Peter Corris - Man In The Shadows

A long shadow fell across the corridor outside my office. The shadow obscured the scuffed lino tiles on the floor and almost touched the card thumb-tacked to the door. The card reads Cliff Hardy- Investigations. Its not the original card, not the one I pinned up almost fifteen years ago, but its very like it. Ive always felt that a nameplate or stencilled letters might bring bad luck, so Ive stuck with the card.

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

Mr Cliff Hardy? he said. He swung the small zippered bag he was carrying awkwardly.

Thats right.

You investigate things?

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

The question seemed to 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 hadnt quite finished off. But he nodded and moved closer as I unlocked the door.

Thank you, he said.

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

Gareth Greenway, he blurted.

Okay, Mr Greenway, how can I help you?

He looked slowly around the room. There wasnt much to see-filing cabinet, desk, calendar on one wall, a bookcase of paperbacks and a poster from a Frida Kahlo exhibition. You havent got any recording devices or anything like that, have you, Mr Hardy?

No, nothing like that.

Good. Have you ever heard of psychosurgery?

Yes.

Psychosurgery was performed on me nine months ago against my will.

I let out a slow breath as I studied him more closely. There were no physical signs; he didnt twitch or dribble, but he had the air of an alien, of someone for whom everything around him was strange and new. How did that happen, Mr Greenway?

I dont know. Thats the problem. I cant remember. I know I was in the hospital for some time.

What hospital?

Southwood Private Hospital. Its what youd call a loony bin.

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

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

Whos Guy?

He was my friend, my only friend, in there.

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

This is the hard part, he said. I dont know why. I just have these impressions. They wont come together properly. Thats what things are like since they cut into me. Thats the idea. You dont make connections between all the things thatre wrong in your life so they dont bother you as much. You see?

Yeah.

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

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

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

Easy. Why did you come to me, Mr Greenway?

Annie Parker told me to.

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

She was. She died 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 probably dont. Ive got a few thousand dollars. I can pay you.

To do what?

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

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

He waited for me and I floundered.

Do you want to be on the side of the patients or the doctors? I thought. Neither. Dont touch it. Walk away. Say youre sorry and go out and have a drink in memory of Annie and all the other damaged people youve helped but not enough to make any difference.

Tell me more, I said.

Greenway gave me five hundred dollars in cash which was unusual but not something for me to tear my hair out over. Then he surprised me by standing up, grabbing his bag and jerking his head at the door. Youve got a car, havent you?

Sure.

I dont like small rooms very much. Let me show you the place were talking about.

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

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

Are you thinking of going into that business? I asked him. Its only a sort of sideways move.

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

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

I winked at him. The Popes grandson. Keep it under your hat.

It was the last week in March. Daylight saving was a recent memory and the sun was still high in the late afternoon and a problem as I was driving into it. I asked Greenway to get my sunglasses out of the glove box.

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

I lose em; leave em places. Makes no sense to buy good ones. Arent you hot? Take your jacket off.

I was in shirt sleeves, light cotton trousers and Chinese kung fu shoes; behind the windscreen it was like a greenhouse as we drove into the sun. I was sweating freely.

I dont feel the heat or the cold. Not since the treatment. I glanced at him; sweat was running down the side of his face and wilting his shirt collar.

Tell me about this place. I thought they were under strict supervision. Arent there visitors, or something? Official inspections?