d bent, drawn the knife from his sock, and lunged across the little shop at Jim.

    Poor Jim let out a screech as his bare arm in his short-sleeved tee-shirt was stabbed, and reeled back, clutching at it. Then he collapsed onto the floor.

    Twelve years of repressed rage is a great spur. I flung myself at the bastard from behind, trying to pin his arms to his side. The knife came back in a vicious slash. I yelped with pain and fell down heavily, clutching at my thigh, and Andrews leapt for the door.

    He was through it in two strides to the waiting car—and Fifi was on him!

    I can now state definitively—though at the time I wasn’t thinking of anything much except how much my leg hurt and were I and Jim going to bleed to death—that anyone who’s seen demos of trained attack dogs on the telly hasn’t seen the half of it. The mock-crook always has his arm terrifically well padded. Andrews didn’t. He screamed. It was truly awful, a visceral, primeval sound.

    Then Perry popped up as if from nowhere, grabbed his other arm, slapped the cuffs on it, and said conversationally to his dog: “Good girl, Fifi. Drop it!” She did drop it, but crouched at the ready, hackles raised, teeth showing. Not the cosy pet who let little Tanya ride on her back and steer her by the ears, no.

    “Are you—okay?” gasped Jim.

    “Not—very!” I gasped, my fist clapped to my thigh. “Think you’re—worse!”

    Elizabeth had rushed through from the back and was now standing petrified in the shop, goggling.

    “Elizabeth—get—ambulance!” I said through my teeth. Oh, God! I’d never watch another action movie in my life, not even to allay the boredom of a long plane trip. Being stabbed was agonising. James Bond could go to Hell. And if Jim died I’d never forgive myself. He was an office jockey, why had I had let him come on this bloody jaunt? Shit, shit, shit!

    He didn’t die: before I’d even finished the thought Perry was there, using his belt to put a tourniquet on the arm.

    “You’ll be right, mate. Missed anything vital,” he then said to me, inspecting my leg.

    “Oh, really?” I gasped.

    “Nasty cut, though.”

    Nasty— You could call it that!

    “Just keep your hand tight on it. I’ll tie you up a bit,” he said, removing his tee-shirt, “but it needs stitches.”

    Tying me up involved wrapping the tee-shirt excruciatingly tightly round my leg and then using my own belt to strap it on, plus some strong cord which of course he had in his pocket. Then he went back to Jim, saying sourly to Elizabeth: “How long does the fucking ambulance take in this burg?”

    “I—I don’t know!” she wailed, bursting into floods of tears. “She—she bit him!” she gasped through them.

    “Good thing, too.”

    “Do something! What if he bleeds to death?” she wailed, tears streaming down her face.

    “I’ll cheer,” Perry replied stolidly.

    Jim made a noise that might have been a grunt of pain or of agreement, and I managed to croak: “Me, too.”

    Funnily enough, though it was a quiet little street, by this time a goggling crowd, mainly from the café opposite, had gathered outside. They weren’t getting too close to Andrews, however, and this was possibly because, as we could see very clearly through Elizabeth’s plate glass, Fifi was still out there, still crouched at the ready.

    Someone must have called the police, because they and the ambulance arrived together, sirens wailing.

    “Two knife wounds. That bugger by the car, he’s the one that did it,” said Perry briefly as a burly young policeman began: “Now, sir—”

    “The knife’s in the gutter. Just by the dog’s head,” he added.

    The young officer looked over at her and blenched.

    “Get the flamin’ ambos in here!” Perry added loudly.

    He looked from Jim to me. “Um, yeah.”

    After that it was, more or less, all systems go, and we were duly carted off.

    Byron Bay is not a large place, though I believe it gets about two million visitors every year. After various doses of anaesthetic and stitching up, we ended up the next morning, mind-bogglingly, in three adjoining beds. Rather fortunately Jim was on my farther side from Andrews and still too groggy to take much in.

    True, once the efficient Perry had been on the blower to the Adelaide cops—his vernacular—an armed New South Wales policeman sat by Andrews’s bed. The shit was feeling very, very sorry for himself. And not neglecting to threaten to sue Perry for letting his dangerous dog attack him. The police officer, who looked about seventeen, began to look more and more fed up and finally told him loudly to shut his gob and anythink he said could be used against him in court. And if the bloke with the bad arm carked it he’d get life. Brodie Andrews then condemned, displaying an impressive use of four-letter words, me, the officer, Jim, the dog, and the NSW police. At which point a very large and impressive nurse came in, checked his temperature, and asked him if he’d ever had a rabies shot.

