Gone Fishing (31 page)

‘What about a place to set up rally headquarters?'

‘How about here at The Briny?' Ettie offers. Hear, hear!

‘It's a lot of work for a small rally,' Siobhan muses. For a second, the room goes flat and silent. Enthusiasm falters. She brightens: ‘Sure and what would be the point of that? Have you got the list there, Jane, of all the organisations that wrote and said they were with us? Good lass. Let's extend an invitation to every community group in New South Wales with a cause and make it a feckin' blaster of a rally, eh? And Jack Mundey: he'd feel at home at just such a rally, don't you think?'

HEAR, HEAR!

Sam says: ‘We need to nail Mulvaney, let everyone know he's on the take and bent as a fork.'

‘Whoever says it out loud will end up in court, that's for sure. It's not worth losing your house, now, and even the shirt off your back, is it?'

Glenn jumps forward from the deck rail. ‘I don't own a thing except a dodgy Kombi van circa 1973 and a dodgier barge, circa unknown. He's welcome to both along with my collection of stained and holey commemorative Christmas dog race T-shirts. Gimme me a loud-hailer and a script and I'll go the bloke like a bull terrier!'

Hear, hear!

‘Only if it will do some real damage, eh?' Sam says. ‘We don't want Glenn to sacrifice all his worldly possessions for nothing. And, mate, holes or no holes, those T-shirts are priceless.'

‘There's an election in the wind, sonny, and we're standing on a pile of shite the premier needs to flush down the toilet as quickly as he can. It'll hurt. Oh, for sure it will hurt.'

The community, no longer novices, swings into action with efficiency born of experience. Glenn decides to have a practice run at slagging Mulvaney by spearheading an early raid on Parliament House. Sam joins him in the skirmish. They swing into Macquarie Street in Glenn's rattly Kombi, tickled up by the artists so it's a moving billboard of slogans supporting Garrawi. The Misses Skettle, who insist on coming along at the last minute, tumble out of the back of the van. (A luxurious trip, they later reported. The two bunk beds were so comfy they dozed through the entire tedium of the traffic – highly recommended.) The two women, dressed in a shade that's nearer lipstick red than petal pink for a more dramatic effect, promptly set up a card table and a couple of folding chairs on the pavement and, keeping their Thermos handy, they begin collecting signatures. No one gets past them.

During his morning-tea break, Ben Butler hurries over: ‘Just heard there's a meeting between the premier and the secretary of the Australian Council of Trade Unions at the Trades Hall in Goulburn Street in half an hour. Get over there and rattle their cages,' he advises. ‘Every television, radio and newspaper news crew will be covering it. Rear entrance. He never goes near the front door.' And he scurries off, giving them a V for Victory.

Sam takes the two old ladies aside and suggests they stay safely put on the pavement with their clipboards while he and Glenn do their best to stir up strife. The Misses Skettle pout. Sam caves in, telling himself it's wiser to keep them in sight anyway. Who knows what they might get up to if they're let loose in the city for the first time in thirty years, ‘Barring dentist's appointments.'

They all pile into the Kombi and roar off. By the time the premier's official car pulls up, they're ready and waiting. Sam goes into action, circling the vehicle: ‘Have you really let Mulvaney flog Garrawi to a dodgy cult? Are you seriously going to approve a resort on a small island that can barely sustain its current population let alone an influx of tourists? Are you going to let a dodgy cult get its hands on a pristine Australian wilderness so close to a major city?'

Glenn, script in hand, takes over: ‘How much does it take to buy the Minister for Housing and Development? Half a million? That's what we've heard is the going price.'

The premier's minders step forward and quickly shove him aside. The Misses Skettle take a turn, smiling sweetly. ‘No resort, no bridge. Save Garrawi,' they chant. The bruisers are flummoxed. The news cameras are rolling. Pushing old ladies out of the way loses votes. The premier smiles professionally and accepts a flyer. The union bloke on the door blocks the Misses Skettle entrance into the Trades Hall, suggesting they have a cup of tea in the cafeteria.

