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ISBN 0-473-02795-X
Title SMOKE SCREEN
Author Frank R May
Esk Crescent
Tokoroa 3420
South Waikato
New Zealand
>>> >> WARNING <<<<<
This work is protected worldwide by international copyright laws. It Is illegal to copy or reproduce any portion of this work without first obtaining permission of the author.
Contact details [email protected]
SMOKE SCREEN
- One -
It is a cool September morning. The sky is showing the first signs of daybreak over Sydney harbour. A six knot southerly breeze stirs small waves against the northern wall of the harbour, opposite the Opera house. Overhead the bridge, grey and majestic, reaches up to embrace the fast approaching daylight. Sounds of early morning traffic drift down from the bridge itself; then all is again silent. Underneath the arch on mown grass Jacob Watts struggles to raise his head above ground level. He rolls over and puts his head between his knees. He is of average height, light muscular build in his late thirties. His clothes are fashionable. The figure shivers and tries to stand. The first attempt does not work. With more caution he tries again, slower and more deliberate. This time he makes it to his feet. A gasp of air and a curse is emitted through clenched lips, when a reminder of last night tears through his scalp like a bolt of high voltage. The large bruise on his head is barely noticeable but it feels painful to touch. More obvious is the small cut on his face. He feels its tenderness. A small souvenir collected after being thrown from the back of an unknown cabin cruiser into the cool waters below the bridge. His pulse races, as he remembers more of this last night before saving himself from the deep waters of the harbour. He was in the company of Christine. Where is she? Is she in danger? He immediately pulls his thoughts back into focus. The previous nights events rush through his mind. Chris had been walking home with him. After visiting a student’s art exhibition they had detoured to the late night chemist to drop in a film for developing, and were walking down towards Crown Street when they were attacked. He remembers Chris shouting his name; he turned to see a hand grab Chris from behind, felt a bump on his head and then the falling to his knees into blackness. There was nothing more until the cold water started reviving his instincts of preservation where he had to swim to save his life. Sometime before, he and Chris had encounters with strangers who where new to Kings Cross. Were they connected? He did not know. Certainly they were not the normal tourist or native Aussie types. Even the rougher side of life found in some of the back streets did not match their style. Another memory; Jacob hitting the water after being tipped from the stern of the cabin cruiser, his struggle while his clothes slowly saturated and threatened to drag him down to the depths beneath the bridge. Painful thoughts as he struggled to reach the shore. A shortness of breath and a biting wet cold as he dragged himself with awkward strokes towards the pier under the north side of the bridge. A rope dangling in the water was grabbed by the grateful Jacob, exhausted; he had pulled himself from the water. He remembers his shaky steps, making his way to the roadway above. He didn't make it. He slipped into a long four hours of unconsciousness. The cold wind abates for a few minutes, enabling Jacob to gather his senses. Saturated, cold and alone, he reaches into his pocket and finds his wallet. Obviously those muggers were not worried about a few dollars. His wallet is intact. He pulls out his watch with the broken strap. Still working after twenty years, and thankfully, still waterproof. It is six fifteen and ten minutes away from sunrise. The wind returns. A train rattles its way over the bridge bound for the city suburbs with its first batch of Saturday workers starting at 7 a.m. It is time to move, Jacob does not want a repetition of an earlier childhood experience. A bout of pneumonia, which had kept him in bed for three months. One parent's words of wisdom ignored, for the sake of wanting to be a Bondi iceberg. For six years he was reminded of his foolishness, kept under his mother's ever watchful eyes. Suddenly she was taken away, she became another hit and run statistic. She was walking home from the college where she lectured. No witnesses to the tragedy and it changed Jacob's life dramatically. The memory fades as the present realities again surround him. Getting to his feet Jacob walks as quickly as he is able, up the grassy slope. He pulls his jacket around his body to try and reduce the chill of the wind. It is a foolish attempt considering the damp state of his clothes. Reaching the footpath above he turns to make his way across the bridge. He is pleased. It is deserted. Facing the breeze he attempts jogging, to get home as quickly as possible. His thoughts are of his warm townhouse waiting at Woollomooloo, a drink, a hot bath, and a change of clothes and then to hopefully some logical explanation of the previous nights events. Chris had to be found. Could he expect help from the police over her possible abduction or worse ... her murder? How serious would the New South Wales police view his request for action. Not very sympathetic he feels sure, especially after he hit them hard with a few heavy newspaper articles on corruption in the force. It paid well, but now he needs their help. Despite the cold and his damp clothes, he manages to slip into a slow run across the bridge. A dozen or so cars head north as the lights of the city now dim in the ever increasing daylight. Below one of the first ferries for Manly backs away from its berth near the Opera House. Jacob's feet beat a well worn pattern on the footpath as he finds some sort of body rhythm in his shuffling pace. His head starts to clear as the circulation is stimulated by the necessary exercise to overcome the cold. Crossing the bridge he is unnoticed by pedestrian or driver. Ignoring the path down to the quay below and continues on down the expressway. The shortest way home and the best way to travel unnoticed. Wrong again Jacob, a taxi drives past; there's a screech of brakes. A very large overweight driver of Greek origin jumps out and bellows at the wet figure shuffling closer towards him.
