The Tower (21 page)

He pulled over to the side of the road, making sure there were no people around. Earlier, he'd ended up in a cul-de-sac, no warning, no No Through Road sign—he'd just come to the end of the road and had to reverse, do a three-point turn. Two guys standing around the open bonnet of a red car had stared at him. They were wearing T-shirts, one had just a blue singlet on. And serious tatts, not small and stylish but running down their big arms like skin diseases. One man had started to walk towards Randall and as he came closer you could see what he was holding was not some tool but a bottle of beer. The fellow had moved slowly, his face expressionless. Randall had completed his turn and got out of there before the need for conversation arose.

Jumping at shadows, he thought, now leaning back against the headrest but keeping his eyes open, flicking his gaze at the rear view every few seconds. A big white car came slowly down the street and the pain flooded into Randall's stomach as it went past, his hand up to the side of his face. He'd seen the car before, when he was coming through Mount Druitt. Or a car like it. Big white Commodore, the car of officialdom. An area like this it could be Social Security, Housing, Health. A parole officer, council engineer, truancy. Big white cars keeping welfare-world in line. The car kept moving, turned the corner up ahead, and disappeared, unlike the pain in his gut.

‘I've had enough,' he murmured, and pulled out his mobile and a piece of paper.

He called the doctor whose name Angela had got for him, some GP with an office near The Tower. They couldn't see him that afternoon, so he made an appointment for tomorrow. At least, he thought it was tomorrow, realised when they'd hung up he just had a date but didn't know what today was. Should write it down somewhere. He took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow while he examined the street directory. Kept thinking about Henry Wu.

In Shanghai, Randall had fucked up big-time. On an evening when he should have been supervising a concrete pour on level forty-nine, he'd been at home humping a Chinese girl he'd met a few days before. Most Chinese women he didn't find all that attractive, flat faces and flat chests; they probably didn't find him attractive either. Live and let live. But this one was from some ethnic group to the west, and she was something else. As if she wasn't meant to be here but defiant with it, holding herself high and back. He could still remember her vividly.

But in China it wasn't easy and you had to take opportunities when they occurred. Which is why he'd been screwing the woman during working hours when back at the site the big hose up on forty-nine had wriggled its way loose and thrashed around for a bit until they got the flow stopped. By then three men had been knocked into space. Jesus. It was a typical Chinese situation, of course. Randall had checked the metal bracket securing the pipe mid-afternoon and everything had been fine, but someone had stolen it and replaced it with old rope between then and when the liquid concrete started to come thrusting up the pipe from way below. A long pipe, lots of pressure. Lucky it had only been three men.

Warton had paid their families well, ten years' wages each. There were plenty of workers in China would have lined up for a deal like that. But still. The cops had got onto it quickly, come banging on the door of his place while the girl was still there, surprisingly rude. They were rude, the Chinese, generally in small ways. Peripheral rudeness. But up front they tended towards a more neutral position, and the ones Randall dealt with had mostly mastered the art of hiding their dislike of Westerners. Like, build us a skyscraper and here's your money, thank you very much. See you in a few years in Vancouver. Or Paris. Or Sydney. But these cops had been something else.

Henry had saved him. Turned up in person at the police station two hours later, two long hours, and arranged his release. He was Morning Star's construction manager for Asia back then, Hong Kong-based but fortunately in Shanghai that afternoon. Henry got him out, no charges, and Randall at first thought this is the way it goes—a crazy town, shit happens, no one wants it to become a place Westerners won't want to work. Not yet, anyway. So life returns to how it was.

But it hadn't. His boss at Warton, a beefy Aussie named Jensen, had driven him to the airport the next day and told him his time in China was finished. Jensen had always seemed a decent guy, liked a drink, but straight, just wanted to do his job.

‘I can take it from here,' Randall had said as they approached the chaos of Shanghai International.

Jensen swung towards the car park and told Randall he had to see him onto the plane. That was the deal. Randall felt mildly flattered to be the subject of a deal. Important Western engineer handled delicately. Nice story to have on the CV. The unofficial one, not the one he'd have to drag out now in the search for another job.

