Scorpio's Lot (92 page)

Contrary to Indigo’s earlier
explanation, this little demonstration was devoid of any decontamination
procedure. But he was not concerned with that. The Traffik supremo had
succeeded in eliminating his sworn nemesis. The Keeper’s existence was now
erased. He had been struck off the list, so to speak. Focus would now turn to
the capture and destruction of the Piedpiper and when he was also executed the
ledger would then be square.

~ * ~

or
goodness sake, Hamish, would you get a move on!’ I insisted.

‘Sorry, Tom, I slept in. Shouldn’t
be long.’

‘Very well, I’ll see you in ten
minutes,’ I said and then hung up the phone.

Today a visit to the shire
offices was in order to possibly learn more about the site affectionately known
as the central star well. It was hoped that the Lands Department or their
appointed sub-contractor could explain why one of the traffic lights was submerged
to such an extent. On this particular morning I was in a restless mood, anxious
for an answer and impatient for Hamish to get his act together. Finally, with
the arrival of my Irish sidekick we set course for Williams Street.

Entering the administration
building the reception area was the height of activity. Numerous people were
gathered in their various queues waiting for their particular enquiry to be
addressed. Hamish groaned at the mere sight of so many.

A long U-shaped counter
encompassed the large room where multiple overhead signage served to direct the
general public. I browsed the choice for the appropriate area. Water,
Engineering, Environment, Rates, Building Permits, Lands ... ah ... Lands
Department, that should serve us nicely and very few people in the queue. A
rather distant and somewhat subdued-looking fellow was serving a young couple
in front of us. His expression almost bordered on boredom. He spoke quietly and
only when necessary, his eyes appearing above the spectacles at all times.
Watching and waiting, I couldn’t help but think this chap was obviously not in
line when personality was handed out.

Taking three steps forward it was
now our turn to be served by Mr Glum. He looked at us with his piercing, steely
eyes complete with a protruding bottom lip and then yawned to complement the
welcome.

‘Can I help you?’ he commenced
with a further yawn.

‘Good morning, lovely day, isn’t
it?’ I purposely responded to encourage some life out of the old bugger.

‘For some of us it is, but I’ll
be stuck in here all day.’

‘That’s a shame,’ I replied,
nudging Hamish in the side to stop his antagonising noises. I continued. ‘We
need some assistance please.’

‘In what way?’

‘It’s regarding the traffic
lights on the corner of Pitt and Williams Street.’

‘Oh, what, have they
malfunctioned again?’

‘No, nothing like that. But one
of the light poles has been erected considerably lower than the other and we
were curious as to the reason why.’

‘Perhaps a shorter pole was
inserted,’ he sarcastically answered and I swear there was a slight twinkle in
his eye as he laughed inwardly at his own satirical humour.

‘I doubt it. The variance is
substantial, possibly upwards of a metre and half.’

‘Which set of traffic lights are
you referring to?’ he asked.

‘The right one on the north side
of Pitt Street.’

‘If you’re facing north, I
presume,’ he persisted in his pedantic way.

‘Yes. The ground is level so why
the difference?’

Why would you need to know this?’
he queried with a puzzled look.

It was Hamish who responded to Mr
Glum. ‘We belong to a city club of traffic light watchers who travel to
numerous sites. We are a voluntary surveillance team that ensures all is
working well and we report back any anomalies.’

I daren’t look at Hamish in fear
of laughing.

‘How strange. Most people curse
the damn things.’

‘Not us, we have a passion,’
added Hamish in a serious tone.

I began to feel the pain in my
stomach muscles churning away from holding back the laughter. This guy was both
grim and gullible.

‘I’ve never heard of such a
group,’ declared Mr Glum.

‘That’s understandable because we
generally concentrate on the city sites most of the time,’ stated Hamish.

‘So can you help us?’ I cut in to
get back to the subject in question.

‘Just one moment while I check on
my computer,’ he offered and commenced tapping away as if playing a piano. In
his meticulous and methodical way he browsed through a number of site
addresses, stopping occasionally to ponder and then to recommence his search.
Following what seemed to be around eight attempts to extract some relevant
information, he paused and looked up above his spectacles.

‘Interesting. This particular
site has a history of rework and always pertaining to the same problem.’

‘Which is?’ I asked impatiently.

‘Unstable ground appears to be
the culprit. On one occasion, following a torrential downpour, the tarred road
partially gave way beneath the traffic light. It sunk nearly two metres,’ he
volunteered.

‘When did this happen?’
questioned Hamish.