"Hey Jacob! Where are you going? The footpaths down there."
Jacob stops and stares at the burly figure busily pointing to the streets below them.
"It's the quickest way home." he replies.
"My taxi, it's the quickest way home.
"Thanks for the offer"
The tired Jacob climbs gratefully into the cab's back seat and slams the door. His happy over talkative friend climbs into the driver's seat and turns to Jacob.
"Tell me friend another wild party?" he laughs.
"Yes mate, how'd you guess?"
Jacob replies with a lie to save more questions. Last thing he wants is an inquisition, even from his best friend. A couple of cars stopping behind the taxi begin honking horns impatiently. Nick turns the key and starts the motor. There is more impatient noise from behind.
"Alright you bloody foreigners"
He mumbles loud enough for Jacob to hear.
Jacob smiles at the thought about his typical Greek Aussie mate now attending to the driving down the expressway.
"You're lucky Jacob, just on my way home to Malabar."
"You've moved?" asks the pretend to be surprised Jacob.
A change of subject used to stop some more awkward questions.
"Had to, mate, the wife she get sick of Liverpool, she nag me, just about ready to divorce and she wins a small share in the Soccer Pools."
Jacob already knows the story because of his journalist connections and Nick's sister in law, but he doesn't interrupt.
"She buy the big house near the beach. I sell the old one, I keep all the money, and I think me very lucky."
"Both of us are." acknowledges Jacob.
The taxi gets the green light at the end of the expressway and heads for the new townhouses next to Plunkett Street School. The taxi stops. Jacob offers the fare but is refused.
"You dumb Australian, what good is your money to me,
later you buy me a beer, and tell me what really happened."
Jacob manages a smile.
"At the league club one night."
"Where else, unless you find it cheaper drinking somewhere else."
More laughter from the friendly Nick. Jacob clambers out, and closes the car door.
"Thanks a lot, mate."
The taxi speeds off, another laugh and a friendly wave from Nick and he disappears back to the main road heading for his home in the eastern suburbs. Jacob stands alone, fumbling in his pockets for his house keys.
"Damn, the only thing missing." he mumbles.
His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a whistle. Scott, the newspaper delivery boy has arrived. Just what he does not need, is another pair of inquisitive eyes with a mouthful of questions. Too late for hiding from master curiosity himself. A round faced curly haired teenager wrapped in a green and red beanie confronts Jacob. The ever present cool wind highlights the contradiction of comfort of the two opposites. Scott already wide-eyed at the bedraggled sight standing before slowly raises his head until his eyes meet Jacob's own eyes. He is ready to interrogate.
"You okay mister Watts?"
"Sure."
"You in big trouble?"
"No trouble,” he lies.
"You got the papers?"
"Must a been a good stouch. Did you waste him?"
"No I did not waste anybody or fight to the death. Okay..."
"Sorry mister Watts."
"How much do I owe you for the papers?"
"Six dollars eighty cents."
Came a quicker than expected reply.
"You did say if you don't see me,"
Jacob knows what's coming.
"That you'll fix me up Saturday. That is today.No more than seven day credit,
bad for Government and the workers like me."
