The Washington Club by Peter Corris Page B

ear closer to my mouth. ‘Tell them I said no comment, Todd. And anyone who touches this fucking gate is gone for trespass.’
    I let him go, banged the gate shut and went up the path which is so overgrown all the cameras would be getting was branches and shadows.
Hardy handles the media and scores his first win of the day.
But in fact it was the next day and the day that had just slipped away had taken a lot with it. I felt physically and mentally sore as I slammed the door behind me and faced the old familiar smells and sounds.
    I was dog-tired but somehow I didn’t want to go upstairs and climb into my bed with the sheets and pillow covers overdue for a wash and the mattress settling into a one-person-only shape. When Glen was around the bedroom had a kind of symmetry—two clothes racks, books and magazines on both sides, coffee mugs, massage oil swapping from one side to the other, stains on the surfaces. Now one clothes rack was empty; the globe in the reading light on one side had been dead for months and the dusty massage oil bottle was in the chest of drawers.
    For the first time I noticed that there was blood on my shirt and trousers. I had a showerand dropped the clothes into an old topless Esky where I put things destined for the dry cleaners. I had a shower and wandered about with a towel around my waist, rejecting the idea of wine, Scotch or coffee. I thought about taking my unlicensed Colt .45 out from its hiding place in the cupboard under the stairs and rejected that idea too. If I’d known who to shoot maybe I’d have done it, but I hadn’t a clue.
    That led me to thinking about Cy and the times we’d called each other and left affectionate, abusive messages on the answering machines. I noticed that the light was blinking on my machine and I pressed the PLAY button, expecting to hear nothing but routine communications.
    â€˜Cliff, this is Claudia. The policewoman was okay. She’s gone now. It’s two o’clock. I got your note. That’s terrible about Cyrus. I’m so sorry. And I know he was your friend. It couldn’t have anything to do with me, could it? There were a whole lot of reporters at the gate but the security people got rid of them. I know you’ll be busy so I’m going to knock myself out with a Mogadon until the afternoon. I’ll be here. Please call me. Again, I’m terribly sorry about Cyrus. If there’s anything I can do you must tell me . . . In fact, I think I need you to tell me what to do next, anyway . . . I’ll wait to hear from you.’

12
    â€˜We never sleep,’ I’d told Cy, but I did—until late in the morning. I came up from the deep sleep more fresh and eager than I’d felt in many weeks and I knew the reason why. I surveyed my body as I dressed—not too bad, love handles but not out of control, more grey hairs on the chest than on the head and overall muscle tone reasonable. Not finished yet. I did a few perfunctory exercises—stretches, knee bends, nothing serious—and then I was reminded of Cy and his extensive exercise sessions before our squash games. They’d exasperated me slightly and made me anxious to have a whack, probably a piece of smart strategising by Cy.
    I shaved carefully, something I’d neglected lately, and ate breakfast, which I rarely do—an almost-past-it orange, toast and two boiled eggs. After two cups of coffee I was ready to face the paper, but Cy’s death had just made the Stop Press and the details were minimal. There was nothing about me, and if the TV boys and girls had got some meaninglessfootage, dressed it up somehow, and run it early I didn’t want to know. I brushed my teeth several times, regretting the chips and discolourations—talismans of fights, poor dentistry and bad habits—and got out my notes and diagrams to review the state of the matter.
    Nothing had changed. There were no new names to add to