Liar Bird

by Lisa Walker

  ‘About the tiger?’ My voice rose, and Simon frowned. ‘What kind of an announcement?’ I whispered.

  Simon tapped the side of his nose.

  ‘You don’t know, do you?’

  He smiled. ‘No frigging idea. Come and have a drink, Cassie — to celebrate.’

  ‘You’re not off the wagon, are you?’

  Simon shook his head. ‘Not after that night on Cougan Peak. Jesus, what a hangover. I’ll celebrate with a lemon, lime and bitters.’

  I didn’t feel like celebrating. Why hadn’t Mac sent me a letter? I knew this was irrational; why would he, after all those media interviews? He’d hate me now. He wouldn’t understand. ‘I wish I hadn’t done all that media stuff, Simon. I didn’t want to. You forced me into it.’

  Simon cocked his head to one side. ‘It was for your own good, baby.’

  ‘Don’t call me baby.’ Madison Avenue, 1999. I crossed my arms. ‘Exactly how was it for my own good? And who told Woman’s Daily about me and Mac? You were the only one who knew. Now my love life’s a public joke.’

  ‘Cassie, I’m the best friend you’ve got. How much publicity have you got out of all this? You’re set up for life now. And you know the media loves that romance angle. I had to play it, wouldn’t have been doing my job properly otherwise. Anyway, why are you still here? I heard Wazza made you a very generous offer.’

  ‘Who have you been talking to?’

  ‘Your friend Jessica, over at the Amble Inn.’ He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  ‘Do you have to do that?’ Jessica obviously hadn’t mentioned the Cosmonauts job. Head-hunting was a covert operation.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m just over it. All this eyebrow raising, blushing, leering. She’s not all that fabulous, is she?’

  Simon cocked his head to one side. ‘Not half as fabulous as you, Cassandra. In my opinion. So, why are you still here?’

  ‘Oh God, I don’t know.’ I looked up and down the street. Why was I still here? The place was a dive — all it needed was tumbleweed blowing by and it could have been a ghost town movie set. Five o’clock and the only place open was the pub. But yet, here I was, with no firm plans to leave. I wasn’t sure if that was due to inertia or something more intangible. ‘Unresolved issues, I guess.’

  That took me back to Mac. There had been something special about what we’d had. Hadn’t there? I didn’t really know anymore — maybe it was all in my head. ‘You know, Simon, sometimes I really hate men.’

  Simon looked alarmed.

  ‘Why are they so bloody secretive? I mean, they might not all disappear like Mac, but they may as well a lot of the time …’

  Simon shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s that nomad instinct. That man versus wild —’ He stopped, seeing my lowered brows. ‘Hey, I’m here.’

  I gazed past him down the street. Beechville might be boring, but the thought of Sydney didn’t grab me either. And what about Paris, Tokyo and Berlin? That should have made me excited, but instead it made me feel tired. I felt like I didn’t fit in anywhere anymore.

  I didn’t know what to do with my life, René.

  Crawk.

  You just keep pushing. You just keep pushing?

  Did that work for you? I don’t think so. Weren’t you banned by the Church and then poisoned?

  ‘Cassie?’ Simon tapped me on the leg with his foot. ‘Pub?’

  Pub? It was the last thing I felt like. Although … I had a brainwave. I might be able to get hold of one of those coasters. It was driving me crazy, not knowing what was on them. And I’d be less conspicuous with Simon than by myself. ‘Maybe just one drink — I’ve got to catch some chickens later.’

  ‘You mean count some chickens? As in, before they hatch?’

  ‘No, I mean catch some chickens as in pwuck pwuck chicken.’ I flapped my elbows. ‘They’re in the rainforest. I need to get them out.’

  Simon frowned. ‘Is that what you do these days?’

  ‘Yeah — chickens, snakes, flying foxes — you name it, I catch it.’

  ‘Huh — never would have picked you for a critter catchin’ gal.’ Simon tilted his head to one side and gave me a long look.

  ‘Buy me a drink and shut up, Simon.’

  He smiled. ‘That’s the Cassie I know.’

  ‘Cassan— never mind.’

  Simon slid off the car and we strolled companionably towards the pub. The sun was just going down and Maureen’s supermarket cast a long shadow across the road.

  Something occurred to me. ‘Simon. That feral pig story you were thinking of running?’

  ‘Mmm?’ He flashed me a glance out of the corner of his eye.

  ‘How did you find out about it?’

  ‘You know I can’t reveal my sources, Cassandra.’

  ‘So you had a source? Someone tipped you off?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Anonymously?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Male or female?’

  ‘I’m not saying any more.’

  ‘It was Mac, wasn’t it?’ I’d just remembered the way he’d looked at me the day Simon had rung me in the office, like he’d known what was going on.

  Simon gave me a sharp look. I could see his brain whirring, making connections.

  ‘It’s all right. You don’t need to tell me.’ It was Mac. I was sure of it. Why would he do that? What would make him contact Simon? He said he’d wanted me gone, but wouldn’t ensuring I could never return to Sydney have the opposite effect? He was worse than a Rubik’s cube, that man. I could turn the facts this way and that, but whichever way I looked at them they still didn’t line up.