He hands Jacob his copies of the Herald and the Australian. Jacob pulls his wallet from his pocket and carefully takes a soggy twenty dollar note from inside it. He pushes it into the eagerly waiting gloved hand.
"Keep the change for next week's deliveries, I will be busy."
"Wow thanks for the tip. See you later."
"Thanks Scott, remember delivery every morning."
Jacob stands alone. Now how to get inside. He thinks about going in the back way, the window upstairs. Suddenly he realizes it is the weekend. All the panic is for nothing. Today is Saturday, his one day a week cleaning lady, Mrs Paulos will be inside. He knows she will be early today as she has her horse is racing at Kembla Grange in the Cup. Jacob stands in front of the door and pushes his ear to the heavy woodwork. The sound of a vacuum cleaner can be heard. Another smile of relief. He hits the door with the palm of his hand and shouts aloud. More likely to be heard than the doorbell. After a pause which seems half a lifetime, the door is opened by a large woman of also of Greek origin. No coincidence to size or nationality as she is closely related to his taxi driver friend, and she did share in that small pools win. Some of her winnings went to buying a half share in a well bred racehorse.
"Jacob Watts! What happened?"
She stumbles to find the correct English language for the very wet and now shivering Jacob standing in front of his doorway.
"You coming in, or are you stopping there?"
Jacob enters without replying and shuts the door knowing that there will be more questioning unless he comes up with some quick answers. This time he is surprised, instead of the questions, he is on the receiving end of a stern motherly talk.
"Jacob, you will have to get out of those wet clothes."
He could not disagree.
"You are being a bad boy, you and your wild party friends. When will you men grow up.
You know my brother in law Nick, he just the same when he not driving taxi."
Jacob admits defeat and falls into agreement with her. This he feels is a lot easier than explanations that he is not sure of himself. Jacob moves down the hallway to the bar for a nip of brandy. He struggles to remove his wet jacket. Mrs Paulos follows behind to assist. Jacob stifles a sneeze.
"You need a bath, naughty boy."
With the jacket removed, the housekeeper makes a grab for Jacob's shirt buttons.
"These must come off."
Jacob backs away from the busy hands.
"I'm a big boy now."
"And big boys are dumb sometime; they fall into expensive swimming pools. Sometimes drown"
"I better get that bath."
He swallows the brandy, puts down the glass and moves to escape from the woman's clutches. Her voice follows him.
"You better wash and dry properly, I'll fix breakfast for you."
"Thank you Mrs P that would be nice."
Jacob retreats upstairs leaving his woman servant busy in his kitchen. In the bathroom he surveys the facial damage. A bit messy, but is pleased it should clean up alright. He throws the plug in the bath and turns on both taps, leaving the water to run, he goes to the bedroom for a change of clothes. The long luxurious bath allows Jacob to emerge clean, warm and refreshed. To cure the fuzziness of the earlier events of the morning a couple of headache tablets are taken. The scar does not appreciate the aftershave, though at least it does clean it up. Slipping on the clean clothes he makes his way to the kitchen. A smell of bacon wafting through his nostrils tempts his taste buds. Mrs Paulos is just placing a laden plate onto the table.
"I cook you toast, bacon sausage and eggs, okay."
"Marvelous."
is Jacob's ready reply.
"And here I fix you a hot drink of coffee."
She sits herself down opposite Jacob and proceeds to sip her own coffee. Question time again. Jacob lets loose a little imagination. A tall story about a party, many drinks and everybody jumping in the pool. It could have been true if it was summer. At least it satisfies the lady's curiosity for the present.
"You could write many a book on your parties, you could be like that Mister Brown that private eye."
"You mean Carter Brown."
"Yes that the one."
"It takes time, besides I'm only a journalist, and I make enough writing news, cooking hints,
a little part time poetry and song lyrics."
"But where do you write? I don't see your name."
"Depends if you read the right newspaper or listen to the right radio station."
"Of course I do."
"I sometimes use another name. A pseudonym and of course I do not appear on the radio racing network"
She shakes her head, now understanding her lack of knowledge of his works. He changes the direction of conversation.
"You cook a good breakfast."
"I know what you new Australians like."
"I'm here thirtyfive years out of thirtynine."
