One o’clock in the morning. The bar was closing, and John Tankard had dipped out badly with that nurse, so he thought he might as well drive home.
He’d been chatting her up-not a bad sort, about a seven on the scale-and started by buying her a glass of riesling and telling her his name, ‘John, John Tankard, except my mates call me Tank.’ She’d looked him up and down and said, ‘Built like one, too,’ then her hand went to her mouth and her face went red. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean you’re fat or anything, I meant you’re strong, you know, like you keep in shape and that.’ She came out of the other side of the apology a little breathless and smiling and relieved to have turned a possible insult into a compliment, and he’d grinned at her kindly and they’d settled elbow to elbow on the bar and begun to talk.
But then came the moment. It was always there, hovering over everything he did when he was off duty:
‘What do you do?’
He said flatly, ‘I’m a policeman, a copper.’
Wariness and retreat were there in her eyes in an instant. An opportunity lost or failed, like hundreds over the years. Just once would he like to see approval or interest or curiosity on someone’s face when he told them that he was a copper.
There was a time when he believed all of the bullshit, that he was there to protect and serve. Now he saw it as us against them, the police against the public. The public were all guilty of something, anyway, if you dug deep enough. And did they deserve his protection? They shouted ‘police brutality’ whenever he made a legitimate arrest. At parties they cringed comically and said, ‘Don’t shoot me, don’t shoot me’. He’d had four malicious civil writs from people he’d arrested, just trying it on, giving him a hard time.
Over the years the hardness had grown. He was more suspicious than he used to be. The job was more violent now. You saw some ugly things, like dead people, like syringes or speed or dope on kitchen tables in full view of little kids. Tankard was full of frustration. Repeat offenders were forever getting off on a bond. Sergeant van Alphen tried to drill it into him, Don’t take the job personally. Your responsibility is simply to present the case. It’s not your fault if some dropkick gets off because he’s got a good lawyer or a piss-weak judge or a good sob story-but it wasn’t as easy as that.
He was no longer sure what was right and what was wrong, and nor did he care. He’d seen some pretty bent coppers in his time and some halfway decent murderers, rapists and thieves. Most people were on the take in some form or another. A nod and a favour here, a wink and a slab of cold beer or half a grand in an envelope there. Fuck ‘em all.
And he felt tired all the time now, and ragged from sleeplessness. He ate and drank too much. His back ached to the extent that he could never get comfortable in any chair, and sitting for long in the divisional van or a car was sheer hell. The insides of his cheeks were raw from where he’d chewed them. Tension. You’d think, after all this time, that he’d never let the job get to him. But it did. He was surprised at the hurt he still felt, after his name had appeared in the local paper. ‘Police harassment.’ What bullshit. And now someone was flooding the town with leaflets, calling him a Nazi stormtrooper. Too gutless to say it to his face.
He had a scanner in the car. He switched it on. Someone was setting fire to mailboxes. That just about summed up life, for him.
Sergeant Kees van Alphen, ashily damp from helping the Waterloo CFA unit put out the fire in the woman’s pine tree, was shocked. He’d never seen anyone so distressed. First it was a job getting her to step outside and talk to him, and now she still couldn’t get the words out. She was gulping, clearly terrified. He stood with her on the verandah, wanting to say, ‘It’s only vandals, only your mailbox,’ but her fear was so acute that he put an arm around her, patted her on the back and said, ‘Hush, hush,’ something his mother used to say.
He felt awkward. He was no good at this sort of thing.
Then she twisted as if to get closer to him and grabbed his free hand. He screamed. He’d burnt himself somehow. The back of his wrist.
The woman sobered. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Got burnt.’
She looked distractedly at the open door behind her. ‘I could dress it for you.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
Behind him the CFA truck was turning around in her drive. With a brap of the siren it was gone. The air smelt damp and smoky. The roof of his police car gleamed wetly, and there was enough moonlight for him to see steamy smoke rising from the charred mailbox.
He sighed, fished out his notebook. ‘Did you see anything? Hear anything?’
‘No.’
‘Name?’
‘Clara will do.’
He shrugged, noted the name and put the book away. New Zealand accent. He turned to go. ‘I’ll make a report and see that one of our patrol cars comes by here every night for the next week or two.’
She had another attack of hysterics. ‘You’re not going? You’re not leaving me?’
‘Miss, the fire’s out, it was probably kids, they won’t be coming back. There’s nothing more I can do here. Would you like me to contact someone for you? A neighbour? Family? Friends?’
He saw her close down, as if she were suspicious of him. Who was she? What was eating at her?
‘Why would you want to contact someone? Who?’
Bewildered by her mood shift, he replied, ‘Well, someone who could stay with you, look after you. Family, perhaps.’
She looked away from him. ‘They’re all in Darwin.’
‘Darwin? From your accent I’d have said New Zealand.’
She shot him a look. ‘A long time ago.’
He didn’t believe her, but didn’t push it. ‘A neighbour?’
‘Don’t know them. Besides, it’s late. Can’t you stay for a bit? I could put a dressing on your burnt hand.’
‘I’m on duty, miss.’
‘Clara.’
‘Clara. I’m on duty. I’ll call in tomorrow, around lunchtime.’
He could smell wet ash and smoke, and see, in the moonlight, the pine-tree skeleton at the end of her driveway. He opened the door of the police car and at once she wailed, ‘They’re out to get me.’
‘Who are? Why?’
‘I don’t know why. They are, that’s all. It’s a signal.’
‘A signal.’
‘They’re saying: We’re coming back, and next time we’ll get you.’
He shut the door and walked back to her. ‘Clara, it was kids.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘It’s been on my radio. At least a dozen mailboxes torched between here and Mornington. No pattern to it, just any old mailbox on a back road somewhere. You’re one of many.’
She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘You’re sure? You’re not trying to make me feel better?’
‘I swear it.’
She laughed, unclasped herself and stared at the dim form of her hands in the half-dark. ‘Look at me. Can’t control myself, shaking like a leaf.’
‘You need a stiff drink.’
‘I’ll say. Scotch, vodka. You want one?’
‘I’m on duty, Clara.’
She stepped closer. ‘What’s your name?’
He said awkwardly, ‘Kees. Kees van Alphen. It’s Dutch, originally. There’s a few of us on the force.’
‘Kees. I like it.’ She grinned. ‘Justice never rests with Kees on your case.’
‘I’m generally called Van.’
‘Which do you prefer?’
‘In the force, a name sticks. I’m used to Van. The wife called me Alf or Alfie, a kind of a put-down.’
Clara touched his chest briefly. ‘Not very nice of her.’