David Foard - Published Author

CHAPTER FOUR.

In a small weather-board home, not far from the beach, a woman prepared food for herself and two others.

She placed a tossed salad in a large oval bowl, then turned two T-Bone steaks on the grill.

She was content, and smiled as she went about her chores. Every day should be as wonderful as this, she thought, and found herself humming to a song on the radio.

She laughed as the announcer, Steve Parsons, made some churlish remark, then sliced sausage onto a tea plate, adding salad and potatoes cut into small pieces. Finally, she poured an orange drink into a plastic cup.

She turned to the man with her, placed the salad and steak on the kitchen table, turned to her right, brushed the hair away from her face, and said,

"Come to mummy, Louise, it's time for dinner."

The girl never answered, but simply picked at the food with her fingers.

Fitzgerald spent the next day in the library, reading newspaper reports on the robbery. I decided he could manage quite well without me, and eventually found myself outside Coco's boutique.

I tried several summer dresses in a vain attempt to cheer myself up, look pretty and feminine, but the sight of me in full length mirror, wearing chic and sophisticated garments straight from the designer's label, while my crown looked like a plucked chicken, didn't quite match up to the image I had of myself.

I settled for a top and skirt, and an open peeked cap, with a coloured yellow plastic rim. From directly in front, it didn't look too bad. It was only when I turned sideways it made me look like a skinny duck.

While I was waiting for the girl to wrap my items, I turned towards the window and glanced across the mall towards the newsagents. That's when I saw him: A man in green jacket, with wide brimmed hat and yellow band.

I rushed from the store and heard the assistant yell, 'Madam, your goods...' but never had chance to answer.

Then I felt obvious, and turned nonchalantly back towards the window, to watch his reflection in the glass. After a few moments, he folded his paper and turned up Crown street towards centre stage.

I only had enough time to zip back into Pippins, tell the girl I would return and not to worry. I knew she wouldn't. She still had my Bankcard.

By now I had memorised enough of him to sketch an accurate drawing of his build, basic shape, and reproduce the clothes he wore. I noticed too, the loose amble he had, almost as if his hips weren't properly connected to his legs. He seemed to lollop, flicking his heavy work boots forward at the end of overly long legs.

He turned left at Church street, and I hurried to the corner for fear of losing sight of him. He had stopped to talk with a woman in a white uniform and blue cardigan. They both stood watching a giant chess game being played on the tiled chessboard pavement, just behind the kiosk.

As I wanted to get a good look at his face, I crossed behind a low wall and stood opposite. Two men stood on the board, contemplating their next move. Finally, the stockier of the two, stepped forward and moved his two foot white knight, forward and right two squares, calling 'check' with a flourish of his hand and jovial nod of the head.

The man in the wide brimmed hat stayed in the shadows on the far side. He kept the brim pulled down over his forehead, and I could only see the bottom of his chin as he spoke to the woman in white.

She laughed and shook him playfully on the left arm.

The player with the black pieces crossed the board to look at the game from all angles. Then he lifted his plastic queen and removed the offending white knight, sacrificing her in the next move.

When I tried to move closer, I was blocked by several supporters of the Illawarra Chess Club, who had gathered for the days competition. When I looked again towards the far side, the man with the wide brimmed hat had gone.

Frantically I turned and walked over to the Globe Lane entrance under the David Jones overhang, adjacent to their underground parking area.

On the opposite side of the street, walking beneath green tubular arches in front of Frisco furniture store, I watched the man in the wide brimmed hat, until he reached the Town Cinema. He waited momentarily for the traffic lights to change, then crossed Burelli street and headed into MaCabe Park.

Suddenly he was in the open. There were no pedestrians, or corners for me to hide behind. I decided I had to go on.

He followed the path around the huge sweep of gardens, until he crossed towards the arbour walkway, stopping only to throw his newspaper into a bin.

At the toilet block he turned to look around. He must have seen me walking under the vines some little distance behind, but he never faltered.

He turned right towards the Keira street entrance, yet by the time I reached the corner, he was no-where to be seen. I swore briefly, then remembered the newspaper.

The months spent with Fitzgerald hadn't been a total waste, I told myself. If he had a criminal record there would be prints on the paper, and the doctor would be able to trace the man in the wide brimmed hat.

I returned to the galvanised bin under the arbour walkway, only to find it empty.

There was an old man, hunchbacked and dishevelled sitting on a nearby bench, clearly one of the derelicts who slept rough in the park. He was surrounded by several plastic bags, which from the look of it, contained his entire belongings.

He had the paper in his hands and was just about to dismember it, when I approached.

[hidepost=9]"Excuse me..."

"Piss off. Can't youse see I'm busy."

"No no. You don't understand..."

"This is my place, this is. Belongs to me, Joe Pluck. Piss off and be rid of yuh. You one of them queer boys what comes down here at night. Can't stand queer boys. Piss off before I sets Bluey on yuh."

At the mention of his name, a robust Blue Cattle dog cross, appeared from behind the bench. He snorted like a bull and stood ground, right in front of me.