"So what, I been here twenty two years tomorrow, both me and my sister ..."
She stops in mid sentence as her eye catches the clock on the kitchen wall.
"I have to go Jacob. Today our horse, you know mine and my sister's, we run in big Kembla Grange Trophy race."
She struggles hurriedly out of the chair. Jacob helps her with the coat hanging behind the door. She is off and running down the hallway to the front exit of the flat.
"Don't forget, you put ten dollars each way, you get at least double money on a place."
The last button is done up. She is ready to leave
"Our horse 'Movie Star' he should win today."
"I'm sure he will."
He hands her an envelope with her housekeeping allowances and gives her an extra twenty dollars he pulls from his jacket's inside pocket. She wonders why the extra cash bonus.
"The twenty dollars, you get a better price with the bookie to win. Any profits double up the bet."
"Okay Jacob, for you we both win. I must hurry. I go now."
Without further words she rushes away. Jacob follows her down the hallway, and closes the door behind her hurried exit. He returns to finish his breakfast. While sipping on the coffee he thinks about the last seconds walking with Chris before the attack on them both. He reaches for the phone and punches out her number. An engaged signal returns. Sounds like she is at home. Finishing the last mouthful of food, he tries again. This time the phone rings. He lets it ring twice and disconnects. Pushing the redial he waits. It rings a long time with no answer on the other end. Jacob replaces the phone on the wall. He questions himself, ones that need answers. Is she at home or not? If not, then why was the phone engaged the first time he rang? Who was on the phone? Perhaps a wrong number. Perhaps she will turn up on the doorstep at any moment. Is she floating in the harbour like he almost was? Questions he could not yet answer. . A feeling of strong uneasiness falls over him like a cold shroud. He hurriedly wipes his plate with the last slice of toast and drinks the last of his mug of coffee. He does a quick security check of his house, closes the one lounge curtain, turns on the radio and dashes upstairs. He cleans his teeth in the bathroom and checks the windows and door to the upstairs terrace. All are secure. Reaching into his wallet, he takes out the remaining soggy banknotes and spreads them on a towel hastily thrown over a chair. He is pleased the notes are no longer made from paper.
After dabbing them dry he returns them to his wallet and opens a drawer at the side of his bed. He pulls out an envelope. From inside, a wad of dry notes is removed. This is also pocketed inside the jacket but separate from the wallet. His actions show a contradiction with his security arrangements. Makes it hard for anyone to break in quietly, but if they succeed, they would not have any trouble accumulating a few expensive items as well as substantial loose change in a short time. Also he makes himself an easy target with rich pickings for a mugger. The urgency of the situation blocking his normal clear thinking. He grabs a long all weather overcoat from the wardrobe and heads quickly towards the stairs. Setting the intruder alarm he heads for his filing cabinet beside his computer. He pulls out a spare bunch of keys, pockets them, and heads for the back door. He takes one last look at the rear windows of the house, noting all is secure, and exits the back yard via the gate beside the garage. He leaves his house at a pace to match his nervous anticipation of what he may or may not find awaiting his arrival at her house. The street is silent except for a piece of newspaper being blown about by the cool breeze. He watches it disappear from view around the street corner. Silence and emptiness surround him again. Jacob arrives at the front door and stares at the untidy exterior of the stone terrace house. A pale faded green around the window frames, with a sun bleached lemon door. There was only one new part of the exterior visible. A plaque of timber with a new house number in brass attached. Other houses in the block were in various stages of disrepair. A demolition directive was over ridden by a court order at the request of the Historical Places Trust. These buildings were deemed to be significant to early Sydney history, so they were saved for posterity. Jacob's thoughts drift to the recent past, to this girl Chris who is now an important part of his life, and if she is still alive an important part of his future. The thoughts, his very first reaction, at their first meeting come flooding back to him. It was just a few short days earlier on a sunny weekend afternoon, just a few hundred metres away from where he is now standing. Jacob is now a changed man, now he has a purpose, and yet he knows, on this journey he will be very much alone. Again Jacob looks to the events in his immediate past for the answers.
End of Chapter One
Copyright Frank R May January 2013
Reproduction of this work is not permitted without the author’s permission.
