Dead Men Don't Order Flake (15 page)

‘What makes you say that?'

‘I just mean it's a stressful job, being a journo in a country town.'

‘Oh?'

‘Yep. She'd of personally known all her readers. Natalie woulda had to report the local news like it's all rosy. After all, a journo's an advocate for the town. So, for instance, you don't mention the drought, well, not more than you have to. You focus on something cheerful, like, I dunno, how young six-year-old Ashley's doing just terrifically since his lung transplant. And you don't point out how people are moving away, instead you come up a nice, positive story on how Belle's the most popular baby name this year.'

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

‘So what I'm saying is that Millson couldn't run no stories that made anyone in the town look bad.' He paused. ‘Especially if that anyone happened to be anyone prominent.'

Vern seemed to know a lot about all this. I wondered for a tick if he'd ever been a journo himself. Vern's a blow-in; he only arrived here twenty years ago. It's never been too clear exactly what he did before he turned up in Rusty Bore; he never talks of it. Or how he lost the arm.

A sudden thought: did he lose it in a printing press? A traumatic accident, involving someone who'd chased him in there, enraged by a less-than-rosy article Vern had turned out. I made a mental note to ask him. When we'd got over our delicate situation, give or take a million years.

‘You any good on shorthand, Vern?' I held out the notebook I'd found.

He stood up, grabbed it from me, leaned it on his hammock and started skimming through the pages.

‘Natalie's, is it?' he said.

‘Possibly.'

‘Looks like Pitman, but not quite. Maybe she put her own spin on it.' He held the notebook closer. ‘Mind you, I haven't seen shorthand in years.'

‘Any idea what it says?'

He ran his finger along the page, then flipped onto the next page. ‘Well, this looks like…Will something. Galang? And here…wind turbines.' He held it up, but they were still just squiggles to me.

He flicked ahead a couple of pages.

‘And here, the something group. Ignition Group. Gas Solutions. This one's easy: Fitzgerald.'

Vern spent a few minutes flipping through the rest of the book. ‘Nup. That's it.' He handed me the notebook.

‘Any of that mean anything to you?' I said.

‘Well, maybe she was investigating Gas Solutions.'

‘What's that? A new kind of stove lighter?'

‘You're having me on. You'd know all about Gas Solutions. Brad woulda briefed you.'

‘Err.'

‘The fracking licences. State government granted that big heap of petroleum exploration licences in the Murray Basin, only they're calling 'em preliminary observational licences, due to the moratorium. Well, we all know that won't last forever.'

‘Uh huh.'

‘Interesting thing is that every single one of those licences was granted to this one mob: Gas Solutions. And the announcement for those licences was timed for Boxing Day. That's gotta be slightly dodgy. I mean, who reads the paper then?'

Only Vern, quite possibly.

‘Well, now Gas Solutions are planning these
“consultations” all over the joint. How fracking's gunna create a multitude of jobs. Course, what will actually happen is they'll make squillions, while we have to live with poisoned groundwater and messed-up farmland.' He paused. ‘Surprised you're not up with all this. Doesn't Brad keep you informed?'

OK, so maybe I don't always listen as carefully as I might to Brad's enviro-briefings. The thing is, his timing isn't always ideal. I was dealing with a shop-freezer-defrosting-across-the-floor crisis during his most recent seminar.

‘Course, Fitzgerald was the one who granted those licences.'

‘Oh.'

Vern scratched his arm. ‘No way Natalie would have been able to get a bad news story about Fitzgerald into the
Cultivator
, though, not even a whiff of it. Not with Glenda in charge.'

A small shudder at her name. ‘Well, thanks for the info,' I said. ‘Good work.'

He smoothed down the singlet over his chest.

I turned away and walked down his steps. As I set off along the footpath, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and jumped.

‘Cass,' said Vern. He looked deep into my eyes. ‘If it turns out you need to sell up, you know, due to your overwhelming detecting workload, or any other personal factors, well…you'll give me first option on your place, won't you?'

‘Me? I'm not going anywhere.' If Vern thought he could force me out of Rusty Bore, he had another think coming.

