Deluded Your Sailors (4 page)

Evan's cubicle, three desks left of the intersection of Harvey and LeMarchant, housed a small desk, one antiquated laptop, a refurbished olive green rotary dial telephone, one framed photo of himself in eighteenth-century Royal Newfoundland Regiment uniform and bearskin hat doing the grip-and-grin with the PM, and one wobbly four-caster chair stained with beige splashes.

Evan had just planted his arse in said wobbly chair when Chris Jackman Kilroyed over the facing cubicle wall. —Any mummers lowed in? Piss yourself, Rideout?

—Coffee, potholes and winter. Deadly combination. When are you gonna get that stretch of highway paved?

—Not my department. Potholes are worse than moose, some days. Get anythin from Mrs O'Dea we could turn into dinner theatre for the tourists? You're hidin somethin from me.

Lying, Evan said no. Once last year he'd joined a poker game with Jackman, justifiably confident he'd win a little. He planned to hold back, truth told, so he wouldn't piss Jackman off. But Chris Jackman, one of those men gifted with calculation and frightening sight, murdered the lot of them. Since that costly night, Evan had worked to better hide his thoughts from Jackman. Another X for failure on the calendar today.

Chris Jackman's thinning fair hair wisped up dead straight as he ducked out of sight. Evan sighed, turned round in his chair and faced the cubicle entrance. Jackman leapt into the cubicle, too joyful to care that Evan had anticipated him. —I know that face, Rideout. Either you're after givin birth to a turd thick as your fist, or you found somethin really good out there.

—I just want to authenticate – gimme that Jesus briefcase!

—Ah-ah-ah, don't you talk to your boss like that.

—Jackman, put on these cotton gloves first, will ya? The oils from your fingers can damage the papers.

—Oil? Don't be talkin. I got some writer tryna pin me down for an interview about
Sea Sentry
. That rig went down almost twenty-five years ago. Why can't we just leave it the hell alone? It's disturbin a deep grave, sure.

Evan nodded.
Your father's grave.

—Ev, how old is this at all?

—Eighteenth-century, I think.

—Wha, Victorian?

—Seventeen hundreds. I'll bring those papers to the Admiral's Rooms tomorrow, see what the head curator can tell me.

—Yes, and then lock them away and get them registered at Rare Docs. Hang on, Rare Docs is after movin again. I think they're in the old Professor Danielle rink. With any luck it'll be too cold there for a fire.

—So I'll be out most of the day.

—No can do, Ev. It's all hands on deck here tomorrow. ACHE Board meetin tomorrow night, on top of everythin else. I need you there takin the minutes.

—About that: should the assistant to the non-votin government rep really be the one takin minutes?

—I can't write fast enough. And Jesus, Lewis Wright's the secretary. I'm not sure he can sign a cheque before sundown even if he starts at the crack of dawn. VOIC Radio boardroom, up to the station on Kenmount Road, seven o'clock sharp.

—I thought the Wrights sold VOIC years ago.

—Wolf Broadcastin bought it, chain from Canada, bad as Tim Hortons or mildew on the bathroom ceilin. But they rent out the board room, solid revenue stream. And we're lucky to get that boardroom. Jesus, we got no infrastructure in this city, and every time a developer tables a plan, the city denies it for not comin in line with the proper heritage look. Bad enough the government's spread all over St John's. Now I got the arts crowd cryin about how we had to close down the Hall for asbestos and mould. I can't even find a room to get a committee together, and now these friggin actors are comin at me, whinin they got nowhere to go play make-believe. And Seth Seabright, that nuisance, I don't know who he thinks he is, but he delivered a petition to me this afternoon, by hand, if you please, leanin there behind the media scrum, his dirty old boot sole flat against the antique wall. Jesus. I gotta go. PM's expectin me. Republic's work is never done.

And Chris Jackman tossed the briefcase back onto Evan's desk, knocking over the framed photo and a cup of coffee left over from the previous week. The briefcase flapped open, and the packet from Mrs O'Dea slid out. Stale coffee marked with fronds of curdled cream flowed and just missed the sealskin.

