The Butcherbird (11 page)

He felt a hand on his elbow and the voice of Godfrey Kemp say quietly, ‘Come on, Jack, Mr Stimson has given us his opinion, and it’s good advice so—’ But before the sentence was finished the gravelly voice broke in.

‘Yes, it’s good advice, Mr Beaumont. However—’ He paused. Godfrey Kemp dropped his hand from Jack’s arm in surprise. Never, in twenty-five years of briefing Hedley Stimson, had he heard a ‘however’ after the ‘therefore’.

‘However, Mr Beaumont, the advice I’ve given you is the best advice anyone could give you. It’s not necessarily my opinion about what is the “right” course of action morally, legally or from any other point of view. It’s not necessarily what one of the heroes in those novels you’ve been gazing at so intently would do. But this is not a story we’re discussing, Mr Beaumont. We are discussing your life, and whether you’ll be able to enjoy it with some degree of normality or whether you’ll be chewed up in a legal mincing machine. Do I make myself clear?’

Jack looked at the book he was holding in his hand. ‘This is one of my favourite novels.’

Hedley Stimson smiled at the battered old paperback. ‘Mine also, Mr Beaumont. When I find the human condition slightly repulsive, I read it quietly with a strong cup of tea.’

Jack was still standing in front of the desk, legs slightly apart, challenging something—he wasn’t quite sure what. ‘Then what is your view? Are there laws being broken here? Can people be damaged? Are there corrupt persons at work who should be brought to justice? How do I fight this? How do I look at myself in the mirror if I crawl away?’

The face seemed to be hewn from stone, so fixed was the gaze directed at Jack. ‘Sit down, Mr Beaumont.’ Slowly he eased the chair back slightly from the desk. ‘They’ll chew you up, son. Do you understand that? Chew you up, spit you out; win or lose, your life will never be the same again. Do you see that?’

‘I see part of it.’ Jack’s shoulders were hunched forward with concentration.

The minutes ticked away. Gradually the enormous hands rose from the desk and began to conduct words in the air. ‘In my opinion there are likely criminal and civil proceedings of a serious nature which might result from substantiation of the concerns you have outlined to me. These include breaches of the Corporations Act in respect of the conduct of directors, failure to disclose conflicts of interests, possible falsification of accounts by management condoned by the auditors, possible fraud charges arising from the conduct of the chief financial officer in respect of documents filed with the Australian Prudential Regulation Authority and the Australian Securities and Investments Commission, as well as the Australian Stock Exchange. There are also probable causes of action for shareholders arising from these misleading documents, not to mention other potential actions under Section 52 of the Trade Practices Act. These are merely my preliminary views.’

Jack didn’t look away or shuffle in the chair. At last he asked very quietly, ‘Then how do I fight?’

Hedley Stimson turned to his colleague. ‘Mr Kemp, I know you have a meeting. Please feel free to leave. Mr Beaumont and I have concluded our conference and are merely chatting to no great point.’

Godfrey Kemp departed, surprised and confused. He’d never left a client alone with Hedley Stimson before, or indeed any other barrister. It was bad practice not to have a witness to a discussion in chambers.

‘So you admire the hero in that book, do you? Well, Mr Beaumont, no doubt you’d like to fight injustice in the courts and emerge victorious, having protected the interests of all the widows and orphans who live in the humble dwellings insured by your large but probably unscrupulous company, run by a gang of thieves but presented to the world with your own brand of polished salesmanship. Thus you are established as a man of true substance and ethics by these heroic actions and spend the rest of your life smiling admiringly at your burnished image in as many mirrors as you can find. Is that your idea?’

‘Something like that, but just the one mirror will do.’ The old lawyer chuckled quietly at Jack’s response. ‘Have you ever been in a war, son?’

‘No. I’m one of the lucky ones who’s never held a rifle except in the school cadets.’

‘They’re not good, the little I know of them. I was in Korea, which was no picnic, but my father was killed at Gallipoli. God knows what that was like. This might be your Gallipoli. Why would you want to bring that on yourself?’

‘I didn’t bring it on myself. I just happened to be there. But I can’t walk away and turn my back on it, can I?’