    Perry was sitting by Jim’s bedside; I glanced over at him in some alarm, only to see he was shaking in silent ecstasy.

    “What?” gasped our victim. “I’m not— No! You can’t do that! I’m not having that!”

    “Think you’ll have to,” she replied, unmoved. “Standard procedure for dog bites.”

    “They reckon,” said Perry, apparently to the ambient air, “that they stick this bloody great needle in your gut. Hurts like buggery. Three doses, I think.”

    “I’ll sue the bloody hospital!” he screeched. “And I’ll see your fucking dog put down!”

    “You can try, mate. Fifi’s a war hero,” said Perry blandly.

    “Is that right, dear?” said the nurse with a beaming smile. “Well, bless her! –I’ll speak to Matron,” she threatened Andrews, and went out.

    Considerable effing and blinding ensued. Perry appeared to enjoy it thoroughly.

    Everything had quietened down, and I’d drifted off in a doze, when the door opened, a crowd of mixed medical uniforms appeared, and Andrews, not without screams of “Watch the arm, you clumsy—” etcetera, was loaded onto a trolley and carted off. Followed closely by Perry, who evidently didn’t trust them without supervision.

    The large nurse bustled over to me, beaming. “There, now! He’s gone, dear, you can relax!”

    I thought I had been relaxing, actually. The agony in my leg had certainly been dulled: I could sort of feel it was lurking there, behind a happy floating sensation, but I didn’t really care. “Thank you, Nurse,” I replied feebly. “Er, where to?”

    “Another room, where he can’t bother anybody. Well, between you and me, in with the old men that are a bit out of it: Alzheimer’s, y’know? They won’t take anything in, ya see. Don’t worry, he’ll be under police guard. They reckon he’ll be up for attempted murder,” she said with relish.

    “Yes: if Jim hadn’t flung his arm up instinctively he’d have got him in the heart,” I admitted with a shudder.

    “Right, well, just be sure you tell the court that!”

    Ugh, a treat in store. The publicity was going to be frightful. “Yes, I will,” I agreed, trying to smile. “Er, Nurse, do you know who’s looking after Fifi?”

    “Who’s that, dear?”

    “The dog.”

    “Oh! The brave doggie! She was at the cop shop, dear, being spoiled rotten.”

    “Yeah,” Perry agreed, reappearing. “They gave her a Big Mac, the dills, dogs aren’t supposed to have cooked meat. Nah—she’s okay, mate: Lisbet’s got her.”

    I sagged. “Thank God.”

    “Goodness, you didn’t believe that awful man, did you?” said the nurse brightly. “She’s a hero—well, heroine, I suppose!” she amended with a girlish giggle worthy of one half her fighting weight. “Her picture’s in the paper, and the television people have come up to interview her and everythink!”

    I gulped. Even Perry looked taken aback.

    “‘Brave Dog Catches Notorious Arsonist!’, that’s what it said! –Hang on, I’ll see if I can find you a copy, there’s a few floating about. They’ve been selling like hot cakes, Mum rung up to say their newsagent’s had sold out by nine o’clock!” With this she bustled out.

    I looked weakly at Perry. “Notorious arsonist?” I croaked.

    He shrugged. “Sells papers, apparently.”

    “Mm. Well, the brave dog bit’s true, anyway.”

    “She’s trained for it,” he said with a little smile.

    I shuddered. “That was no fruit-knife that bastard was packing.”

    “True. That the sort he was carrying when you knew ’im?”

    “No. That was quite a small affair. He’s graduated.” I looked cautiously over at Jim. “Er—did you get any sense out of the surgeon?”

    “Are you jokin’, mate?” returned Perry bitterly.

    “Oh. Same like home, then.”

    “Yeah. Well, the sister said he’d be okay but he may not get full movement back in it. They were a bit less cagey about your leg: muscle damage only, if that means anything.”

    “Uh… No ligaments slashed?”

    He shrugged. “Maybe.”