"I'll give you 50 cents for that paper," I blurted, eager not to let Bluey perceive my fear. The dog turned his head towards his master, and waited for him to say something before he pounced.

"What for?" the old man asked. "You still can't have it though. Don't belong to you, it don't. I saw who dropped it in the bin, an' it wasn't you. It's mine now, so piss off. Bluey..."

The dog faced me and growled.

"Two dollars then," I pleaded, searching through my bag for my purse.

"Wouldn't sell no queer anything. Never knows what I might catch."

I looked at him stunned, but decided not to argue.

"There. Two bucks," I said, and thrust out a small gold coloured coin.

"Spits on it, I does. Coins is the worse. I can remember when two bucks was worth havin'. Not no more though. Now two bucks only looks like a tanner and buys even less. Piss off I say. Never did like them digital coins."

I wanted to tell him they were decimal not digital, but thought better of it.

"You're right - absolutely." and tossed the coin back into my bag. "Here's a fiver," I said, drawing a crisp purple note from the side pouch of my purse.

He looked up and squinted against the sun.

"Fiver," he said. I nodded and waved the note in front of him. "Bluey. Chase this queer bugger off my lot. Can't stand queer boys. Got more money than sense. Now piss off and let some of us breath decent air."

At last I cracked. "Now just a minute. I didn't make any personal remarks about you, so don't you start getting personal about me."

The dog stepped slightly back.

"Firstly, let's get something straight. I'm not one of them 'queer boys' as you put it. I'm a girl..."

"Dike eh? Same thing - different soap."

"How the hell would you know...you, you..."

He looked up at me and laughed.

"What's so important about this 'ere paper. Youse can buy one all over the place. Get dozens of 'em for a fiver."

I scowled at the dog, and he moved quietly back behind the bench to rest in the shade.

"The reason's not important, but I would appreciate it if you'd stop messing it up, getting your prints all over the pages. What do you need it for, anyway?"

"Gotta wipe me arse with something," he stated bluntly. "Coppers lock them toilets, because of all them queer boys what comes down here at night. I likes to wipe me arse on the pictures best. I say, 'This is from Joseph Pluciennik,' an' smears it all over them pollies and stuff."

"Pollies?"

"Yeah. Pollies like Hawke and Mister bloody wonderful."

"You mean politicians..."

"All of 'em." he enthused. "Some struts around far too up 'em selves, I reckon. Wonder I haven't seen half of 'em down here with them queer boys." He laughed again and folded the paper, placing it beside him on the bench.

"Look. I can't explain now, but it's about the disappearance of a little girl. Someone took her and maybe the prints on this paper might help us find her."

"Us..." he stated plainly.

"Doctor Fitzgerald and me."

He looked up into the clear blue sky and sighed.

"Is he Irish, this Fitzgerald of yours?"

I nodded, "But he spent most of his life in Wales."

"That's part of England, in'it. See, I knows me geometry."

I didn't have the heart to correct him.

"My mother was from Ireland," he said, and reached inside his jacket to turn the lapel inside out.

Pinned on the cloth was a small round silver frame, no larger than a twenty cent coin. It had a plastic cover over both faces, where once glass would have been. Beneath it in sepia coloured prints, was the photograph of a woman on one side, and a bright, curly headed young child on the other.

"Your mother?"

"I likes to pretend so," he said, turning the frame back to his heart. I was sure I could see a mist cover his eyes before he said, most callously,

"Ten bucks an' the paper's yours."

I gave him the cash and started to leave. He called me back with a quizzical look on his face.

"You wants the paper for fingerprints?"

I nodded.

"Prints of the man what dropped it in that bin?"

I nodded again.

"Well if youse don't get any luck, come back an see me tomorrow. I can tell you the name of the man what dropped it. He does the same most days. Reckon he knows what I wants it for to. Always drops it right there - in the bin under the vines. Strange bloke he is. Doesn't like queer boys in his park any more than I does."

"You know him?" I said incredulously. "And you still made me pay ten bucks for the paper. Why didn't you just tell me his name?"

He chuckled to himself, stood, gathered his bags, placed them on a broken down push chair without rubber tyres, tied a length of string around Bluey's neck and sauntered off towards the art gallery.

"Man's got to make a livin'," he stipulated in a very capricious manner, as he rattled and squeaked up the path towards the Rhododendrons and Gypsophila bushes.

When he reached a bent steel sculpture, erected in the centre of a plateau, he stopped and called back.

"Know what this is?"

I followed him, looked up at the blue-grey abstract towering above us, and shrugged my shoulders.

"It's a bird shit catcher," he said, then laughed. "Youse and that Irish fellow, go see Tom Geary the gardener. If it's his prints your after, might as well talk direct."

I looked up at the sculpture again, wondered what it must have cost, and questioned the philosophy behind a council who would erect such an edifice, while some of their citizens lived like Joe Pluck.

"Watch out for Tom Geary," said the derelict. "Got a fearful temper he has. Hates queer boys and little girls. Killed someone once - more 'n one, so I 'eard."

And I suddenly felt a chill pass right through my body.

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