Black Teeth Page 5

  ‘Well I believe they were based in Geelong.’

  Tyan sucks back so hard I hear tobacco burning through the phone. His inhale is a rattlesnake.

  ‘What’s this really about?’

  ‘Umm…’

  ‘I haven’t heard from the press in nine years. You come out of the blue—’

  ‘The piece will be about how you’ve adjusted to retirement, what parts of the job still haunt you, what you took away from your experience. It’s an attempt to show the human side of the police force, not to embarrass you or…anything.’

  ‘Why didn’t they contact me themselves and ask if they could give out my number?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Mister Tyan. But I have a long-standing relationship with the VPA and with Marjorie, and they know that any information passed on to me is kept private and secure.’

  At the squeak of the glass door behind me I raise the collar of my jacket, like that will somehow keep this conversation private and secure.

  ‘So you’re a journalist.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Is it something we can do over the phone?’

  ‘I was hoping we could meet. Perhaps I could buy you a drink.’

  The smell of cigarettes becomes a stench. I glance back. Seven or eight people are crowded into this small grey space, breathing and wheezing in silence. I’m the strange-o facing the wall and talking to it. At first my head spins with humiliation and I’m about to make for the street, but Tyan’s voice comes back suddenly brightened, as if some new personality has snatched the phone from Old Man Crotchety and it wants to make amends.

  ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Let’s meet tonight.’

  The rasp is gone. The voice is lighter, more friendly. I grind my brow into the glass to hear properly.

  ‘Tonight is perfect.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Wherever you want. Somewhere easy for you.’

  ‘Do you know the Good Times in Mitcham?’

  ‘I’ll find it.’

  ‘It’s on Cemetery Road. Opposite the Caltex.’

  ‘I’ll find it. No problem.’

  ‘Yeah. Seven o’clock at Good Times.’

  ‘Great. Let me give you my number, just in case.’

  I say it slowly and Tyan at least pretends to write it down, co-operative, even eager. I attribute this to the thrill of being courted by the media.

  ‘What’s your name again?’

  ‘Alan Harper.’

  ‘Okay. Bye, Alan.’

  ‘See you.’

  Tyan hangs up. I listen to the silence. It must seem like I’m still on the phone. But I’m sniffing at the smoke, warmed by it. The smell of the future.

  9

  The Good Times on Cemetery Road is so what I expected that I’m literally giggling as I make entrance. A bright green banner in what else but Comic Sans promotes bingo nights and chicken parmigianas, neither of which can be enjoyed anywhere but in this cupboard-cum-bistro overlooking the vista of the staff toilets. The rest is a windowless hellscape of pokies and ebola, norp-tier as fuck, whirls and bleeps sounding out whenever the betacuck autotune pop goes briefly, mercifully silent. A handful of worn gamblers dole out their life-savings one coin at a time, dead-eyed but for a fading belief in this turn, in this push of the button, while the dining area is desolate: not so much as a staff member slitting their wrists on the lino behind the bar. Then a swarm of pimples finds it within himself to materialise in front of me and he relays that tonight’s special is pizza. I order a beer and carry it to a chair and wipe off some yellow paste which itself might be pizza and I sit at a table littered with plastic advertisements for beers, jackpots and tomorrow night’s special, which is pizza.

  Glen Tyan would have known reporters when he was a police officer, ones that worked a beat, sniffed out stories in back alleys and hotel rooms and the toilets of strip clubs—he’ll never believe that I’m one of those. But I can play a touchy-feely dorkoid with a degree in creative non-fiction who talks about the fourth estate and enjoys wine and cheese in the park. I’ve chosen a pale ale for this reason and it’s why my checked shirt is tucked into my jeans and the cuffs are buttoned twice each. It’s easier to be someone else when you put on their clothes.

  I camp the front door, ignorant of the second door to the carpark at the rear. That’s where Tyan comes from, half an hour late and I’m too busy trying to figure out if I’m happy or sad that I’ve been stood up, don’t see him until he’s right on me, crotch in my face, and even then he has to speak before I jerk back, ambushed.