Allied Cultural and Heritage Enterprises

Board of Directors Meeting

Thursday 10 Feb 2009

VOIC Radio Network board room, Kenmount Road

Present at Kenmount Road:

Dorinda Masterson, President

Johnny Malone, Vice-President/Avalon Peninsula

Representative

Lewis Wright, Secretary/Treasurer

Chris Jackman, Government Representative (non-voting)

Evan Rideout, Assistant to Mr Jackman (taking minutes)

Present via conference call:

Linda Gillingham, Eastern/Central Representative

Cissy Dawe, Western/Labrador Representative

Meeting called to order at 7:05pm by ACHE President Dorinda Masterson.

Motion to adopt the agenda. Cissy so moved. Lewis seconded it.

Motion to adopt the minutes from the last meeting. Johnny so moved. Lewis seconded. Linda Gillingham noted three typos on page 8 of 12. Motion to adopt the minutes with changes to fix typos. Linda so moved. Lewis seconded.

ACTION ITEM: Evan Rideout to fix typos.

SETTLEMENT 250

Johnny delivered his report on the involvement of businesses from St John's to Trinity chiming in to become a part of Settlement 250, next year's festival commemorating 250 years of settlement of the Port au Mal region of Conception Bay.

Chris Jackman reminded the board of the considerable government funding for this project and the need for accountability and transparency for all projects applying for said funding. He said that Settlement 250 is expected to attract many ex-pats and tourists as the Republic of NL continues to roll out its extensive Cultural Tourism Blueprint. He reported that relevant materials and literature have been distributed internationally, penetrating markets in Canada, the United States, Scandinavia, Australia and New Zealand, as well as Ireland, England, Scotland, Wales, France and Germany. He noted that significant online presence has also been developed and launched, including Web 2.0 interactive sites and messaging boards. Follow-ups are planned. Chris expressed the opinion that it would be really nice if we could meet our tourist quota this year.

Dorinda expressed concern that the tourist quota, already a problematic concept, seems a bit high.

Chris replied there can be no industry growth without extra effort from all those involved.

Cissy commented there is little interest in Settlement 250 west of Trinity, and that the initiative offers nothing to the western half of the island or to Labrador. Linda agreed.

Chris explained that Settlement 250 should be thought of as a homecoming summer festival on steroids, baptised with offshore oil, and that if Settlement 250 performs as expected, it will set a funding precedent for other regions.

Lewis asked if there is a list of projects and funding levels. Chris replied there is no such list as of this time, but the initiative is just getting started out the gate in the slush.

Dorinda asked Chris for an update on the theatrical idea he wishes ACHE to administrate. Chris reminded the Board of their previous motion to hire a writer to take on the necessary research and writing to produce a tourist-appropriate play for Settlement 250. He stated that it was best not to hire a big name, as remuneration will be limited by funding parameters and budget commitments. He noted that an emerging writer would be grateful to benefit from exposure and connection with Settlement 250, and ACHE's supporting an emerging writer would also in turn cast a good reflection on ACHE.

Lewis commented that this makes the third meeting where this point has been discussed. He stated that he contacted novelist Nichole Wright, who expressed interest in taking the commission. He said Nichole is his cousin and has family roots in Port au Mal.

Dorinda and Evan discussed Nichole's novel. Dorinda expressed her approval of commissioning Nichole Wright.

ACTION ITEM: Lewis will continue to liaise with Nichole on behalf of ACHE re researching and writing a play based on the history of Port au Mal area for the Settlement 250 initiative. He will report regularly to the Board.

BUSINESS ARISING

Cissy commented that the western part of the island and Labrador feel neglected by TCR. Linda agreed and asked about funding plans about eastern, central and the south coast. Vigorous discussion.

