Gone Fishing (29 page)

‘That's the point, isn't it? Who is Alex's father if it isn't Timothy Terence Martin O'Reilly?' she replies.

Sam closes his eyes. ‘Does your brother care?'

‘Of course,' she replies, looking surprised he'd even asked. ‘I told him I'd keep looking. And I will, even if it takes a lifetime.' She looks at him defiantly. ‘Can you imagine how hard it must be to have no knowledge of who you are? Where you really come from?'

‘I've never met the bloke but from what you've told me, he sounds pretty grounded. Reckon he knows who he is, and maybe, just maybe, even though everyone's intentions are pure gold, digging into stuff that Emily went to a lot of trouble to hide, might rock him right off his foundations. It's risky, Kate. If he wants to search, maybe he should go it alone.'

Kate pulls a spag bol sauce out of the freezer, and holds it up in a question. Sam gives in and nods. ‘I just can't let it go,' she says, shoving the container in the microwave, putting a pot of water on the stove to boil. ‘It's obsessive, I know. Maybe I want to prove once and for all that Emily was a monster in her own right and not one that I created out of . . . well, whatever the many and varied reasons behind some kids turning their parents into fiends.' She throws a small handful of salt into the water. The microwave pings. She tips the softened sauce into a saucepan: ‘Ettie says it's OK for defrosting, but warming pre-cooked food in the microwave is like nuking it,' she explains. ‘Slow and easy gives a better result.'

‘She'll make a chef of you yet.'

‘No. I'll always be a read-the-instructions type of woman. I don't have the instinctive flair she has.' She stirs the sauce. Throws the spaghetti into bubbling water. Steam rises and hits the ceiling where it hangs like tears. Kate opens the top of a window. Sam watches vapour twist and curl outwards into the open air.

He asks: ‘You sure there aren't any more clues in the grey box?'

Without a word, she leaves the kitchen. When she returns, she lays out all the information she has. Only half engaged, wishing he had the sense to follow his own advice and leave the subject alone, Sam searches for links, a pattern, a joining of action and result. Keeps coming back to the word suicide. It bounces loudly off the inside walls of his skull. A single tone that resonates more and more strongly. ‘Why would Emily's mother kill herself?' he asks after a while, more out of curiosity than a belief it holds a vital clue. ‘What makes someone decide that death is preferable to life?'

Kate shrugs. ‘Where do you start? Grief. Pain. Hopelessness. Or all three. But if there'd been a hint of mental illness, I'm quite sure Emily would have used it as a weapon: You're as mad as your grandmother . . .'

‘I've always thought something awful must have happened to Emily when she was very young,' he says. ‘O'Reilly's story backs me up, too. No mother, not even Emily, could hand over a baby without a backward glance unless there was something so hideous about the conception she couldn't bear to look at the child.' The sins of the fathers, he thinks again. Ah jeez. The sins of the fathers.

Sam knows he should change the subject. Knows he should stop his thoughts rocketing in the kind of directions that could lead to endless pain and anguish. He knows all this but still he says: ‘Has Alex ever considered a DNA test?'

Kate scoffs at the idea. ‘What's the point?'

‘Maybe,' he says, skirting around the hideous idea that's latched onto his brain and refuses to budge, ‘to verify that Alex is really, truly your half-brother and not a kid Emily snatched.' Dumb, he thinks, really dumb. No one snatches a kid and gets away with it. He tells himself to back-pedal fast. Get out of the hole he's digging deeper and deeper. Before he can swallow his words and in a final roll of the dice, he impulsively and foolishly opens what he knows in his gut is the real Pandora's horror box. ‘You might want to get Emily's DNA and O'Reilly's at the same time.'

‘What? Dig up her grave?'

‘I dunno,' he mumbles. ‘O'Reilly could be lying. Alex might be a fraud. Or maybe just closure.'

‘Crazy idea,' she says. Sam breathes a sigh of relief. He may be a firm believer in steering clear of fibs, but seeking out the secrets of the past when they could do more harm than good is a no-win bet.

Thoughtfully, Kate adds: ‘Maybe not so crazy. I'll talk to Alex and Timothy. See if they approve. I've still got Emily's hats. They should do. All I need is hair, don't I? Exhuming a body is going a bit too far.' She grins, to show it's a joke. Sam wants to cut out his tongue.

Jeez, he thinks, sculling his beer. Fighting an urge to jump into the water and start swimming. No good will come from all this. Ah jeez. He feels like he might suffocate if he stays a minute longer.

‘Feel a bit fluey,' he croaks, struggling to his feet, ignoring Kate's surprise. And it's the flat-out truth. He feels sick to his gut. ‘Might have to skip dinner, love. Sorry. Suddenly feel crook as a dog.'

