by Peter Ralph
‘Don’t make a scene, Steve. He’s not worth it.’
‘Yeah, and you know what happened to you the last time you took me on.’
Steve had never been a fighter, but he was trembling and dying to smash his fist into Leckie’s smirking face.
‘Dance with me, Steve,’ Sandi said, as Leckie swaggered off the dance floor. ‘I shouldn’t have worn this silly dress, but I knew Bianca was going to be here and I wanted to show you I could be sexy too.’
‘You look fantastic. You’re the sexiest women in the hall and, don’t worry, I’m not leaving your side for the rest of the night.’
‘You’re sweet, but I don’t want to stay. That creep’s going to keep drinking and making foul comments and you’ll end up hitting him. I don’t want to have to arrest you. Why don’t I go back to the table and get my bag? Then we’ll split.’
‘I’ll get it, but what are we going to do?’
‘We could go back to your place and watch a DVD.’
‘That sure leaves this for dead.’ He grinned.
When he returned with her bag, after wearing a few parting smart-arse comments from Leckie, she was chatting to some of the young men whom she had danced with. He took her elbow and steered her through them to the foyer and out onto the street.
‘For someone who’s worried that she’s not sexy, you sure know how to attract a crowd.’
‘I’m sorry for spoiling your night,’ she said, leaning over and kissing him. He put his arms around her and hungrily crushed her full, inviting lips to his.
‘Not here, Steve. Let’s go to your place.’
Five minutes later, bodies entangled, they stumbled up the two flights of stairs to Steve’s apartment. ‘Have you got anything to drink?’
‘I thought you said you didn’t drink?’
‘I don’t, but sometimes I get the urge.’
‘Me too. I’ve got a bottle of Johnny Walker and a semillon. What do you prefer?’
‘I’ll have wine.’
‘So will I,’ he said, taking two flutes from a shelf.
She kicked her shoes off and curled up on the sofa with her feet under her. ‘How was your old girlfriend?’
‘Okay.’
‘Okay? You seemed to be engaged in pretty intense conversation.’
‘I made a few comments about her father that she didn’t like, that’s all.’
‘Do you still love her?’
‘No, but I still care for her.’
‘Good answer. Come and give me a cuddle.’
He did not need to be asked twice. It had been a long time since he’d had anything resembling romance in his life and she felt good. They kissed passionately and, when she eased him away to take a sip of wine, he was breathing heavily.
‘Slow down. We’ve got all night. Let’s not spoil it.’
He was flushed and his forehead had broken out in a light sweat. ‘Sorry, it’s been a long time since ...’
‘Me too, that’s why I want to take it slowly.’
In their half-a-dozen dates she had said very little about herself, but he was sensitive enough to detect that she felt like talking. She was an only child, her family lived in Coffs Harbour and she had an arts degree from Newtower. She drained her glass and Steve quickly refilled it, as he listened to her talk about the man she had loved and spent two years with in Sydney. He was a big businessman working on complex security systems for ASIO and the Pentagon, and it was impossible for her to phone him while he was supposedly on one of his numerous interstate or international trips. They had talked about having children, building a house and spending the rest of their lives together. Then, one day in the waiting room of her dentist, she flicked through an old copy of the Woman’s Day and there he was with wife, kids and dog. It had nearly killed her and she quit her job, vacated her apartment, got a new mobile phone and disappeared. Looking for something to ease the pain, she had joined the police force for the excitement, only to end up directing traffic and doing paperwork. The bastard could have found her had he wanted to, but she never saw or heard from him again. She would have rejected any advances but it exacerbated her hurt, knowing that he had not even bothered looking for her.
‘That’s some story.’ Steve gently put his arm around her. ‘What an arsehole.’ He had been right; her outwardly confident manner was a mask to conceal her hurt.
For a few minutes her smile and vitality disappeared. ‘I just want to ask you one question,’ she said in mock seriousness. ‘You’re not married, are you?’
‘Who’d marry someone with a honker like this?’
