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Authors: Peter Corris
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girl and learn Greek in bed. I pulled myself back to the here and now. For a trail thirty years old and not fresh lately it wasnât so bad. But whoever had taken the photograph from Brain would be on the trail of the Callaghan woman too. If she was still alive. It was time for some night driving.
I paid for the coffee and thought again about a Greek island. Maybe Iâd get a bonus if I found young Chatterton. I put my notebook and .38 in the glovebox of the car and locked it. My jacket went on the seat along with three rolled cigarettes and the half-empty bottle. I got petrol and oil and water for the Falcon and told it we were going south and that itâd have a few hills to climb.
9
Blackmanâs Bay is on the coast, about a hundred and fifty miles south of Sydney. Itâs at the mouth of a river and was once a whaling port. After that it kept on with deep sea fishing for export, local fishing and tourism. Iâd been through the place a few times and liked the look of it. I remembered it as a good-looking little town with a long timber and iron bridge over the river. At a pub a mile or so upstream, Iâd eaten some memorable oysters. Not a Greek island, but then I wasnât on holiday.
I drove down the Princes Highway and took the freeway that skirts Wollongong and Port Kembla. The steelworks were a glowing, flame-spurting delirium too close for comfort. I hadnât been out of the city in a long time, and south of the smoke and steel I began to feel some benefit from the drive and the sense of space around me. The Falcon coughed and protested on the hills. It was adapted to the harsh, stop and start grind of city driving. I nursed it. The air tasted cleaner by the mile and drunks on the road thinned out the further south I went. Iâd smoked the cigarettes and now I took a careful pull on the bottle. The clean air blew into my face sharp and fresh and I felt good.
It was a clear night; the road slid down to the coast andthe stars went on forever out to sea. I hit the Blackmanâs Bay bridge sometime around 3.00 a.m. The planks rattled as I passed over them and I thought I could feel a slight swinging motion in the bridge. The main street was quiet; there were no all-night joints and most of the shops still used ordinary electric light which was switched off. A few neon tubes glowed prophetically in signs and windows. There was an extra service station and a shop or two, otherwise the town didnât seem to have changed much. I drove down to the park near the beach where there was a town map on a board the way there always is in these places.
I located Yancey Street and went back to the car. Call it intuition, call it experience, but I was confident that she still lived there. There was no reason she should but I had a feeling I was dealing with something frozen in time and space. The nurse would still be there and so would the doctor. I realised Iâd forgotten to check the doctorâs address and I went back to the board. A big wave lifted up and crashed on the beach and I could hear the bridge creaking in the light wind. I took a few steps onto the sand and looked out to sea. I could make out a few lights moving slowly a long way out. Off to the left a cliff dropped sharply down to the water. For no reason I thought of it as a jumping-off place for suicides. Suddenly I didnât want to disturb the old ghosts, didnât want to check on whether people still lived where they had once lived and knew about things that happened thirty years ago. I wanted a future, I didnât want to rake over a painful past. I wished I was on the ship and at sea. I shook the thought off and went back to the car.
The roads threaded up behind the town into the hills. I bore left at a crossroad; Yancey Street was an unpaved track with no town lighting. I crept down it trying to pick up itsfeatures in the headlights. There were only a few houses as far as I could tell from gateposts and signboards
I paid for the coffee and thought again about a Greek island. Maybe Iâd get a bonus if I found young Chatterton. I put my notebook and .38 in the glovebox of the car and locked it. My jacket went on the seat along with three rolled cigarettes and the half-empty bottle. I got petrol and oil and water for the Falcon and told it we were going south and that itâd have a few hills to climb.
9
Blackmanâs Bay is on the coast, about a hundred and fifty miles south of Sydney. Itâs at the mouth of a river and was once a whaling port. After that it kept on with deep sea fishing for export, local fishing and tourism. Iâd been through the place a few times and liked the look of it. I remembered it as a good-looking little town with a long timber and iron bridge over the river. At a pub a mile or so upstream, Iâd eaten some memorable oysters. Not a Greek island, but then I wasnât on holiday.
I drove down the Princes Highway and took the freeway that skirts Wollongong and Port Kembla. The steelworks were a glowing, flame-spurting delirium too close for comfort. I hadnât been out of the city in a long time, and south of the smoke and steel I began to feel some benefit from the drive and the sense of space around me. The Falcon coughed and protested on the hills. It was adapted to the harsh, stop and start grind of city driving. I nursed it. The air tasted cleaner by the mile and drunks on the road thinned out the further south I went. Iâd smoked the cigarettes and now I took a careful pull on the bottle. The clean air blew into my face sharp and fresh and I felt good.
It was a clear night; the road slid down to the coast andthe stars went on forever out to sea. I hit the Blackmanâs Bay bridge sometime around 3.00 a.m. The planks rattled as I passed over them and I thought I could feel a slight swinging motion in the bridge. The main street was quiet; there were no all-night joints and most of the shops still used ordinary electric light which was switched off. A few neon tubes glowed prophetically in signs and windows. There was an extra service station and a shop or two, otherwise the town didnât seem to have changed much. I drove down to the park near the beach where there was a town map on a board the way there always is in these places.
I located Yancey Street and went back to the car. Call it intuition, call it experience, but I was confident that she still lived there. There was no reason she should but I had a feeling I was dealing with something frozen in time and space. The nurse would still be there and so would the doctor. I realised Iâd forgotten to check the doctorâs address and I went back to the board. A big wave lifted up and crashed on the beach and I could hear the bridge creaking in the light wind. I took a few steps onto the sand and looked out to sea. I could make out a few lights moving slowly a long way out. Off to the left a cliff dropped sharply down to the water. For no reason I thought of it as a jumping-off place for suicides. Suddenly I didnât want to disturb the old ghosts, didnât want to check on whether people still lived where they had once lived and knew about things that happened thirty years ago. I wanted a future, I didnât want to rake over a painful past. I wished I was on the ship and at sea. I shook the thought off and went back to the car.
The roads threaded up behind the town into the hills. I bore left at a crossroad; Yancey Street was an unpaved track with no town lighting. I crept down it trying to pick up itsfeatures in the headlights. There were only a few houses as far as I could tell from gateposts and signboards
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