The Bat(83)

‘Attractive,’ Harry said. ‘Strange business. Did you know that . . .?’

Lebie passed behind a police officer who was being interviewed on camera.

‘Shit,’ Harry shouted. ‘Bloody hell!’ He banged his palm on the shop window. ‘Turn up the sound! Turn up the volume in there! Someone . . .’

The picture had changed to a weather map of the east coast of Australia. Harry pressed his nose against the glass until it was squashed, and in the reflection of one unused screen he saw the face of John Belushi.

‘Was that something I was imagining, John? Remember I’m under the influence of a very strong hallucinogenic drug right now.’

‘Let me in! I have to talk to her.’

‘Go home and sleep it off. We don’t let drunks . . . Hey!’

‘Let me in! I’m telling you I’m a friend of Birgitta’s. She works at the bar.’

‘We know that, but our job is to keep people like you out, do you understand, blondie?’

‘Ow!’

‘Go quietly now, or I’ll be forced to break your arm, you . . . Ow! Bob! Bob!’

‘Sorry, but I’m sick of being manhandled. Have a nice evening.’

‘What is it, Nicky? Is it him over there?’

‘Let him go. Shit! He just wriggled out of my hold and punched me in the guts. Give me a hand, will you?’

‘This town’s falling apart at the seams. Think I’m gonna move back to bloody Melbourne. Did you see the news? Another girl raped and strangled. They found her this afternoon in Centennial Park.’





40


Skydiving


HARRY WOKE WITH a splitting headache. The light hurt his eyes, and no sooner had he registered that he was lying under a blanket than he had to throw himself to the side. The vomit came in quick spurts and the contents of his stomach splashed on the stone floor. He fell back on the bench and felt the gall sting his nose as he asked himself the classic question: where on earth am I?

The last thing he could remember was that he had gone into Green Park, and the stork had looked accusingly at him. Now he seemed to be in a circular room with some benches and a couple of big wooden tables. Along the walls hung tools, spades, rakes and a garden hose, and in the middle of the floor there was a drain.

‘Good morning, white brother,’ said a deep voice he recognised. ‘Very white brother,’ he said as he approached. ‘Stay where you are.’

It was Joseph, the grey Aboriginal man from the Crow people.

He turned on a tap by the wall, took the hose and sprayed the vomit down the drain.

‘Where am I?’ Harry asked, to start somewhere.

‘In Green Park.’

‘But . . .’

‘Relax. I’ve got the keys here. This is my second home.’ He peered through a window. ‘It’s a nice day outside. What’s left of it.’

Harry looked up at Joseph. He seemed to be in a sensationally good mood for a bum.

‘The parkie and I have known each other a while, and we have a kind of special arrangement,’ Joseph explained. ‘Sometimes he pulls a sickie and I take care of what has to be done – pick up litter, empty bins, cut the grass, that sort of thing. In return I can kip here now and again. Sometimes he leaves me some tucker as well, but not today, I’m afraid.’

Harry tried to think of something other than ‘but’ to say, but gave up. Joseph, on the other hand, was in a talkative mood.

‘If I’m honest, what I like best about this deal is that it gives me something to do. It fills the day and makes me think about other things, kind of. Sometimes I even think I’m making myself useful.’

Joseph beamed and waggled his head. Harry couldn’t comprehend that this was the same person who’d been sitting in a comatose state on the bench just a short time ago and with whom he had been vainly trying to communicate.

‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw you yesterday,’ Joseph said. ‘That you were the same person who’d been sitting so sober and upright and I had bummed ciggies off a few days before. And yesterday it was bloody impossible to talk to you. Ha ha!’

‘Touché,’ Harry said.

Joseph left and returned with a bag of hot chips and a cup of Coke. He watched Harry gingerly consuming the simple but astonishingly effective meal.

‘The precursor to Coca-Cola was discovered by an American chemist who wanted to concoct a remedy for hangovers,’ Joseph said. ‘But he reckoned he’d failed and sold the recipe on for eight dollars. If you ask me no one has found anything better.’

‘Jim Beam,’ Harry answered between mouthfuls.

‘Yes, apart from Jim. And Jack and Johnnie and a couple of other blokes. Ha ha. How do you feel?’