Peter Corris - Man in the shadows: a short novel and six stories

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Man In The Shadows

[Cliff Hardy 11]

By Peter Corris

Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

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Contents

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Man in the Shadows

longshadowfellacrossthecorridoroutsidemy office. The shadow obscured the scuffed lino tiles on the floor and almosttouched the card thumb-tacked to the door. The card reads Cliff Hardy-Investigations. Its not the original card, not the one I pinnedup almost fifteen years ago, but its very like it. Ive alwaysfelt that a nameplate or stencilled letters might bring bad luck, so Ivestuck with the card.

I walked towardsthe door and a man stepped from the shadow. He was tall and thin and Iinstantly felt that there was something wrong with him. Not something to makeme reach for a gun, if Id been wearing one, but something to be sorryfor. It was there in the way he moved-slowly and tentatively-and in the way hestood as I came closer. He looked as if he might suddenly flinch away, retreatand dive down the fire stairs.

Mr CliffHardy? he said. He swung the small zippered bag he was carryingawkwardly.

Thatsright.

Youinvestigate things?

I pointed to thecard. Thats what it says. You want to come inside?

The question seemedto cause a struggle within him. He wasnt a bad looking man-under thirty,full head of dark hair, good teeth, regular features, but there was something missing.His face was immobile and was like a painting which the artist hadntquite finished off. But he nodded and moved closer as I unlocked the door.

Thank you,he said.

I got him settledin the clients chair. He put his bag on the floor beside him. For somereason that I couldnt account for, I pulled my chair out from behind mydesk and sat more or less across from him with nothing in between. He wore agrey suit, white shirt, no tie. I smiled at him. I usually start byasking my client for a name. I dont always get the real one.

GarethGreenway, he blurted.

Okay, MrGreenway, how can I help you?

He looked slowlyaround the room. There wasnt much to see-filing cabinet, desk, calendaron one wall, a bookcase of paperbacks and a poster from a Frida Kahloexhibition. You havent got any recording devices or anything likethat, have you, Mr Hardy?

No, nothinglike that.

Good. Haveyou ever heard of psychosurgery?

Yes.

Psychosurgerywas performed on me nine months ago against my will.

I let out a slowbreath as I studied him more closely. There were no physical signs; he didnttwitch or dribble, but he had the air of an alien, of someone for whomeverything around him was strange and new. How did that happen, MrGreenway?

I dontknow. Thats the problem. I cant remember. I know I was in thehospital for some time.

Whathospital?

SouthwoodPrivate Hospital. Its what youd call a loony bin.

That was the firstflicker of aggression Id seen; he opened his eyes wider as he spoke andseemed to be flinching back, although in reality he didnt move a muscle.I didnt react; Id seen enough psychoanalytical movies to know howto behave. Go on, I said.

They didthis to me, made me like this, and I dont know why. All I know is thattheyre going to do it to Guy and theyve got to be stopped.

WhosGuy?

He was myfriend, my only friend, in there.

I see. Whydo you think hell be treated the way you were?

This is thehard part, he said. I dont know why. I just have theseimpressions. They wont come together properly. Thats what thingsare like since they cut into me. Thats the idea. You dont makeconnections between all the things thatre wrong in your life so they dontbother you as much. You see?

Yeah.

Well, itdidnt quite work with me. Im still bothered. They tell me I wasviolent. I dont feel violent anymore. I was an actor. I couldntact now, I wouldnt know how. Thats what it does to you. How wouldyou like it, Mr Hardy? Would you trade in all your anxieties for the sort ofpeace of mind that stopped you from doing what you do now? Even if thatswhat causes the anxieties? I assume you have some?

Sure,I said. No, I wouldnt. What do you mean about it being the hardpart?

He leaned forward. Ivebeen to see the police, doctors, the health authorities, everyone. They wontlisten. I know, from something I saw or heard that I cantreassemble now, that Guy is in danger and that that place is hell on earth. Butno one will listen because Ive been certified insane and psychosurgeried.Im a vegetable, Ive got no rights, I

Easy. Whydid you come to me, Mr Greenway?

Annie Parkertold me to.

AnnieParker! That made me sit back and set memories running. Annie was aheroin addict Id had some dealings with a few years back. The daughterof an old friend, shed been in big trouble which Id extricatedher from. Shed gone to England. Is Annie at this hospital?

She was. Shedied of an overdose a while back. We used to talk. Annie was pretty wrecked;some money shed inherited from her mother was keeping her going.

I see.

You probablydont. Ive got a few thousand dollars. I can pay you.

To do what?

To help meget Guy out of there. To stop him ending up like me. To save his life.

He put his backagainst the chair rest and held himself straight. He looked tired suddenly,almost exhausted by the effort hed made. I felt confused. I wassympathetic towards him; he seemed like a serious, responsible person whodtaken a terrible knock. He had a friend he cared about. Id cared aboutAnnie and her mother. It should have been straightforward, but mental illnessand the medical profession set up strong feelings.

He waited for meand I floundered.

Do you want to beon the side of the patients or the doctors ? I thought. Neither. Donttouch it. Walk away. Say youre sorry and go out and have a drink inmemory of Annie and all the other damaged people youve helped but notenough to make any difference.

Tell memore, I said.

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REENWAY gave me five hundred dollars incash which was unusual but not something for me to tear my hair out over. Thenhe surprised me by standing up, grabbing his bag and jerking his head at thedoor. Youve got a car, havent you?

Sure.

I dontlike small rooms very much. Let me show you the place were talkingabout.

We went down to thelane at the back of the building where I keep my 1984 Falcon on a slab ofconcrete Primo Tomasetti the tattooist rents to me. Primo was standing in thelane having a smoke. He recently declared his tattoo parlour a No Smoking zoneon a trial basis. He looked at the car which has replaced a 1965 model, samecolour, fewer miles, less rust.

Looks great,Cliff, he said. Just like youd be with a facelift.

Are youthinking of going into that business? I asked him. Itsonly a sort of sideways move.

Yeah,he said. The firstd be the toughest. You volunteering?

Greenway wasstanding by, not paying any attention. I unlocked the passenger door and openedit for him. He got in slowly and gracefully. Primo stared. Who is he?he whispered. A doctor?

I winked at him. ThePopes grandson. Keep it under your hat.

It was the lastweek in March. Daylight saving was a recent memory and the sun was still highin the late afternoon and a problem as I was driving into it. I asked Greenwayto get my sunglasses out of the glove box.

You shouldhave better ones than these, he said. These are shit.