The Washington Club by Peter Corris Page A

but I’ll be in touch later today. We’ve got lots to do. Stay strong.’ If the policewoman was there and heard the message, so what?
    I drove out of the car park, getting a curt nod from the tired-looking constable on duty. We had that in common—tiredness, if not youth. Not a lot of traffic at that time of the morning, which was just as well. My reflexes were slow and I drove automatically, scarcely registering the stops and turns. I had trouble finding the bridge toll and almost missed the bin as I tossed it in. The action reminded me of basketball games I’d played in the Police Citizens’ Boys Clubs when I was a kid. They’re called something else now. The old name smacks of biases and prejudices that are supposed to have been swept away. Good to think so, but the changes could be cosmetic. I wondered ifaverage-sized kids could still play the game. It used to be a lot of fun and that basket was a high, tough target for sub-six foot adolescents.
    As I drove towards Glebe I was aware that although lots of things had apparently changed, I was still the same as far as women were concerned. I’d never been a casual screwer and had often wished I was—less involvement, fewer complications. Claudia Fleischman had got to me in some deep, connecting way. It was more than just her physical attractiveness and personality. I was drawn to her strengths and weaknesses. I had the old feeling that lay behind several of my relationships—that I could help this woman and be helped by her She needed a supporter and I needed connections to other worlds—to higher education, to Europe, to Jewishness. I’d felt this kind of attraction, and been right, and horribly wrong, in pursuing it before.
    Two TV crew vans were parked in the street near my house along with sundry other reporters’ vehicles. I could image what the more antagonistic of my neighbours were thinking. By necessity, journalists have little respect for privacy, traffic laws or noise pollution regulations. I’d turned into the street and committed myself to going on before I spotted them. No time or space for a three-point
turn
and a hasty retreat even if I’d been in the mood for it. I nudged the Camry up against a Tarago van that was parked where I’d left the unfortunate Falcon the night before. I woundthe window down as they came at me, males and females, like seagulls swooping on a crust.
    â€˜Mr Hardy, you’ve been attacked twice today . . .’
    â€˜Who was killed tonight in Kirribilli . . .?’
    â€˜Are you involved in . . .?’
    I reached through the window and grabbed the nearest of them by the collar. I jerked his head in, forward and up so that it was banging against the roof of the car.
    â€˜You tell the driver of that Tarago to move it or I’m going to ram the fucking thing! Now!’
    I shoved him off and the others fell back as he reeled away. I backed off a metre, put the gear in neutral and revved the motor. A man jumped into the Tarago and swung it away from the kerb. I slid into the space, got out of the car and locked it before turning to the reporters. The cameras were running, the mikes were thrusting forward and several held their mini-recorders out in front of them like divining rods. I picked out one of these, a tall, spindly guy in a white denim jacket and wearing shoulder-length hair, and beckoned him forward. When he was within reach I grabbed his arm and used him as a battering ram through the mob. The element of surprise got me passage to the gate.
    I’d been in these situations before and knew how threatening I could look if I got the body language and facial expressions wrong. I tried to stay loose and to keep something like a tolerant grin on my dial.
    â€˜What’s your name?’ I said over the babble.
    â€˜Todd.’
    I opened the gate and went through, shoving Todd away, keeping him outside. I grabbed his hair and brought his