Scorpio's Lot (107 page)

Although Ben Johnson was
aggressive by nature, his regular attempt to dominate proceedings was often met
with considerable resistance. Generally his perceptions were only supported by
Stephen Buchanan, a feeble and assenting role which often infuriated me. By
comparison Richard Smyth held a senior position within council and was not one
to be easy persuaded. I often thought his presence was the committee’s saving
grace, given his hard-line approach and unbiased opinion.

Equally unperturbed and
headstrong in their belief to do the right thing were Darren Burke and Martha
Kellett. Both members represented notable aspects of the community and were not
ones to be influenced by Johnson’s vindictive ways. Above all, they would fight
hammer and tong to ensure their portfolios would prevail and subsequently adopt
an impartial point of view when addressing any non-related issue. Excluding
Ashley Collins, whose input was yet to be measured, the one remaining person
was Helen O’Neil representing the ratepayers of the community. Whilst a less
demanding responsibility, it did, however, raise matters of conflicting
interest which drew objection from the near to retirement and often unyielding
Smyth. He argued that her proposals were often unrealistic and too costly to
support. As a result Helen generally relinquished the fight to succeed, but all
in all my fellow committee members reflected a collection of people whose
objectives and solutions provided the region with some positive mixture.

Emily interrupted my thoughts. ‘What
did Stephen want?’

‘Just to tell me the meeting
tonight has been transferred to the RSL.’

‘Same time, Tom?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, eight o’clock, but it
makes no difference.’

‘Should’ve been postponed after
what happened in town yesterday,’ stated Emily in a forceful tone.

‘Agreed and I’m not in the mood
for all this bloody community talk tonight,’ I replied.

~ * ~

Following
a journey of the hour hand around the clock, the time had arrived to make the
short trip to Kelvin Street’s RSL. It was a mild night by winter standards and
as I stepped from my car I could detect a hint of approaching rain. The
overcast sky will keep the frost and bitter icy winds at bay, I thought. Having
parked my car to the rear of the club, I could see that most of the committee
members had already arrived. I was hopeful everyone would have the good sense
to make this a quick meeting. In chairing this forum I sensed my chances were
at least half reasonable.

Following pleasantries I took my
seat at the top of the table. Only Ben Johnson and his antagonising tongue were
conspicuous by their absence. Looking around and assessing each individual, I
groaned inwardly at seeing Stephen Buchanan’s accumulation of paperwork before
him. The guy appeared set for a lengthy session. At the opposite extreme Darren
Burke sat directly to my left and could see his own reflection on the highly
polished oak. Ashley Collins waited and appeared preoccupied in thought, still
wearing that silly grin which had now become his trademark. Richard Smyth was
catching up on some accumulated text messages, while Helen and Martha were in
deep conversation regarding yesterday’s tragedy.

As if a grand entrance was
Johnson’s divine right, the publican finally arrived in a blaze of verbal
accusations. I could just make out that he was directing his delayed excuse at
some new trainee, who required extra time to be shown the ropes. He then walked
across to the one remaining vacant chair, still muttering something about
incompetence. Ben Johnson was a pain in the arse at the best of times.

I opened the meeting by
introducing Ashley Collins as our new member, a welcome addition to the
committee in view of our previously poor media representation. The reporter
beamed at the mere relevance of his inclusion. Following a string of accolades
from my fellow members that would have Collins gloating if allowed to continue,
I decided instead to push forward with our first item for discussion.

Casting an eye on the agenda, I
envisaged that an improvement to the foreshore parks and gardens was a somewhat
sombre prelude to the forthcoming topics. The general consensus had been to
upgrade the area, with Johnson placing emphasis on the
Molly Bloom
wharf. He claimed the water gateway to Pedley was an important tourist site and
therefore should be given the committee’s full support. On this occasion I
agreed with the publican, but I anticipated some contentious issues would soon
surface, for the man thrived on a serious debate. I suspected this topic to be
the calm before the storm.

With the foreshore restoration
receiving the group’s stamp of approval, I was then surprised by the committee’s
newfound spirit of cooperation. Declaring the supermarket and road upgrade as
approved projects, I did at least expect objection to the proposed Flint
building, which undoubtedly would reflect a level of impact on the Murphy
establishment amongst others.

I now envisaged the mood was
about to swing, given the more controversial issue of the Williams Street
subdivision. I read out the proposal that encompassed a thirty-hectare land
site that would potentially give rise to more than two hundred housing
projects. The bone of contention was twofold. One side of the argument put
forward an opportunity in creating jobs to support the economy, in addition to
laying claim that a central housing estate would be seen as an asset for the
growing community. From the other side, a further subdivision was totally
unnecessary, given the slow occupancy response to the outer estates. Pedley was
not yet large enough to support a project of this scale and that money would be
better spent upgrading some existing sites.

I decided to take a vote to
establish where each member’s allegiance lay. In favour were Ben Johnson,
Ashley Collins, Stephen Buchanan and Richard Smyth. Opposed included Helen O’Neill,
Darren Burke, Martha Kellett and myself. No one had cast an undecided vote,
which emphasised the importance of the issue. We were at a stalemate with four
votes apiece and I could envisage the long slugging match to follow. Any chance
of finishing this meeting early had now been squashed.