37 Chapters and approximately 286 pages to go to convert to an e-book.
Title SMOKE SCREEN
Author Frank R May
Esk Crescent
Tokoroa 3420
South Waikato
New Zealand
>>> >> WARNING <<<<<
This work is protected worldwide by international copyright laws. It Is illegal to copy or reproduce any portion of this work without first obtaining permission of the author.
Contact details [email protected]
SMOKE SCREEN
- One -
It is a cool September morning. The sky is showing the first signs of daybreak over Sydney harbour. A six knot southerly breeze stirs small waves against the northern wall of the harbour, opposite the Opera house. Overhead the bridge, grey and majestic, reaches up to embrace the fast approaching daylight. Sounds of early morning traffic drift down from the bridge itself; then all is again silent. Underneath the arch on mown grass Jacob Watts struggles to raise his head above ground level. He rolls over and puts his head between his knees. He is of average height, light muscular build in his late thirties. His clothes are fashionable. The figure shivers and tries to stand. The first attempt does not work. With more caution he tries again, slower and more deliberate. This time he makes it to his feet. A gasp of air and a curse is emitted through clenched lips, when a reminder of last night tears through his scalp like a bolt of high voltage. The large bruise on his head is barely noticeable but it feels painful to touch. More obvious is the small cut on his face. He feels its tenderness. A small souvenir collected after being thrown from the back of an unknown cabin cruiser into the cool waters below the bridge. His pulse races, as he remembers more of this last night before saving himself from the deep waters of the harbour. He was in the company of Christine. Where is she? Is she in danger? He immediately pulls his thoughts back into focus. The previous nights events rush through his mind. Chris had been walking home with him. After visiting a student’s art exhibition they had detoured to the late night chemist to drop in a film for developing, and were walking down towards Crown Street when they were attacked. He remembers Chris shouting his name; he turned to see a hand grab Chris from behind, felt a bump on his head and then the falling to his knees into blackness. There was nothing more until the cold water started reviving his instincts of preservation where he had to swim to save his life. Sometime before, he and Chris had encounters with strangers who where new to Kings Cross. Were they connected? He did not know. Certainly they were not the normal tourist or native Aussie types. Even the rougher side of life found in some of the back streets did not match their style. Another memory; Jacob hitting the water after being tipped from the stern of the cabin cruiser, his struggle while his clothes slowly saturated and threatened to drag him down to the depths beneath the bridge. Painful thoughts as he struggled to reach the shore. A shortness of breath and a biting wet cold as he dragged himself with awkward strokes towards the pier under the north side of the bridge. A rope dangling in the water was grabbed by the grateful Jacob, exhausted; he had pulled himself from the water. He remembers his shaky steps, making his way to the roadway above. He didn't make it. He slipped into a long four hours of unconsciousness. The cold wind abates for a few minutes, enabling Jacob to gather his senses. Saturated, cold and alone, he reaches into his pocket and finds his wallet. Obviously those muggers were not worried about a few dollars. His wallet is intact. He pulls out his watch with the broken strap. Still working after twenty years, and thankfully, still waterproof. It is six fifteen and ten minutes away from sunrise. The wind returns. A train rattles its way over the bridge bound for the city suburbs with its first batch of Saturday workers starting at 7 a.m. It is time to move, Jacob does not want a repetition of an earlier childhood experience. A bout of pneumonia, which had kept him in bed for three months. One parent's words of wisdom ignored, for the sake of wanting to be a Bondi iceberg. For six years he was reminded of his foolishness, kept under his mother's ever watchful eyes. Suddenly she was taken away, she became another hit and run statistic. She was walking home from the college where she lectured. No witnesses to the tragedy and it changed Jacob's life dramatically. The memory fades as the present realities again surround him. Getting to his feet Jacob walks as quickly as he is able, up the grassy slope. He pulls his jacket around his body to try and reduce the chill of the wind. It is a foolish attempt considering the damp state of his clothes. Reaching the footpath above he turns to make his way across the bridge. He is pleased. It is deserted. Facing the breeze he attempts jogging, to get home as quickly as possible. His thoughts are of his warm townhouse waiting at Woollomooloo, a drink, a hot bath, and a change of clothes and then to hopefully some logical explanation of the previous nights events. Chris had to be found. Could he expect help from the police over her possible abduction or worse ... her murder? How serious would the New South Wales police view his request for action. Not very sympathetic he feels sure, especially after he hit them hard with a few heavy newspaper articles on corruption in the force. It paid well, but now he needs their help. Despite the cold and his damp clothes, he manages to slip into a slow run across the bridge. A dozen or so cars head north as the lights of the city now dim in the ever increasing daylight. Below one of the first ferries for Manly backs away from its berth near the Opera House. Jacob's feet beat a well worn pattern on the footpath as he finds some sort of body rhythm in his shuffling pace. His head starts to clear as the circulation is stimulated by the necessary exercise to overcome the cold. Crossing the bridge he is unnoticed by pedestrian or driver. Ignoring the path down to the quay below and continues on down the expressway. The shortest way home and the best way to travel unnoticed. Wrong again Jacob, a taxi drives past; there's a screech of brakes. A very large overweight driver of Greek origin jumps out and bellows at the wet figure shuffling closer towards him.