    I licked my lips. ”Um, Perry, have you phoned Jim’s wife?”

    “No, mate: left that one to Junie. She’ll calm Paula down. She’d panic if I rang her with the news he’s in hospital.”

    I didn’t dare ask him if Junie was cross with him. I just said weakly: “And is Junie coming down here?”

    “Yeah: she’ll collect Paula at the airport and drive ’er down. Her old aunty’ll take Tanya, only too glad to. She’ll stuff her full of cake and lollies, of course; always does, the silly moo. Same with her grandkids.”

    I smiled at him. “Isn’t that what grandmothers and great-aunts are for?”

    He grinned reluctantly. “Well, yeah. Um, you sure you don’t want anybody notified, mate?”

    “No: Mum’d panic unnecessarily and drag Dad all the way out here. And my sister’d say it served me right for taking stupid risks. Well,” I added wryly, “she said that every time I fell off over fences, so she’s bound to.”

    “Ya don’t mean you used to be a jockey?”

    “No, I got too tall and heavy to be a professional. Just some point-to-point—that’s amateur jump racing—and a bit of hunting. They drag a scent, these days,” I added reassuringly, though I wasn’t too sure that Perry Hawkes would be bothered by a few fox deaths—the more so as I’d now been told that introduced foxes were a menace to the smaller native fauna in Australia. “I was never much good: according to my grandfather I lack the killer instinct.”

    “You looked like it yesterday, mate!” he scoffed.

    “Er… I didn’t stop to think.”

    “Nor did he,” he agreed, with a wry look at Jim. “He was supposed to leave it to me and Fifi, the nit. –So do ya still race, at all?”

    “No. Not since my twenties—to my sister’s freely expressed relief. I—uh—well, if can manage it I do ride work: I have a house not far from Lambourn, a big training centre. –Sorry, Perry, am I making sense? Riding work means getting out first thing to exercise racehorses in training. The trainer doesn’t put me up for the full-scale gallops, of course, I’m too heavy, but it’s still quite fun.”

    “I getcha. These’d be your own horses, would they?”

    I smiled a little. “Not always. I have got a couple with him, but the horse I’m allotted depends on what sort of work’s been planned for it, that day.”

    “Right. So there’s quite a lot to it,” he said thoughtfully.

    “Er—to training? Yes, there certainly is.”

    “Interesting.”

    “You’d be good at it, I think, Perry. A lot of tactics involved.”

    “Speak for yaself, Alex, mate!” he replied with a grin.

    “Me? Well, I could do the business side of it… I don’t think so.”

    “No? –Talking of business, don’tcha wanna ring yer office?”

    “I’m hoping if I keep my head well down they’ll never get to hear of it. I don’t want rumours that Alex Cartwright’s a reckless idiot flying about the City.”

    “The doc reckons that leg’s gonna take a while to heal, mate: how ya gonna explain that?”

    “A surfing accident,” I replied defiantly.

    Perry Hawkes collapsed in splutters, gasping: “Sharp—edges! Right!”

    “They’ll believe it,” I said with a little sigh. “Likewise the family. They’re all completely… Anglocentric.”

    Perry eyed me thoughtfully. “Anglocentric, eh?”

    “Mm. When I bought Trethewin and they realised it’s in Australia, I might as well have been buying real estate on the moon.”

    “Goddit. –’Ve you let them know?”

    “What, at Trethewin? Hell, no!”

    There was a short silence.

    “Well, uh,” said Perry, sounding disconcerted for the first time since I’d met him, “don’tcha think they’d wanna know the bastard’s been caught?”

    “Ye-es… They’re all such innocents!”

    He gave me a curious look. “Yeah? Might relieve their minds, though.”

    “Knowing he’s been caught, yes. Not knowing the manner of it, though!”

    “Who’s this?” said Lisbet’s voice from the doorway. “Brought you the hero of the hour—don’t think the media know there’s a feminine form of the word,” she noted detachedly, releasing Fifi’s lead.

    “They let you?” I croaked, goggling, as the big dog went over eagerly to her master and he fondled her ears and patted her.

    “Yeah; you’re really not up with the play, are you, Alex, mate?” she said with her cheerful laugh, pulling up a chair beside the bed. “Dog visits are well known to do the patients a lot of psychological good, even—no especially—them that are completely away with the fairies with advanced Alzheimer’s. Also rabbits,” she added thoughtfully.

