Gone Fishing (12 page)

‘Did you do this?'

‘Wouldn't dirty my hands . . .'

‘Of course not. You've got the balls of a gnat. You're pathetic, mate. I could almost feel sorry for you if you weren't such a dead-set, over-dressed toad,' Sam says, wagging his head, amazed that this small, fat, unfit parody of a human thinks sending in a few freaky goons under cover of darkness to break his windows will scare him off.

Suddenly, Lowdon rears, thumps Sam hard on the chest with the fat end of the golf club. ‘Think you're tough, do you? You're no match . . .'

Sam, driven by a flash of red anger, snatches the driving iron easily and turns it back on the little man, landing a blow mid-stomach. Lowdon doubles over, fights for breath. His face purples. Rheumy eyes water, look ready to pop. Sam pushes Lowdon to the ground, where he lies beached. Emitting strange gurgling noises from blowfish lips. Sam towers over him, golf club gripped fiercely. One strike, maximum damage. The temptation is irresistible. He takes a huge back swing.

Lowdon rolls into a foetal position, knees pulled into his chest, hands covering his face. Whimpering.

Sam throws down the club in disgust. ‘It would be too easy. You're not worth the effort. But if you or the goons come anywhere near my house again, I'll know. Trust me, I'll know. You might want to ramp up your insurance too, mate. Hate to think what a hammer might do to that poncy glass dining table of yours.'

Sam reaches down to grab Lowdon's shirtfront and hoists him to a point about a foot above the ground. The fabric starts to rip. Sam holds on. ‘From now on, I'll be watching you so closely that you won't even be able to take a piss in private. You get my drift?' The fabric gives way. Lowdon drops to the ground.

Winded, apoplectic, but back in a vertical position, Lowdon finds his voice, points a finger in Sam's face. ‘Don't make me sic my boys on you again, Scully, because you don't want to see what else they can do,' he wheezes, in short, pained gasps. Frothing, spitting, his bloated face twisted with rage.

‘Love to see 'em. Bring them on. Anytime. Don't forget your golf club, mate,' Sam says. ‘And here's your cap, let me adjust the angle. Your tassel is all over the place.'

Anticipating a strike, Lowdon jerks backwards, losing his balance. Almost falls. ‘Get your affairs in order, boy,' he snarls. ‘You're history.'

Sam dusts his hands, shrugs and, without glancing back, takes the steps three at a time. What a low-class greedy little mongrel bully. ‘Jimmy!' he calls, remembering the kid confined on the barge. Two long skinny legs lift off the deck, grasshopper fast. He's airborne, arms windmilling. Lands on feet the size of small boats and gallops along the jetty. The shaggy black-and-white mutt is glued to his heels.

 

 

Chapter Ten

Inside, the house is trashed. Clothing shredded, mattresses slashed, tomato sauce sprayed in long red lines on walls. Crockery is smashed against his fireplace like the aftermath of a Greek wedding. On the floor, broken glass sparkles obscenely in shafts of sunlight. Helluva party, he thinks, and with his spleen already vented, he feels oddly voyeuristic instead of enraged.

Jimmy begins sweeping the floor. ‘Sorry for ya loss, Sam,' he says, eyes filling with tears, using his wrist to wipe his nose.

‘Nobody died, mate. There's nothing broken that can't be fixed. He made a bloody mess, though, didn't he?'

‘Ya got that right,' Jimmy says, leaning on his broom. ‘It's a mess all right.'

Sam scoops the small collection of his father's precious books from the floor, replaces them on a shelf. How come no one noticed? Not even a brush turkey got away with bin ransacking without the whole neighbourhood getting involved. The spine is broken but fixable on Bert Facey's
A Fortunate Life
, given to him by the Misses Skettle all those years ago when they were determined to set him straight on how to deal with disaster. ‘Bastard,' he says, under his breath. He lies it flat to fix later. ‘You ever heard of the US marines, Jimmy?'

‘Sure,' the kid says, uncertainly.

‘They believe that if you stop and dig in at the height of a battle, you're rooted. By my way of thinking, if we play by the rules of thugs, we'll lose by the rules of thugs. We have to take the initiative. Be one step ahead. Keep them angry and pissed off so they make mistakes. Step forward when they think they've hammered us. That's what the marines do, mate. They step forward no matter what the odds.'

Jimmy, who's been listening intently, his freckly face tilted sideways like one ear hears better than the other, suddenly straightens, clicks his heels and salutes: ‘What's next, Sam? We gunna step forward now?'

‘Well, not exactly right now but it's nice to know I can count on you, mate.'

Jimmy, getting the hang of it, straightens and stands at attention, his broom out to one side like a rifle. ‘We're a team. Isn't that what you said?'

‘The best team a bloke could ask for. When the time comes, we're going to step forward together. But only when the time comes. Got that?'