‘You'd be better off with someone around to look after you,' she says.

‘Thanks, but when I'm this bad, all I want to do is crawl in a corner and curl up like an old dog. Sorry, love. Just hit me all of a sudden.'

Kate sees him to the dock, holding onto his arm. ‘Call me,' she says, ‘if you need anything.'

‘Of all the shocker clichés,' he says when he's on the water and safely out of earshot. ‘A freaking tragedy, that's what it is. I'm as sure of it as I am that the sun comes up every morning. The sins of the fathers. Dear god.' He has never in his life ever wanted more to be wrong.

Sam wakes in what feels like the dead of night. He switches on his bedside light and checks the clock. One am. His mobile phone pulsates. You'd call it the death-throes if you saw a person in a similar condition.
Bzzzzz
. Too late to be anything but a crank call. While he's still deciding whether or not to answer, the call rings out. He rolls over in bed, pulling the sheet up to his chin, hoping he'll be able to go back to sleep. He makes a deliberate attempt to switch his mind from Kate to Garrawi and the urgent need for a new thrust in the campaign. Aside from the art auction, future plans are a blank page.

Ring. Ring
. Enough to drive a bloke to distraction. Ah jeez, get it over with, he thinks, reaching for the phone to put it out of its misery.

‘Sam Scully.'

‘I know who you are. I called you, didn't I? You need any more money? I got a million here that's yours. Say the word and it's in the account.'

Sam sits up. Fully awake now. ‘You got a name, mate?'

‘Yeah. Max. Short for Max.' He chuckles, like he's making the joke for the first time.

‘If you don't mind me asking – and please don't think for a moment that I'm not grateful, mate, when there's no way I could even begin to measure my gratitude and the gratitude of the community – why are you doing this?'

‘Sailed past the park every weekend when I was young. Magic, it was. Places like that? They're breathing spaces. Stop people going mad when the pressure gets too much. Know what I mean?'

‘Yeah. But, mate, tell me, how can we thank you?'

‘I'm not looking for recognition, if that's what you think. Doesn't mean diddly-squat to a man as old – and rich – as me.'

‘There's got to be something –'

‘Gimme a plaque after I'm buried.' The old man's laugh turns into a coughing spasm. Sam waits it out. Max continues: ‘Just wanted to say the ad was good. Real good. Here's my number. When you need more money, call. Any time. Old people can sleep when they're dead.'

 

 

Chapter Twenty-seven

The following week, as the summer holidays are almost a forgotten era and the working year is well under way, the
Mary Kay
is ready to return to partial duty. Her resurrection, completed a day ahead of schedule, has the barge looking as fit as a woman who's just spent two weeks at a health farm drinking water, eating vegetables and running marathons. Delivery of the new gearbox for the crane is two weeks away so she'll be taking on light duties only.

Frankie presses a button to launch the cradle down the slipway. Sam and Jimmy, as twitchy as expectant fathers, follow the progress of the freshly painted canary-yellow hull with a mixture of anxiety and pride. Longfellow yips and nips, like he's rounding up a flock of sheep, until the stern rams into the water, sinks alarmingly but steadies quickly.

Half an hour later, ropes stowed, fuel checked, they are on their way. Sam spins the wheel and points the barge towards Cat Island to give the engine a long, flat-out run to smooth any kinks before committing to paid work. Under his feet, the thrum is deep and steady, the engine purring its heart out. He figures he'll wait till he reaches the confused waters swirling around Cat Island sanctuary before giving Frankie a progress report – more out of respect than necessity. Frankie won't let go of his grip on a boat until he's one hundred per cent certain – short of an unforeseen natural disaster such as a tsunami or a hurricane – it's not going to kill anybody. He's a good man. Pity he's never had any luck with women.

Sam grimaces inwardly. He's not travelling too smoothly in the romance stakes himself, right now. For the first time in a while, he hankers for the weedy taste of a rollie, the smell of a thin spiral of smoke curling from his mouth, snaking past his nose . . . Jeez, then landing in your hair so you smell like a bushfire or a barbecue at the end of the day. When a man hits forty, he has to make a few hard decisions if he wants to give himself a good shot at making eighty. Christ, there he goes again, thinking about his own mortality, time running out. He wonders briefly if he's currently engaged in a condition he's heard is called a mid-life crisis. It's mind over matter, he tells himself. Long as he believes he's a man in his prime he'll be OK.

But he's buggered if he can think of what to do next in the fight for Garrawi. He dials Siobhan. Gets The Briny by mistake. He hears Kate call an order, his ear as tuned to her tone as a mother to her baby's cry. The strange chemistry of humans is an utter mystery and he bets he could read
The
Concise History of the World
from cover to cover and never discover the reason why, against all reason, one person chooses another.