    “Rabbits?” I croaked.

    “That’s for the kiddies, Alex, she’s having a go,” Perry explained. “Yeah, it was on the TV, actually. Sick kids cuddling rabbits in hospital.”

    “Meanwhile the gaga wrinklies are cooing over the Rotties and bull-terriers, telling them what nice doggies they are!” she grinned. “No, honest, Alex. Recognised therapy.”

    “It was bloody therapeutic when she had a piece of flamin’ Andrews,” Fifi’s master acknowledged, patting her firmly.

    “Yeah. Hey, is it true they’re giving him rabies shots?” she asked eagerly.

    “All over the hospital, is it? Well, dunno,” Perry admitted. “Let’s hope they are and it’s still the good ole method of bloody great needles in the gut.”

    “And so say all of us! –So who are these innocents that you’re trying to protect, Alex?”

    I sighed. “The people at Trethewin.”

    “He hasn’t contacted them,” said Perry at his most neutral.

    “Ought to,” said Jim’s voice faintly, and we all jumped.

    “Yeah, you’re right, there, mate,” Perry agreed. “Wanna drink of water? They’ve got this flamin’ bent straw arrangement: doesn’t seem to of dawned ya still got one good arm.” As he was speaking he picked up Jim’s water and held the business end of the “bent straw arrangement” to his lips.

    Lisbet’s eyes met mine. She awarded me a wink. I grinned.

    “It’ll be all over the media, Alex,” Perry added, setting the water down.

    “Yes,” Jim agreed.

    “It already is,” noted Lisbet. “You’d better ring them, Alex, if you don’t want them to panic.”

    “I— I don’t know what the Hell to say,” I admitted.

    “Just tell them you’re all right. They given you a phone? –No,” she ascertained. “Hang on.” She marched out.

    “Um, Junie’s rung Paula, Jim,” said Perry to his cousin on an uncomfortable note.

    “Mm. Heard… that. –Chicken.”

    “Too right, mate!” he agreed fervently.

    He wasn’t the only one. I sighed.

    Lisbet bustled back, accompanied by our large nurse. The latter handed me a mobile phone.

    I gaped at her. “I thought one wasn’t allowed to use these in hospitals?”

    “This is an official one, dear.”

    Oh, right: quite possibly inside its works there was an official aluminium foil hat, too, stopping the pernicious rays!

    “You have to put the area code in first, Alex,” Lisbet prompted me.

    “For Australia?”

    “No!” the fit ones cried in chorus.

    “No,” Jim echoed weakly. “SA.”

    “I’m lost,” I admitted.

    “Well, what number didja ring when ya were in Adelaide?” demanded Lisbet.

    “Er…”

    “It’ll be in your phone. Have a look in his things, Becky,” Lisbet suggested to the nurse.

    It was then determined—along with the fact that the cops had taken my blood-soaked trousers as evidence—that although my phone probably did have the number in it and Jim’s phone definitely did have the number in it, both of these were safely locked away in the motel office, because Perry had been sure that we’d never manage to switch them right off, and they’d ring at the wrong moment.

    “Hang on, I’ll try online!” decided Nurse Becky. She hurried out. We waited.

    She came back with the report that Trethewin wasn’t in the “online phone book” and didn’t seem to have a web page.

    “Um, I think we’d better ring Jim’s office in Adelaide,” I said weakly.

    “With the area code,” noted Perry drily.

    “Your idea,” muttered Jim sourly.

    “Eh?”

    “The phones.”

    “Aw—leaving them behind. Yeah. Have another drink of water and shut up, you’re supposed to be recuperating.”

    “If he’s shutting up he can’t tell us his office number,” noted Lisbet, her eyes twinkling.

    “And you can shut up, too!”

    “All blokes are mad, eh, Fifi?” said Lisbet conversationally.

    The big dog thumped her tail as if in agreement. I laughed.

    “That’s better!” beamed Becky. “Now, drink this up, Alex, dear.”

    I drank it. Possibly Lucozade, possibly something even horribler—if that was a word. No, well, even if it wasn’t a word, that was what it was.

