The woman was small and light; I half-carried her to my car, pushed her across to the passenger side and got behind the wheel. As we turned the corner out of the street I looked in the rear vision mirror-the dark man was lurching across the road towards the house and the African Queen was rushing out into the rain to meet him.
‘You need a doctor.’ Blood was welling up from a slash across her right forearm; her left arm was giving her pain. She winced as she tried to straighten it.
‘Yes.’ Her voice was just above a whisper, hard to hear with the noise of my old engine, old wipers and the hiss of traffic on a wet road. She was young and pretty with delicate features and a pale amber skin. Her black hair had been held up by combs one of which had fallen out so that she had a half disordered look that would have been very attractive if it weren’t for the blood and the trembling spasms that shook her. Her thin dress was soaked.
A kilometre from the Woollahra house, I pulled up outside one of the twenty-four-hour clinics that have sprung up around the city in recent times. She glanced out the window and shrieked. Her hands clutched for a hold on the dashboard.
‘No, no, not here! No!’
Jesus, what is this? I thought, but I got moving again.
‘Okay, okay, I’ll get you to my doctor. All right?’
She nodded and slumped down in the seat. When I could spare attention from the treacherous roads I glanced across at her. She wasn’t dead and she wasn’t asleep-half-alive would about describe it.
Ian Sangster stitched the cut in the right arm and eased the dislocated shoulder back. He put the left arm in a sling. The woman took it all without a murmur.
‘Bad cut, Cliff,’ Ian said.
‘Dangerous place, the kitchen; almost as bad as the bedroom.’
Ian sniffed. ‘She’s got some nasty bruises too. There was a big, strong man involved.’
‘He’s limping now,’ I said. ‘Tell me, Ian, what d’you think of these clinics-the joints with the leather lounges and cocktail cabinets?’
‘A few of them’re all right, some’ll be video shops in six months.’ He snorted. ‘Come to think of it, that’s about what they are now, some of ‘em. Why?’
‘No reason.’
‘If you’re sick, come to me.’
‘I haven’t been sick since I stopped smoking.’
‘Wise, very wise.’ Ian smoked fifty a day.
She gave me a name on the drive home, Lela Somosi, and told me she was a Filipino. That’s all; she was almost unconscious. Shock and exhaustion, Ian had said. I squelched up the path to the front of my house half-carrying her as before-great stuff for the neighbours. Helen let me in and didn’t ask any questions. She put Lela Somosi in a warm bath, gave her a dressing gown and made her some tea. The woman clutched the mug and took a sip. She smiled at Helen.
‘Thank you.’
‘We’ll show you where you can sleep in a minute,’ I said. ‘But will you tell me about that house first?’
She nodded. ‘Women come there from overseas. We are not here legally. We work as prostitutes. For those who are most… happy and the beautiful ones, it can be only three months. For others it can be six months or a year.’
‘For what?’ I said.
‘To get papers. Real papers. Legal papers for Australia.’
‘And what happened to you today?’
‘I am not happy. The men do not like me. Richard tells me I will never get the papers unless I change. We fight.’
‘Richard?’
‘Richard da Suva, he is the boss. He is from Brazil.’
‘Who’s the black woman, the tall one?’
‘She’s tired, Cliff. Let her sleep,’ Helen said.
‘No. I will tell you. She is Riki Marquand, from Brazil.’
‘And that doctor you wouldn’t go to.’
‘He does things for Richard. I thank you for helping me. I would like to know why you do it, but I am tired now.’
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘Have some sleep. More talk later.’
Helen took her into the spare room and I made some sandwiches and got out the flagon. I put one glass down quickly and poured two more as Helen came in.
‘Saw you,’ she said.
‘I’ve earned it, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Mm.’ She drank and took a bite of tomato and cheese. ‘Your client’s hubby’s in the shit, isn’t he?’
‘Could be.’
‘What do you mean? A Cabinet minister in some sleazy girl immigration racket? This has to go to the police or the Crime Authority or something.’
‘Client comes first.’
‘Explain.’ She took a long pull on her wine and nibbled at a crust.
‘I wasn’t hired to blow the whistle on Winslow. I just have to report to his wife on what he’s doing.’
‘That’s passing the buck to her. She won’t do anything.’
I shrugged. ‘If I go around reporting to the authorities on everything I find out about people no one will hire me. I’ll be out of business.’
‘This is different.’
‘Yeah, it is. But the principle remains the same.’
‘Principle!’
We argued it back and forth for a while, drinking wine and getting nowhere. We got heated and exasperated. At about five o’clock Helen looked out the window; there was a fitful glow in the pale sky about where the sun would be, if it ever came back.
‘I’m going to a movie,’ she said. ‘ Romancing the Stone, want to come?’
‘No thanks. D’you want the car?’
‘No thanks. See you.’
She went and I wandered around the house for a while. I put the wine away and had some coffee; then I got the wine out again and had some more. I looked in on Lela-she was deeply asleep with both damaged arms lying free and looking comfortable. At seven o’clock I walked along Glebe Point Road, stretching my legs for the first time in days and thinking about food and principles. The footpath was drying out in patches and the air smelled and tasted clean. I had some food in one of the coffee shops, bought gin and Gitanes as a peace offering for Helen and came back with the same principles I’d started out with.
For some reason the gate to my place opens outwards so I always close it when I leave. As I turned into the street I could see the gate hanging over the footpath. I ran. The door to the house was open and banging against the splintered jamb. I raced up the stairs to the spare room. The bed was almost undisturbed but Lela Somosi was gone. I stood in the room blaming myself and building up a head of anger. When I got downstairs Helen had just walked in. I nodded to her, grabbed the phone and dialled Barbara Winslow’s number. I was still carrying the shopping and Helen came across and took it gently from me.
‘Mrs Winslow?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Cliff Hardy.’
‘Who?’
‘Cliff Hardy. I have to talk to you.’
‘You must have the wrong number.’ She hung up. I looked stupidly at the receiver, shook my head and pressed the redial button. The phone rang and rang until the connection was broken by the automatic cut-off.
I stumbled out to the kitchen and watched Helen pour gin over ice. I took the glass and drank half of it in a gulp.
‘Don’t say it,’ I snarled.
‘I wasn’t going to.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. I’m sorry, love. I’ve been so dumb. Bastards!’
‘Have you got her cheque?’
‘Cash.’
‘What do you think happened?’
‘Somebody’s worked fast-put me in Woollahra and connected me to Winslow’s wife. God knows how. Ian must’ve got a scare and promised her he wouldn’t do it again.’
‘What about Lela?… What are you doing?’
I was getting my Smith amp; Wesson and the holster from the locked drawer under the hi-fi. ‘I’m going out there to get that da Silva guy. I’ll bend him until he gives me the girl.’
‘Go to the police.’
‘I’ve got nothing to tell them-no witness, no evidence.’
‘You’re being dumb again.’
‘Probably.’