Mission

by Paul Forrester-O'Neill

  He went back into the house, stepping over Rita. He heard Delilah moving around in the cellar, Delilah who’d rarely spoken, who’d finished each course of food with a dab to the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin, Delilah he’d spent only a few moments with the whole evening when, with Jake riling himself up and Rita tipping out the contents of the boxes, she’d stood on the veranda gazing out towards Rupture Hill with its hoops of thin mist in that silk turquoise dress that clung and shone in the half-moon’s glow, and without turning round, had said, “My grandfather always said that most of the gold was right here, on this land.”

  He heard her heels on the stone floor down below. It was four in the morning. And without a single pulse of thought his hand went towards the bolt of the door and slid it across.

  Everything happens for a reason. Everything is cause and effect. because of one thing, so another, and so on. So, because the Land Management Agency wanted the land because they figured it was theirs, and because the Law Enforcement and Environment officers and the bonneted, basket-bearing Andersons had failed, Jake Massey had been called in. And because Jake went to the homestead with the Chinese meal, with Delilah and, in particular, rummaging Rita, because the surveys came, and the surveys came because Jake had gone to the LMA and Ted Mallender, then John Cassidy was able to chance upon, amongst the ruin of his room the following day, amid the various boxes upturned by Rita and not put back, the one thing that would take all of his gambits and moves and put them together, that would take his grand, fermenting scheme that began only with anger and rawness, and light its fuse.

  It was stuck to the bottom of one of the shoeboxes, underneath an article on the restoration of the storm-damaged Station Hotel; a page ripped out of a newspaper, mug-stained in the top right-hand corner, the stain embedded like a seal as if the article had been kept out, pinned down and looked at for a long time.

  The dominant feature of the page was the story of a rescue: It was a hot, summer’s day and eight-year-old Abby Weekes was walking her dog, Winnipeg, along by the river when the dog had fallen in. Abby didn’t know the river. She was visiting her grandparents out east and so when the dog started to flounder, she decided to jump in and save him. What she didn’t know was that the undertow was notoriously strong. There’d been accidents there before, fatalities even, and soon not only did Winnipeg go under and not come back but so, too, Abby started to feel her feet and calves as though suddenly yanked at. She was a decent swimmer, but that was it, and slowly she began to get dragged further out into the deeper water. sometimes when the pull was heavier, she went under completely, and then she’d surface again. It was during one of those surfacing moments that she saw the man on the side and screamed as loud as she could before she went down again. It was in between the drag-downs she saw him next, in the river, knee-high, then waist-high, getting closer until, just as those moments when she went under got longer, she felt his hand grab hers and pull her towards him. She felt her upper arm pulled, her shoulders and rib cage, her back and her legs until she was wrapped around him, until she felt him push back to the shore.

  The photograph, to the side of the text, showed the man and the girl with the river behind them. The girls’ parents were next to her. They were smiling broadly, Mr. and Mrs Weekes. They were smiling, Jeff and Hannah, because their daughter had been saved, and even though poor Winnipeg had perished, their daughter was alive. Jeff had his hand down on Abby’s shoulder. Hannah looked not to the camera, or to Jeff, or to Abby even, but to the man standing by the river’s edge. She looked directly at his face, this stranger in town, this passer-by, this man that nobody knew.

  The man of mystery was the CEO of a small company called Carpe Diem Enterprises. That was all the article said. But, to Abby Weekes and her parents, he was a saviour. To them he would never be forgotten.

  His face was circled in green marker pen, more than once. An arrow came out of the circle and went to the top of the page to the left of the mug stain, just below the date. At the end of the arrow’s trail was written, in the same green marker, in Jack Cassidy’s shaky hand, the name: Vincent.

  With the various surveys and maps spread across the kitchen table, with his peaches and black coffee done, his guests, including pale Delilah, gone and the article cut and folded and placed in his pocket, he set off for Mission. Over his shoulder was the packed bag and in the left-hand pocket of his black suit jacket that smelled vaguely of Rita’s cheap perfume were the deeds to the Cassidy land.