"Hey Jacob! Where are you going? The footpaths down there."
Jacob stops and stares at the burly figure busily pointing to the streets below them.
"It's the quickest way home." he replies.
"My taxi, it's the quickest way home.
"Thanks for the offer"
The tired Jacob climbs gratefully into the cab's back seat and slams the door. His happy over talkative friend climbs into the driver's seat and turns to Jacob.
"Tell me friend another wild party?" he laughs.
"Yes mate, how'd you guess?"
Jacob replies with a lie to save more questions. Last thing he wants is an inquisition, even from his best friend. A couple of cars stopping behind the taxi begin honking horns impatiently. Nick turns the key and starts the motor. There is more impatient noise from behind.
"Alright you bloody foreigners"
He mumbles loud enough for Jacob to hear.
Jacob smiles at the thought about his typical Greek Aussie mate now attending to the driving down the expressway.
"You're lucky Jacob, just on my way home to Malabar."
"You've moved?" asks the pretend to be surprised Jacob.
A change of subject used to stop some more awkward questions.
"Had to, mate, the wife she get sick of Liverpool, she nag me, just about ready to divorce and she wins a small share in the Soccer Pools."
Jacob already knows the story because of his journalist connections and Nick's sister in law, but he doesn't interrupt.
"She buy the big house near the beach. I sell the old one, I keep all the money, and I think me very lucky."
"Both of us are." acknowledges Jacob.
The taxi gets the green light at the end of the expressway and heads for the new townhouses next to Plunkett Street School. The taxi stops. Jacob offers the fare but is refused.
"You dumb Australian, what good is your money to me,
later you buy me a beer, and tell me what really happened."
Jacob manages a smile.
"At the league club one night."
"Where else, unless you find it cheaper drinking somewhere else."
More laughter from the friendly Nick. Jacob clambers out, and closes the car door.
"Thanks a lot, mate."
The taxi speeds off, another laugh and a friendly wave from Nick and he disappears back to the main road heading for his home in the eastern suburbs. Jacob stands alone, fumbling in his pockets for his house keys.
"Damn, the only thing missing." he mumbles.
His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a whistle. Scott, the newspaper delivery boy has arrived. Just what he does not need, is another pair of inquisitive eyes with a mouthful of questions. Too late for hiding from master curiosity himself. A round faced curly haired teenager wrapped in a green and red beanie confronts Jacob. The ever present cool wind highlights the contradiction of comfort of the two opposites. Scott already wide-eyed at the bedraggled sight standing before slowly raises his head until his eyes meet Jacob's own eyes. He is ready to interrogate.
"You okay mister Watts?"
"Sure."
"You in big trouble?"
"No trouble,” he lies.
"You got the papers?"
"Must a been a good stouch. Did you waste him?"
"No I did not waste anybody or fight to the death. Okay..."
"Sorry mister Watts."
"How much do I owe you for the papers?"
"Six dollars eighty cents."
Came a quicker than expected reply.
"You did say if you don't see me,"
Jacob knows what's coming.
"That you'll fix me up Saturday. That is today.No more than seven day credit,
bad for Government and the workers like me."
