Amaze Your Friends. Peter Doyle
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in evening clothes. They were sitting at a table, people on either side. The woman was smiling, composed. Rodney was slightly behind her, his face half in shadow. I handed back the photo.
He said, ‘Her name’s Fay. Fay Small. She cleared out a month ago.’
Just like that, I said, with no warning?
No, there had been warning, Irving said, but he didn’t offer any more for a moment.
Then he said, ‘I have these . . . attacks sometimes. Sort of nerves. When they happen it’s hard on me.’ He smiled weakly. ‘But I’m afraid it’s even harder on those around me.’
I looked at his sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes. ‘Rodney, you’ re a returned man, aren’t you?’
He nodded.
‘And a former prisoner of war?’
He nodded again, looking surprised.
‘At Changi?’
‘Hong Kong.’
‘Are these “attacks” connected with your experiences as a POW?’
‘I suppose so, yes, they are. Cripes, you’re as good as my quack.’
‘You’re getting treatment then?’
‘I am now.’
‘You weren’t before?’
‘Well, Fay always told me I should see someone, a head shrinker. But I kept, you know, putting it off. I thought with time, everything would come good.’
‘But it didn’t.’
‘No. But now I’m seeing a chap, a top man in the field. And it really is helping. I want to tell Fay that things are different now.’
‘You’re seeing, what, a specialist?’
‘A head bloke named Harry Bailey. He gives me special medication. His method is to cure you with sleep. It’s very much the latest thing, I believe.’
I knew Bailey well enough. He was one of the quacks around town who gave me prescriptions for dexes.
‘Well, if Harry’s half as good at making you go to sleep as he is at keeping me awake, you’re in business.’
‘You know him then?’
‘Yeah, I know him. If you don’t mind me asking, why don’t you just go and find Fay yourself? Why hire someone else to do it?’
‘For starters, I wouldn’t know where to look, or how to look. And I have my own day-to-day business to attend to. I need expert help.’
‘What makes you think she’ll come back, assuming we do manage to track her down?’
‘You probably think I’m deluding myself. But I know she really does love me, as I love her. Fay’s a stayer by nature. I just want one more chance. Once she sees that things really are different, maybe . . .’
‘This could cost you a bit.’
He looked at me square. ‘I’ll pay five hundred pounds to the man who finds her.’
‘That’s a hell of a lot to pay for a matrimonial matter, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
He smiled a little, nodded slowly. ‘I’d pay five times that if I thought it would get me to her.’
I picked up a pen and a pad. ‘Better give me some details. If I can make the time, I’ll have a crack at this myself.’
There wasn’t much. Fay had come over from New Zealand as a young war widow. She’d lived in Brisbane first, then Sydney. She started work at a place called Victory Press, a magazine publishing house, which was where she met Rodney. Their ‘understanding’ had commenced a bit later. She’d kept her flat in Elizabeth Bay but spent most of her time at his place at Fairlight.
We shook on it and Rodney took off. I figured if I could track down this woman in a week, then five hundred quid was a pretty good pay rate, and it would make a healthy addition to the Fred Slaney Benevolent Fund.
An hour later I finished up and slipped out. In the hallway I walked straight into Trish. I hadn’t seen her since she’d spent the night at my place three weeks before.
‘Hi. What’s happened to Murray?’
‘He’s split. I don’t know where.’
‘Second question. What’s happened to Billy?’
‘Ah, well . . .’
‘Three weeks and I haven seen you once.’
‘I’ve been flat out.’
‘With your girlfriend?’
‘What girlfriend?’
‘The singer, Del, is that her?’
‘Yeah. Well, sort of, but . . .’
‘Anyway, that doesn’t worry me. I think monogamy’s really out.’
‘Stereo’s here to stay, for sure. But me and her are through anyway.’
‘Not on my account, I hope. I think everyone should just do what they want to do, follow their heart’s desire. Don’t you think so?’
’Yeah, that’s the principle I’ve always tried to live by.’
‘I better get back to work. Coming for a drink on Friday?’
‘Yeah, probably, maybe. See you.’
I headed down to Mr Ling’s.
I started making like an investigator. I took a ferry across to Manly to see an old pal of Fay’s, a single working woman named Judy. She couldn’t tell me much about Fay’s disappearance, other than she hoped I found her. That afternoon I drove to Kensington, saw another friend of Fay’s, a married woman named Cath. Keen to help but she had no clue.
Driving back to East Sydney I was pulled over in Anzac Parade, booked for speeding and failing to give a hand signal. I’d been driving at twenty-five miles an hour, in a straight line. So much for the grey Holden disguise and the bodgie registration. Or maybe it was a coincidence. Just to be sure, I gave the cop my real licence. He grinned the whole time he was writing out the ticket.
There was one name left on the list, Michael Keogh, a ‘fairy’, according to Rodney. He worked at Dymock’s Bookstore. I found him easily enough, working behind the counter in the non-fiction section. I told him what I wanted, he said he couldn’t talk here but he was going to lunch in half an hour, he’d be at the Harris Coffee Shop.
Where the other two had nothing much to report, Michael Keogh had too much—hints, insinuations, veiled references. I asked him was Rodney on the up and up. He said there was a lot more to him than you first saw, you know. How about Judy and Cath, were they what they seemed? Was anyone what they seemed? he said. Was it possible Fay had another bloke stashed away somewhere? With Fay anything was possible, truly.
Well, where did he think she might have racked off to? He couldn’t say, but one thing was for sure, if Fay didn’t want to be found, no way was I going to find her. I thanked him and gave him my phone number, asked him to ring if he heard anything.
That afternoon I went to the address Irving had given me in Elizabeth Bay, Fay Small’s flat. It was in a large block which faced the water, but her flat was on the other side of the building. It had already been relet. The new tenant, a sales rep, didn’t know anything about the earlier occupant. Did any mail ever arrive for her? Nothing, he said. I went to Kings Cross post office to try the obvious: had she left a mail redirection order? She hadn’t.
I rang Irving that night. The phone was answered by a girl, or young woman. I asked was Rodney Irving there. Sure, she said, hold the line please. He came to the phone. I wanted to ask him who the chick was but he saved me the trouble by saying straight up that she was