‘Thousands would. And do.’ There was silence again. The eyes stayed fixed on Jack, but no longer with the searching stare. ‘I’ve waited a long time to meet you, son, a very long time.’

He stood and walked to the window, looking down into Phillip Street, where all the other lawyers and their clients were scurrying off to sue or be sued. ‘If you want to fight, you’ll need troops. Not just lawyers, they’re easy. Analysts, strategists, actuarial advice, communications advice—God knows what. And money, lots of money.’

‘I can get all that.’ Jack was still holding the book in both hands. He put it on the desk. ‘But will you help me?’

The hand that reached forward seemed larger than the book.

‘You realise the point of To Kill a Mockingbird is that sometimes it can be right to remain silent?’ Jack said nothing. ‘But not this time, I hear you say?’

The book was placed carefully on the desk and the old lawyer sat, just as carefully, as he always did when advice was about to be despatched.

‘Very well. We won’t meet here again. I’ll write an opinion confirming my initial advice to you not to proceed. Somehow these matters seep through the walls and become known. You will appear to follow my advice. We don’t want our opponents marshalling their resources until we’re ready to fire the first shot. You’ll get your team together and report to me using only this phone number.’ He took a card from the holder on the desk and wrote on the back of it. ‘You’re not to communicate with Mr Kemp again except to inform him that you have decided not to proceed with the matter. I trust Kemp more than anyone I know, other than my wife, but his walls are also porous. When we meet we’ll meet only at my residence, and in the manner I instruct. Is this clear? Do you begin to understand the nature of your folly?’

Jack spoke immediately. ‘Yes. I’ll call within the week.’ Hedley Stimson walked with him to the door, opened it and said in a slightly raised voice, ‘Goodbye, Mr Beaumont. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more encouraging advice—but best wishes in any event.’

There had never been a meeting of the group before for any reason other than for lunch. They were a club with no name, no rules, no aims, and their only premises were the wooden-floored rooms in the restaurant at Bondi. This was Monday and the restaurant was closed, yet they sat at the long table looking down on the distant surfers sliding and dipping and cutting back across the face of the breaking waves. Today there were no rich smells of garlic and grilling meat or pungent aromas of chilli and shellfish drifting from the kitchen. The room smelled musty and dead. All the other tables had chairs standing on them. The vases were upside down on the old carved sideboard and somehow the atmosphere was equally inverted.

The Pope sat at the end of the table and spoke in a clear, calm voice. ‘Forgive me, friends, for asking you to come. I realise it’s entirely against what we stand for—namely nothing. We’ve been the club without a cause. We meet just to meet, nothing more. But now we have a friend in great need. My question is simply this, is it appropriate for us to unite, to use our strange and disparate resources to help in these circumstances?’

The members looked around the table, unsure who would respond first. Finally Murray Ingham spoke. ‘I assume you mean Jack Beaumont since he’s the only one not here?’

‘That means nothing, he’s probably on the nest again,’ Maroubra called from the end of the table, but the resultant laughter was uncertain and muted.

The Pope smiled. ‘He may well be, Maroubra, but this time it seems to be a nest of crocodiles our friend has stumbled into. But I stress that he hasn’t asked for our help.’

Murray Ingham peered out from beneath his bushy brows.

‘Why don’t you tell us the story and we’ll see if we like the plot?’

‘I’d like to be able to do that in detail, but part of the deal would have to be that we each agree to do our part without seeing the whole picture. I’d deal with Jack and coordinate things. It’s a big ask, I know, and the prudent response would be for everyone to say no.’

Maroubra’s voice boomed out again. ‘Prudent? Now you’re challenging us, you cunning bastard. Since when has anyone in this group been prudent? There was nothing prudent about that swim a few of us did at Coogee with cartons of beer on our backs—in a ten-foot surf. Remember that? And they had the helicopters out looking for us. Thought we were goners. Remember how I came out of the water and asked some bloke in a uniform what was going on and he said, “Some mad buggers have tried to swim out to the rocks with beer on their backs.” I just said, “You’re joking,” and left him to it. Poor bastard’s probably still there looking out to sea.’ Now the laughter was genuine, almost relieved. ‘So don’t give us prudence. Tell us what you can and we’ll make the call.’