‘Sure, Sam. Long as you know I'm here. I'm not a piker. No way.'

‘Never thought you were for a minute.' Sam pats the kid on the back. To hide the fact his eyes are blurry, he steps out of the way, into the bedroom. His old plastic clock, worth as much to him as his father's books, is intact. They missed the real valuables, he thinks. Or maybe nothing quite compares to losing both your parents in a single, devastating, unrecoverable hit. He must have learned young how to recover quickly.

Looking on the bright side – as a man has to if he's to hold onto his sanity – at least one of the enemies has been clearly and irrevocably identified. What was that old saying of his dad's? Keep your enemies where you can see them. Yeah, that was it. No, not quite. The best way to destroy your enemy is to make him your friend. Well, he didn't think he'd be able to pull that trick off for any one of a number of very obvious reasons but he could sure as hell keep him in his sights.

Out on the deck, he breathes in the salt and sun, watches a pulsing sea. Three kookaburras, chests fluffed, scruffy from the rain and heat of the past few days, swoop on to the deck railing, looking for a handout. One by one, they start to laugh. Sam catches the larrikin spirit, the age-old instinct of tough people to laugh in the face of adversity. He slaps his thigh with the sheer beauty of inspiration. He turns towards the house, his backside propped against the railing, and shouts out: ‘No matter what hideous, low-life tactics they come up with, Jimmy, we're going to laugh in their dead ugly smug faces.'

Jimmy sticks his head outside: ‘We stepping forward, Sam?' he asks, clicking his heels to attention again.

‘You bet we are.'

News of the vandalising of Sam's house flies around the Island in no time. All afternoon and well into the night, people drop by with spare cushions for the sofa, bed linen, cakes and casseroles, even a bottle of tomato sauce. ‘For your sauso rolls, mate. Wouldn't want you to go without the trimmings.'

Kate rings to offer her help.

‘Nah, all good,' he tells her.

‘I'm here if you need me,' she replies. ‘Ettie, too. She sends her love.'

The magnitude of the wanton destruction fires up the community to unprecedented levels. This isn't a case of throwing a dead bird in a water supply to make a point. This isn't about dropping a spoonful of sugar in a boat's fuel tank to ram home a few basic Island rules. This isn't even calling in at dawn, uninvited and unannounced, to deliver some well chosen words to a lawless newcomer ignorant of the value of a fully functioning community. This is major property damage that goes way beyond cleaning out a water tank or replacing a (usually) clapped-out outboard, and it strikes at the heart of everything Cook's Basin holds sacred. A roar goes up for payback.

 

 

Chapter Eleven

The following day, just as the sun dips towards the hills to cast long pink silken streaks across the water, Siobhan O'Shaughnessy knocks on Sam's back door. Without waiting for an answer, she marches in. Red hair fizzing. Wearing outrage like a fashion statement. ‘Bastards,' she says, spitting out the word. She stops dead, looks around. ‘Well!' She grins. ‘No harm done then. The place has had a free and much-needed clean and update. There's always an upside, eh? I'll have a glass of wine, if you're offering. White. We have work to do.'

Sam scrabbles in the fridge. ‘Donations didn't run to wine,' he explains, handing Siobhan a beer and settling on a moss-green pillow embroidered with winking sequins that instantly bite him on the bum. But he can't bring himself to toss it aside. ‘What's on your mind?'

‘Well, boyo, you've just been elected spokesperson in the campaign to Save Garrawi. What an honour, eh?'

Smelling a rat, Sam ditches the carnivorous cushion and faces Siobhan full on. ‘Elected? You're kidding, right?'

‘Unanimous.' She crosses her fingers and hums a little tune, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. ‘All those do-gooders,' she adds, ‘they missed the cobwebs.'

During the next two hours, Siobhan O'Shaughnessy grills, grooms, thrills and threatens Sam Scully until his head begins to throb.

‘Never lie, never overstate your case. Make sure all your facts are absolutely correct. If you don't know the answer to a question, admit it. Never, ever make up a story. One wrong move and you'll be dismissed as a dangerous crackpot working with a personal agenda and you can kiss goodbye to any media support.'

Seeing him begin to wilt, she drags a kitchen stool into the sitting room and orders him to take up residence on it. ‘Concentrate, you eejit. Pinch yourself hard if you're flagging. Don't let the bastards see you flounder. They'll hone in on your weak spots like sharks smelling blood.'

‘I'm the wrong man . . .'

‘Oh fiddlesticks. Try to remember where god inserted your backbone and let's get on with it.'

She fires a barrage of questions at him, coming from a negative angle. Surely, more people deserve access to this little paradise you've had to yourselves for so long? What about the pressure of population – land has to open up, doesn't it? What's one less park when there are so many? What about the Square, isn't that enough public space for a relatively small community? Aren't you being greedy?