‘I've always wanted to ask you,' Jensen said. ‘Randall's not an Irish name, is it?'

He said it as if he were really interested, as if the question had been bothering him. So Randall told him the tale, half shouting as they made their way through the crowded airport building, him not knowing which airline it was, not even which flight they were dumping him on. He told Jensen how his mother had been working as a chambermaid in London in the 1970s, innocent Irish girl seduced by a local tradesman doing some work in the hotel. Familiar story. But then, a surprise happy ending: Ben had married Kaitlin and returned with her to Dungarvan, fitted in quite well. He was a drinker for a start. Said he'd never felt at home anywhere until he moved to Ireland.

‘Here we are,' Jensen said.

A queue in front of the United counter.

‘Where am I going?'

Jensen put down Randall's second bag and looked at him, moment of truth. Now he'd learn they weren't going to pay him anything, he'd never work in this industry again, rhubarb rhubarb.

‘If I had my way,' Jensen began, and Randall felt a little kick of hope somewhere in his chest.

If I had my way
was good. The moment you said that you were admitting you'd lost. Jensen explained that if he had his way, Warton would sack Randall because he'd just killed three men. Even though there were aspects of the accident that made him uneasy, Randall was still to blame. This was sounding good, Randall thought, wishing he could fast-forward Jensen. They had reached the counter.

‘But Henry Wu thinks you deserve a second chance,' Jensen said.

Randall blinked. The guy who'd got him out of the police station yesterday? Couldn't say he knew Wu, just one of a dozen Morning Star executives he'd met over the past year.

‘Where we go today?' said the woman behind the counter.

‘Houston,' said Jensen, pulling out Randall's passport and putting it on the counter. Randall wondered how they'd got him into the States so quickly, but he guessed there were ways and means.

‘You'll be met,' Jensen said, presenting Randall with a sealed envelope. ‘The Southern Building, a nice project. Things could still work out for you in Warton, mate. You just need to sort out your priorities.'

‘Thank you,' said Randall, not quite believing this. Houston. Globalisation: don't you just fucking love it.

Jensen put out his hand and Randall took it, tightening his grip.

‘I won't tell anyone what happened yesterday,' Jensen said. ‘I believe in second chances. Read the Bible, mate, join a local church over there. With His help, you can get through this.'

There had been tears in Randall's eyes. Sweet Jesus, it's never over till it's over.

He put the car into gear and drove off, seeing from a sign that he was in Dharruk and working his way through the short roads over to Hebersham, looking for street names: Mackellar, that would take him into Richardson and Timms. The roads were short and winding, redolent of a discredited planning fashion Randall had seen around the world, the Radburn model. He had an interest in residential building; it had started with observing his father.

After moving to Ireland, Ben had set up as a builder in the early eighties. It had been touch and go for a long time—the drinking didn't help—but at some stage he'd accepted some acres outside Cork as payment for a debt. Real wasteland it had been, Randall could still remember his parents arguing over it. But ten years later, Ireland was booming and the land was worth fifty times what it had been. Ben had somehow fallen in with an honest partner and they'd developed it themselves, turned it into a light industrial estate. Most of Ben's development projects since then had ended in one form of disappointment or other, but the estate kept pumping out rental income, so none of that really mattered. He drove a Jaguar and was respected in the rolling hills south of Dublin as a cunning businessman, at least by those who didn't know any better. Which was most people.

You can be lucky.

It was Randall's ambition to get into housing himself one day. His father had given him the bug, and also many lessons in how not to do things. For years Randall had resented this, resented having a dad who was such a flop, even if most of the world didn't know it. But lately he'd seen that you can learn from other people's failures as well as their successes. All those master classes on his father's sites during university holidays.

He approached a T-intersection and saw a white car shoot across the top of the street. He couldn't tell if it was the same one as before. He slowed down, glad he'd gone to the trouble of getting a hire car just in case he was followed. Not that he had reason to think he would be.

