Read Online Appeal Denied: A Cliff Hardy Novel by Peter Corris - Free Book Online

the juice that you’re talking about. This is young-gun, out-on-the-street stuff, Cliff. I’m just an old man sitting at my desk listening to the winds of change and discord.’
    I smiled. ‘Purple prose like that and your readers’ll be screaming.’
    ‘They scream at me and I scream at them. Instant feedback. It’s part of the fun.’
    ‘Thanks, Harry. Townsend has put me on to some things. Looks like I’ll be working with him.’
    ‘Good luck.’
    Normally, Harry would insist that in return for information he gave me I’d give him the inside track on the story, if there was one. He seemed to sense that with something this personal it wasn’t appropriate.
    I left the office and walked to the car park behind the theatre complex. I usually park there to put the old heap in the shade and with luck prolong its life. Now, late in the afternoon, it was in deep shadow. As I approached a voice somewhere ahead of me shouted and I looked up in that direction. A strong arm wrapped around my neck and expert fingers felt for the carotid artery. I blacked out, floated, and didn’t feel anything when I hit the ground.

9
    G etting the blood back to your brain when it’s briefly been cut off is very different from the aftermath of being bashed or punched. The first time it happened to me was in the army, when a hand-to-hand-combat instructor did it by accident. A Japanese tough guy did it again somewhat later and not by accident. The recovery has a sense of unreality about it—a feeling of what the hell happened?— and then there’s a very stiff neck and an awareness of any other injuries incurred. In this case I had a pair of bruised knees and a bump on the forehead where my head had hit the car as I went down, and some aches. Nothing serious, aside from the humiliation.
    I hoisted myself up and felt for my wallet in the hip pocket—still there. I reached quickly into the zippered pocket of my jacket. Zip open, disk, thumb drive and page of notes missing. I leaned back against the car and cursed myself for not copying the disk and the notes and putting the thumb drive somewhere safe. My head and jaw ached— another symptom of the brief blackout. For some reason I ground my teeth hard each time this had happened in the past. I was close to grinding them now, in anger.
    Unable to break my anti-mobile habit, I’d left the phone in the car. I retrieved it, located Townsend’s card in my wallet and called him. You always expect to get a message whoever and whenever you call—nobody’s ever actually available, including me. But Townsend was, and he answered.
    ‘It’s Hardy,’ I said. ‘Things are happening and I need to see you. Tell me where and when and make it now if not fucking sooner.’
    ‘You’re not making sense, but I’m at home in Lane Cove and you can come here if you want, or I can meet you somewhere.’
    Could I drive to Lane Cove feeling the way I did? I thought I could. It’s always an advantage to meet someone you’re assessing on their home ground, providing no weapons are involved. I got Townsend’s address, something a journalist doesn’t give out to just anyone, and said I’d be there as soon as I could.
    ‘How soon’s that?’
    ‘Why? Got a date?’
    ‘Have it your own way. I’ll be here.’
    I hadn’t meant to antagonise him, but I hadn’t meant not to.
    Townsend lived in a small sandstone cottage not too far from the Lane Cove National Park. If I sold my terrace I could probably afford one similar—if I wanted to live that far from Jubilee Park, the Toxteth Hotel, Gleebooks, the Broadway cinemas and the Dave Sands memorial. I didn’t.
    It was dark by the time I got there and he’d thoughtfully left a light on above the front door. I went through a neat garden, up a neat path and some well-maintained steps to a porch with tiles that hadn’t lifted and that had been swept clear of leaves. In a quieter mood it would’ve made me feel ashamed of the look of my place.
    I rang the