*

In the pre-dawn light two days later, Sam and Jimmy set off from the car park on one of Siobhan's stealth missions – although stealth is the wrong word. They tow, strapped on a trailer built for ten-metre yachts, the giant cockatoo (cockscomb repaired for its big day out) majestically through the suburbs. Sam takes the opportunity to run Jimmy through the gearshifts. Baulks when, less than five minutes later, the kid offers to take over the driving. ‘Rome wasn't –'

‘Aw jeez, Sam, ya'r wearin' that thinner than ya top line for Ettie.'

‘Well, mate, she
is
the answer to every man's dreams.'

Sam dodges the tunnel (in favour of keeping the cockscomb intact), makes it across the Harbour Bridge without mishap and proceeds, in what he likes to think is a stately manner, through the backstreets of the northern CBD then along Macquarie Street, where once again he makes use of the four-hour parking zone across the road from Mulvaney's office.

‘That you, Sam?' asks Ben Butler, sticking his grey head out the door of his guardhouse. ‘Would you like a cuppa? Kettle's just boiled.'

‘Lovely. And this is Jimmy.'

‘Oh, we all know Jimmy.'

Sam nobbles Theo Mulvaney, Minister for Housing and Development, a little before midday as he tries to scoot, head down, past the giant cockatoo: ‘Have you seriously sold Garrawi? Are you really going to let a shonky cult take over one of the most beautiful parks in New South Wales and turn it into a Club Med? Are you?'

A television news reporter, who has just finished interviewing the opposition spokesperson for land and environment on the current lack of any credible research into the ongoing side effects of coal-seam gas mining, sees an opportunity for another news story. He and the cameraman shoot across and start rolling. Without any prompting, Jimmy stretches a long skinny leg in front of Mulvaney – like a brolga testing the sand of a riverbank. His going-to-town outfit of cerise and peacock blue is a photographer's dream. ‘Why are ya trashin' the park, Mr Mulvaney?
Why do ya wanna kill the cheese tree?' he asks politely, seriously and patently anxious to understand how foreign forces can be allowed to threaten the foundations of an age-old community and its sacred icons.

Mulvaney loses his temper and roughly pushes the kid aside. Jimmy stumbles, recovers. Draws himself to his full scrawny height, shakes his head at the politician: ‘Me mum says it's rude to push people and right now, I'm findin' it hard not ta give ya a good talkin' to about manners. But ya need to brush up on 'em, ya know? Or you'll never get anywhere in life, so me mum says.' The reporter can't keep a straight face. The cameraman gets a full frame shot of Jimmy's disappointment. Sam stands back with his arms folded across his chest, and a look that spells
gotcha.

The story makes the six-o'clock bulletin. Prime time. Sam's phone runs hot after it goes to air. Everyone's chuffed. The kid's a natural and turning into a Grade A arsonist. Who would have guessed it, eh?

Sam's mobile goes off for the umpteenth time. He checks the caller ID. The number comes up but he doesn't recognise it. He takes the call. ‘Mr Scully? I understand you represent Jimmy MacFarlane.'

‘In a manner of speaking,' Sam says.

‘I'm a reporter with
Woman Magazine
. We'd like to talk to him and his mother about the relevance of good manners in a techno world.'

Sam sighs. ‘I don't want to sound mercenary but I've been instructed to turn down any requests unless there's a fee. The kid's got an eye on building a decent superannuation fund for his old age.'

The reporter dodges the question and talks about the beneficial influence a story like this could have on parents all over Australia.

‘You reckon a single kid can change the manners of a generation, eh?'

‘Well . . .'

‘I don't want to sound cynical, but playing the ego card is a cheap way to try to nudge him over the line for free. Unless you're willing to pay a fee for his time, there's no deal.' Jeez, Sam thinks, he just might be getting the hang of the dark side of the media business.

‘I'd have to check with the editor,' the reporter says, the cosiness gone from her voice.

‘What's your gut feeling?' Sam asks.

‘Well, Jimmy's not a celebrity . . .'

‘Can't agree with you there,' he says, and he – politely – declines the offer.

Just on dusk, Sam gets three calls in a row. All he hears on the end of the line is heavy breathing. It leaves him feeling chilled to the bone.

Before he can decide what to do, Siobhan calls. ‘Nice work at Parliament House but Mulvaney's going to feel like a rat in a corner,' she warns. ‘Jimmy made a fool of him. We've got to seriously watch ourselves now. We're starting to look and sound like winners and he's got a lot of money at stake. Think of it, Sam. If the man was handed half a million before the project started, what's it worth to him when it's finished?'