  Now, apart from a handful of people, nobody knew what he looked like and so, based on those wildfire rumours, the majority of the townsfolk expected to see some kind of deformed creature, hunchbacked, club-footed, overly large or small. They expected a slack-jawed beast, hairy-handed, heavy-browed who would rattle its way across the land on a hand-fettled cart that would be left on its side, draped in bloodied pelts and fishhooks on the rickety bridge.

  When he got to the stairs of the sandstone building, he took them two at a time up to the third floor. He knocked on the glass partition and went in. And, because they’d only ever seen him unshaven and half-lit, neither Ted nor Doug recognised him, especially in the crisp, white shirt and the suit. As for the other two men in the office, they rarely raised their heads from the ledgers for anyone.

  “Mr Mallender?” John said.

  Ted seemed troubled. He looked up from behind the desk, away from him and Lily in Oklahoma and away from why there was a single blade of lustrous grass on the bathroom floor that morning.

  “Can I help?”

  “I’m John Cassidy.”

  The two ledger-men paused, in unison, swivelled their necks like adjustable lamps and glanced across the room. Doug went drylipped, felt the caffeine ignite in his system.

  Ted stood. “Mr Cassidy,” he said, walking toward him, “you look…different.”

  “I’d like to discuss the land.”

  “Yes. Good. Come this way.”

  Ted led him into a smaller, separate office, wondering why, when he’d gone for the peppermint mouth rinse in the bathroom cabinet, there was none left.

  The two men sat. “What is it you’d like to discuss, exactly?”

  “The selling of the land beyond the homestead. There’s a stretch goes as far down as the road in one direction and hits the woods in the other.”

  “It’s rough land, overgrown.”

  “It’s also twenty-five acres. That’s over a thousand square yards.”

  “And you want to sell it?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  Ted leant back in his chair. He looked across to the young man opposite, saw the tie-less, unfastened collar, the hair in need of a cut.

  “What about the land with the homestead on?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “My father’s dead just over two months. I have things I need to do.”

  He looked at the crooked nose, the twitch of the ear when Doug stood up in the next room, the features of the ready, rural immigrant with his currency of soil.

  “I understand that, but…”

  “I can always go elsewhere.”

  He heard his youth, his lack of respect, his smear of the family name. “I’m sure we can find a solution.”

  “Let’s hope so,” John said, and stood. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Ted stayed right where he was. He reached into his pocket and fished out an antacid, tasted the fizz in his mouth. He watched the Cassidy creature go, heard him clip down the stairs and tried to figure why there was a printed tread of earth on his kitchen floor.

  Doug moved one of the red pins three inches to the left on the contoured map and sidled over to the window. He looked out and across, to the serrated ridges of cloud and the rooftops flat and sandstone. Then he moved closer to the pane and looked down; to John Cassidy leaving the building, to the man from Treasure Island with his packed bag slung heroically over his shoulder. He watched him cross the street, go down the hill, past the Sta
tion Hotel and further, until, almost lost amongst the Missionites, he crossed again and walked into the railway station.

  On his way home from the office, Ted Mallender called into Harry’s bar. This was unusual. This was once in a blue moon, so much so that Harry himself who’d attended every meeting of the Mission Development Committee that Ted chaired, had to look twice to see who it was. For one thing, Ted thought he might bump into Jake. For another, he was celebrating, albeit a little early, the fact that a piece of Cassidy land, no matter what it was, may be being returned to the town. And for a third, but for a third, he was troubled.

  He knew something was awry when he watched Doug Sketchings drive away from the Agency in his small Korean car and he envied him. Despite his stained collar and his creased pants, he envied him the certainty, however dreaded it might be, of knowing, at least, that he was going home to a clinically downbeat wife and two uncontrollable boys in a place that stank of kids’ sick and nail polish.

