by T. J. Beach
“Err, because … his wife.”
“I think I might go back to Harry’s little retirement love nest and ask him a few more questions.” Debbie savoured a mental image of Harry whimpering and his snooty wife aghast.
Hollins grinned.
“Yeah,” Debbie went on. “And if Keith visited Harry and Derek, he must have heard that Joe Singleton is now Austin Gould.”
“Which means Devon will turn up at the office or around here,” Hollins agreed.
“Or he already has.”
Hollins frowned.
“Yeah. What if Austin lied through his teeth as well?” Debbie asked.
Hollins gazed off to the horizon. “I don’t see that in Austin.”
“Ha! Now who’s starstruck?”
He rolled his shoulders.
Damn it. He had been seduced by Gould’s charisma. Debbie shook her head. So much for his holier-than-thou principles.
“Did you believe Austin when he spoke to you?” Hollins asked. “Austin said he hadn’t met Devon and offered to help with the search, didn’t he?”
“He’s an actor, Gary. He’s a politician.”
“Yes, but what does your gut say? Did he lie to you?”
She didn’t think so. He’d seemed so sincere and concerned until that weird moment as she left with Jennifer. “Has he said anything racist in front of you?” Debbie asked.
Hollins raised an eyebrow. “Where did that come from?”
“He made disparaging comments when Jennifer did her Noongar words thing. Stuff about savages.”
“Well, that’s a surprise. I didn’t think so. He shakes hands with Indian guys and Aborigines. The party is anti-immigration, but that’s about jobs for Australians.”
“So they say. And what are you?”
“English.”
“Exactly. Austin Gould has no problem employing a white male pom. It’s those nasty black people and Muslims the APP doesn’t want. What if Austin’s embarrassed because he has a mixed-race baby he didn’t know about?”
“Then he’s a gobshite. It doesn’t help you find Devon.”
“It’s frustrating. That’s all. Everyone lies to me.”
“Come on, Deb. No they don’t. Even Wendy?”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. It just came into my head. Look, you’ve got the Goon Squad tonight.”
“The all white, all male Austin Gould security volunteers? Do they wear brown shirts like Hitler’s men?”
“They are all white. All male. All immature wankers. Keep an eye on them. They’re trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?”
Hollins chewed his lip. “I don’t know, but they’ll do something stupid and irresponsible, bet on it.”
“We wouldn’t want Austin to look bad, would we?”
“Deb!”
Hollins was right to scowl. A political candidate had contracted Ridenour Investigations. Like him or not, they had to be professional. The detective agency could use the fees, and Debbie needed her job. Anyway, she couldn’t deny a lingering appreciation for the Warrior of God star even if she did suspect his goody-goody credentials, so it shouldn’t be hard. No way she’d let Hollins know. “Where’s Austin?”
“You are not going to call him a liar?”
She fixed him with a glare. If he spent the evening worrying that she’d offend the candidate, all the more fun. “Get moving. You need to change before cricket practice. You know where to go? Matt will meet you at the recreation ground.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“THERE HE IS! Hi, Gary.”
Jenny stood with her dad, cute as a button in her Kanga Cricket Master Blaster shirt and shorts with her ponytail pulled back through a cap.
Matt Haring was six feet of lean, stoic South African. Jennifer had his physique, Lachlan his character. He clapped Hollins on the back. “You’re good for this?”
“Yep. Happy to help.” A lie. The prospect filled him with a rumbling unease. What did he know about cricket? As much as he knew about uncloaking bullies — bugger all.
“Thanks, man. You know I’d do it but for my shifts.”
“No problem. Hi, Jenny.”
Two girls about Jenny’s age bounced up beside her, lips pursed, eyes wide as if giggles would break out at any moment. They wore the same tiger-striped shirts as Jenny.
“This is Annie. This is Suzie,” Jenny said. “This is Gary. He’s going to coach Lachlan’s team.”
“Hi, Gary,” they said together. The giggles burst out.
