The January Zone

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I am not,’ I said, ‘a security consultant. I am a private detective. A private enquiry agent if you like, a private eye if you must. But the day I let myself be called a security consultant is the day I become a retired private detective.’

‘Cliff, Cliff.’ Peter January always repeated the name when he wanted something. ‘John, John,’ he’d say to his political opposite number or ‘Michael, Michael,’ to the TV journalist. Now he wanted me to work for him. ‘It’s only a name, comrade,’ he said. ‘What does it matter?’

‘It matters to me,’ I said. ‘Fuehrer’s only a name but somehow I don’t like it.’

January laughed. He laughed easily, probably lied easily too. He was a politician from the groomed, greying hair to the Bally shoes, but he also happened to have some ideas I agreed with-nuclear-free Australia, profit-sharing in the workplace and support for the Balmain Tigers. ‘I’m not really talking to you as a professional, Cliff,’ he said. ‘More as a friend. I’m bloody scared. I need help.’

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