Seven Mile Beach, page 11
Nick had driven for two days in the expectation that a destination would somehow emerge. Now it dawned on him that he was going to have to make a decision. Distance would protect him, but he knew he would feel safer in a crowd. He stopped thinking about heading west and started thinking about heading south: to Melbourne.
The gun was making him nervous. A few kilometres beyond Charlton, he stopped near a bridge and hurled it into the Avoca River. The bundle hit the water with a dull splash. Nick remembered a sultry summer morning in 1986, riding his bicycle in Centennial Park as police divers searched Busby’s Pond after the murder of Sallie-Anne Huckstepp. If you dug deep enough, a park ranger had told him, you would find the criminal history of Sydney entombed in the mud alongside the rusted bicycles and broken shopping trolleys.
Later, as dusk began to fall, Nick had the feeling that he was being followed. He noticed a pale-coloured Ford station wagon in his rear-view mirror. He was almost sure he’d seen the same vehicle when he stopped for petrol in Wycheproof. It was a common enough model but the colour—a sort of duck-egg blue—stuck in his mind. He slowed down to let the other driver pass but the station wagon seemed to slow down too. When he speeded up, the station wagon appeared to do the same. It might have been nothing. The distance between the two vehicles slowly increased. It was almost dark when Nick glanced in his mirror and realised that the station wagon wasn’t there anymore; it must have turned up one of the dirt tracks he’d noticed earlier. A feeling of incredible relief swept over him. His hands relaxed on the wheel. He drove for another ten minutes before pulling over. He wound down the window and breathed deeply. Was he going to break into a sweat every time he saw another vehicle in his mirror? He picked up his mobile phone. He had missed seventeen messages. A glance would have told him who they were from but Nick didn’t want to know. Those messages were for Nick Carmody but he’d left Carmody behind, in a carpark at Seven Mile Beach. He glanced in the mirror. His dyed hair looked ridiculous. He wondered how Kevin Chambers would look with his head shaved.
II
The impact sounded worse than it was—but it was bad enough. A busload of passengers with their faces pressed to the vandalised windows were staring at Nick as though he’d just come down in a shower of green sparks.
He was in a suburb called Box Hill, outside Our Lady of Sion College, and a bus had just run into the back of him. He didn’t know how he happened to be in Box Hill and until a few seconds ago he’d never heard of Our Lady of Sion. He got out of the panel van and inspected the damage—which was less than he’d expected, although the tailgate had been pushed out of shape. The bus was unscathed except for a mildly deformed front bumper.
The bus driver looked younger than he did, and Nick felt guilty, as though the accident had been his fault, although the bus had run into him rather than the other way around. He resisted the impulse to apologise.
‘Gee, mate, I’m sorry,’ said the driver. ‘Didn’t you see me?’
Meaning what, Nick wondered—that it was his fault? He tried to force the tailgate back into place.
‘You pulled out,’ the driver explained.
‘Did I?’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Sure.’
‘Need me to call an ambulance?’
‘I’m all right.’
‘You look a bit shaken.’
‘I’m fine. Let’s just forget about it. I was going to get rid of the car anyway.’
The bus driver hesitated. He bent down to look at the deformed bumper. He ran his hand over the dent.
‘I’d like to,’ said the bus driver.
‘Good—’
‘Only the supervisor will want to see some paperwork.’
‘Tell him I wouldn’t stop. Tell him it was my fault.’
‘It was your fault. You pulled out.’
‘So you’re in the clear.’
Nick was pushing down with all his weight on the damaged tailgate, which refused to shut.
The bus driver peered inside: ‘How’s the dog?’
‘The dog’s all right, thanks. We’re both all right.’
‘Greyhound, is it?’
Nick was beginning to realise why public transport always ran late. ‘Yes. It’s a greyhound.’
‘Race, does he?’
‘Used to. Not any more. She’s retired.’
‘She?’ The bus driver walked around for a closer look. ‘What’s the name—if you don’t mind my asking? I used to have a bit of a punt. Always liked a good bitch. You know what they say, don’t you: it pays to follow a bitch in form.’