“Come and meet Dave, the coordinator.” Matt led Hollins to the change rooms verandah.
The girls skipped along. Apparently, they had too much pent-up energy to walk.
A stocky guy in shorts stood at a folding table covered in a mess of papers. He wore a black, red and white AFL cap with a Saint stick figure that clashed with his adult-sized Kanga Cricket shirt. “G’day. You must be Gary Hollins.”
“That’s me.”
“Taking over from Debbie Haring.”
“That’s the idea. This is Debbie’s husband.”
“Yeah, I know Matt from school. How ya’ going, mate.” They shook hands.
“Look, Dave, I’m sorry I couldn’t do it.”
The coordinator shrugged off Matt’s apology. “Fly in Fly Out shifts. I know. It’s a hassle getting coaches these days with everybody’s employment commitments. I’m sorry it didn’t work out with Debbie. I’m not sure what happened there, but I don’t usually lose coaches the first week. I’m not going to lose you after one session, am I, Gary?”
“No.” Ten Wednesdays he’d be there. Hollins had counted — twice — and considered circling the dates on his calendar so he could cross them off after each session. He’d see it out.
“Are you a cricketer?” Dave asked.
“Gary knows all about sport,” Jenny said. “He’s a Charlton Athletic fan.”
Dave sniggered. “Is that right, Jennifer? Thanks for the input, but I’m not sure being a Charlton fan says much about Gary’s cricket education. Or his soccer knowledge, come to that.” He grinned.
Hollins chuckled, as expected, at the slight against his chosen team. “Debbie’s given me all the stuff.” He waved the pad of session plans. “I’ll be fine.”
“Good oh. Sometimes it can be more of a problem if the coaches are cricketers. Trying to teach the kids cover drives and leg spin at this age confuses them. It’s more about making sure they point the flat side of the bat at the ball. Know what I mean?”
“It’s the flat side, is it?” Hollins pretended to flick through the papers.
Dave chuckled. “Sounds like you’ve got it all sorted. Nice to meet you. Mrs Haring told you about the Working With Children Certificate?”
“Debbie didn’t need one,” Matt pointed out.
“No, because she’s a parent whose child is participating. As a non-parent, Gary, the club asks for a certificate. I know it’s overkill. There are some zealots on the committee.” Dave’s eyebrows arched. “You look worried. It won’t be a problem, will it?” He smiled.
“Well, no. I don’t know. What’s involved?” Close scrutiny of Gary Hollins might raise awkward questions. His documentation was the best money could buy, but the supporting records were thin, to say the least.
“It costs eleven dollars for a volunteer. You lodge it at the Post Office — a formality — as long as you’ve got no criminal records and you’re not on any watch lists.” He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not, are you?”
What the hell? He thinks I’m a pedophile? “No. No. Give me the form. No problem.”
Dave gestured to the folding table. “Helen will fix you up after the session. We’re about to start.”
“See you, Gary!” Jenny and her friends dashed off for their game.
“Charlton Athletic, eh?” Matt said, as they worked out where to find the Blue Wave’s team station.
“You’re a football fan?” Hollins asked.
“Sure … r
ugby football.” Matt gave it the full southern African burr, so it came out as ruug-a-bee.
“Well, when you realise association football is the best and only game,” Hollins advised, “don’t choose Charlton as your team. They’ll break your heart.”
Matt sniggered. “Tell me about it, bro. I’m a Cheetahs man.”
“I haven’t seen Lachy.” Hollins scanned the mass of kids and parents.
“He’s with his friend Paul somewhere.”
“This bullying thing.”
Matt sighed. “I know. Paul’s not the bully.”
“No, but it’s real? You’re as worried as Debbie?”
“Yeah. I know why you ask. She takes these things to heart.”
That was one way to put it.
Matt continued. “Yeah, I’m worried. The little man’s lost his fire. There’s something wrong.”
The solemn lad Hollins knew had precious little vim to give up. All the more reason to help him get it back.
A petite woman with a froth of blonde hair cut them off as they arrived at Station Four. “Hi, Matt.”