  Simon looked thoughtful as we approached the pub. I assumed he was pondering the same question as me, but in fact his mind was on other things.

  ‘You used to fancy me in uni, didn’t you?’ he said as we neared the door.

  He’d spoken so casually it took a while for what he’d said to sink in. When it did, I was so flabbergasted I almost elbowed him in the stomach as I swung around. ‘I used to fancy you? Excuse me? I think it was the other way around.’

  Simon laughed. He was in a jovial mood — the exact opposite of Pre-Headline-Tension; nothing like some ‘extinct tiger returned to life’ photographs to brighten up your day. ‘Well, of course I used to fancy you. Still do. But, what I meant was — you did used to fancy me a bit. Didn’t you?’

  I crossed my arms and looked at him. There was something appealing about him tonight — his excitement was infectious. Anyway, it was almost true. I smiled. ‘Okay, I did. A bit.’

  He jumped in front of me, blocking the door to the pub. ‘Did? Or do?’

  I pushed at his chest with one finger. ‘Did, a little bit — until you turned into a wanker.’

  ‘What do you mean, wanker?’ He looked genuinely shocked. ‘I’m just a good journalist.’

  ‘Good journalist to you, wanker to me. Good PR to me, scheming spin-doctor to you. I rest my case. Now, are you going to buy me this drink, or what?’

  Simon backed away. ‘Touché, my spin-doctor.’

  I took a seat at a table and Simon strode off to buy the drinks. Trev was behind the bar in his cowboy hat. I tried to catch his eye, but he didn’t look over at me as he handed Simon the drinks. That was strange, considering we’d been on cheese-and-tomato-sandwich terms not long before. Maybe he didn’t like journalists. That would hardly be unprecedented.

  Simon slid the drink across the table to me — I was back to my more usual whiskey and soda. I wasn’t sure if I ever wanted to drink another beer — certainly not with a rum chaser.

  ‘What’s the go with the map?’ Simon inclined his head towards the bar. ‘I would have asked him, but he didn’t seem to be warming to me.’

  I explained about the cane toads and the Asian food phobia.

  ‘Post-traumatic stress, huh? Amazing it’s lasted so long.’

  I could see his brain ticking over, wondering if there was a story in it. Vietnam vets — where are they now?


  We were silent for a while, but it was a good silence. It was the kind of silence you have with someone you’ve known for a long time. Did that mean I liked Simon? I turned from gazing out the window and found him looking at me in a speculative way.

  I shifted on my seat. ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve changed, haven’t you, Cass?’

  I let it pass. Hadn’t I already decided that I’d reverted to Cassie or even Cass? I shrugged. ‘Have I?’

  ‘You’re not such a bitch anymore.’

  Harsh words, but they weren’t said harshly. Did I used to be a bitch? I suppose I did. I smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Simon, I’m still a PR bitch at heart.’

  ‘Thank God for that, I was starting to worry.’ The bar lights shone on his sandy hair, creating a halo around his head.

  Simon and I had been opponents for so long that this truce felt very strange. I cocked my head to one side. I hadn’t looked at him — not really looked at him — for a long time.

  He had the face of a religious crusader — a pale, angular, sandy-haired, green-eyed knight. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and golden hairs curled on his forearms. His long legs stretched under the table towards me.

  Was I starting to warm to him? I gave myself a mental slap around the cheeks. What was I thinking? This was Simon, for God’s sake. Simon McKechnie — environmental journalist extraordinaire. This son of a bitch was the reason I was here. If he was being nice to me, it was because he wanted something: either sex, or a story, or both.

  Journalist extraordinaire. Of course — son of a bitch or not — Simon’s was just the mind I needed to bring in on this problem of mine. I glanced over at the barman. ‘Simon — I keep feeling there’s a gigantic conspiracy in this town that everyone’s in on, except me. And no — I’m not paranoid.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, Cass.’

  I narrowed my eyes. ‘What, you wouldn’t say I’m paranoid, or you wouldn’t say I’m not paranoid?’

  ‘Either.’ He leaned over towards me and lowered his voice. ‘So, what makes you think there’s a gigantic conspiracy?’

  ‘Don’t humour me.’

  ‘You know I wouldn’t do that. Humouring is not what I do — stabbing in the back is what I do.’ He smiled. ‘Spit it out.’

  I told him about the coasters and the posters. ‘It sounds pretty weak, doesn’t it?’

  But Simon had that look he gets when he’s onto something. It’s like a missile locking on its target. I was glad it wasn’t me he was after — this time. ‘I trust your instincts.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ His green eyes met mine. ‘You were the best PR in Sydney for a while there. Still could be, if you wanted.’

  ‘Seems like a long time ago.’ I ran my fingers through my Angus Young hairdo.

  ‘You have changed. You never used to doubt yourself, did you?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Well, in my game I trust my gut instincts. If you think something’s fishy, it probably is.’ He glanced up, scoping the room. ‘Tell you what — you distract the barman, I’ll try to get a few of these coasters.’

  A couple of seconds later I tottered to the bar. ‘Could I have a … a glass of water, please,’ I whispered. While Trev was filling it, I sank in a graceful swoon to the floor. Eyes half-closed, I saw the barman’s legs run out from behind the counter.

