Consolation by Disher Garry

Author:Disher, Garry [Disher, Garry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Text Publishing Company
Published: 2020-11-02T16:00:00+00:00

21

MONDAY: HIRSCH BLINKING awake in his own bed. Uncharacteristically reluctant to leave it. It wasn’t the prospect of his bare feet on the icy floor or the dawn darkness. It was Maggie Groote inviting him to laugh with her about the mix-up at the undertakers; Clara Ogilvie; the strain of running two police stations. And the creepy sensation of the Ayliffes moving about the back country. Not in hiding, not on the run, but proactive, thirsty for revenge. Arson. Impromptu burglary. Watching and waiting from a sniper’s nest.

He winced when his soles hit the lino. Dragging on socks, tracksuit, heavy fleece, beanie and gloves, he went out and prowled the town. Kitchen lights burning here and there; the grind of a distant starter motor; snatches of morning radio. A still morning, blade sharp, flaying his cheeks. But peaceful. If blood were being spilt in Tiverton, he was unaware of it.

Then Maggie Groote was in his head again, chatting fondly to a stranger’s ashes as she drove around the district. A sadness was in Hirsch. A tear froze on each cheek and he thought savagely, ‘Fucking Clara,’ when his phone buzzed. Another fucking emoji. The way he felt at that moment, he’d just as soon throw her arse in jail.

He walked home, jitters overlaying the sadness. Panic attack? He was in no fit state for clear thought, yet clear thought was expected of him every minute of every day.

Showered, breakfasted, uniformed, thoughts still tumultuous, Hirsch walked across the highway to the shop to collect the Advertiser. An ancient Land Rover towing a heaped, tarp-covered trailer was parked at the petrol bowser, a wizened bushman in a Port Adelaide beanie rattling the fuel nozzle as Hirsch approached. Happened to meet Hirsch’s gaze and the eyes slid away and Hirsch made one of his snap judgments. Here was a nasty old chancer, a wheeler and dealer at the most miserable level of commerce. Love to know what’s under that tarp, Hirsch thought. All he could see was a long overhang of roofing iron. Dangerous, poorly secured, but Hirsch felt just too shitty to care this morning. His phone buzzed again, and he wanted to throw it down and grind it with his heel. But in an attempt at dignity and law and order, he said to the old fuck, ‘Is your load secure, sir?’

The man worked his mouth, thinking about the question. Yellow teeth and a frosting of grey and white whiskers. ‘You want me to retie it?’

‘That’s okay, sir, just drive safely,’ Hirsch said, wanting to be alone, to be left alone.

Back at the police station he sat and closed his eyes and breathed in and out, slowly, deeply, for several minutes. It helped. Maybe. Then, before he could leave for Redruth, a call came from Jean Landy.

‘I’ve got a man on the phone I think you should talk to, boss. Paul. Your highness, whoever you are.’

It had stopped being funny. Hirsch said, ‘Just patch him through.’

A crackle on the line, hesitation,

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