He hands Jacob his copies of the Herald and the Australian. Jacob pulls his wallet from his pocket and carefully takes a soggy twenty dollar note from inside it. He pushes it into the eagerly waiting gloved hand.
"Keep the change for next week's deliveries, I will be busy."
"Wow thanks for the tip. See you later."
"Thanks Scott, remember delivery every morning."
Jacob stands alone. Now how to get inside. He thinks about going in the back way, the window upstairs. Suddenly he realizes it is the weekend. All the panic is for nothing. Today is Saturday, his one day a week cleaning lady, Mrs Paulos will be inside. He knows she will be early today as she has her horse is racing at Kembla Grange in the Cup. Jacob stands in front of the door and pushes his ear to the heavy woodwork. The sound of a vacuum cleaner can be heard. Another smile of relief. He hits the door with the palm of his hand and shouts aloud. More likely to be heard than the doorbell. After a pause which seems half a lifetime, the door is opened by a large woman of also of Greek origin. No coincidence to size or nationality as she is closely related to his taxi driver friend, and she did share in that small pools win. Some of her winnings went to buying a half share in a well bred racehorse.
"Jacob Watts! What happened?"
She stumbles to find the correct English language for the very wet and now shivering Jacob standing in front of his doorway.
"You coming in, or are you stopping there?"
Jacob enters without replying and shuts the door knowing that there will be more questioning unless he comes up with some quick answers. This time he is surprised, instead of the questions, he is on the receiving end of a stern motherly talk.
"Jacob, you will have to get out of those wet clothes."
He could not disagree.
"You are being a bad boy, you and your wild party friends. When will you men grow up.
You know my brother in law Nick, he just the same when he not driving taxi."
Jacob admits defeat and falls into agreement with her. This he feels is a lot easier than explanations that he is not sure of himself. Jacob moves down the hallway to the bar for a nip of brandy. He struggles to remove his wet jacket. Mrs Paulos follows behind to assist. Jacob stifles a sneeze.
"You need a bath, naughty boy."
With the jacket removed, the housekeeper makes a grab for Jacob's shirt buttons.
"These must come off."
Jacob backs away from the busy hands.
"I'm a big boy now."
"And big boys are dumb sometime; they fall into expensive swimming pools. Sometimes drown"
"I better get that bath."
He swallows the brandy, puts down the glass and moves to escape from the woman's clutches. Her voice follows him.
"You better wash and dry properly, I'll fix breakfast for you."
"Thank you Mrs P that would be nice."
Jacob retreats upstairs leaving his woman servant busy in his kitchen. In the bathroom he surveys the facial damage. A bit messy, but is pleased it should clean up alright. He throws the plug in the bath and turns on both taps, leaving the water to run, he goes to the bedroom for a change of clothes. The long luxurious bath allows Jacob to emerge clean, warm and refreshed. To cure the fuzziness of the earlier events of the morning a couple of headache tablets are taken. The scar does not appreciate the aftershave, though at least it does clean it up. Slipping on the clean clothes he makes his way to the kitchen. A smell of bacon wafting through his nostrils tempts his taste buds. Mrs Paulos is just placing a laden plate onto the table.
"I cook you toast, bacon sausage and eggs, okay."
"Marvelous."
is Jacob's ready reply.
"And here I fix you a hot drink of coffee."
She sits herself down opposite Jacob and proceeds to sip her own coffee. Question time again. Jacob lets loose a little imagination. A tall story about a party, many drinks and everybody jumping in the pool. It could have been true if it was summer. At least it satisfies the lady's curiosity for the present.
"You could write many a book on your parties, you could be like that Mister Brown that private eye."
"You mean Carter Brown."
"Yes that the one."
"It takes time, besides I'm only a journalist, and I make enough writing news, cooking hints,
a little part time poetry and song lyrics."
"But where do you write? I don't see your name."
"Depends if you read the right newspaper or listen to the right radio station."
"Of course I do."
"I sometimes use another name. A pseudonym and of course I do not appear on the radio racing network"
She shakes her head, now understanding her lack of knowledge of his works. He changes the direction of conversation.
"You cook a good breakfast."
"I know what you new Australians like."
"I'm here thirtyfive years out of thirtynine."