I pulled my jacket tight around me and hurried off.

25

I arrived home to find a car parked out the back. A yellow-green Datsun 180B with a faded
Ten things you can do to save the planet
sticker on the back window. A couple of fresh-looking new stickers too:
Parks for sharks
and
Some of my best friends are sharks
. I pulled back my shoulders and straightened up, preparing myself for the mother-son pep talk.

There are days when you're better placed for a round of motivational discourse, and this wasn't one of them. I was tired and distracted after the last few days: I guess being broken into, bashed and stalked can do that to a person. And when you need to advise your son on important life matters, well, it's best to give out the impression that your own life is in reasonable control. Brad's always been very talented at wrestling people off the moral high ground.

I opened my back door.

‘Hi Mum. I was going to cook some stir-fry for our
tea. Looks like you're out of organic tempeh, though.' He shook his head, his dark fringe flopping over his forehead.

‘I'm sorry my fridge contents aren't up to scratch, Bradley. You may be surprised to hear that I've had a few other things to think about.' I paused. ‘And I'm not ready for anything on food miles, mass extinctions or the folly of the fossil-fuel economy until I've had a cuppa. And a couple of Panadol.'

‘Great. Well, if you can't be welcomed home by your mother when your whole existence is in crisis…' Brad did some rapid blinking.

‘Oh son,' I walked over and gave him a big hug, trying not to bash my sore elbow. ‘Course you're welcome. You're always welcome. I'm just tired, that's all. Look, I've got some vanilla slices here. I made them for you, specially.'

I stood back and looked at Brad properly. He had dark circles around his eyes. I suspected he wasn't eating properly—his skin had that telltale grey shade.

‘You OK? Bit of a surprise to see you home.'

‘What happened to your eye, Mum?'

‘Long story. Go put your washing on and I'll crank up the kettle. We've got a bit of catching up to do.'

A little later we sat at the kitchen table and ate an early dinner while the washing machine rattled away in the laundry. There are worse sounds than the hum of a machine that's busy working on your behalf. Or your son's behalf. Dinner consisted of vanilla slices followed by scrambled eggs on toast.

I swallowed a mouthful of egg. No point in interrogating Brad about why he'd suddenly arrived home or what the hell was going on, he'd tell me eventually. Hopefully. In the meantime, ‘Listen, Brad, you heard of something
called the Ignition Group? Possible arsonists. There's a chance this Will Galang had a connection to them.'

‘No idea. And there's no way Will Galang would have been an arsonist. He was into saving the world, not frying it.'

‘You knew him?'

‘Not in person. Through his blog—UnSmogOz.' He forked in a mouthful of egg. ‘By the way, I heard about your shoplifting.' He tried to hide his grin behind his fork.

Dean and Brad might pretend to hate each other but in actual fact they share a lot of personal information. Not their own personal information, of course; we're talking more the kind of information that paints their mother in a poor light.

‘That was just a misunderstanding.'

‘Oh, don't worry. I resigned myself ages ago to the idea that I'll never have a normal mother.'

I didn't bother asking for his definition of a normal mother. I wasn't going to be trapped inside anyone's bloody conventions, wasting the entire prime of my life.

I swallowed my last mouthful of egg. Rummaged around in my handbag; took out the book basher's phone. It had a crack across the front, maybe from when I'd slipped over in Target. Hopefully, it still worked. After all, there are plenty of cracked things around here that are still in reasonable working order. Ernie, for instance.

‘You got your phone charger with you, Brad?'

He ambled off down the hallway to his bedroom. Returned a moment later with his charger. Bingo, it fitted. I plugged it in. The screen lit up; I took that as a good sign.

‘The burglar dropped it. It's locked though; I've tried
about a million swipe patterns. You reckon you can find a way to get in?'

He turned it over in his hands. ‘Maybe.'

I got up and took my plate over to the sink. Switched on the kettle.

‘So, anyway, how's uni?'

‘Oh, you know.'

‘You got a couple of days off, Madison was saying?'

‘Mmm.'

‘You're not still worrying about that assignment? Come on, you just need to keep it in perspective.'