    Lisbet and Becky finally got through to Clarysse, and Lisbet unceremoniously thrust the phone at Perry. “Explain,” she ordered.

    He looked at me.

    “I’m a poor sick boy,” I said.

    Looking very hangdog, he explained. More or less. However, he did get the number for Trethewin out of her, and with renewed assurances that Jim was going to be all right and yes, the firm should just carry on as usual, and no, there was no need to worry about Jim or Alex, they were both fine, just a bit woozy at the moment, he rang off.

    Competently Lisbet took the note with the number off him and dialled. “It’s ringing,” she announced, and handed it to me.

    Oh, God.

    “Yeah gidday!” gasped a voice.

    I shut my eyes.

    “We’re not taking no Press calls! Or no TV!”

    “He’s hung up,” I reported limply.

    “You didn’t even try, more like!” cried Lisbet, wrenching the bloody thing out of my nerveless hand. Fiercely she pressed buttons.

    “Gidday, I’m ringing on behalf of Alex Cartwright,” she said firmly.

    Huh! That wasn’t going to—

    “Hey! Wait!” she cried.

    “He’s hung up, has he?” I said happily.

    “Who the fuck is it?” asked Perry, trying not to laugh.

    Becky by this time was over beside him petting Fifi. “Yes, a bad word, wasn’t it?” she said to her in a sickening coo. “We’re not listening, are we? Naughty Master! But you’re a good girl, Fifi, aren’t you? A good girl!”

    “Don’t give her sweets!” said Perry loudly.

    “Don’t be silly,” she replied placidly. “He thinks we don’t know anythink, doesn’t he?” she cooed. “Yes, he does! But we know, don’t we, Fifi! Good girl!”

    I cleared my throat. “Gavin. Aged ten,” I said to the ambient air.

    Lisbet took a deep breath. “He’s all yours,” she said, handing me the phone.

    Unfortunately, he wasn’t. Uh—rubbish! This was the muck they’d filled me full of, addling my brain.

    I dia— No, I didn’t. “What was the number, again?” I said feebly.

    “Jesus!” cried Lisbet. Once again the phone was wrenched off me. “Ringing,” she said shortly, shoving it at me.

    “We’re not taking no—”

    “Gavin, it’s Alex!”

    “Aw, gidday, Alex. Hey, you know what? This lady, she tried to scam us, she said she was ringing for you!”

    “Did she? I hope you cut her off.”

    “No worries! Hey, was that Mr Hawkes on the News that Tony Brownloe, he stabbed with a knife?”

    “Yes, but he’s all stitched up now, he’ll be fine.”

    “Did he have to have an anaesthetic?”

    “Yes, they did it properly, and his arm’s in a sling, now.”

    “Good. Hey, that dog, did it really bite him?”

    “Yes. She’s an ex-Army attack dog, Gavin. She did what she’s been trained to do.”

    “Far—out!”

    I repressed a shudder. “Yes. She was most impressive. But in private life, she’s just a pet.”

    “Really?” he said dubiously.

    “Yes. She’s letting our nice nurse pat her and stroke her ears right now.”

    “Heck.” –Deeply impressed.

    “Mm. Er—is Cassie there?”

    “Nah, she’s gone to buy some flour. She said she might have to go all the way to Mt Barker, she’s not never gonna buy nothink from horrible ole Mr Matthews ever again.”

    “Good for her. Could you tell her that I’ve, er, only got a cut in the leg and I’m fine, and Jim’s recuperating—um, do you know what that means?”

    “Yeah, ’course!”

    “Good, well, he’s recuperating and he’s going to be fine, too.”

    “Are you gonna come home soon?”

    “Er—as soon as I can, but I don’t know how soon I’ll be able to get away. There, um, there’ll be police questions, I suppose.”

    Over by Perry’s side Becky straightened. “Not today there won’t, the pests,” she said grimly, coming up to my bedside. She whisked the phone out of my hand.