"So what, I been here twenty two years tomorrow, both me and my sister ..."
She stops in mid sentence as her eye catches the clock on the kitchen wall.
"I have to go Jacob. Today our horse, you know mine and my sister's, we run in big Kembla Grange Trophy race."
She struggles hurriedly out of the chair. Jacob helps her with the coat hanging behind the door. She is off and running down the hallway to the front exit of the flat.
"Don't forget, you put ten dollars each way, you get at least double money on a place."
The last button is done up. She is ready to leave
"Our horse 'Movie Star' he should win today."
"I'm sure he will."
He hands her an envelope with her housekeeping allowances and gives her an extra twenty dollars he pulls from his jacket's inside pocket. She wonders why the extra cash bonus.
"The twenty dollars, you get a better price with the bookie to win. Any profits double up the bet."
"Okay Jacob, for you we both win. I must hurry. I go now."
Without further words she rushes away. Jacob follows her down the hallway, and closes the door behind her hurried exit. He returns to finish his breakfast. While sipping on the coffee he thinks about the last seconds walking with Chris before the attack on them both. He reaches for the phone and punches out her number. An engaged signal returns. Sounds like she is at home. Finishing the last mouthful of food, he tries again. This time the phone rings. He lets it ring twice and disconnects. Pushing the redial he waits. It rings a long time with no answer on the other end. Jacob replaces the phone on the wall. He questions himself, ones that need answers. Is she at home or not? If not, then why was the phone engaged the first time he rang? Who was on the phone? Perhaps a wrong number. Perhaps she will turn up on the doorstep at any moment. Is she floating in the harbour like he almost was? Questions he could not yet answer. . A feeling of strong uneasiness falls over him like a cold shroud. He hurriedly wipes his plate with the last slice of toast and drinks the last of his mug of coffee. He does a quick security check of his house, closes the one lounge curtain, turns on the radio and dashes upstairs. He cleans his teeth in the bathroom and checks the windows and door to the upstairs terrace. All are secure. Reaching into his wallet, he takes out the remaining soggy banknotes and spreads them on a towel hastily thrown over a chair. He is pleased the notes are no longer made from paper.
After dabbing them dry he returns them to his wallet and opens a drawer at the side of his bed. He pulls out an envelope. From inside, a wad of dry notes is removed. This is also pocketed inside the jacket but separate from the wallet. His actions show a contradiction with his security arrangements. Makes it hard for anyone to break in quietly, but if they succeed, they would not have any trouble accumulating a few expensive items as well as substantial loose change in a short time. Also he makes himself an easy target with rich pickings for a mugger. The urgency of the situation blocking his normal clear thinking. He grabs a long all weather overcoat from the wardrobe and heads quickly towards the stairs. Setting the intruder alarm he heads for his filing cabinet beside his computer. He pulls out a spare bunch of keys, pockets them, and heads for the back door. He takes one last look at the rear windows of the house, noting all is secure, and exits the back yard via the gate beside the garage. He leaves his house at a pace to match his nervous anticipation of what he may or may not find awaiting his arrival at her house. The street is silent except for a piece of newspaper being blown about by the cool breeze. He watches it disappear from view around the street corner. Silence and emptiness surround him again. Jacob arrives at the front door and stares at the untidy exterior of the stone terrace house. A pale faded green around the window frames, with a sun bleached lemon door. There was only one new part of the exterior visible. A plaque of timber with a new house number in brass attached. Other houses in the block were in various stages of disrepair. A demolition directive was over ridden by a court order at the request of the Historical Places Trust. These buildings were deemed to be significant to early Sydney history, so they were saved for posterity. Jacob's thoughts drift to the recent past, to this girl Chris who is now an important part of his life, and if she is still alive an important part of his future. The thoughts, his very first reaction, at their first meeting come flooding back to him. It was just a few short days earlier on a sunny weekend afternoon, just a few hundred metres away from where he is now standing. Jacob is now a changed man, now he has a purpose, and yet he knows, on this journey he will be very much alone. Again Jacob looks to the events in his immediate past for the answers.
End of Chapter One
Copyright Frank R May January 2013
Reproduction of this work is not permitted without the author’s permission.
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