Nick gave up his attempts to close the tailgate. ‘Listen, mate. I’d like to talk but I’m supposed to be somewhere. Is there any way we can fix this without bothering your supervisor?’
Two female passengers had left their seats and were walking towards them. The bus driver tried to wave them back. When they took no notice he physically herded them back up the steps. Nick seized his chance, jumping back in the car and pulling straight out into the traffic while the bus driver watched him with a look of disappointment bordering on betrayal.
* * *
‘She’s fucked. Pardon the Italian, but that tailgate is fucked.’ The mechanic straightened himself up. He was about six and a half feet tall and hinged at several points. He put both hands in the small of his back and grimaced. ‘I could try and hammer the fucker out but chances are it would still be fucked. You’d get water leaking in, rust, the works. Take my advice. It’s not worth it.’ He walked slowly around to the front. ‘What’s the engine like? Someone’ll give you a few hundred for scrap if the engine’s okay. If the engine’s fucked you’ll be lucky to get a hundred.’ He hoisted the bonnet, held it up with one arm, glanced at the battery. ‘New battery?’
‘Newish,’ said Nick.
‘Give me a listen.’
Nick got in and started the engine.
‘I’ve heard worse,’ the mechanic said after listening for a few seconds. ‘I don’t mind giving you three hundred. Cash. Save you the trouble of taking it somewhere else.’
‘What about five?’
The mechanic let the bonnet fall. ‘What about four?’
Nick glanced over his shoulder at a motley assortment of used cars parked beside the workshop.
The mechanic wiped his hands on his overalls. ‘Looking for something now, are you?’
‘I could be.’
‘What?’
Nick shrugged. ‘What have you got?’
‘Big? Small?’
‘Small. Reliable. Not too expensive.’
The mechanic scratched his head, as if those specifications would be hard—even impossible—to meet. He put his hands on his hips. ‘Reliable. Not too expensive.’ He looked at the panel van. ‘How much have you got to spend?’
Nick thought of the money in his pocket, the money Danny’s father had given him. He couldn’t afford to spend it all. Maybe he didn’t need a car. But he’d had a car since he was seventeen. He’d be lost without a car. He noticed a scooter parked among the used cars beside the workshop.
‘What about the scooter?’
‘What about it?’
‘Is it for sale?’
‘It could be.’ He looked Nick up and down. ‘Ever ridden one before?’
‘Not for a long time—why?’
‘You don’t seem like the kind of bloke who’d ride a scooter.’
‘Really?’ Nick was accustomed to defining himself—either on the telephone or by holding out a business card—and was curious to hear a stranger define him, even by what he was not. ‘And what sort of bloke rides a scooter? In your opinion.’
‘In my opinion?’
‘Yes.’
The mechanic folded his arms. ‘Students. Waiters.’ He paused. ‘Faggots.’
‘How much?’ asked Nick.
The mechanic unfolded his arms. ‘How much did I say I’d give you for the Valiant?’
‘Four hundred.’
‘Call it a straight swap then. Yours for the scooter.’
At the last moment Nick hesitated. He didn’t have the transfer papers. Maybe it would be safer just to drive the panel van into the bush and leave it.
The mechanic leaned back casually against the side of the car. ‘I’m guessing,’ he said, ‘that you haven’t brought the papers with you?’
‘I forgot all about them,’ said Nick.
There was a long pause. ‘It’s a bit of a risk buying a car without papers these days. I mean, you never know what the police might come nosing around. I don’t suppose they’d be interested in a wreck like this but you can’t be too careful.’
Nick knew all about risk, and how to compensate for it. ‘Give me two hundred,’ he said, ‘and I’ll forget about the scooter. I bet you could get two hundred just for the doors.’
The mechanic grinned. ‘I knew you weren’t a faggot.’
A bare scalp on a man under thirty-five both invited and rebuffed scrutiny. Was it an aggressive style statement, or hereditary and unavoidable—or was it the result of chemotherapy? Catching sight of himself in mirrors and shop windows, Nick had the feeling that baldness was going to suit Kevin Chambers. He noticed the looks he received from strangers as he walked around the city: wary, yes, but at the same time oddly impressed, even envious. Or was he just imagining it—projecting onto them the strange excitement he felt at slipping out of one life and into another? How many people, after all, got to do what he was doing? Millions dreamt of having a second chance, but how many had the nerve to go through with it—to simply disappear and start again?