‘It suits you; very Owen Wilson-like if you ask me.’ She uncurled her legs and stood alluringly in front of him. ‘Let’s go to bed.’
Five weeks out from the election, the polls were grim for Labor. Nick Gould, despite the urging of Clarrie Driscoll, was only campaigning half-heartedly, knowing that the conservatives had an insurmountable lead. Whiskey in hand, he looked up at the big screen on his office wall to see the leader of the conservatives berating the government and prattling on about what he was going to do to fix roads and public transport. ‘Have a look at the little prima donna, Clarrie. I’d like to swat him.’
‘You can still win, Nick, if only you’d campaign. The people think the party stinks but they still love you.’
‘No-one could ever accuse you of being a pessimist.’ The Premier laughed. ‘Nah, we’ve had our day. You saw the polls after that lunatic’s performance in Paisley. We’re dead, mate, dead as a doornail.’
‘I just wish you’d have a go,’ Clarrie responded, glancing at the screen. Then, in astonishment, ‘Have a look at who’s just entered the auditorium!’
The screen showed the gas-man, fully attired in white boilersuit and gasmask.
‘So what? He’s not shouting and screaming like he was when he went after me. He’s probably supporting that little weasel.’
That is what the conservative’s leader must have thought, because he came down from the stage and, playing up to the viewing audience, put his arm around Dean and said, ‘Here’s an example of Labor’s policies. This poor man is being chased off his property by the big gas companies, aided and abetted by this avaricious government.’
Dean forcefully shrugged the little man’s arm from his shoulders. ‘Get away from me, you prick. Your policies about big-gas are no different to the government’s, so don’t try and paint yourself as the saviour of us landowners. Why don’t you tell the audience how much the gas companies contributed to your campaign?’
There are times in most politicians’ lives when they wish they hadn’t said or done something and the leader of the conservatives was regretting the second he had left the stage. ‘Uh-uh that’s not right, we’re going to protect landowners.’
‘Liar! How much money did those plunderers put in your pocket? How much?’
One of his minders came to the rescue and steered the beleaguered politician back to the stage, but the damage had been done. Nick Gould had his feet up on his desk and his body shook with mirth. ‘Can you hear the talkback jocks and see the newspapers in the morning, Clarrie? They’re going to slaughter him and we might just be back in the race. Where are we campaigning tomorrow?’
‘You’re speaking in five marginal electorates, you’ve got one radio interview after the midday news and two minutes on Australia Today tomorrow night.’
‘Bugger that! Hell, we’ve got an election to win,’ the Premier said, bouncing out of his chair. ‘Get me on as many early morning radio programs as you can, squeeze in more speaking engagements and let the television channels know I’m available any time. Come on, Clarrie, pull your finger out.’
The letter from Braithwaite Ogilvie & Llewellyn denied liability for all the matters that Simon Breckenridge had raised, and completely ignored his offer regarding the sale of Artie Cleever’s property for $500,000. Instead, they offered $180,000 ‘as a generous first and final offer by our client to expeditiously settle this matter.’ It was what Bre
ckenridge had expected and he knew that, if he commenced litigation against CEGL, Braithwaite Ogilvie & Llewellyn would use every legal avenue to stall the action and, by the time it reached court, the Cleevers might be dead. What the big city legal firm didn’t know was that he had never intended that this matter be determined by the courts.
He picked up his recorder and dictated:
Create a letterhead for Mr Arthur Cleever and address this letter, private and confidential, to Mr Aaron James at 2ZL. Dear Mr James, attached are copies of letters from my lawyers, Breckenridge & Priestley and response from CEGL’s lawyers, Braithwaite Ogilvie & Llewellyn. Also enclosed is a copy of a non-disclosure document that I was forced to sign before CEGL would provide me with tanker water in replacement for the water in my bores that they had contaminated. They have since reneged on their undertaking. New Para.
