‘He ended up in hospital. It was the need for junk that made him leg it. Who knows, maybe he had some in reserve anyway.’
The cop sighed, exhausted. ‘You’re right,’ he said, putting the pistol in the inside pocket of his jacket and grabbing the glass in front of him. ‘Everything in this world is permeated with these maybes. Why can’t someone just cut through the crap and say this is how it is, full stop, two and two are whatever they are and that’s that. It would make life easier for a whole lot of people, believe me.’
Speedy started to raise his trouser leg, but changed his mind.
‘And what happened to the syringe?’ the cop mumbled as though to himself.
‘What?’ said Speedy.
‘We never found a syringe at the crime scene. Maybe he flushed it down the toilet. As you said – a cautious man. Even when he was about to die.’
‘Are you sharing?’ Speedy asked, taking a seat.
‘It’s your liver,’ the cop said, sliding the bottle over.
39
The Lucky Country
HARRY RAN THROUGH the smoke into the tight passage. The band was playing so loud everything around him was vibrating. There was a sour smell of sulphur, and the clouds were hanging so low that he was banging into them with his head. Through the wall of noise one sound could still be heard, an intense grinding which had found an unoccupied frequency. It was the grinding of teeth on teeth and chains being dragged along the tarmac. A pack of dogs bayed behind him.
The passage became narrower and narrower, and in the end he had to run with his arms out in front so as not to get wedged between the high red walls. He looked up. From windows way above the brick walls small heads protruded. They were waving green and gold flags and singing to the deafening music.
‘This is the lucky country, this is the lucky country, we live in the lucky country.’
Harry heard gnashing behind him. He screamed and fell. To his surprise everything around him was dark, and instead of a rough landing on tarmac he continued to fall. He must have tumbled into a pit. And either Harry was moving very slowly or the pit was very deep because he was still in motion. The music at the surface became more and more distant, and as his eyes adapted to the darkness he saw that the sides of the pit had windows through which he could see into other people.
Jeez, am I going to fall right the way through the earth? Harry wondered.
‘You’re Swedish,’ said a woman’s voice.
Harry looked around, and as he did so, the light and the music returned. He was standing in an open square, it was night, and a band was playing on a stage behind him. He was facing a shop window, a TV shop window, to be more precise, with a dozen different sets tuned to a variety of channels.
‘So you’re out celebrating Australia Day as well, are you?’ said another voice, a man’s this time, in a familiar language.
Harry turned. A couple were smiling encouragement. He ordered his mouth to maintain the smile, hoping the order would be obeyed. A certain facial tension suggested he still had control over this bodily function. Others he had had to give up on. His subconscious had rebelled and at this very moment there was a battle for his sight and hearing. His brain was working at full capacity to find out what was happening, but it wasn’t easy, because it was being bombarded all the time by distorted and sometimes absurd information.
‘We’re Danish, by the way. My name’s Poul and this is my wife, Gina.’
‘Why do you think I’m Swedish?’ Harry heard himself say. The Danish couple looked at each other.
‘You were talking to yourself. Weren’t you aware of that? You were watching TV and wondering whether Alice would fall right the way through the earth. And she did, didn’t she? Ha ha!’
‘Oh yes, she did,’ Harry said, completely baffled.
‘It’s not like a Scandinavian midsummer’s night, is it. This is just laughable. You can hear rockets going off, but you can’t see a thing because of the mist. For all we know, the rockets might have set fire to some of the skyscrapers. Ha ha! Can you smell the powder? It’s the dampness that causes it to settle on the ground. Are you a tourist here as well?’
Harry had a think. It must have been a really good think, because when he was ready to answer the Danes had gone.
He redirected his attention to the TV screens. Burning trees on one screen and tennis on another. In a news programme they were showing pictures of windsurfers, a woman weeping and parts of a yellow wetsuit with massive bite marks. On the adjacent TV set blue-and-white police tape fluttered in the wind at the edge of the forest as uniformed officers went back and forth with bags. Then a large, pale face filled the screen. It was a bad photo of an unattractive, young blonde girl. There was a sad expression in her eyes as though she were upset she wasn’t more attractive.