‘Yeah, right. As if you'd know anything about it.'

‘There's no need to be condescending. I might not have had access to a higher education, unlike some lucky people, but I'm not stupid. And all these years of running my own business have taught me a few things.'

‘Such as?'

‘Far too many to go into,' I waved a hand. ‘Anyway, that reminds me, I've got something for you. Might help with that assignment.' I rootled through my bag for the flyer I'd picked up in Natalie's room.

Climate change: what the science really says.
It was for that talk by Dr Eric Buckland on his book, this week at Muddy Soak. Part of the Turning Leaf Spectacular. Although quite how some science textbook fitted into an autumn leaf festival beat me.

Brad held out his hand, a weary wrist-flicking kind of motion. Took the flyer and read it. He looked up at me, scorn oozing from his face.

‘You've got to be kidding.' He flung the leaflet onto the table.

‘I was thinking maybe it could help with that ocean
project that's been worrying you. Ocean…whatever it is.'

He sighed. ‘Acidification. I can't believe you take so little interest. It's only going to disrupt ecosystems, fisheries, entire oceanic food chains. I mean, you, of all people, should be concerned. Given your connection to the sea.'

‘I live four hundred kilometres from the beach, Brad. Not really all that close a connection.'

‘I'm talking about your bloody shop. Your entire business is reliant on viable fisheries. Really, why do I even bother?'

‘Don't you patronise me, Bradley. Wait till you have to earn a living. Then you'll find out how easy it is.'

‘All I'm saying is that you need think about the future. You could turn the place into a…sustainable takeaway. Hey, yes, a sustainable vegetarian takeaway.'

Well, that'd bring in a multitude of customers. It's true there are sixteen and a half vegetarians in Rusty Bore, thanks to Brad's unflagging efforts, but sixteen and a half people doesn't constitute what I'd call a solid business base. Even if the half is Meryl Walsh, part-time vegetarian, who still comes in every Friday for her grilled whiting and
just a handful
,
Cass-love
, of chips.

‘Anyway, there's absolutely nothing Eric Buckland could say that I would find useful,' said Brad. ‘He's only the biggest climate denier on the planet. And he's obviously touring to promote his ridiculous book. It's a disgrace the Muddy Soak festival is giving him a soapbox.'

The kettle boiled and clicked off.

‘The whole thing makes me so angry, Mum. You know, anyone who donated money to the book, and of course they're all connected to the fossil-fuel industry, well, every single one of them got a tax deduction for
their so-called “charitable” donation. Bunch of selfish profiteering bastards,' he summed up.

I stood up, walked over to the cupboard, got out two mugs and slid a tea bag into each.

‘Anyway, I won't be needing anything for that assignment. Not now.'

‘You finally handed it in? Good for you.' I poured some hot water into the mugs.

‘Um, no.'

Something about his tone made me turn and look at him. He stared at his feet.

‘What's going on?'

‘I've been…encouraged to take some time off.'

‘Pardon?'

‘I've been kicked out.'

I was lost for words.

‘Ah.' I said finally. Not exactly in-depth commentary, but the best I could come up with.

‘Well, you don't have to be so damn calm about it, Mum.'

‘What happened? I thought the course was going well. High distinctions all the way. You and sharks, you're a natural fit.'

He mumbled something.

‘Sorry?'

‘Well, someone has to stand up for sharks. You're obviously not going to.'

I sighed. ‘Look, I run a takeaway, in case you hadn't noticed. And flake's a standard in a fish and chip shop, Brad. A given.'

He gave me a glare.

‘Listen, I know you've got your principles and that's
terrific. Good for you. But money takes precedence over sustainability. Everybody knows that. Anyway, stop trying to change the subject. What happened at uni?'

He stood up suddenly, grabbed his plate and slammed it into the sink.

‘It's completely unfair. And unethical.'

‘Right.' Had he failed something? That wasn't like Brad. A love-life crisis? Jesus, Madison wasn't pregnant, was she? I froze mid-dunk of my teabag. I wasn't having half a dozen ferrets move in.