“Yvette.”
“Are you Gary?”
“That’s me.”
She thrust a sheet of paper at him like a toddler presenting a drawing. “I’ve got the team list. Are you going to call the roll?”
Her eagerness swept away Hollins’ misgivings. Four kids stood by the sign. Three boys — Lachlan, a blonde kid and an Asian boy — alongside a gap-toothed girl whose shirt hung below her knees. Another boy stood a little to the side with his dad. Both had the same solid, round build, crossed arms, and Bulldogs cricket club caps over identical sneers.
“You know what?” Hollins handed the sheet back. “I’ll get to know them as we go. Who wants to play cricket?”
The kids by the sign put their hands up.
“Let’s go then. I’m Gary.”
Cones were lined up ready — three in a row about a step apart, each with a ball balanced on top.
“Right oh. Everyone will get a turn to bat. One of you hits the balls. Smash them as hard as you can. The rest of you field the hits and bring them back. Ladies first.” He sneaked a look at the name on the back of the girl’s shirt. “Joanne, have you got your bat?” Each participant got a plastic bat in their enrolment package.
Joanne raced to get hers.
“Spread out, boys.” Hollins waved them into position. “Back a bit further. Joanne’s going to hit them out of sight, aren’t you?”
She nodded.
“You going to join us, mate?” Hollins nodded to the solidly-built kid, who rolled his eyes and reluctantly joined the other boys.
“Go on, Joanne. Hard as you like.”
The little girl lined up on the first ball, took a deep breath and a mighty swing. The bat sent the cone spinning. The ball dropped to the ground.
Joanne frowned and stepped over to the next ball.
“Wait a sec,” Hollins said. “Have another go.” He set up the cone and put the ball back on top.
“She doesn’t get another go! She missed it!” the solid kid hollered.
Hollins ignored him.
Joanne wrinkled her nose, took aim and popped the ball straight up in the air.
“Top hit!” Hollins said.
The obnoxious boy dived forward and caught the ball. “I got it.” He held up his prize.
“Great hit. Great catch. Good work, team.”
“It wasn’t a great hit. It was crap. I caught it!”
“I tell you what.” Hollins walked over to the kid who caught the ball and took it out of his hand. “You’re such a good fielder you don’t need to practice. Why don’t you run around the park?”
The child’s jaw dropped.
“Off you go. I’m going to watch and make sure you go right around the tree in the corner.”
“But I haven’t had my bat.”
“Get a move on, and you can be back before we’re finished.”
“Dad!”
The big guy rumbled over, arms still crossed. “What’s your problem, mate?” he asked Hollins.
“He’s disrupting the session. He can do a lap and think about it.”
“Dan’s the only decent cricketer here, and he’s right. That hit was crap. What kind of a coach are you?”
“The one who volunteered.”
“Dad’s the coach of the Bell’s Landing Country Week Youth team.”
“Is he? Wow. Tell me? When you’re coaching, and you tell someone to run a lap, what do they do?”
Dan’s dad snorted.
“Well, I’m the coach here. So Dan, on your bike.”
At the end of the night, Dave McManus called Hollins over.
“How did it go?”
“Good, I think. I enjoyed it. I think the kids did.”
“Except maybe Dan Cotterill?”
Hollins raised his chin. He didn’t care if the rotten little smartass hated every second.
“His dad had a word.”
“Is there an issue?” Hollins asked.
Dave shook his head. “Naah. Jeff said you were pretty good, which means you were outstanding. Jeff Cotterill is a jerk, and his son’s a little shit. Sounds like you did well. Helen says you can get that Working With Children form from the Post Office. They check your ID and take a picture.”
When the coordinator left, a tiny hand tugged at the hem of Hollins’ shorts.
“Hey, Lachlan.” Hollins sank down to the boy’s level.
“Thanks for being our coach, Gary.”
He patted Lachlan on the back. “Did you have fun?”
Lachlan nodded.
“Are you coming next week?”
He nodded again, harder.