‘I've a bottle of your favourite Riesling in the fridge if you feel like dropping around for a drink,' Sam says.

‘What's on your mind then?'

‘I'm worried they'll target Jimmy.'

‘Polish a glass and I'll be there before it's halfway filled.'

They sit on Sam's mouldy canvas chairs on the deck with the slatted timber table between them. Sam slips his beer into a thermal glove to keep it cold. Siobhan takes a small, considered sip of her wine. She tilts her head in approval. ‘A lovely, light drop. Those heavy-wooded chardonnays, they'd put hair on a young girl's chest.'

On the water, with the light falling fast, a couple of kids paddle surfboards from a standing position. No lights, Sam worries. He watches until they make it safely to soggy mudflats on a low tide where sand hills rise and fall like tiny islands. The sky is deep pink behind blue hills, the air ripe with damp earth and the tang of brine and wet sand. Nearly every commuter tinny is high and dry. Frankie will enjoy a small boom replacing props over the next few days. One man's luck is another man's misfortune, as his father used to say. The two paddlers lift their boards and hoof it to shore. ‘The kid,' Sam says, ‘how are we going to protect the kid?'

*

Sam and Siobhan talk late into the night. Alerting the whole community, they agree, could start a panic. Alerting only Amelia would be sure to start a panic. ‘How quickly crumble the foundations,' Siobhan says. ‘It's a sad day when we can't feel safe in our environment.'

In the end Siobhan resolves there's nothing to do short of sending Jimmy and his mother on an extended holiday.

‘Jimmy won't leave while the park is in danger of being razed to the ground,' Sam says. ‘So we're back to square one.'

‘I'd ask our local member of parliament to warn Mulvaney to call off the dogs but our relationship is a tad testy.'

Sam raises his eyebrows.

‘I felt compelled to correct her press releases, which, as it turned out, were written by her husband. He told me I was creating marital disharmony by interfering. Eejit. I was only trying to make them grammatical. Bad grammar is offensive, don't you think? Like someone singing off-key.'

Sam grins: ‘Guess contacting her is not an option, then.'

Siobhan sighs with mock innocence. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I should employ a little more diplomacy . . .'

‘Nah. Life's too short to mess around.' They both grin.

‘We're in need of another spot of arson to keep the media ball rolling. Got any ideas?' she asks.

‘How about a hot air balloon over Macquarie Street?'

Siobhan's eyes light up. ‘Would the balloon be able to hoist the cockatoo, do you think?'

‘Might be a bit heavy.'

‘Ah well, it would be a shame for it to smash through the roof of Parliament House by mistake. A lot of effort went into creating that monster bird. I'm quite fond of it by now, you know.'

The next day, in an interview in the
Daily Telegraph
, Mulvaney unwisely refers to Garrawi Park as the local garbage dump. He hurl insults at the locals, calling them ‘uneducated, drug-taking ferals who need assistance to flush a toilet'. He goes on to mention the ‘handicapped'
child being callously exploited by members of the community who are too cowardly to step up to the front line.

The Islanders go into uproar. Siobhan, who is incensed Mulvaney isn't even savvy enough to use the more politically correct term of ‘disabled'
– which certainly doesn't apply to Jimmy – sends out a message: ‘He's insulting Jimmy to destroy the kid's credibility. Don't react. Don't say a word. The bastard is looking to fatten his personal bank account.'

Sam takes Jimmy aside and shows him the story. ‘Remember how I said people might call you names? This is how it happens.'

Jimmy glances at the picture of Mulvaney. ‘Jeez, Sam, I told ya the bloke had no manners.' And the slur rolls off Jimmy like water off a duck's back. ‘I'm off if ya don't need me. The heat's stressin' me worms somethin' terrible. I gotta hose 'em down every hour or they'll cark it.'

‘You seen anyone dodgy hanging around your house lately, Jimmy?'

‘Nah. Only Kerry. But he comes and goes.'

‘Kerry?'

‘Me big goanna. Think he might be eyein' me worms. I'm keepin' an eye on 'im, though. Me worms are like family so I'd come down hard on Kerry if he 'ad a go at 'em.'

‘Right,' Sam says. ‘Anyway, if you see anything weird, call me, OK? Anything at all, I want to know, Jimmy. It's important, mate. So don't go it alone if you reckon something's not quite up to scratch. Deal?'

‘Yeah sure, Sam. Anythin' weird, eh?'

Sam suddenly realises the many possible connotations for
weird
. ‘Er, I'm not talking Island weird. Just weird, weird, OK?'

‘Orright.'