The Other Side of Sorrow (18 page)

‘That's very vague.'

‘Have you got a better offer on the table? Look, Smith, ask around in the game. See if I'm thought of as a bullshit artist.'

He laughed. ‘Oh, I already did that. You're seen as someone who plays by his own rules. I have to admit that the word is your rules are generally pretty fair, if slanted your way. But I'd say that was smart.'

‘Okay. I'm telling you that I've got what you need and you'll get it in a straight exchange.'

‘There might be other ways of getting the information from you.'

‘I don't think so and you wouldn't say that if you'd really asked around.'

‘Just a feint, Hardy. Just a feint. You're really prepared to destroy the protest? I thought you were pro-greenie.'

‘I don't give a shit about the protest. All I care about is getting Megan French away from Talbot. And don't mention her when you talk to the cops unless you have to. Don't mention me either, of course.'

‘Of course.' Testy now. ‘Any other instructions?'

‘Yeah. I want the computer returned. Intact. Plus the disks and printouts. You can keep the stuff from the wastepaper basket.'

‘I'll get back to you.'

I was running the risk that he'd go to the cops for his own purposes. Convince them that I was sitting on evidence and information and bring pressure to bear on me in that way. Somehow, I thought not. My run-ins with the law in recent years—resulting in a short prison term, a suspension and a near-suspension—hadn't done me any harm in the circles that matter. If I was seen as a maverick, it was as a maverick who tried to deliver in his client's interest and my guess was that in this instance Smith would class himself as a client.

I was right. He was back on the phone in just under an hour but sounding hesitant. The rain was drumming on the iron roof and I had to ask him to speak up.

‘I want you to know that I pushed it pretty far, Hardy. To the limit.'

‘Save the advertising. What did you get?'

‘In a word, nothing. They're fucked. Talbot's vanished and they don't know where to look. He's been an inner-city type all his life and they've checked those crummy parts street by street. Nothing. Sorry.'

I could've taken exception to his description of my part of Sydney, but it wasn't worth the effort. The result was more or less what I'd expected and, if I admitted it to myself, what I'd hoped. I wanted to go after Talbot without police interference. It seemed the best chance of getting Megan French away without the shit sticking.

‘Hardy?'

‘I'm here. That's okay. No mention of me or the girl?'

‘None.'

‘So, what about the computer?'

‘Fuck you! What've you got?'

I told him about Macleod and Talbot and about my visit to Miss Cartwright and the disappearing oldies and Macleod's legal wrangle over the patch of ground. I hinted at the connection between Talbot and Macleod, which was true, and that one of the protesters had doubts about the financial backing they'd had and Talbot's role in the scheme of things. This was sort of true. Smith was underwhelmed.

‘Shit, that's all speculation.'

‘Look into it. If you work through those printouts your boys stole you'll get confirmation about Macleod. Look, Smith, he's killed those old people and planted them at Tadpole Creek. He doesn't want the fucking sods turned.'

There was a long pause while he thought about it. When he spoke again his tone was conspiratorial. ‘Just say this all checks out and you're right and we have this Macleod by the balls. What's your attitude, given that?'

I knew what he was talking. Deal. Cover up. I thought of Macleod's contemptuous arrogance and of old Miss Cartwright and her violated life. Then I thought of Cyn and Megan French and Geoff and Anne Samuels and the here and now. The living, if only just in Cyn's case.

‘I told you,' I said. ‘I don't care what you do. I'm out of it. You can orchestrate it anyway you like. You can take all the credit.'

‘The computer'll be delivered within twenty hours.'

So I had that much good news for Geoff when he got back with a stack of printouts he'd only just managed to keep dry in the heavy rain. He was pleased, but he'd got caught up in the work he'd done.

‘You know this place, do you, Cliff?'

‘Well, I've been there.'

‘It sounds as if it's sliding into the sea. Wasn't a good idea to build a town there. Not to mention to put in a road and railway. Both got severely damaged in that downpour about this time last year. It's a wonder they didn't lose a couple of houses.'