  It was preferable to the uncertainty of his own home, to the instances that revolved dizzily around his younger wife, Lily, to the blade of grass, to the mouth rinse and to the footprint on the kitchen floor that had played in his head most of his working day like a tune he couldn’t get rid of.

  He rang her and told her he’d be late. And then he listened, to the way she responded. Normally when Ted spoke to anyone, including Lily, he was only ever interested in what they said if it was beneficial to him. But this time it was different. This time he listened for a tone. He listened to whether her voice was quicker than usual, or more delayed because she had to think or make corrections. He got nothing.

  It was Jake’s first day back at the mill after the suspension and he took the detour down to Harry’s because he felt he deserved it. He had a couple of quick beers that sieved through the dust at the back of his throat and then, for reasons of discipline and self-control, he was about to leave when Ted motioned him from one of the booths. Jake checked back over his shoulder towards the door, towards his apartment and the threadbare grip on what was for the best.

  Ted pointed to the seat opposite “I’ve got news, Jake,” he said. “Grab yourself a beer and sit down.”

  The jukebox played country rock in the background. Jake sat down, his apartment sliding further away into the gloom.

  “He offered us some of the land. It’s the rough land behind the homestead, but it’s a start. His father’s dead less than three months. And he needs somewhere to live. I can understand that. I’m a patient man. There are things he needs to do. That’s what he said.”

  Ted moved forward in his seat and drummed his fingers on his chin. “What are those things, Jake? Do you know? Has he said anything? What those things are he needs to do.”

  Jake took a glug from his beer and tried to feign a torch-lit delve into the nooks and crannies of the night of the Chinese meal.

  “I don’t remember anything.”

  “Think some more.”

  “There were books, magazines…the surveys. That kind of thing.”

  “But he didn’t say anything? He didn’t specify any particular thing that he needed to do?”

  Jake shook his head and Ted sat back in the chair, folded his hands across his chest and looked around the room.

  “And you didn’t get his weak spot? You didn’t take a good enough look.”

  “I tried, but…”

  “You remember what we did with Doug? You remember his weak spot?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What was it?”

  “Food stains on his collar.”

  “Exactly. Shall I tell you about John Cassidy? He’s a man familiar with deceit, is what he is. It’s a familial trait.”

  “He locked Delilah in the cellar.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “And he stole Rita’s watch.”

  “I don’t like him, Jake. He’s disrespectful. He’s a deceiver of people and he won’t make me look like a fool. He won’t do that. I like the truth of things. I like it all laid out where I can see it. I like it so I know what and where everything is. And I don’t like it when I don’t or when people keep it from me…Do you have a girl, Jake?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I want you to do something for me. I want you to go back to the Cassidy place and look around some more. I need to know what his moves are. He’s out of town. We watched him go. Black suit and a packed bag. A few days, at least. I could drive you there right now.”

  Jake closed his eyes a few seconds. Dusk had descended like a veil.

  “I’m not sure, Mr Mallender.”

  “You’re not sure? What do you mean ‘you’re not sure’? I don’t think you understand me here, Jake. I said I want you to do Something for me.” Ted looked round. “You see those guys over there? Those guys are wondering what you’re doing sitting here. That’s all they’re trying to figure. What exactly Jake Massey, with his reputation, with his track record for fucking things up, is doing talking with Ted Mallender, is doing having a beer with Ted Mallender? You understand me? Now I can make it go two ways here, Jake. I can make it look like you’re making a nuisance of yourself. I can shout. I can accuse you of all kinds. Or, I can make it look like we have a connection. I can make it look as if you’re a funny guy, like you’re here because I like you. Do you follow me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Jake nodded.

  “Plus, there’s another favour. Very hush-hush. Very clandestine.”

  Ted stood, mopped at his mouth with a napkin, left money on the table.

  “I’ll tell you in the car.”