  ‘You Alan?’

  He’s got hair too blond for his age, a polo shirt too tight for his big belly. His eyes are wet and too friendly for the scowl that cuts across his forehead. I never found a DOB when I researched Glen Tyan; the only clue was that he retired nine years ago. From that I expected someone older, even elderly, but this man still has swell in his shoulders, his forearms. One of them comes at me now, catches my hand and shakes it. I refuse to wince—surely he’s trying to demonstrate how formidable he still is.

  I’m like, ‘Yeah.’

  The scowl disappears and leaves those wet, friendly eyes.

  ‘I’m a bit late, sorry. Lost track of time.’

  ‘No problem. No problem.’

  Whatever he was doing to lose track of time, fapping or sleeping or practising that handshake, he was smoking while he did it. Freshly burnt tobacco roars in my nostrils.

  ‘You right for a drink?’

  I nod at the beer I’m halfway through, don’t say I’m halfway through my third beer, watch Tyan’s slow jaunt to the bar, see the broadness of his shoulders, the pregnant glory of his stomach, and I recognise a man at his home ground. He doesn’t seem to know the staff, but he knows soulless vinyl drinking barns like this one, knows they were built for white men with pot bellies and polo shirts. This is their Green Zone, and no amount of immigration or feminism or gay pride out there in the world has yet breached its ramparts.

  When he returns with his beer I smile, welcoming. I’m a white man, I think. This should be my home ground too. But it is not.

  ‘How are you, Mister Tyan?’

  ‘Call me Glen.’

  ‘Okay.’ I keep the smile plastered. ‘Glen, I hope you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?’

  With the glass at his mouth his lips spread in a grin. He swallows and wipes his face with the heel of his hand.

  ‘Sixty-one.’

  That looks about right, though he may have shaved off a couple of years. Just a garnish of vanity, like the blond hair swept across his scalp.

  ‘And you retired nine years ago?’

  ‘About that.’

  It begs a question, one I only pose out of curiosity.

  ‘Why did you retire so young?’

  ‘Hey?’

  Something catches in Tyan’s throat and he lets loose a hacking cough. Once he recovers, I say:

  ‘You must have left the police force when you were in your early fifties.’

  But this brings on another violent surge of coughing. His face flushes and his pores open up like gun turrets. With a series of growls he sips his beer.

  ‘Sorry.’ A fresh supply of moisture in his eyeballs. ‘I’m still getting over a bit of a cold.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘Alan, don’t want to be rude, but I should probably be in bed. Can we get straight to the questions you’ve got?’

  ‘Absolutely. Mostly I just want to know a bit about you.’

  ‘Don’t know if I’m that interesting—’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Nope. Confirmed bachelor. No one would have me.’

  He chortles. Politely, so do I.

  ‘No kids?’

  ‘Nah. I’d be a shit dad.’

  ‘How have you spent your retirement?’

  He pats his stomach, smiles. ‘Meat pies.’

  ‘How old were you when you were recruited?’

  ‘Eighteen or nineteen. I can’t r
emember. Eighteen I think.’

  ‘Do you recall why you wanted to be a policeman?’

  ‘I needed a job.’ He performs a shrug. ‘That’s all it was.’

  The bags under his eyes are flabby and wrinkled, but still I can’t believe how young this man is compared to how I pictured him. Which means I can’t shake the obvious question, tip forward now to ask it again.

  ‘So, if it’s all right…Why did you leave the police force?’

  Tyan grabs his beer, drains it.

  ‘You want another?’

  I dig into my pocket for money. ‘No. But it’s my turn.’

  Tyan pushes his chair back in a series of awkward spasms.

  ‘Mate, don’t be silly. You run to the loo or whatever, then we’ll do the interview proper. I don’t want to waste your time.’

  He seems to have mistaken my nervousness for the call of nature. Not that I don’t need to go—the beers I’ve drunk are clamouring for release.

  It takes Tyan a couple of tries to get out of the chair and then he’s up, swaggering off to the bar while I cross to the sanctuary of the men’s room, wondering if, while I’m gone, Tyan will consider actually telling me why he retired from the police force.