And not a moment too soon. Michael Flynn had tracked down the female witness to the New Year’s Eve hit-and-run. According to her, the driver of the Audi TT bore no resemblance to Danny Grogan. Nick swore out loud as he read the handful of paragraphs on page six of the Daily Star. It was as if he had written the story knowing that Nick would read it—as if Flynn was taunting him. Danny’s father had got to the witness—or someone had—and made sure that the driver she remembered seeing looked nothing like Danny or his underage girlfriend. Nick wondered how much she’d been paid for her trouble. You could say one thing for Danny’s father: he always paid. At the end of the story Flynn reminded the Star’s readers that his missing colleague, Nick Carmody, had admitted in court to driving Grogan’s car on the night of the hit-and-run. Nick was no longer just a fugitive, but an outlaw.
He found himself rattling along Sydney Road in a number 19 tram, staring at the fabric shops bristling with bolts of pink and purple silk and the halal butchers with their awnings drawn against the sunlight. The dog was holed up in a motel room in West Maribyrnong, with a bag of Meaty-Bites and a bowl of water, behind a sign that said DO NOT DISTURB.
The tram halted outside an Afrocentric hair studio and Nick got off. He needed somewhere to live and this seemed like a good place to start looking. The pavements were busy but not crowded. Women carrying bags of shopping got on and off the tram without smiling. The street was lined with bargain shops and discount chemists and pawnbrokers. The population was largely immigrant and Nick got the feeling that people here minded their own business.
He crossed the road to a shop called Planet Real Estate. There were plenty of units for rent but Nick’s eye was drawn to a picture of a weatherboard cottage whose front porch was being slowly strangled by a wisteria vine. The rent—$240 a week—was only a few dollars more than the agent was asking for a two-bedroom unit in a red-brick block of twelve.
Nick opened the door and walked inside. For all the ambition of its name, Planet Real Estate looked like a one-person operation. A man in his fifties in a corduroy coat was speaking on the telephone. Nick pointed to the window and asked whether the weatherboard cottage was still vacant.
Without removing the receiver from his ear the agent nodded and mouthed the word ‘yes’. Nick asked for the address.
The agent put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It’s just around the corner. De Carle Street. Two minutes’ walk.’
‘Can I have a look?’
‘Can you come back later?’
‘I won’t be here later.’
The agent pulled a face. Then he took his hand away from the mouthpiece. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said. His voice sounded pained. Watching him, Nick guessed that the person on the other end of the line was his wife. ‘I’ll call you later,’ the agent said, but seemed unwilling to end the call. (Was it his mistress, Nick wondered?) ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, looking now at Nick. ‘Yes. I’ll try.’ Then he hung up.
‘Sorry for interrupting,’ Nick said.
Ignoring his apology, the agent rummaged in his desk drawer for the keys. Each set of keys had a cardboard tag and the agent had to read a dozen of them before he found the tag he was looking for. He followed Nick out of the office and turned the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’ and locked the door behind them.
They stood side by side at the pedestrian crossing and waited for the walking man to turn green.
‘Where are you from?’ the agent asked.
Without thinking Nick answered, ‘Sydney.’
The traffic stopped and they crossed the road.
‘Sydney?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Whereabouts in Sydney?’
‘North.’
‘You didn’t like it?’
‘It was okay. I felt like a change.’
The agent smiled, as if the thought of voluntary change amused him. They turned the corner into De Carle Street and walked in silence until Nick spotted the ‘For Lease’ sign across the street.
The weatherboard cottage looked as though it had been vacant for some time. The front garden was overgrown with weeds and there were rain-sodden brochures and snail-chewed envelopes all over the concrete path. The kitchen floor was covered with ancient green linoleum. A window pane on one side had been broken and there was a vague smell of wet carpet but there appeared to be nothing wrong with the house that a handyman couldn’t fix.
‘Why did the last tenant move out?’ Nick asked.