He stalls and stutters, mumbles his way around the issue, looking embarrassed and ill at ease. The bombardment begins again and goes on relentlessly until she tells him he is ready.

‘Your main asset is your passion and belief in the cause,' she says. ‘But never get so caught up in emotion you lose your train of thought. You can't afford to relax for a second. If you feel uncertain, fall back on the stock answers we've prepared and rehearsed. They're factual, understandable and quotable even if they lack a colourful turn of phrase.'

‘Not sure I can make this work, Siobhan,' he says, still hopeful he might get a reprieve.

‘Well, to be honest, you're my last chance. Everyone else turned down the gig. Now listen up while I tell you about a man called Delaney.'

‘Who's Delaney? Not a leg breaker, I hope.' He gets them both another beer, sensing the night has a long way to go.

After Siobhan goes home, to clear his head, settle his nerves, Sam walks around the Island. The darkness is almost disorienting but he uses the lights from windows to get his bearings. Phoebe's house. John's studio (probably working late on Garrawi business). Glenn's back porch light left on because he's a man who prefers to pee on his lemon tree when he gets up in the dead of night and he'd rather not step on a snake in the process. The night smells sharp, like iodine. Another bucket load of rain is on the way and the Island's not even close to dried out from the last week's deluges. As if to prove the point, Sam's foot comes down hard in a puddle. His boots, socks, feet are soaking but he feels full of purpose, a man on a mission who knows his value within a close community. Doing good.

‘You got a job for me, Sam?'

Sam jumps. ‘Jeez, Jimmy, you just about gave me a heart attack. How many times do I have to tell you not to creep up on a bloke? Gawd, I nearly decked you, mate. Reflex action. Nothing personal.'

‘Nah, ya wouldna, would ya?' The kid slips in step alongside Sam, swaggering a little, Longfellow at his heels. His banana-yellow shirt is a beacon, his young eyes spy out the puddles. Sam follows his lead religiously.

‘What are you doing out and about? Storm's coming. You should be tucked up at home with your mum.' He points at Longfellow hovering at Jimmy's heels. ‘The mutt should be in bed too. He's still a pup and needs his beauty sleep.'

‘Storm's a long way off. Ya have to count. That's how ya tell. Ya hear the thunder first, then ya count. If ya make it to ten it's all good. If ya barely make it to one, it's time to skedaddle. And me pup's been snoozin' all day. Me mum said to take him out for a poo and a piddle before bed. He's done the piddle but . . .'

Sam breaks in. ‘Yeah, well we're on for an afternoon pick-up at Cargo for Kingfish Bay. I told you all this earlier, Jimmy. You've got to focus, mate.'

‘Yeah, Sam. I'm there. Good as gold. I mean me other job.'

Sam struggles to catch on. ‘You talking about the worm farm, Jimmy?'

‘Nah, Sam. The park. What's me job to save the park?' The kid stops suddenly and turns full on towards Sam, his earnest face struck white by a ribbon of light streaming across the track from a nearby house. His feet uncharacteristically anchored to the ground.

‘Ah. Gotcha. The thing is, mate, we're taking it one day at a time. I'll tell you when you're needed, promise you.'

Jimmy reaches out a scrawny arm to grab hold of Sam's shoulder. ‘I need a real job, don't I? I'm gunna have kids one day and I wanna tell 'em about me part in the battle. We're makin' history here, Sam. Everyone says so.'

‘That's what they're saying, eh? S'pose we are, in a way. Never been a fight like this in Cook's Basin before.'

‘So what's me job, Sam? I can do anything, ya know. Ya just gotta tell me what.'

Sam tilts his head gravely. ‘You're coming through loud and clear and it's a noble offer, cuts through to my heart. Truly. Give me a couple of days, though, because all new action has to be approved by the committee. You square with that?'

‘Sure, Sam. A coupla days. No worries. You wanna hear me idea, but?'

‘Go for it!' Sam is barely concentrating. He's reached his house and he's impatient to call it a night before rain buckets down.

‘How about I rub out the pink marks on the rocks and trees in the park. I gotta tell ya, they look weird. Pink's no good in a park. Stands out like dog's balls.'

It takes a couple of seconds for the information to sink in then Sam half closes his eyes, thinking. ‘Run that past me again, mate?'

‘The pink paint on the rocks, Sam. Some fella went round with a spray can of paint today and made a mess. Gotta tell ya, it looks bloomin' awful. Even though me mum says . . .'

‘Yeah, yeah, a fresh coat of paint is as good as a holiday. Leave it with me, Jimmy. By the way, you've just been elected to the committee. You've got to be on time for the meetings and all, though. You up to it?'

‘I can do anything, Sam. How many times I gotta tell ya that? There he goes, good boy Longfella, he's havin' a poo . . .'

‘Keep your eyes peeled, Jimmy. Anything odd, you report back. Got it?'