I seek your assistance to right a grave injustice perpetrated by CEGL. I am eighty-one years of age and my wife is four years younger and we were tricked by a land access consultant into signing an access agreement to our property. There are now three wells and a pipeline on it and my wife and I have medical reports certifying that we are being poisoned by gas toxins. We are both very sick and just looking to be fairly compensated for our property so that we can shift away from this coal seam gas area and live our remaining few years in peace. New Para.
Our property was valued at $500,000 as per copy of the attached valuation before drilling commenced, but CEGL have seen fit to offer us $180,000 on a take it or leave it basis. They know we cannot afford to litigate and that even if we could they would stall such legal action until we are too sick to appear in court or perhaps dead. New Para.
Any assistance that you can provide will be greatly appreciated and perhaps you can do what our legal system cannot. Sign it ‘yours sincerely, Arthur Cleever’ and, after you’ve typed it, phone him and get him to come in and sign it asap.
Chapter 26
It was 10am on a muggy Sydney day and, while CEGL’s annual general meeting wasn’t due to commence for an hour, the entrance to the Centurion Building was surrounded by about thirty placard-carrying demonstrators. Dean Prezky attired as the gas-man struck up the chant, CEGL go to hell, which was soon picked up by the slowly circling protestors. Don Carmody, the chairman of the McLachlan Bank, was carrying a placard, CEGL destroying our food bowls. Steve Forrest entered the building to the puzzled looks of those who knew him.
Channel Six arrived ten minutes before the meeting was due to commence, by which time the ranks of the demonstrators had swelled to nearly a hundred. On seeing the cameras, they lifted their noise levels by a few decibels.
A young journalist conducted a brief interview with Don Carmody, asking him if he found it strange that Greens, farmers and graziers, and right-wingers like Aaron James, and he himself, were all on the same side fighting big gas.
‘Not at all, young lady. We’re all fighting for fairness and equity, which transcends political affiliations. The coal seam gas companies, many of them foreign-owned, are destroying our land and, worse, they’re ruining the lives of hardworking Australians and being assisted by greedy governments blinded by dollars.’
Dennis Fulton, carrying a placard, Big gas destroying the Great Artesian Basin, noticed a thickset, dark-suited man taking photos of him. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, mate?’ he growled.
The man took off his sunglasses, reached into his suit pocket and flashed his wallet. ‘Federal police,’ Dennis exclaimed, looking at the badge. ‘What do you want with me?’
‘You’re a person of interest.’
‘A person of interest?’
‘Yeah, an agitator. You’ve been making trouble in Queensland for years. Why don’t you take yourself back there? We don’t need your type down here.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who put you up to taking the photos? Are you on duty or moonlighting?’
‘Don’t get cute with me and if you keep carrying on like a smart-arse I’ll throw you in the lockup.’
Dennis turned and saw the TV cameras pointed right at him. ‘Go for it. Then you can explain to the television reporters what you’re doing disturbing a peaceful protest and how much CEGL are paying you?
The Fed covered his mouth with his hand. ‘Bastard! There’ll be another time, without the cameras, and then we’ll see how smart you are.’
Meanwhile, on the sixtieth floor, Harold Llewellyn was chairing the meeting, sitting along the middle of a long table with Spencer Harbrow on his right and Moira Raymond on his left. The meetings were usually brief and, after formal resolutions were passed, Llewellyn usually made a short speech about another successful year and then everyone adjourned to an adjoining room for refreshments. This was his sixteenth meeting and in every other year the share price had risen, but it had fallen nearly twenty percent over the past year. As he looked at the larger-than-usual audience, all he could see were glum faces. They were like vultures and fired off questions about the company’s fall in profits, its massive expansion program and its fights with landowners. They all led back to one thing: the company’s share price.
Harbrow was brooding; these people had made a fortune thanks to him and now, when for the first time the company’s performance was less than stellar, they were baying for blood. How dare they, these piddling little shareholders criticise him after what he had done for them? Someone raised the matter of the demonstrators and Llewellyn promptly put them down as unrepresentative riff-raff, but the questioner followed up with, ‘Is that how you’d describe the chairman of the McLachlan Bank?’