‘Don't take any notice of him, Myrtle,' Violet says loudly. ‘They never put a smart man on the door.' They regally swish past him. Outraged but powerless, the doorman, who is a top-ranking union official, slams shut and locks the entrance. Sam and Glenn pick up their loud-hailers and go searching for an open window. Standing on Sam's shoulders, Glenn shouts through the opening: ‘Your minister, Theo Mulvaney, is going to let a discredited cult leader desecrate Garrawi. How much did the cult pay him? Half a million?'

A minute later, two police officers round the corner. ‘Show's over, boys,' they say, taking possession of the loud-hailers. ‘Time to go home.'

Glenn looks them straight in the eye and lies like a pro: ‘They've got our fragile –' (Ha!) ‘– old aunties in there. Can't leave without them, mate.' One cop stays with Sam and Glenn; the other retrieves the Misses Skettle from the inner sanctum, where he finds them sharing a cuppa with the premier. ‘We had his ear at least while the cameras were rolling. What a day, eh? Haven't had this much excitement since the war.'

Early on Sunday morning, adults, kids and assorted dogs of Cook's Basin and Cutter Island gather in the Square with placards, posters and banners as well as rugs, picnic baskets and ice boxes. It's going to be a long day and all it takes is a little planning and preparation to ensure maximum comfort because who knows what they'll find in Hyde Park where the rally will begin its slow march to Parliament House? Phoebe, the graphic design artist, even brings a small fold-up camp dunny seat (hole in the top, discreet cover for when it's not in use) in case she gets caught short and needs to dash behind a tree. Her knees, she explains, aren't what they used to be. Anyone is welcome to borrow it, she adds with her usual generosity of spirit.

They load their goods and chattels into the bowels of buses and board one by one, automatically splitting kids and dogs known to have mutual personality issues. The air is both subdued and festive. Everyone hopes for a mega turnout. Dreads a flop.

‘We've worked day and night to rally the nation,' Siobhan says. ‘We've done our best and can do no more.' In her hands she holds a dossier with bullet point questions and concerns on a single page from every environmental group involved. She just hopes they don't think they've made their points and fail to attend.

Sam and Jimmy, with the massive white cockatoo once more perched on the boat trailer behind Sam's ute, lead a parade of buses from the sandy track of the Square to the bitumen beyond. They are waved off with damp tea towels by Kate and Ettie. Jenny, who's been given the day off, will represent The Briny Café. Ettie is gutted but business is business. Everyone understands.

At ten am the people come over the hill like Indians. Down they come and down they come and down they come. Each group carries its own banner and raises its voice to chant its disillusionment with a government that seems to have forgotten it is there to represent the people. ‘Why won't you listen to the people?' ‘Why won't you hear our cries?' ‘Stop destroying our coastline.' ‘Stop trashing our bushland.' ‘Stop coal seam gas drilling from polluting our precious waterways.' ‘Save our farmland and let our farmers feed the nation.' And ultimately: ‘Garrawi belongs to the people. Preserve it for the people forever.' On and on, down they come.

Siobhan, who can't shake a sad feeling of déjà vu when she sees Jack Mundey standing on a truck bed parked outside Parliament House for the occasion, stands alongside Sam, Jimmy and the cockatoo. She shakes her head. ‘Every generation finds itself on the edge of a new battlefront. Do we never learn?' She sighs, hands Sam a loud-hailer and a script. ‘Up you go, next to Mundey,' she orders. ‘And don't fluff a word.'

Sam checks the script. Gives her a wry grin. ‘I'll do my best.' He leaps aboard and takes a place next to Mundey. Behind him, Big Phil and Rexie are ready to hit a few riffs and get the crowd launched on an iconic protest song from the 1950s that never seemed more appropriate: ‘We shall overcome'.

Sam shouts: ‘We are the people. We have spoken. We are the people. We have spoken.' The cry goes up for a long, long time. Then quietly drifts into song as a ten-thousand-strong choir sways to the steady tap of Big Phil's flaming cowboy boot and Rexie's stirring voice.

Later, on Sam's deck, when the moon is high and he and Siobhan are reliving the more historic moments of a monumentally historic day, Siobhan says: ‘Did I see a tear roll down your cheek when the singing started?'

Sam shrugs. ‘Nah. It was sweat, mate. That's all.'

Siobhan reaches across and slaps his thigh: ‘So you think I can't tell the difference between sweat and tears, then? And me an Irish woman whose race has known nothing but tragedy for a thousand years.'