I spread the printouts on the kitchen table and did a quick run-through. There were a good number of maps, not all of a useful standard. Also, diagrams, environmental impact studies and piles of material to do with a protest about the plan to construct a tunnel to catch stormwater and put it out on the beach. Geoff rolled a joint and flicked through this material.

‘This is one of the craziest ideas I've ever heard,' he said. ‘Of course the old mine was the source of all the trouble. I mean that's the reason for the town and the road and railway in the first place. They diverted the creeks and tried to control the water flow by artificial means. Hopeless. Then they reckon they can run it all out on the beach. Quite apart from the fact that it won't work, it'll fuck up the marine environment for sure.'

‘Why won't it work?'

‘The headland they plan to drill through's too fragile. If they blast, Christ knows what'll happen. Plus they've only got a vague idea of where some of the old mine shafts are and what's in them. Remember when some miners drilled through into an old shaft that'd filled up with water? Not long back? Case in point.'

I was interested, but not as interested as in the material about land use, past and present.

‘Slip areas?'

Geoff said, ‘I highlighted that stuff.'

He'd gone through the survey, classification and rates maps and papers. ‘What's this?' I put my finger on one of the maps where he'd made a circle.

‘It's an area of slip close to one of the old orchards. A couple of houses more or less fell over and the council resumed the land. Some silly buggers had built over the old watercourses.' He sorted through some newspaper cuttings. ‘Apparently, they had some trouble with squatters there a few years ago. The cops cleared them out, but maybe they came back?'

‘You're not bad at this,' I said.

Geoff called the hospital, spoke to his sister, and shook his head at my enquiry.

‘You don't have to come on this,' I said. ‘Maybe you should be with Cyn and Anne.'

‘No, I'm coming. I want to be able to tell Mum, well, something, anyway.'

Not a ringing endorsement of the course of action, but I respected his judgement. Geoff, in jeans, boots, sweater and bomber jacket was dressed for the job. I put on similar gear and put a few things like a torch, matches, a sheath knife, a camera into a backpack. I looked out the window at the leaking grey sky and picked up a raincoat and a parka. A one-pint hip flask of Scotch into the backpack and the .38 under my arm and we were ready.

The rain seemed to get still harder as soon as I turned on the engine. It fell heavily and steadily and didn't look like letting up. By the time we reached the Princes Highway the gutters were overflowing and my windshield wipers were only just coping. I turned on the radio and caught a news report about a low out to sea that was bringing the rain and throwing four-metre waves onto the eastern suburbs beaches. It was expected to last for twenty-four hours or more.

‘Great,' Geoff said. ‘Shit, that escarpment cops it hard. It'll be twice as bad as this down there.'

I said, ‘Maybe not,' but feared he was right. I decided that it was a plus: if Talbot was holed up in a shack under the escarpment, the rain would keep him there. With any luck he'd be so busy trying to stay dry he wouldn't notice anyone coming up on him. I told Geoff this and he almost sneered at me.

‘Know that Clint Eastwood movie where he says to the crim something like, “It's a question of luck and what you have to ask yourself is do you feel lucky?” Well, do you feel lucky, Cliff?'

‘Sometimes,' I said. ‘Punk.'

He laughed and his mood lifted.

My biggest worry was that the coast road from Stanwell Park would be closed and that I'd be forced to go on to the Bulli Pass and cut back to Scarborough. Of course there was always a chance that the road would be damaged in more than one place, and that the villages along that stretch—Coalcliff, Scarborough, Wombarra—would be isolated completely. I told myself it'd take more than a few hours of rain to do this but I wasn't convinced. The further south we went the heavier the rain got and we started to pass cars stalled alongside the road or sitting it out. Some hope.

At Engadine the road was awash and we had to plough through water axle-deep. The car in front of me didn't make it but I did. I waited for the fatal feel of water in the electrical system that'd bring this enterprise to an abrupt halt, but it didn't come.

‘Good car,' Geoff said. ‘Mine'd be stopped a couple of Ks back there.'