Henry had turned up in Houston just once, for a very pleasant night out. It was a bit tense to begin with; Henry had put some money into an oil exploration project and been out there that day, turned out it was a dry hole. They'd had a few drinks and Randall had ended up telling Henry of his dreams—you have to talk about something. To his surprise, the man had been interested and they'd talked for hours. The opportunities around Houston, lots of raw lumber in the air. Randall had a plan, reckoned to start with some stick-built stuff, get into bricks down the line.

‘I'm going to be pretty liquid in a year's time,' Henry said, ‘there'll be a few million looking for a home. I like the idea of Texas.' He gave Randall to understand this was his own money, nothing to do with Morning Star. Made Randall sit up. Henry Wu, serious player.

‘But first,' Henry said, ‘I'd appreciate it if you'd help me out with an exciting project. You know Sydney?' Sure I know Sydney. ‘Well, that's where it is.' Randall had thought, fuck Sydney. Not part of the plan.

‘I'd have to ask Warton,' he said.

‘Leave Warton to me,' Henry said. ‘You want another bottle of this chablis? It's very good.'

Randall realised he'd drunk most of the bottle himself, and said no. Something told him even then that with Henry he had to be on his best behaviour.

And yet. And yet. There'd been talk that night, about the woman he'd been with that time in Shanghai, when the accident had happened. Henry had wanted to know about the woman. It had emerged that Henry liked to talk about these things. That was how he'd got into providing him with the DVDs, later, when he came to Sydney.

Not long after he'd settled here, Henry had taken him to his club. Chinese place, amazingly pretty waitresses in skimpy clothes, but nothing sordid. Lot of class, lot of money. They'd talked about sex some more, and things had developed from that. Henry had asked him to do a favour or two in other matters as well, irregular stuff but no danger to himself, interesting to see the guy was into a lot of action. A blind eye to some people coming and going at The Tower, copies of certain invoices. Henry had expressed his gratitude and asked if there was anything he could do for Randall, who said Sydney was fine but he was a bit bored, didn't feel he'd really
connected
yet.

‘Connected?' Henry said, asking Randall to explain. And Randall had been so bored that he had.

Two days later, this Chinese guy turns up at Randall's office with a small and beautifully wrapped box, size of a cigarette pack, present from a friend. Inside, coke. Lovely stuff, lots of it. And on a scrap of paper, a phone number. He'd called, thinking it was Henry's mobile, he should say thanks, astonished that the guy knew how to get this sort of stuff and was prepared to share with Randall. The phone was answered by someone with an accent, said his name was Gregor and he'd been asked to take care of Randall, give him good gear for a good price. After that, Sydney had started to make sense for Randall. There were a lot of girls out there who liked getting high. Knew how to express their appreciation.

Pushing Henry from his mind, he turned the car down Richardson and into Timms, slowed as he looked for numbers. There were some cars parked along the way and he could see a yard with grass high as a country field in a rainy season. Next to it an unloved brick house, rags hanging in the windows, one of those dumb peaks on the roof. It was the one, the number Jamal had given him. Slow the car down and park, it's show time. Save the man from the wrath of Henry Wu. I'm a good man at heart and I want my conscience to be clean.

Except there were bikes. Big, serious American machines. Oh shit. Randall's heart was pounding as he cruised past, picking up speed and counting the motorcycles in the carport up by the house. There were at least four, maybe more, but the carport was obscured now by a big black Ford parked outside. Tinted windows and big wheels and mufflers, a real cop-magnet. Say what you like about the criminal classes, at least they're predictable.

He hung right into the crescent and drove away. Walking into a house of bikies was not part of the agenda. They might trounce him, take the car. He'd read that bikie gangs had resources; they might note the number of the rental vehicle, track him down later.

He was shaking, feeling queasy as he deep-breathed the aroma of the air freshener inside the car. Just keep the capsule going, Sean. Keep it steady and back on track to the city, you've done your best, but Asaad has his tough mates to protect him from Henry Wu. They deserve each other. Get back to the rental precinct in Kings Cross, back into the Audi, nice clean smell of leather. Forget all this.