Without consultation or regard
for others, Johnson suddenly addressed the debate on behalf of the affirmative
group. In an unnecessary and rather intimidating display, he stood up pointing
his finger at the two women, believing these two members to be the more easily
persuaded.

‘Your argument is weak. You have
no backbone in a case against the subdivision! How can you compare some
outlying feeble site with the grandeur of this estate? This will have all the
sought-after facilities and is within walking distance of the CBD,’ he claimed.

‘Sit down, Ben. There’s no need
to be so forceful,’ I interjected.

‘I’m only putting my point across
so you can see how foolish your decision is.’

‘That’s a matter of opinion ...’
I stopped short on seeing the main entry door open.

The unannounced arrival of three
men caught everyone by surprise. They stepped forth with a sense of urgency.
Their mannerism suggested the conference room was the intended objective,
having deliberately ignored the occupied sign. Rather startled with their
sudden entry, the eight of us simply glared at these intruders, believing there
must be some mistake. The entrance door was subsequently closed behind them.

The person who led the intrusion
appeared to be their spokesman. He looked around forty with a head of receding
brown-and-white hair that was in need of a cut. Standing at six feet, he was of
average build and carried a rather sullen expression that almost bordered
bitterness. I detected a small tattoo on his left wrist, but distance prevented
me from identifying the image. The remaining two men suddenly stopped halfway
across the room. One was of short stocky build with black cropped hair. He was
probably in his mid-thirties and wore a constant frown. The other, nearing
fifty, was a tall person of around six-two with a shaven head and sporting a
rather unkempt bushy goatee. By comparison this man wore a poker face and stood
unperturbed beside a sidewall.

I was about to ask the meaning
behind this intrusion when their front man asked a rather loaded question.

‘Please remain seated. Would Tom
Harrison raise his hand?’ he said.

‘What in the hell is the meaning
of this!’ roared Ben Johnson.

‘Mr Harrison, I presume?’

‘No, but I’m going to get
security to throw you lot out!’ Johnson threatened.

‘Sit down! Now once again would
Tom Harrison make his presence known,’ he repeated.

‘I’m Tom Harrison.’ I raised my
hand. ‘What’s this all about?’

‘Good, we’ve finally getting
somewhere. We need you to accompany us on a short walk.’

‘Not without telling me for what
reason.’

The intruder paused. He looked at
each person seated around the large oak table.

‘Before I do, Mr Harrison, would
you be good enough to introduce me to your fellow members and their role on
your committee.’

‘Bullshit! How dare you enter
unannounced and start demanding ...’ bellowed Johnson.

‘Will you shut up!’ snapped the
provoked intruder, who then produced a gun to assist with proceedings.

A terrified silence immediately
filled the room. His weapon had an instantaneous effect. Ben Johnson’s bulging
eye’s appeared to almost drop from their sockets.

‘Everybody is to empty their
pockets and place their belongings on the table, now!’

A short fumbling of personal
effects followed.

‘Introductions, if you would, Mr
Harrison,’ persisted the intruder.

I chose to disobey his
instruction, despite the persuasion of firearms. I wasn’t about to divulge each
person’s name to satisfy this stranger’s whim. Protecting the committee’s
identities seemed paramount given this man’s aggressive demands.

‘Suggest you cooperate with me,
Mr Harrison, otherwise you’ll regret this reluctant and foolish attitude.’

I continued to remain defiant.

It was Darren Burke who made his
feelings known. ‘Tom, just tell him.’

‘If you persist with this
stupidity I’ll instruct my men to target a certain individual at your caravan
park. The apparent consequences shouldn’t be too difficult to work out,’ the
man threatened, reaching for a mobile and commencing to dial.

‘Stop!’ I yelled back, not
wanting Emily to confront these thugs. ‘I’ll tell you. In clockwise order from
my left we have Darren Burke representing law, Richard Smyth local council,
Martha Kellett education and charity, Helen O’Neill ratepayers, Stephen
Buchanan finance, Ben Johnson business, Ashley Collins media and myself
representing hospitality.’

He continued to study each
individual. His intimidating mannerisms were frightening, particularly for
Martha and Helen who appeared to be shaking with fear.

Enjoying central stage and with
the occasional flare for the theatrics, the man obviously thought there was no
immediate threat in divulging his intentions to this somewhat puny group.

‘Now that wasn’t too difficult. I’ll
come straight to the point. The purpose of our visit tonight is to be shown the
entrance to the subterranean passageways. Please don’t insult my intelligence
by naming Broadbent Warehouse, for this site has already become common
knowledge, and besides, it’s probably teeming with cops as we speak. What I’m
referring to is the remaining two entrances and rumour has it, Mr Harrison,
that you are in the know.’

‘Only to a point,’ I responded.

‘Oh, then please enlighten me.’

‘We narrowed the remaining sites
to be the Botanical Gardens and the RSL Club, but as to the actual entrances,
they’ve yet to be found.’

‘Mr Harrison, don’t take me for a
fool. I’ll give you one more chance to cooperate.’ The man reached for a
silencer to thread onto the gun barrel.