Peter Corris - Burn and other stories

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Burn

And Other Stories

[Cliff Hardy 16]

By Peter Corris

Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

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Contents

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Burn

Mr Hardy, I cant believe hedid it, not Jason. George? Sure, all the bloody time. But not Jason.

Hesrun away, I said. Doesnt mean hes guiltynecessarily, but it doesnt help.

Mavis Wishart lookedaround my office with its faded walls and battered furniture. And this is my new office, down thehall from the old one which kind of died after a shotgun went off in it,several times. Mavis was comfortable here; you could tell shed seenplenty of faded walls in her time. She was a small, dark woman of around forty,possibly part Aboriginal or Islander, but she looked as if shed been toobusy all her life to notice. Shed raised two sons without either fatherto help. Now the younger son was accused of setting fire to his school. Hedrun away and she wanted me to find him.

I looked at thenotes Id made. Thirteen, fourteen next month. 175 centimetres.Thats tall for thirteen.

Mavis shrugged. Hisfather was tall.

Nearlyfourteen, isnt that a bit old for sixth class?

His fatherwas dumb. Mavis grinned as she spoke. Nah, hes not dumb.Jase missed a lot of school early, so did George. We moved around a lot andthey were always sick.

The fire wasten days ago. You saw him that night and not since.

Right. Thecops were round in the morning, I went up to get Jase out of bed, but he musthave heard them coming. The window was open and he was gone. Look, Mr Hardy,Jasons a good kid, but you know how things are these days. A push in thewrong direction and theyre gone. Ma Parker told me youd got herAnnie out of trouble once.

Once,I said. It didnt work out so well in the end.

Have a shotat this, Mavis said. It might turn out better. His brother,George, burnt down three schools. Thats why the cops came after Jase.

She was a game,good-humoured woman, so I took the case. Mavis wrote me a cheque for $300 - twodays, maybe three at my soft-boiled rate. I had a description of the kid, namesand addresses of his mates and the location of the pinball joints and pubs hefrequented; this was Sydneys inner west, and Jason Wishart was nearlyfourteen after all.

I spent two days onit, then a third day. I checked on the other kids and the hangouts. Withrunaways, usually, thats all it takes-theyre either in the nearneighbourhood or theyre long gone. When the names and addresses yieldednothing, I tried the institutions. The patience of Detective Sergeant Hubbardof the Darlington police station was stretched to breaking point by a hundreddifferent frustrations, but he gave me the time of day. He admitted that hedhad a tip-off about Jason Wishart after the fire at the local primary school.

When?I said.

That night.

Isntthat a bit quick?

Hubbard sighed andblinked tired eyes. I could guess at the relationship between the eyes and thepiles of paper on his desk. Look, Hardy, if you knew someone wasscrewing your wife and you got a tip it was me, what would you do?

I might makea mental note that shed dropped her standards. My wife left me yearsago. Are you trying to be offensive?

Imtrying to get you to piss off. Georgie Wishart torched schools around here likethey were named Guy Fawkes Primary. Im told hes in the Navy now.God help them. His brother was and is the chief suspect.

If that took meinto ancient history, the talk with the headmistress of the school took me intopolitics. Clarissa Fielding was large, grey-haired and imposing. Thefire didnt help, she said. The schools under threatof closing. I doubt if well get the money to fix the damage.

I sat in heroffice, which looked as if it had doubled as a storeroom, and gazed out at thekids playing in the school grounds-if you could call a couple of hundred squaremetres of unshaded asphalt that. Closing? Why?

Decliningnumbers. Mrs Fielding waved an ironical hand at the window. A ballbounced off the glass as if underlining her point.

Looks busyto me.

Itsnonsense. All the projections are that in two years time this area willhave more children than it had five years ago.

Ah, Imurmured, rationalisation.

Mrs Fieldingsnorted. Exploitation. The plan is to sell the closed schools. This siteis worth millions to the developers and, believe me, they know it.

I was about to askmore questions but she forestalled me by standing up. If yourereally interested, Mr Hardy, you can come to one of the protest meetings. Theyrewidely advertised. Im afraid I cant help you about Jason Wishart.His attendance wasnt good. His teachers reports suggest he couldhave done better.

I stood, too. Theyalways say that. They said that about me.

I expectthey were right.

I left the schoolby the west gate. I could hear the roar of the Cleveland Street traffic but thearea was gentrifying nevertheless. I looked back at the old building-mostlikely itd be flattened in favour of townhouses or office blocks plusparking. A woman standing by the gate thrust a pamphlet into my hand.

Save ourschool.

Hear, hear,I said.

I glanced at thepamphlet which called for a halt to the selling of school sites and nameddevelopers and real estate agents whod expressed unseemlyinterest in our school. I put the paper in my pocket.

It was pretty muchblank wall time, but I decided to pay a call on Jason Wisharts brother,although everyone told me that the Wishart boys werent close. GeorgeWishart shared a flat in Marrickville with two other sailors. His mother hadtold me that he was on shore leave.

Not that hellbother to come and see me.

The red brick blockwas small and the flats had no view, but I suppose if youre at sea mostof the time, you can do without views on land. The hungover, fair, fattishyoung man who answered my knock looked nothing like Mavis or the dark whippetof a boy that was Jason in the photo she had given me.

Imlooking for George Wishart.

Why?

That reply told meId found him. People are incurious on the whole. Your mother gaveme your address. Your brothers in trouble.

Too bad.He tried to close the door but maybe he was used to bulkheads. I had my foot inthe gap and my shoulder pushing against him before he could get set. I shovedthe door in and he almost lost balance.

Hey,he yelped, this is a break-in.

Dontbe silly. His fat, vacant face annoyed me. I was also feeling frustratedby the inquiry. Thats a bad combination in my game-meeting someoneuncongenial when frustrated. I brushed him aside and looked quickly through theflat: the place was a shit-hole-dirty beds, floors, tables, and a kitchen thatwas a health hazard.

George was sittingon the arm of a chair smoking a cigarette when I came back into the livingroom.

You didntlook in the dunny, he said.

Itsall a dunny. When did you last see Jason?

His eyes flickeredto the telephone standing on top of a pile of current and out-of-datedirectories. Months ago. Whore you?

CaptainBligh. He was here, wasnt he? What did he want-money?

I wouldntgive the little

George was smartenough to see that hed made a mistake. He flicked ash on the floor. Hewas in his bloody pyjamas. He wanted to make a phone call. I let him and then Itold him to piss off.

Brotherlylove. Who did he call?

I dunno.STD. He had the number in his head, then he wrote it down in the book and rangit.

I picked up thedirectories and thumbed through them. Numbers were scribbled at random in themargins and over the type. The only STD number was written in a childish pencilscrawl on the inside flap of the A-K volume-the prefix was 045.