Johnny stated that Cissy's lengthy concerns should be added to the agenda for the next meeting, and that a report specifying the complaints would be useful. Johnny added that he requested Cissy take the latter action at the last two board meetings. Vigorous discussion.

ACTION ITEM: Cissy and Linda to prepare a report citing their regions' concerns. Report to be circulated to the board before the next meeting and added to the agenda for that meeting.

Johnny moved to adjourn the meeting because of worsening weather and deteriorating driving conditions. Chris seconded. Dorinda commented that a motion to adjourn needs no second. Meeting adjourned.

4) BIG WHITE PHONE
F
EBRUARY
11, 2009, S
T
J
OHN
'
S
.

Dreams hissing with wasps and sleep battered as ballicatter, Nichole Wright, alone, struggled to stay awake. She felt sick – plagued – with the stale hangover of old abuse and the newer stink of the Almayer Foxe trial. Foxe had arrived in Newfoundland in the mid-1970s, running from a mucky past and hurriedly making up a name after catching sight of a book title. Faux-posh English accent eliciting enormous respect in post-colonial Newfoundland, Foxe quickly settled into broadcasting, a career he enjoyed. His social status eased his three hobbies: tea-blending, health scams, and serial seduction-for-blackmail. Over the decades, the few victims who spoke to police, braving the revelation of extremely compromising photographs, faced questions of chastity, vanity, and consent. Surely the women had allowed the alleged photographer to see them in such a state. Surely the women had enough sense to know they could not possibly be models, despite this photographer's alleged promise to break them into the business. And, my dear, who's going to believe someone like Almayer Foxe is up to things like that? That's not the half of it. That dried up old hag of a journalist, Rose Fahey, who fucked off to Canada first chance she got? She came back and decided to play Foxe's game. Starved for a story idea, was she? Lowering herself like that.

Rose Fahey stole Foxe's new digital camera that night, the camera's memory card crammed with dated photos of other women, the most recent being Nichole Wright. That heavy theft, plus a painfully detailed statement, got a search warrant and an arrest. Tardy justice toiled. The crown ruled the stolen camera inadmissible and set a trial date. Three complainants: Rose Fahey, Evelyn Lockyear, Nichole Wright. And delay after delay.

He said she said. Ya knows, now.

Nichole needed to disappear. Light out for the territories. Just fucking
drive
. Ice cream shop: large milkshake. Burger stand: globular patty between a baker's fog bun, and onion rings. Different ice cream shop: a second milkshake, sweet, creamy, undemanding, and sucked back. Convenience store: two big bags of potato chips, a few candy bars from the 2 for $1.29 boxes, and a half-litre tub of frozen dessert topping. Pass the beer fridge. No, no worries there, for Nichole had given up drinking, quite in control, thank you.

The bender lasted about two hours. Hardly sated, just numbed and suddenly relieved, Nichole took a few experimental breaths, closed her copy of
Pilgrim's Progress,
spinecracked and splayed where Appolyon crossed the field – all hideous and proud, fish scales glittering – and paced steadily to her bathroom. She ignored the cat but then changed her mind, turning back and speaking gently to the pussens, yes, the sweet old cat, darling killer, beautiful beast. Nichole led the cat to the kitchen, where she opened a can of something fishy and forked it down to mush on a saucer. The cat ate, noisily. Nichole inhaled the scent, shut her eyes, and resumed her ritual walk to the bathroom – practically a walk down the aisle, oh yes. No cameras, no grandfather, no Foxe. Just her own fingers. First inserting two glycerine suppositories high up her rectum, then receiving a wash of soap and madhot water, finally working down her throat to tickle the gag reflex she'd nicknamed Lovelace.

Kneeling at the toilet.

Winter and rough weather played merry hell with the plumbing; the water in the bowl rocked, rose and fell.

Harder, deeper.

Just a little further, knuckles past tonsils, gag once, gag twice –
heave it outta ya, girl, heave it out –
Vomit spattered back onto Nichole's face and shut eyelids; she'd long ago learnt one must purge blind.