‘We steppin' forward, Sam?'

‘No, mate, we're rocketing forward.'

War is officially declared, hand-to-hand combat begun. The Island artists slog through stinking hot and humid nights to create logos, choose powerful typefaces and prepare exquisite artwork showing the fragile flora and fauna of Garrawi. ‘It's too hot to sleep anyway.' They shrug, as though it's no big deal.

Huge posters decrying the desecration of Garrawi appear one morning out of John's print works, and are plastered from one end of Cook's Basin to the other, as well as all over the city. Collector quality, everyone agrees, barely holding back from ripping them down and racing off to get them framed for their walls at home. Pamphlets (outlining the background and history of the park) are widely distributed. Emotive letters (Jenny, Judy and Jane) begging for support are sent to environmental organisations around the world including a special hand-written note on quality paper, to the Duke of Edinburgh and Queen Elizabeth. Monarchists and republicans unite briefly in a common cause for the common good.

Next, every heritage and conservation authority is contacted (Jenny, Judy and Jane), as well as the Greens, Liberal and Labor Parties, National Parks and Wildlife, even the Surfrider Foundation. ‘We want them all on our side,' Jenny explains. ‘So if anyone calls us a bunch of NIMBY silvertails living in waterfront properties, we can tell them we're supported by hundreds of groups across the country.'

The list of impressively credentialled supporters grows longer and longer. Even the National Trust comes on board and agrees to declare Garrawi worthy of conservation — a big win when you consider the Trust doesn't have much money and there'll be even less if it upsets potential donors. The letter campaign continues until every single heritage and conservation authority comes onside. The consensus is unanimous. Garrawi belongs to the people and should be preserved forever. Only the local mayor, Evan Robotham, a confirmed believer in the far-reaching power of the current state government, refuses to support the cause. Hiding behind a blah-blah press release citing the council's mandate is to remain neutral, he ducks and weaves like a professional pickpocket in a holiday crowd.

The promised papier-mâché white cockatoo, about four metres long and two and a half metres tall, is fitted with a fully fanned bright yellow crest and takes up residence in the Square. Passers-by are told to pat it for luck. The Misses Skettle, armed with flyers, set up camp day after day, sweetly cajoling signatures against the development even from tourists who don't speak English. At precisely ten-thirty, they break out morning tea from their picnic basket. Lunch is on the dot of one o'clock. Afternoon tea is at three-thirty.

‘You can set your clock by them,' says Kate, standing in the doorway of the café, watching them set out plates, napkins, sandwiches and a Thermos. She puzzles out loud over the old ladies' refusal of free refreshment; they don't even accept a cappuccino.

‘They lace their coffee with whisky,' Ettie explains. ‘They don't think anyone knows but we all do. The smell of booze that steams out of the Thermos when the top comes off is enough to knock you out.'

‘Ah.' Kate understands at last. ‘I was worried they didn't like our food.'

Every time it rains, they rush around with a blue tarpaulin, anchor the corners with rocks. Papier-mâché, they explain, is particularly vulnerable to moisture.

Soon, the whole community is revved and ready for a full-on stoush. Excitement is tangible. Defeat is unthinkable. Ettie and Kate are planning a massive black-tie fundraiser to be held in the park. Every woman in the area is combing op shops for glamour gear to wear on the night. There's also been a run on white T-shirts printed with a black bow tie.

Deciding he doesn't have time to wait around for another committee meeting which may or may not end in the kind of action he is itching for, and without discussing his plans with a soul, Sam decides to call on Theo Mulvaney, State Minister for Housing and Development and first cousin to Eric Lowdon. He reassures himself that technically, he's not breaking his word to Kate since he never – technically – gave it. On the way, he detours to get his taillights replaced.

At Parliament House, he expects to get the run-around but all it takes to get him through the door is a single phone call from the guardhouse to an office located somewhere deep in the hallowed halls of power and the mention of Lowdon and Garrawi Park in a manner that – he later admits – is obscure and could be construed as supporting the plan. Without a single hold-up, he is magically waved through security (emptying pockets that reveal two shackles, eight screws, one nut – no bolt – and a ratty wallet that spills its guts the moment he withdraws it) and directed to the plush but deeply masculine inner sanctum of the minister. Leather sofas, mahogany table with lion's-claw feet and four serious chairs, a desk the size of a small dance floor. A barrage of clashing smells – furniture polish, flowery air fresheners, a lemon-scented aftershave – make his eyes water. Were he blindfolded, he couldn't say whether he'd stepped into a toffy club or a toffy dunny. He catches a whiff of something more primal. His mind flashes back to Fast Freddy's tabloid and its recent dissection of questionable executive expense-account use within a branch of a top-ranking union. And we're paying their wages, he thinks. Whatever happened to the good old days when politicians understood they worked for the taxpayers? Not the other way around.