  Jake waited out on the parking lot a few minutes before Ted came back out. Something to do with the grease-stains and the sawdust on the uniform and the sacking he made him sit on. Something to do with the black, toe-capped boots and the polystyrene mat he brought out for Jake to put them on.

  There was a half-moon out beyond the rough terrain, angled down to the crags of Rupture Hill. Ted took the road out, past the burial grounds and on, and the closer they got to the Mallender estate, to the lawns and the colonial house, so his agitation seemed to grow. A quarter-mile short of the turning he pulled over to the side of the road with a screech and jabbed his lit cigarillo up around Jake’s face.

  “That greasy fucker, Jorge, has been in my house. I know he has. And if he’s been doing what I think he’s been doing I will have his balls on the end of a flagpole. Now I’m never there when he’s there. He rolls up in his jalopy after I’ve gone and he’s gone when I get back, so I need somebody to go on up there and see what they can see. Y’understand what I’m saying?”

  “But I’m at the mill. I’m…”

  “Don’t let me down, Jake. I need you to help me. Now get out and don’t touch the car. And get what you can on the Cassidy guy. Get his weak spot for me.”

  John got off the train at Serpentine. It was mid-afternoon. From the prairies to the south a wind that didn’t carry the dust of timber on its back came low and quick across the street. He walked the short rise of the road to the town’s library where, in its high-ceilinged rooms, he found surnames, addresses and contacts. He followed trails wherever they might go, any trail, any lead, any thread and a couple of hours later, with the buzz of the air-conditioning still in his ears, he came out with enough information to make his move with.

  Carpe Diem Enterprises did officially exist. It was not long-established but, by the looks, had had two or three other names before. There was a motto, in Latin, and a mission statement that spoke of opportunism and risk. There was a logo, a series of testimonies that featured case studies of failing industries asset-stripped, bought at base-level and then regenerated and sold on for sizeable profits, or of tracts of wasteland purchased, salvaged and built on. There was a kite-marked guarantee. There was a telephone and fax number, P.O. Box details, but no official address, no doorway on the street of a town somewhere, no claw-shaped knocker. And Vincent Clay, for sure
, was its founder and CEO.

  There were two hotels in Serpentine; the imaginatively named Central and the marginally poetic Prairie View. John booked in at the Prairie View. The room was on the ground floor at the end of a dim corridor and decorated in tones of mustard and seaweed green. And it did not have a prairie view. It had a view of the Prairie View parking lot. And the bed was as springy as a trampoline.

  In the early evening, he unpacked most of the bag. There were some clothes but mostly it was the surveys and maps and other materials brought from the homestead, some of which he laid out on the floor with the delicacy of spread petals, and some he stuck on the long, plain wall with strips of masking tape.

  Around 7.30 he ate in the Prairie View restaurant, which did have a prairie view, and, given the stretch of virtually uninterrupted glass that covered the entire wall, wasn’t afraid to flaunt it. And, apart from four men who wore competing shades of pastel sweaters ranging from peach to lavender and who bore every hallmark of being on a two-day, spouse-free golfing trip, he was alone.

  He faced the road and the flat lands beyond. For a while, he imagined his father there, propped in the chair next to him, the gorges of clavicle and throat exposed. It’ll eat you alive, he said. Find Something else, move on. But it wasn’t possible. He couldn’t do it. The golfers left, their sweaters simmering like sorbets. He cut into the pinkish meat of the steak and watched the juices leak out across the plate.

  When he got back to the room, he took out a bottle of his father’s beer from the bag and opened it, sipped it with his eyes closed. His ear pricked to the sound of a flat-backed jalopy carrying hay bales and he sniffed at the fusty air. Before he sat down, he took the photograph of the green-circled Vincent Clay out of his pocket and set it above the surveys and maps on the long, plain wall. And then, over the next three days, interrupted only by sleep, bouts of exercise and food he had delivered to the room, he started to figure his plan.