  That is absolutely not what Tyan does while I’m in the men’s room.

  10

  One long toilet trough in here and a machine that vends green condoms. The tiles stick with detergent and all the stall doors hang open, so I’m alone. It seems safe to use the urinal.

  Usually I’d cram myself into a stall and lock the door and wallow in self-loathing as I relieved myself but I’m in a hurry so I stand with my back to the door, totally exposed to what’s about to happen. I’ve imagined a million versions of this meeting in my life but never the one where Glen Tyan runs late on purpose, obliging me to flood my bladder with watery pale ale and thereby luring me here, to this room, about as private as a public space can be.

  The stream comes powerfully and I sigh because pleasure. Also because I’ve managed it before some stooge can walk in. Then someone does walk in and I sigh with pride—I have no trouble in front of people once the stream is underway. I’m as alpha as a prize-winning porn star before I sense that this someone who’s walked in, they are not walking. They are rushing.

  My brain doesn’t have time to process fear before two hands grab at my shoulders, pull me back and slam me down to the urinal sink. My knuckles mash a yellow soap and I holler something high-pitched and throaty and my piss seeps into the flaps of my shirt and the knees of my jeans and I put soiled hands up to cover my face and Tyan’s body is one giant fist and he’s shouting.

  ‘You fucking piece of shit. Who’s Elizabeth Cannon?’

  ‘What?’

  Tyan kicks my shin, powerful, driving stirrups into his own indignation. ‘Come near my house again I’ll fucking kill you.’

  ‘No!’ The trough seems the safest place and I huddle down, arms balled over my head.

  ‘Who are you? Who’s Elizabeth Cannon?’ Tyan grabs both my wrists with one hand. His strength is a bulldozer.

  ‘I don’t know I don’t know!’

  ‘Is she at my house right now?’

  ‘Stop no I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘I saw you, deadshit. I saw you last night.’

  ‘NO NO NO NO NO—’

  A blow to my shoulder like a gunshot but I do not register pain.

  ‘You’ll tell me or I’ll break your fucking neck.’

  ‘Stop stop stop stop! I didn’t go to your house! I’ve never been there! What the fuck!’

  A fist collides with my elbow and I wail, long and terrible through my wet shirtsleeves.

  ‘Bullshit. What’s your real name?’

  ‘What?’

  Tyan doesn’t miss a beat: an open hand to my ear.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Jason Ginaff! I’m Jason Ginaff! I’m Helen Ginaff’s son!’

  Now he does miss a beat. A whole series of them. Not quite enough to lure me out from behind my forearms.

  ‘How many kids has she got?’

  I flinch again and jerk my head back.

  ‘No! Just me!’

  Nothing happens. I peek over my defences.

  The bags under Tyan’s eyes are balloons, as big as the eyeballs that gape at me, his face frozen even as his body slowly straightens, travels the full development from Neanderthal to Homo sapiens.

  ‘Bullshit,’ he says.

  ‘She died last year.’ I don’t know why I say this.

  As I do the door opens. Someone in a business shirt and trousers enters, gets as far as showing his flat, oblivious face before Tyan’s screech: ‘Get the fuck out!’ And he’s gone, whoosh, without a second look, as if this is the sort of thing you sometimes have to allow for at the Good Times on Cemetery Road.

  ‘Why you following me?’ Tyan says.

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Who’s Elizabeth Cannon? Your girlfriend?’

  ‘I don’t know her. I don’t…nobody…I don’t know anybody named that. I promise. I promise I haven’t been following you.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ He looms again, clenches a fist not to strike this time but to promise that he will. ‘How did you get my phone number?’

  ‘I looked you up online! That’s all! That’s all I did, I promise!’

  ‘What do you mean, online?’

  ‘On the internet!’

  ‘What?’ He doesn’t seem to have heard of it.

  ‘The internet!’

  ‘What else does it say?’

  ‘Nothing, it just…That’s how I got your phone number. Your Roadside Samaritan account.’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘It’s illegal. It’s totally illegal. But I wanted to meet you.’