    “Hullo, dear—Gavin, is it? Yes. This is Nurse Becky, Gavin. We have to let Alex rest now. –Yes, and Mr Hawkes. Then they can have a nice lunch and another nap this afternoon. –No, Gavin, it’s just a wound in his leg. –Don’t be silly, dear, of course they’re not!”—I quailed. Beyond her sturdy shoulder I could see the indomitable Perry quailing, too. Jim seemed to have his eyes shut.—“They’ll both be fine, but anybody’s who’s lost some blood and had to have stitches needs to have a good long rest. –Did you really, dear? Well, that’s the same sort of thing. –Yes, everybody that’s had concussion needs to take it easy. –That’s right, Gavin, Lucozade is good for you, and as a matter of fact I’ve just given Alex some!”—Ugh, so it was.—“Now, I’ve got to get back to— What? Oh! Yes, that’s right, she’s right here, she came for a hospital visit. She’s been so good, she’s just sitting by Mr Hawkes’s bed. –No, Gavin, dear, she’s a very friendly dog, she’d never hurt anybody unless it was a matter of stopping a bad man. –Yes, just like a police dog, but she was an Army dog, of course. –Oh, yes, she’s stopped plenty of those wicked Taliban men in her day!”—I rolled an eye madly in Perry’s direction. He looked bland.—“Exactly, dear, she will keep them safe, but that horrible man’s under police guard, there’s no need to worry at all! Now, you’ll pass the message on, won’t you? They’re both doing fine. –Good boy! You take care, Gavin. Bye-bye!”

    She hung up and tucked the phone briskly into her overall pocket. “There! Now, it’s all visitors out, I’m afraid: we must let these brave boys get some rest!”

    I think I might have had some lunch, later, but the rest of that day was a blur. If there hadn’t been something besides Lucozade in that bloody drink, my name wasn’t Alexander Baines Cartwright.

    The police questioning was, of course, interminable. My leg hurt diabolically after the drugs had worn off. Jim got more sedation and was more or less incapable of answering questions. It didn’t really help that Perry remained virtually monosyllabic. Nor that Fifi mysteriously disappeared. In the intervals of the questioning, there were, of course, two very annoyed wives to placate. None of us did a very good job of it. Particularly not Perry when asked by Junie in front of both Jim and me, a Senior Sergeant Bolton, and Nurse Becky how he imagined Tanya would get on without a father?

    That was the unkindest cut of all, though admittedly Paula Hawkes informed Jim roundly that he was too old for this sort of nonsense. And Perry and me, jointly, that we should have known better than to lead him into it.

    It didn’t help, either, that the medicos decided while all this was going on that I needed physiotherapy and I was dragged off relentlessly to sessions of it. I pointed out that the clips or whatever they were that were helping the stitches to keep my thigh together might well come adrift if— No. Gentle exercise. My leg duly got gently exercised: lifted, bent at the knee, and pushed. Ow! I tried pointing out that I was used to leg injuries from my racing days and knew I’d recover fairly soon, but got the dampener “You’re not a spring chicken any more, ya know” in response.

    “Surely just walking across the room to the lavatory would—”

    No, it wouldn’t. –Briskly applying a hot towel to the side of my opposite hip.

    “I merely fell onto the floor, I can’t even feel it, I really don’t think it needs—”

    Bruised. These sort of injuries could come back to haunt you in later life.

    I gave up. The woman was clearly a gazetted sadist.

    On our fifth full day of incarceration Perry turned up in the evening.

    “Heard they’re letting you out tomorrow, Alex.”

    “With a damn’ crutch, yes. I have tried telling them I’m used to leg injuries—”

    “Yeah, yeah.” He looked cautiously over his shoulder but there was no sign of any medical personnel. “This’ll cheer you up.” He poured from the traditional brown paper bag into my empty water glass.

    “Uh—thanks.” I drank. “Jesus! What is it?”

    “Bundy.”

    Er… “Raw rum?” I croaked.

    “Well, raw-ish. If you’re used to knocking back the Bacardi on Mustique.” He eyed me sardonically.

    “They grow it,” said Jim sleepily. “Up in Queensland. Well—in Bundy, actually!” He giggled. “Think I mean distill’ry it,” he admitted.

    “Shit, well, you’re not getting any, mate,” his cousin decided, shoving the paper bag back in his carrier bag.

    “At least I’m amble—um, ambule—um, amlat’ry!”

    “They’ve changed his medication,” I murmured.

    “Goddit,” Perry acknowledged. “Any actual facts about the arm?”

    “Doing as well as can be expected,” I replied sourly.

    “Doon’ ’swell ’s expeck’,” murmured Jim, yawning.