The agent shrugged again. ‘Why does any tenant move out?’
‘Didn’t they say?’
‘Not to me,’ said the agent, opening a cupboard and shutting it again. ‘They left some things in the garage.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Furniture. Nothing expensive. I think there’s a small refrigerator in there.’
‘Do you mind if I have a look?’
The agent unlocked the garage door. ‘Go ahead.’
He was right. The abandoned furniture wasn’t expensive but it was in pretty good condition and would enable Nick to move straight in. Apart from the refrigerator there was a formica kitchen table and two chairs, a 1950s veneer wardrobe, a small chest of drawers, and some cardboard boxes containing plates and cutlery.
The agent was waiting for him in the garden. ‘So—do you think you might be interested?’
‘I am interested,’ said Nick.
‘The rent is $240 a week.’
Nick didn’t know if that was fair or not. It was the first place he’d looked at. He had three and a half thousand dollars left, and some cheques he didn’t dare cash. He would have to start looking for a job.
‘What about animals?’ he asked.
‘What about them?’
‘I’ve got a dog.’
The agent shrugged.
‘Make it $220 and I’ll take it.’
The agent locked the house and they walked back to the office. As they waited at the pedestrian crossing he gave Nick his business card. His name was Terry Lawless and, like many real estate agents, he was a justice of the peace. Nick slipped the card into his wallet. A justice of the peace was exactly what Kevin Chambers was going to need.
That night Nick switched on the television in his room at the Sunset Lodge Motor Inn to see pictures of Harry Grogan and his ashen-faced wife, emerging from St John’s Anglican Church in Darlinghurst after the funeral of their son.
The police had found nothing to indicate that Danny Grogan’s overdose was anything other than accidental. Nick wondered how hard they had looked—how hard Harry Grogan had wanted then to look.
The Age was not the only newspaper to point out the 10 percent plunge in the share price of Grogan Constructions in the forty-eight hours that followed Danny’s accident, and to calculate that—at least on paper—his son’s heroin habit had cost Harry Grogan nearly one hundred million dollars.
Since Danny had never shown the slightest interest in running his father’s company Nick found it hard to see why its shareholders were so shaken by his loss. Nevertheless Harry Grogan was forced to issue a statement coolly assuring them that the future of Grogan Constructions was ‘unaffected’ by his son’s death. Was it true—or simply the sort of formulaic reassurance that timorous shareholders needed from time to time to steady their nerves?
The media seemed to have lost interest in the fate of Nick Carmody. At an internet cafe in the city, Nick found himself banished to the Star’s online archives. What could he expect? The life of a tabloid news story was about the same as the life of a carton of milk: at the Star news arrived with a use-by date. In the space of a week Nick Carmody had been transformed from news to its antithesis: old news.
If you believed the editorials in the Daily Star there were tens, even hundreds of thousands of people in Australia who never filed a tax return. In theory Nick knew it would be possible to survive like that for a while: as a non-person, an itinerant with no tax-file number, no driver’s licence, no passport, no criminal record, no credit history. But sooner or later even a non-person would need to see a doctor and for that they would need a Medicare card—or a good reason for not having one. Once the non-person had found his or her way onto one database, they would be searched for on others. Some government computer in Penrith or Hobart or Bunbury would discover a driver’s licence that had expired and never been renewed, a superannuation fund that hadn’t been touched in years—and Nick Carmody would come magically back to life.
His years as a crime reporter had taught him that identity was a pyramid. At the apex of the pyramid was a passport or a driver’s licence with a photograph; at the bottom were electricity bills and store cards. You could use document A to get document B, then use document B to get document C, until you had everything you needed to be a legitimate member of Australian society. He already had a passport in the name Kevin Chambers but the photograph was old and didn’t look anything like Nick. He could report it stolen and attempt to get a replacement but it wouldn’t be easy. Passport fraud was a hot issue these days and governments everywhere were cracking down. Besides, Nick had no use for a passport. He wasn’t planning to travel anywhere. What he did need was a driver’s licence with his own photograph, tangible proof of his new identity—a document he could trust implicitly, and which he could use to obtain other documents.