I grunted something in reply, but I was concentrating on just seeing and steering. The light was bad and the rain was like a gauzy curtain across the road. South of Engadine, the wind got up and the rain was driven against the car with a force that made you think you were out to sea in a twenty-knot gale with ten-metre waves. Even young, cool Geoff got alarmed.

‘What's your visibility?' he asked.

‘Poor to zero.'

‘Shouldn't you stop?'

‘Probably.'

He said nothing more and my admiration for the kid continued to climb. I turned on the radio again and found that the National Park route to the Illawarra was closed at the weir. I pushed on at a snail's pace to Stanwell Tops and was relieved that the rain and wind seemed to have eased slightly as we ran up to the junction that brings you down onto the coast road.

‘Ever been here before, Geoff?'

‘No.'

‘Great view from the top here on a good day.'

But this wasn't anything like a good day; in fact it was more like the worst day. Instead of being able to see the indented coastline all the way down to Wollongong, all that was visible was sheeting-down rain and a surging, seething sea that thundered against the rocks as if it was determined to bring the whole escarpment down.

‘Jesus,' Geoff said, ‘that's wild.'

He had the right word. It was as if the forces that keep nature in check had suddenly let go and the pent-up energies of air and water were released in an assault upon the land.

‘We'll never find anyone in this,' Geoff said as I began the winding descent to the coast. Cautiously.

‘I told you. Look at it this way,' I said. ‘If they're here, they're stuck here.'

‘I guess. It was madness to put a road and a railway through here. It should've gone inland.'

‘Tell that to the coal tycoons.'

He was right. The road clung to the very edge of the continent as if it had been stuck on with inferior glue. The sheer rock wall to the right in spots was crumbling and the signs that read FALLING ROCKS DO NOT STOP were a standing joke. ‘Of course falling rocks do not stop,' people said. ‘Unless they hit something.'

It was no joke now. The cyclone fence that protected the road to some degree from the falling rocks had been breached in several places and there was muddy debris across the rain-slick surface. Nothing sizeable so far, but it made every twist and turn in the road hazardous. The failing light and the increased velocity of the rain and wind didn't help.

‘How far?' Geoff said and I could hear the fear in his voice.

‘Not far. A few more turns. This is Coalcliff. The most vulnerable bit. Get past this and we should be right as far as the road's concerned.'

‘What about houses and that?'

‘It gets worse. Shut up and let me drive.'

We got around the last of the turns that had the rock wall threatening it and I could just see the ‘Clifton' sign by the side of the road ahead. I heard Geoff breathe a sigh of relief and I didn't blame him. I hadn't said anything about it, but there hadn't been another car in sight during our descent and I strongly suspected that motorists had been warned to stay clear of the area.

The villages of Clifton and Scarborough seemed to be huddled down against the rain. The waves breaking on the rocks below the road were throwing up a spray that was blending with the driving rain. I crawled along until I found the road that crossed the railway line and led up to the flats below the escarpment. Mud was washing down the road and several large cracks had already appeared in it.

‘Whole sections of this road are going to go,' Geoff said. ‘The water undermines the road base which was probably pretty crappy stuff to start with. Jesus, look at that!'

I almost stopped and squinted through the downpour. People in yellow slickers were gathered around a fibro shack built on a steep slope. The shack was teetering. I crept past and over the drumming on the car roof heard the crack of timber and the sound of iron ripping away as the house left its moorings and slid towards the sea.

‘Christ knows what it's going to be like in that slip area,' I said. ‘If we can get there.'

A gust of wind tore several small trees from the ground and sent them spinning down a slope. Some larger trees were bent double against the gale and I felt the car rock several times before we turned a bend and were sheltered by a high rocky outcrop. The visibility was getting worse by the second as the light faded and the rain intensified. Suddenly the bitumen was gone. I skidded around a muddy bend, slid off the track and came to rest in a clump of sheoaks. The car stalled. I started the engine with some difficulty and gunned the motor. The wheels spun. Bogged.