Before he could answer, Steve Forrest chimed in with, ‘I’d hardly call Tom Morgan and Charles Paxton unrepresentative riff-raff.’ Only Moira Raymond knew him and she was quick to pass the information onto Llewellyn.
‘Perhaps that description is a little harsh,’ Llewellyn offered. ‘But these people, despite their standing in the community, are ill-informed. This company is a good corporate citizen that creates jobs, provides opportunities, pays taxes and makes generous donations to the communities in which it works.’
‘If the company’s so good, why do farmers and graziers hate it so much? Isn’t it ruining their land and poisoning their water, and hasn’t there been a link drawn between exploiting coal seam gas and an increase in skin problems and cancer?’
‘Are you here as a reporter or shareholder, Sir?’
‘I’m a shareholder and you, more than anyone, should know that I am perfectly entitled to ask questions. I’d like an answer please.’
Harbrow was seething and started to get to his feet, but Llewellyn put his hand on his shoulder and whispered, ‘I’ll handle this.’
‘Many landowners have signed access agreements with the company and there is no evidence to suggest that the extraction of coal seam gas leads to illness or health problems.’
‘Why then is the company the largest donor to the Paisley Memorial Hospital and why is it paying the medical bills of sick children in the Fisher Valley?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Llewellyn blustered.
‘You should ask Ms Raymond, then.’ Steve grinned. ‘Mr Chairman, why is the company running pipelines through prime agricultural land when they could be laid under stock tracks?’
‘That’s confidential and relates to the company’s operations and it is not appropriate to discuss it in this forum.’
‘Mr Chair …’
‘No, no more questions from you. You’ve had more than a fair go.’
‘I was finished,’ Steve said, pulling his recorder from his shirt pocket as he strode towards the door. ‘I was going to say that I’d be pleased to help ensure the minutes of the meeting are accurate. I’m happy to email you a copy if it’d help.’
‘No recording devices are allowed,’ Llewellyn shouted.
‘Sue me,’ Steve laughed, pushing the door open.
The next morning, Aaron James was in full flight. ‘I want to tell yo
u a disgraceful story about a big international company screwing one of our diggers. Not to put too fine a point on it, these bastards are trying to steal his land. I spoke to this man yesterday. Artie Cleever’s his name and he’s lived peacefully with his wife on their property in the Fisher Valley for forty years. He didn’t want to talk about it, but I found out that he lied about his age in the Second World War and enlisted in our infantry as a fifteen-year-old and saw action in the Philippines under MacArthur. What a hero!
‘Anyhow, our friends at CEGL thought he was old and ripe for the picking, so they conned him into signing a land access agreement, then sunk three wells on his property that contaminated his air and water and caused him and his wife to become extremely ill. Let me read you an exchange of letters between his lawyers and the Sydney shysters who have plenty of form in this area of the law, Braithwaite Ogilvie & Llewellyn. But I warn you, when you hear them you’ll want to puke.’
Five minutes later, 2ZL’s switchboard was choked with callers wanting to trash CEGL and its lawyers.
‘Here’s what I suggest,’ James ranted. ‘Anyone with a CEGL gas or electricity account should cancel it and switch to another provider. Let’s boycott the bastards and see how these fat cats like it when we hit them in their hip pockets and I promise you, I’ll raise this matter every morning until Artie Cleever has been paid his half-a-million dollars. If this is happening to poor old Artie, it’s happening to others as well, so, if you’re getting fleeced by big-gas or know someone who is, phone me.’
No-one else could get away with what Aaron James did, but he had a history of ridiculing lawyers and their clients when he was supporting good causes, to the point that the bullies withdrew, bruised and battered, long before reaching court.
‘Buffy, how would you like your own column?’ Steve asked.
‘What’s the catch? What do you want me to put my name to that you’re too scared to put your own on?’
‘You’re very cynical. I’m thinking about resurrecting Heard Around Town, but I’m not sure you could rake up enough gossip to justify a regular column. What do you think?’