  ‘How did you know I was a cop?’

  ‘Mum told me!’

  ‘How did you know I quit?’

  ‘The internet,’ I squeal, wondering if I’m about to pass out. Blood isn’t getting to my head. ‘I mean, online. Just old news reports. Bulletin boards. That’s what I do. For a job. I find stuff on the internet.’

  Tyan appears to have little understanding of these words.

  ‘Why did you want to know so bad why I retired?’

  ‘I was just interested.’

  ‘Why? What did they tell you at the VPA?’

  ‘Nothing. I never spoke to them. It…You retired young. I was just wondering why.’

  He cools. As I pull away from the trough wall I sense my hair is matted, sticky. The odour of my situation overwhelms me and I cough the foulness out of my nostrils.

  ‘You found me on the internet?’

  He tries to comprehend and his panting echoes on the tiles. He’s a sixtysomething chain-smoker—of course he’s out of breath. Of course I am.

  ‘I wrote a whole program to find you. To find your phone number.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  I try to spit off my tongue anything that’s found its way into my mouth, don’t dare try to stand.

  ‘Just thought it would be good. To meet you.’

  Tyan’s eyes go distant and his head lolls gently, visibly overtaken by a wave of depression. Like he’s the victim and I a mere instrument of fate. Then he shuffles a slow rotation, makes it to the door, less swagger now. Turns back.

  ‘Come near my house again you’ll meet me all right.’

  He moves out and he’s gone.

  Favouring the arse cheek that doesn’t ache I lever myself to a sitting position. This is the level of defiance I can muster: to not remain in the urinal after Tyan has left. My arm is okay but the elbow stings numb. The rest of me is numb. My mouth yawns open to get the misery out and for a second I think I might retch. I stand up, wash my hands, make a point of not looking in the mirror. I’m about to leave when I feel a real sob come on and so I don’t leave. Instead I push into a toilet stall, lock the door and slump onto the seat.

  Just let it come.

  Shuddering pressure in my chest tha
t bottlenecks in my throat. Tears hit me like a brick wall, fast rivers in the filth of my face, salty splashes on the nastiness of the cubicle floor. Every bone shakes with an ancient kind of muscle memory. When the world confirms how worthless you are it hollows you out. Like after the panic attack in court yesterday. It hollows you out and if you’re hollow then nothing even matters.

  11

  This one is surprisingly old. At least forty. I’ve got his CV in front of me and if I’d read it I’d probably have found clues to his age and I wouldn’t be surprised. But I didn’t so I am.

  When I shake his hand I say, ‘I’m Stan.’

  ‘Hello. It’s really great to meet you, Stan.’

  He’s the second-last interview and, until this moment, today’s internship applicants have been what they always are: handsome millennials so coiffed and straight-toothed that I feel derpy. Derpier than usual. And today I feel even derpier than that because I still haven’t shaken off the smell of last night’s urine bath, despite three showers and a bucket of shampoo. Maybe what’s left is so far up my nose it exists only in my brain.

  But this stooge is heavy, with big heavy arms and a heavy head and when he came in he had that vague limp that heavy men have. His teeth are not straight and his long nose droops down to laugh at them and his eyes are keen to be liked. On the floor beside his chair he places a flat leather satchel.

  People always bring stuff to these interviews. They never need any of it.

  The view through the glass is identical to yesterday: dismal. I sit now where Stuart sat, maybe because unconsciously I consider it the power chair. Consciously I consider it to be directly beneath a heating vent. The air has dried out my nostrils over the course of the day but I’ve found that relaxing.

  ‘Hugh…’ I have to focus on the surname on his CV. ‘Bre…tza…nitz.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Congratulations on making it to the last round. Not a lot of people get this far.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’ A squeaky voice, like that heavy head is crushing his voice box.

  ‘So…’ I press play on my pre-interview speech. ‘My name is Stan and I specialise in vetting job candidates. I’m tasked with researching your online history and identifying what, if anything, might compromise the firm in the future should they choose to employ you.’