    Perry sat down, sighing. “Right.”

    I glanced over at the door, but we seemed safe. “Where’s Fifi?” I hissed.

    He winked. “Old mate up in the Whitsundays has got ’er.”

    “Nor’ Queen’ln’,” Jim explained, yawning again. “Islands.”

    “Islands?” I said to Perry.

    “Uh—yeah; sorry, Alex: the Whitsunday Islands. This mate, he runs a charter service, taking rich tourists with more dough than sense on scuba-diving expeditions.”

    Omigod.

    “What?” he said to my appalled expression.

    “I think that was the place where Gavin’s parents both drowned!” I croaked.

    “Noddon my mate’s watch, they didn’t,” he replied grimly. “Anyway, Fifi’s a good sailor and she knows him from way back. Barring cyclones they’ll be at sea for quite a while.”

    “Er—is that a joke?” I asked cautiously.

    “It’s a joke on the NSW judicial system, mate, yeah, just in case the bleeding-heart morons decide big bad Army dogs shouldn’t go around attacking harmless citizens that are only up for arson, GBH and fraud.”

    “No, I mean, cyclones.”

    “Eh?” He goggled at me. “No, of course not!”

    “Brit,” said Jim faintly.

    “Yeah, but—” Perry broke off. “Okay, it’s true: wogs begin at Calais.”

    “Cy’lone seashon,” said Jim indistinctly. “Sorry. Sheason,” he corrected himself.

    Perry looked dry but admitted: “Yeah. We’re coming up to it. They can strike any time from early November to early April. Usually between late December and March, though.”

    “Larry,” murmured Jim.

    “Yeah, well, he won’t of heard of it. Cyclone Larry was the last really big one to affect the economy, Alex, though Monica did more environmental damage, up in the Territory, only a month later—2006, that was. Larry struck Queensland in March, wiped out the Aussie banana crop. Dare say that doesn’t mean a thing to the average Brit, but it’s a big industry up there. I read somewhere that it employs over six thousand people. The prices still haven’t recovered. Junie’s been ropeable over it—well, bananas are standard nosh for little kids.”

    I was thunderstruck.

    “Um, they mash them up, when they’re little,” he added, looking at me uncertainly.

    “No kids,” murmured Jim.

    “Y—uh, not that,” I fumbled. “You mean people live up there?”

    Perry looked at me blankly. After a moment he said: “Uh—ye-ah…”

    “Ba’nas. Shuh-cane,” offered Jim.

    “Likewise pineapples, avocados, mangoes, pawpaws— I give up,” decided Perry. He produced his paper bag and tilted it up to his mouth. “Where do you imagine the rum comes from?” he said, lowering it.

    “I—er—sorry?” I fumbled.

    “Bundy! Jim just told you! It comes from Buh— Hang on.” He disrobed the bottle and shoved it at me. “Read it!”

    I read it. “‘Over proof rum. … Bundaberg Distilling Company Australia. 57.7% alcohol’. Good God,” I said feebly. “Er… Why the polar bear on the label? It’s surreal.”

    Perry snatched it back. “Great unsolved mystery of modern life,” he grunted, reswathing it in its bag and stowing it away again. “Bundaberg’s in Queensland. Where they grow sugarcane, mate. Goddit?”

    “Yes,” I said feebly. “And have cyclones.”

    “Yes, well, they usually don’t hit that far south, but yeah.”

    “Someone oughta tell ’im…” said Jim muzzily.

    “What?” replied Perry heavily.

    “Thar’ e’s in Astraya now. Nighty-ni’,” he said, closing his eyes.

    Perry got up. “Yeah. Yer in Australia now, Alex. See ya.”

    … Yes, well. I could only conclude that I was in Australia now, where people lived amongst bushfires, cyclones and—and bananas!

    The next day they did let me out of hospital, complete with a difficult-to-manoeuvre elbow crutch that privately I considered I’d be better off without, and the usual warnings. Lisbet and Paula Hawkes together drove me back to the motel in Ginger Bay. I draw a veil.

    The morning after that I realised that I was in Australia now where the police let knife-packing arsonists escape on their way to court.

    Oh, goody.

Next chapter:

https://deadringers-trethewin.blogspot.com/2025/07/back-to-trethewin.html