‘Yeah, well, to be honest, I was flat out holding back the sobs. Never felt so emotional in my life.'

‘Me too, me too.'

Before the community has time to congratulate itself on the success of their rally, it wakes to newspaper headlines and stories that send shockwaves through the nation and cut through the heart of every Islander.

In a mass suicide pact, four hundred and thirteen members of the New Planet Fountain of Youth cult, including leader John James, died after eating food laced with cyanide. At this stage, it is not known whether there are any survivors.

Australian journalist, Paul Delaney, in Qualupe, a small town in Central America, to investigate claims of corrupt land deals with the potential to bring down the NSW State Government, was shot dead as he was boarding a twin-engine plane for his return flight. James McInerney, shadow minister for human rights, who accompanied Delaney to witness the increasing number of allegedly brainwashed young Australians who had joined the charismatic leader, is fighting for his life in a local hospital. Police investigating the shootings drove to the cult's headquarters and described the scene as carnage. Men, women and children lay dead on the ground. John James's remains were found inside his marble palace, surrounded by those of his top henchmen. It is not known why James, who is worth billions of dollars, and his followers decided to end their lives.

The dreadful news flies around the community in minutes. Sam grabs a bottle of Riesling and a six-pack and knocks on Siobhan's door. She greets him with swollen eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. ‘Have you got a spare bucket?' he asks.

The idiocy of the question takes her off-guard. ‘Are you mad, Sam Scully?'

‘There's no loo on the
Mary Kay
and you and I are heading out to sea for a while. No arguments, please. If you stay here you'll have people calling in all day, laden down with sad faces and casseroles. Far better to rock on the roomy deck of a lovely barge that once hosted the ample frame of a great man, eh?'

Ten minutes later, the
Mary Kay
has her bow pointed towards a deserted sandy cove not far from where the beautiful Cook's Basin waterways get unruly with merging inland rivers, bays and a vast blue sea. Sam snookles into a sheltered corner and throws down the anchor. With the engine switched off and the barge almost still, Siobhan tells him how she came to know Paul Delaney.

‘With a name like Delaney, he was one of us. We mad Irish, I mean. Even though he was fourth generation Australian, there's a gene – the one that can't abide injustice – that never dies. I first met him when he burst into the newsroom where I worked. I'd arrived in Australia fresh from Ireland with a yearning for the warm sun and a life free from the claptrap of our priest-besotted families. He was like a blue-eyed god with his curly blond hair and his great belly laugh.

‘We other reporters learned quickly that here was a man who wasn't afraid to rattle the status quo until it fell off its iron hinges. We admired him. But he scared us a little, too. He gnawed, nagged and raged if he had to, even if it cost him his job. Which it did more than once.'

Sam passes her a plastic beaker of white wine. Knocks the top off a frigidly cold. He wishes he'd thought to raid the picnic counter of The Briny Café for a few nibbles.

‘When he was in his early twenties with a wild hunger to see the world, he took himself off to the United States of America. I was already there and, foolish girl that I was, I thought he'd followed because he missed me.'

‘You were lovers?' Sam asks, amazed and curious at the same time.

‘Not in a way that mattered, as it turned out.'

‘He broke your heart, eh?'

‘We journos, we're different,' she says, taking her time to find the right words. ‘Part of the job is to charm strangers until they're half in love with you. We reinvent ourselves for every assignment, wheedling, smarming and charming until we have everything we need. Then we walk away without a backwards glance. Chasing the next big scoop.'

Sam opens his mouth, about to break in. She stops him with a signal. ‘It's the adrenalin that sucks us in, the rush to deliver on deadline. It's like living in a war zone. You never feel more alive. Comradeship becomes indistinguishable from love. A strange bond.'

Sam nods, wondering if he's just been given an insight into Kate. Their closenesss then the sudden distance she puts between them. Her terrier ferocity when she's chasing a lead. Her blindness to the consequences when she loses sight of the difference between a personal quest and a professional assignment.

Siobhan continues with her history of Delaney. ‘He landed a job as one of a dozen or so editors on a mass-circulation tabloid with a wicked reputation for gossip and scandal. ‘There was a cult, Delaney said in his first news meeting, in Central America, where suicide drills were practised once a week . . .'