‘According to this report,
October 1988.’

‘Anything more recent?’

‘Yes, in April 2001 there was a
recurring problem, with rain again blamed for a further depression. It’s rather
puzzling as to why this erosion repeats itself.’ He frowned, scratching his
head as if seeking for the evasive answer.

‘Who carried out the work on that
occasion?’ I queried.

‘The shire sub-contracted the
work to Fletcher and Haines, a local affiliate for the Board of Works. I
suggest you have a word with them. They may be able to provide more details on
the work carried out.’

‘Yes, I’m aware of Fletcher and
Haines. They’re situated on Anderson Street.’

‘Correct, I believe them to be
your best source.’

‘Just out of curiosity, what was
at this site before the installation of traffic lights?’ I asked.

‘Prior to 1986 there was nothing
other than the road itself. The intersection back in those days was broader as
a result of a narrower footpath.’

‘Well, thank you for your time,’
I concluded, believing our discussion had exhausted its limits.

‘Yeah, thanks, I’ve had an
exciting time,’ added Hamish to the raised expression of the public servant.

Departing the office building I
gave Hamish a clout across head for nearly ruining our session with Mr Glum.

The one-minute car trip to
Fletcher and Haines brought us to a yard which appeared in total disarray.
Earthmoving equipment of practically every description stood in no particular
allocated area. Disused parts and tools of the trade were left scattered around
looking a bit worse for wear. The place was a bloody mess.

It was agreed that Hamish would
do the talking, making out he was from the Shire’s Lands Department. I couldn’t
uphold the role, given my local identity, whereas Hamish was basically an
unknown in Pedley. I made it quite clear to my Irish friend that I wouldn’t
tolerate a further performance of some traffic light surveillance team doing
their rounds. Besides, if the state of this yard was any guide, it was quite
possible some rough nut would kick us off the property.

A large tin shed that stood to
one side was in need of a lick of paint. The signage above had probably once
served with reasonable pride, but sadly through neglect the letters F and S
were now missing from Fletcher and Haines. Having seen our arrival, a man of
about forty years decked out in blue overalls stepped forth from the shed.

‘G’day mate, can I help ya?’

Following introductions, Hamish
proceeded to explain the reason behind our visit. At first the excavator, who
called himself Luke, appeared wary of our business. It was a tricky situation.
We needed to sound convincing without divulging the real reason behind our
motive. As the explanation unfolded, he appeared intrigued with our story,
which Hamish made more convincing by fabricating his make-believe role. Luke
started nodding in agreement, as if anticipating where the story was heading. I
was impressed with Hamish’s powers of persuasion.

‘Yeah, I remember that job. The
bloody ground had some air pockets and we had to bring in some special
equipment to compress a solid base. The problem was caused by heavy rain, if I
remember correctly,’ stated Luke.

‘Our records indicate this
happened a few years ago,’ said Hamish.

‘That sounds about right. Billy
and me did that job. We had to bring in more fill and the tar we laid had
double the required thickness. It was weird, that piece of ground.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Well, despite all the filling
and compacting we did, somehow Billy and me sensed we could’ve used more. Fill
and press, fill and press, there seemed to be no end to it. It was as if some
giant hole loomed below the surface.’

‘Tell me, were both traffic
lights on that side of Pitt Street erected at the same height?’ questioned
Hamish.

‘Shit, yeah. We’d get our arses
kicked if they weren’t. There’s a regulated minimum height, particularly for
level ground. Something to do with driver’s vision, they tell us.’

‘Do you realise that one traffic
light has sunk more than a metre in five years?’ asked Hamish.

‘No shit! I travel through that
bloody intersection every day and it’s never occurred to me,’ he confessed.

‘What do you make of all this,
Luke?’ I intervened.

‘Like I said, the only logical
answer is some bloody big hole deep below the surface. I mean, what else could
cause that to happen?’

‘You’re probably right, I can’t
think of another reason,’ I agreed.

‘I suppose you’ll be askin’ us to
fix it again.’

‘More than likely, but it will
initially warrant further investigation,’ responded Hamish and then added, ‘Thanks
for your time, Luke, we’ll be in touch.’

Travelling back to the caravan
park, I felt a sense of victory. Our session at both the shire offices and
Fletcher and Haines had proven fruitful. There was no mistaking we had unveiled
the exact location to the central star well. Our elusive point four was no longer
unaccountable. With assistance from Hamish, I was now anxious to place the star
template on the map to see where this circled line would lead through. My one
disappointment, however, was the absence of Arthur in not sharing the triumph.