‘Thank you, gentlemen.’ The Pope took out a small notebook. ‘These are the facts I’m able to give you at this time.’

He began to read slowly and clearly. When he was finished there was a long silence. Again it was Murray Ingham who responded. ‘It’s an interesting tale, although not one I’d write. It’s got everything but sex, which is extraordinary considering the hero.’

The Judge cut in. ‘There’s considerable potential for serious legal consequences to flow from even the little that’s been said. I, for one, am ready to help—with a proviso that if proceedings are commenced in any way, I may have to withdraw for obvious reasons. I imagine one or two others would have similar potential conflicts.’

Maroubra chipped in, parodying the Judge’s slightly pompous tones. ‘I could state that while my salvage business doesn’t appear to bear directly on the issues at hand, should ethical or legal questions relating to the recovery of sunken boats or used bricks arise unexpectedly, I also may have to pull out. Otherwise I pledge my troth.’

The Pope grinned at him. ‘Thank you, as always. You might be surprised, Maroubra, but there are many reasons we could call on you. Quite a few of the contacts you have in sections of the police force and insurance investigators and so on could be very handy.’ Eyebrows were raised around the table. ‘Yes, it could get very nasty, comrades. We’d be proceeding on the basis that if anyone has a problem at any time, they just let me know. Since we don’t exist, except as individuals, there’s nothing to bind us together.’

‘Except one thing.’ It was the courtroom voice of Tom Smiley that interrupted.

‘Yes. Except one.’ The Pope looked around the table, holding the eyes of each person for a moment. ‘So. We go forward together?’ He opened the notebook again. ‘Here’s how you can help.’

Red dust disturbed by the helicopter blades drifted over the emerald Bellaranga lawn and the passengers waited for it to settle before disembarking. There were only four, and Mac stepped out from the homestead to greet them as the last figure emerged.

‘G’day, g’day. Great to see you, Max. Henry, how are you? You look ready for anything. Jason, how’s the golf? That’s the one thing we can’t do for you in the Kimberley, but a little barramundi fishing, some great tucker, some amazing rock art, a bit of rough riding—it might do the trick, eh? Ah, and here’s the boss.’

The last greeting was directed at Jack in the slightly broader Australian accent that seemed to overwhelm any veneer of polish once Mac was in the bush. He was herding them about like a kelpie, pressing them to take a cold beer from the silver tray that the housekeeper had placed on the wicker table under the poinciana trees, telling them to forget their bags, that sunset would be upon them in an hour, that they could catch it by the billabong where he, Mac, on his own, no servants, would cook dinner over an open fire and they could sit together in the blackness and hear the thump of kangaroo tails on the hard ground. He appeared almost excited and nervous to have guests in this remote place, the opposite of the calm commander of the Honey Bear. It was always like this with visitors to Bellaranga, but now there were other reasons for his edginess. They were the black thoughts that woke him in the night when the homestead was empty and the only sounds were the rustles in the dry bush from nocturnal animals and his own feet on the old, wide floorboards as he paced about from room to room. The staff slept in another building a couple of miles away on the property. He’d always liked being completely alone at night up here, ‘sleeping like a baby’—but not anymore. The black dog was upon him, with sharp teeth. He’d always sneered at people who suffered from depression for no apparent reason, who couldn’t pull themselves together and just get on with life without running off to shrinks or counsellors or social workers or other charlatans. Just get on with it. He wasn’t one of those. He just got on with it. The problem at the moment was how to get on with it. What to get on with.

There was a tangle of strings knotted up in a ball inside his head and he couldn’t see which one to pull. You had to keep them loose. That was the secret of untying knots. His father had taught him that when they went fishing together. ‘You don’t pull, son. Never tighten. Loosen, loosen. Just tweak a little here, thread a little there. But always loosen, and the knots disappear.’

The biggest knot, the one that was causing him pain in the stomach or the chest so close to the heart he wondered in the night if he was having some sort of attack, if the indestructible, invincible Big Mac was somehow vulnerable like ordinary beings, this dark cloud was the tumbling share price of HOA. When people asked him about it he just shrugged and tossed off his standard line: ‘It’s only paper money. Markets go up, markets go down. We just get on and run the company for the shareholders.’