Torn Apart

I drove to Erskineville where Corbett lived in a flat below street level. It was reached by a steep ramp with a bend in it that Corbett could take at full tilt in his powered wheelchair. Once a speed freak

…

He opened the door to me and the reek of marijuana and tobacco smoke blended with the smell of gun oil and worked metal.

'Fuckin' Cliff Hardy,' he said. 'What's in the fuckin' bag?'

'A bottle of Bundy and a packet of Drum.'

'Come in, mate, come in.'

We were a long way from being mates, but I admired his resilience and courage. I'd have probably been an alcoholic mess if what happened to him had happened to me. He was killing himself with drugs and tobacco, so perhaps his apparent good humour and aggression were covers for something despairing. Impossible to say. I went down the narrow, dark passage and into the room that served as his living quarters and workshop. The flat was tiny, consisting of this room, a kitchenette and a bathroom, all fitted out for his convenience. He wheeled himself behind a workbench, where he had a rifle barrel fixed in a vice.

He produced two non-breakable glasses from under the bench and set them up. A rollie had gone out in the ashtray and he relit it with a Zippo lighter. I put the packet of tobacco next to the ashtray, ripped the foil from the bottle, pulled the cork and poured. Knowing Corbett's habits, I also had a bottle of ginger ale in the bag. I topped the glasses up, more mixer for me than him. He tossed off half of the drink and I gave him a refill.

'What can I do for youse?'

'First off, information.'

He puffed smoke, took a sip and shook his head. 'Fuckin' unlikely, but go ahead.'

'Done any work on an automatic shotgun lately? Say, sawing off, making a pistol grip?'

Corbett wore a biker beard and a bandana, concealing his receding grey hairline. The greasy remnant was caught in a ponytail tied with copper wire. The ponytail sat forward on his shoulder and it jumped back as he shook with laughter.

'Fuck you. As if I'd tell you if I had, but no. Wouldn't mind. Be a challenge. Too short and it could blow up in your face, not enough grip and you'd drop the fucker when you let loose.'

I had a drink and waited until his laughter subsided. I took the wad of notes from my pocket and fanned them. 'I need a gun.'

He pinched off the end of his rollie, picked up the packet I'd bought, took papers from the breast pocket of his flannie, expertly rolled another thin, neat cigarette and lit it.

'Like what?'

'Smith amp; Wesson. 38 revolver.'

'You're a fuckin' dinosaur, Hardy.'

'But…'

'You're in luck. The Victorian cops are trading up. I can get you what you want.'

'Untraceable?'

'Yeah. What've you got there?'

'Nine hundred.'

'That'll do. How many rounds?'

'A full load.'

'Okay. Three days.'

'Two.'

'Okay.'

I took two of the notes from the wad and put them in my pocket. He took a drink and puffed on his cigarette. 'You're a bastard, Hardy.'

'I know,' I said.

Hank rang on my mobile as I left Corbett's flat. I was keeping an eye out for anything unusual-a face, a movement, a noise. I felt pretty sure that $900 would buy Corbett's cooperation, but with people caught in the criminal networks you can never be sure of their price or their other obligations.

Hank said, 'Done, front and back. Sensor lights, a siren to strip paint and a connection to the security people. Are you going to tell me why?'

'I told you.'

'You encouraged me to be persistent. I think you're lying.'

'Just send me the bill, mate, and thanks.'

I drove warily, alert to the position and speed of the cars and motorbikes around me. As far as I knew, there had never been a shooting from one moving vehicle to another in Sydney, but there's always a first time. Factor in cowboys, anxious to try what they've seen in the movies. I turned into the laneway behind my house and worked around and back up the street. Most of the parked cars were familiar and those that weren't seemed to be empty. I parked close to the house, waited and watched until two cars went harmlessly past.

I collected the mail-still nothing from the UK-keyed in the code and knew why I hadn't replaced the system. A pain in the arse. I went in and the photograph on the corkboard took my eye. The information about Frank Szabo was pushing me in another direction, into considering that the killer might've hit the wrong man by mistake. There were ways I could get a line on Szabo but it would take time. I still wasn't convinced it was the truth; the hostile stare of the man at the ceilidh still made an impact and it was something I could follow up immediately.

I rooted through the things I'd left in my travelling bag and found Angela Warburton's card in a zipped side pocket. As she'd said, she was a photo-journalist, working for the London newspaper The Independent and the card carried her email address. I threw together the ingredients for chilli con carne and went upstairs to the computer while it was simmering. I emailed Ms Warburton, attached the photograph as a jpg file, and asked her if she knew anything about the man. I tossed up whether to tell her about Patrick being killed and decided not to. No point putting ideas in her head.

I washed the chilli down with Stump Jump red, watched Lateline on ABC, and grasped only that petrol prices were going up and no one had a clue what to do about it, and took the Hemingway I'd left behind, Across the River and Into the Trees, up to bed. It didn't hold me. I slept poorly. I dreamed of Lily and woke up early needing a piss and aching from the sensation of having had her in dreamland and losing her when my eyes were open.

Angela Warburton's reply was there when I logged on in the morning:

Cliff

Sorry you didn't look me up in London. We could've compared surfing notes. I'm guessing you were a surfer. We do it here on the Cornish coast and it's not too bad. Anyway, since you're all business, the guy in the photo is Sean Cassidy and he's a bit of a mystery man. He's a Traveller, that's for sure, but they say he doesn't quite belong. A military background of some kind, I learned. Paddy Malloy agreed to let me do a photo piece on his family and Cassidy fought him every inch of the bloody way. This is all after you two left. In the end it didn't work out. They're a fractious lot, which was interesting, but it wasn't worth the grief. I didn't get enough shots to make a worthwhile piece, and most of the people clammed up once the clannish shit hit the fan.

That's it. I'm back in London and the offer still stands. Go well, Angie

I didn't like the sound of that. A military background suggested the IRA or the Ulster lot, murderous bastards both, at their worst. Surely Patrick hadn't involved himself in that crazy sectarian business. The trouble was, the more I found out about him the more I realised that I hadn't really known him at all.

I replied to Angela, thanking her and saying I didn't know when I was next likely to be in London, but extending a similar invitation to her in Sydney. It felt vaguely ridiculous, having a penpal at my age, but there was something comforting about it as well.

Nothing much to do except wait for the packages from the UK. A search for Frank Szabo would have to stay on hold until I had the gun. It was still dark outside and I fooled around with the alarm, making sure that the sensor lights worked and that I knew how to deactivate the system and keep the code in my head separate from my PIN and the other numbers we live by these days.

I took my meds, poached two eggs and ate them and collected the paper. I was on my second cup of coffee and reading through the letters when the doorbell sounded. Unlikely that Frankie Szabo would ring the bell. Maybe it was the overseas packages-they wouldn't fit in the letterbox and the postie sometimes took the trouble to ring before dumping them on the doorstep. I used the peephole: my visitor was Sheila Malloy.

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