About the author
After a career in finance, which
took him to America and the Bahamas, Barry Corcoran began writing short,
humorous stories that have appeared in local papers and magazines.
The Third Arm
is his first serious novel.
The author lives on the Sunshine
Coast in Queensland with his wife Sheila. They have two adult children.
FRIDAY 17th SEPTEMBER
SOUTH MELBOURNE
7.05 AM
Joe woke early. He always found it
hard to sleep in, even after a heavy night out with friends.
‘I feel like shit,’ he muttered. Joe
cleared his throat and with half-closed eyes climbed out of bed. A pair of
patched-up boxer shorts covered in red hearts was his sleeping attire. They were
a gift from a perceived admirer on Valentine’s Day a couple of years earlier. He
later discovered his sister had sent them. Joe slowly padded to the window. The
view was exhilarating from his tenth floor unit. Stretching his arms wide as if
welcoming the sun, Joe gazed across St. Kilda Road to Port Phillip Bay in the
distance. Through the early morning haze, he could see a line of ships waiting
to dock at Port Melbourne.
Joe liked to think he was a player in
the fast lane and worked hard on the image. A country boy from northern
Victoria, he had graduated from Monash with a first-class honours degree in
finance before quickly moving into what he felt was the real world: Melbourne.
After four years, he was doing okay. The
chicks were certainly an improvement. He had recently bought a two-bedroom unit
in inner city Melbourne. The area was mixed. Units rubbed shoulders with small
homes that once housed the working classes. During the early nineties, city
professionals had fought to buy into the area and since then major renovations
had been carried out on many of the older homes. Prices had sky rocketed, but
Joe was not in that league and had settled for a unit.
The bathroom was all white and stainless
steel. It was glary. Joe leaned on the basin and peered into the mirror. A pair
of bloodshot eyes stared back.
‘You’re a bloody good-looking bastard,
even though your eyes look like pee holes in the snow,’ he mumbled. Joe had
heard the expression when skiing at Mount Buller. He never forgot a catchy
phrase.
It was true. He had classic features, a
stocky build, short black hair and olive skin. A square jaw, full lips and
aquiline nose left no doubt about his Mediterranean ancestry. His teeth were
white and even, with the exception of one crooked lower tooth. He had intended
to get it fixed until Maria, a secretary in human relations, said it looked
sexy. Life had moved on since then, but Joe was now reluctant to fix something
that might give him an edge. He was currently manoeuvring towards Melissa,
personal secretary to Nigel Lyness, Managing Director of the company where Joe
worked.
Joe smiled, cleaned his teeth and
scraped the fur rug from his tongue. He had just returned from his sister’s
wedding in Mildura and had had a great time. There was a stability and warmth
there, which he had been unable to recreate in Melbourne. Sure, he was enjoying
himself but sometimes it was good to get back home.
A hasty breakfast consisted of burnt
toast, strong black coffee and two paracetamol tablets. He dressed for his job
at Flinders International, a diversified company in the heart of the Melbourne
business district.
*
Kingsway was busy as Joe drifted between
lanes, one arm draped casually over the open window of his red Ford Capri
convertible. He had purchased it at ‘mate’s rates’ from his Uncle Milo, who
owned a car yard in Mildura; Milo had come out from Italy around the time Joe
was born. He was aware there was some mystery behind his uncle’s arrival, but
attempts to gently interrogate his mother over many years had yielded nothing.
Joe’s father had been killed in a car accident when he was a baby and Milo
became the father he never had.
All
this was far from Joe’s thoughts as the sun shone down on that perfect spring
morning. God, it was good to be alive. He nonchalantly waved at any girl who
noticed him.
FLINDERS INTERNATIONAL
8.15 AM
Joe pulled into the underground car
park and gave a thumbs up to the all-knowing commissionaire. Sam smiled
indulgently. He had seen executives come and go and was a well-known
sounding-post for gossip. Joe, a keen Carlton supporter, would regularly stop
for a chat. Sam had played fullback for them thirty years earlier.
Joe drove to his spot two floors below.
On the way, he gazed longingly at the prime parking reserved for senior
executives. Before locking his car, he retrieved a bottle of cabernet sauvignon
from the back seat. It had been left over from the wedding.
*
‘Here, try a bottle of Mildura’s best,’
said Joe, gently placing the bottle in front of Julia. ‘It’s better than the
stuff you drink from the Peninsula, and cheaper.’
His secretary always arrived early.
Ostensibly, she was everything Joe didn’t like. In her late twenties, Julia was
overweight and always wore shades of brown. Her manner was pleasant but there
appeared to be a permanent scowl on her face. She would do anything for Joe,
though she realised there was no future for her on his radar. He treated her as
a friend but nothing more. She had a tremendous capacity for work, an incredible
memory, and would work as long as was required – even over vacation periods.
Julia thanked him for the bottle and
promised to report back. Joe had a habit of surprising her with small gifts.
‘Anything on this weekend, Joe?’ she
asked.
His face lit up. ‘You’ve got to be
joking,’ he said, rubbing his hands together, ‘Carlton has a home semi against
the Lions. Guess who’s going in a private box?’
Julia smiled, shaking her head. She had
no interest in football, instead preferring long walks in the Dandenong ranges
northeast of Melbourne. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said quickly as Joe turned away,
‘Melissa just rang. She asked if you would call her. Doctor Lyness wants to
speak with you.’
Joe walked into his office with a broad
grin. Melissa! The vision he occasionally stood behind in the elevator, sneaking
a glance at her firm, rounded buttocks encased in a tight-fitting black skirt.
It was never possible to figure out whether she was wearing a G-string or not.
Joe laughed quietly as he recalled the
company Christmas party at the Hilton where his Irish friend in Engineering had
christened her the ‘Ice Maiden’.
Mick had approached her in his usual
unsubtle way. ‘Good evening, Melissa. Would you care to join me for a drink?
It’s beautiful outside on the balcony.’
Joe nearly choked at Mick’s crude
approach. He was amazed when she took his arm. With his easy manner and soft
Irish brogue, Mick had an enviable success rate. He put it down to his direct
approach.
‘Women like to know what you want up
front,’ he would say. To back his claim, Mick would tell the story of the time
he went to a club, walked up to a beautiful girl he had never seen before and
said, ‘Would you like to fornicate?’
‘Yes please,’ she’d said, and they had.
As Mick followed Melissa toward one of
the Hilton’s balconies he’d turned, winked at Joe and muttered, ‘That’s how it’s
done, boyo.’
A few minutes later Melissa strolled
back with Mick trailing behind, a vivid red mark on his face. He saw Joe and
turned to walk away. Joe grabbed his arm. ‘I know you’re lightning, Mick, but
that must be a record.’
Mick turned. Joe saw real anger in his
eyes. ‘That bitch. I only wanted a quick grope and she didn’t like it.’
Joe burst out laughing. ‘Mick, some
ladies do like a little foreplay before the main event.’ He grabbed Mick’s arm.
‘Come on, drown your sorrows and have a beer.’
Joe’s infectious laugh had the desired
effect. Mick slowly grinned. He shook his head. ‘She’s a bloody Ice Maiden,’ he
said. The name had stuck.
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