Something warm flooded Hollins’ chest.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HOLLINS SETTLED HIMSELF into the corner of his sofa with a well-earned, ice-cold beer. He’d just picked up the TV remote when someone knocked on his door — an occurrence so rare after dark in Summer Dayz caravan park that he waited until the knock came again before he got to his feet.
Sophia Pendlebury, in skintight jeans, a collared shirt and a light jacket, smiled from his doorstep. “Good evening. Are you going to ask me in?”
Hollins restored his jaw to its normal position and stepped aside. “Come in, come in.”
“Have you got any more of those?” She pointed to his beer.
“Sure. If you don’t mind Swan Lager. It’s all I’ve got.”
“I took you for the sophisticated type.” She grinned. “I haven’t drunk lager in years. Great.”
“Do you like a stubby holder? I think I’ve got one somewhere.”
“No, thanks. I’ll have a glass if it’s not too much trouble. A brewer told me beer always tastes better in a glass, and he was right. You should try it.”
“No chance. It might spoil my blokey, macho image.”
Sophia raked him with a look that made the hairs on his chest stand on end. “I don’t think you could be anything but alpha male if you tried. In fact, I think you try to play down your strength. It’s not working, Gary.”
He hesitated, gobsmacked, with the fridge door open. She’d summed him up after half a dozen interactions. He didn’t know she’d been watching. Why did he have the fridge door open? Oh yeah, beer.
He wiped the dust off a water glass with his kitchen towel, tipped in half a fresh bottle of cold lager and turned to find Sophia stretched in his place on the couch, making it look like a thousand dollar leather settee.
“Madame.” He offered the glass and the bottle. “This may be the first time ever that bottled Swan has been served in a glass.”
She knocked back a healthy slug and topped up the glass.
Hollins considered sharing the sofa, but he didn’t see how he could squeeze himself onto the two-seater without making Sophia move her legs. He pulled over a chair from the dining table.
“Everything okay?” Sophia asked.
“Surprised. Wondering how you got pas
t the gate, actually. Visitors are supposed to park outside.”
“The man in the office, Tommy — lovely man — opened the boom for me. Shouldn’t he do that?”
“I’m going to ask the sod for a discount. What’s the point of living in a gated community if they let in every pretty girl who asks?”
Sophia smiled. “Women often knock at your door?”
He shook his head.
“I’m surprised. You look after yourself. You have this troubled, world-weary thing going. It’s very attractive. Are you single?”
Hollins froze with his beer at his lips. Was this a booty call? If he said something flirtatious, he had the distinct feeling Sophia’d say something naughty back, and he’d be off to his bedroom with one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen — a celebrity. A flash of guilt made him want to punish himself by ending any slight chance of sex with Sophia Pendlebury, and wound her for toying with him. Hollins had recently shared his mattress with another lovely, talented woman who died thanks to his failures. “Are you?” he asked.
“Am I what?” she replied.
“Single? I mean, you’re with Austin. And Glenn?”
“Glenn? Oh, no. For goodness sake. Glenn and I have been friends forever. You couldn’t think …?”
Hollins shrugged and sipped his beer.
“No, Gary. I’m with Austin. Only Austin. I forget I’m not in the theatre any more. We actors are very touchy-feely, I forget that it surprises people.”
“Glenn’s an actor?”
“Goodness, no. Not anymore, but he’s in the trade. We ran into him again on the Warrior set. It’s rather what got us into politics.”
“Speaking of which, how did it go tonight?”
“With Debbie running the protection, you mean? She’s quite a character, isn’t she?”
“Oh, God. What happened?” Hollins prayed she hadn’t lost her temper and confronted Austin about past infidelities. “Is that why you’re here?”
“Not to seduce you?”
He rolled his eyes.
She laughed. “Admit it! That’s what you were thinking. Oh, don’t be embarrassed. Good God. It’s only sex. It’s perfectly natural. Sorry, I’m being theatrical again.” Sophia sipped her drink. “Why would you be worried about Debbie?”