  He knelt down beside me. ‘Are you all right? Here’s your water.’

  I kept up my dying swan act for a few minutes. When I finally rose, with a feeble, ‘Oh, thank you, I don’t know what came over me,’ Simon was out on the street giving me a thumbs up. ‘I think I’d better go now,’ I murmured, walking unsteadily to the door.

  We scuttled around the corner, out of sight of the bar and paused under a street lamp. Simon held the coaster up to the light. Inside a green triangle was written: No Dam for Beechville. His eyes met mine. ‘Mean anything to you?’

  ‘Nuh-uh.’

  Simon looked thoughtful. ‘It’s ringing a few bells for me — I’ll check it out tomorrow.’ He looked at the coaster and back at me, then took a deep breath. Stepping forward, he placed his hands on my shoulders and kissed me.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  That chicken just gave me a smile

  I squawked and jumped backwards, my hand coming up to my mouth. ‘What are you doing?’

  Simon stepped forward. He reached out and grasped my wrist. ‘It’s time you admitted it — we’re made for each other. I know you, Cass.’

  It sounded pretty profound the way he said it — way too profound. ‘What makes you think you know me? I don’t even know me.’

  Simon’s hand encircled my wrist loosely. ‘You’re smart, but you act dumb. You’re soft, but you act hard. You’re shy, but you act confident. You want me, but you pretend you don’t. I know the way your mind works. Am I right?’

  ‘You’re off your head. I want you? You want me, you mean.’ He was spot-on with some of the other stuff, though. Could he actually be right?

  But there was still Mac. He might have left me, but I wasn’t ready to let go of the idea of him yet. We’d only had a few days together, but it seemed like much more. I thought of what he’d said about the thylacines: a defining moment. Was he my defining moment — the yang to my yin, the puzzle piece that would fit me perfectly? Is anyone ever? Try to trust me. It was so confusing. Part of me really wanted him out of my head. I’d had enough of trying to figure him out. It gets wearing after a while.

  Simon ran his thumb up my arm and I didn’t pull away. ‘I want you? There’s never been any doubt about that, has there? I’ve always wanted you, from the moment I saw you in first year — when you were still Cassie in ugg boots and a miniskirt. When did you become Cassandra?’

  ‘End of first year.’ I’d shed the girly name along with my ugg boots. Cassie went with checkout chick. Cassandra was a name to spin possibilities with.

  Simon’s hand dropped to his side, but he was still standing so close I could feel his breath on my face.

  ‘So, why did you dig the knife in — in Sydney?’ I said.

  ‘I thought it would be good for you.’ His green eyes didn’t falter.

  ‘You thought it would be good for me — to be publicly shamed and humiliated?’

  ‘It has been, hasn’t it? I can tell — looking at you.’ His voice was steady.

  ‘Jesus, Simon. Talk about tough love. What’s your next trick — shoot me through the kneecaps?’ It was dark now, and I had things to do. ‘Do you want to come and catch some chickens?’

  Simon smiled. ‘Sure. Sounds like fun.’

  It wasn’t far to the chickens’ rainforest home. We walked in silence, not touching. But it was that kind of not-touching where you are conscious of every centimetre between you.

  ‘So, what’s the go with these chickens?’ said Simon, as we got near. ‘What are they doing in the rainforest?’

  ‘They’re all roosters. People let them go because they don’t lay eggs. They’re no good for the forest, though; they scratch around and dig up all the seedlings.’

  Simon raised one eyebrow. ‘You really know your chickens, don’t you? So, what’s the plan?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘How are we going to catch them?’

  It only then occurred to me that I was woefully underprepared for this expedition. ‘I don’t know. I should have brought something to put them in.’

  ‘How about we just catch one each? Think of it as a reconnaissance. We can come back tomorrow night and catch some more, once we’ve established their modus operandi.’

  ‘I like the way you say that, Simon — modus operandi.’

  ‘I always think, with these types of expeditions, it’s important to set the tone.’

  ‘It’s a good tone. Now I feel like a super sleuth on the trail of some desperate criminals.’

  ‘Those feathered wascals won’t escape the claws of justice,’ Simon murmured.

  We’d reached the r
ainforest patch near Trev’s house now; pale shapes of chickens dotted the trees above us. The ground squelched underfoot as we stepped beneath them. It was interesting; seeing chickens in trees gave a whole new facet to their character. I’d never be able to look at a chicken now without seeing the wild jungle bird inside.

  Simon spoke out of the corner of his mouth, barely moving his lips. ‘That chicken just gave me a smile I could feel in my hip pocket.’

  I matched his drawl. ‘From thirty feet away, that chicken looked like a lot of class. From ten feet away it looks like something made to be seen from thirty feet away.’

  ‘Hey, I didn’t know you were a Raymond Chandler fan,’ said Simon.

  ‘I thought you said you knew me.’

  ‘I know you enough.’ Simon gave me a brief smile, then grasped the lower limb of one of the trees and pulled himself up. He dragged himself on his stomach along the branch. The chicken’s head was tucked under its wing — but as Simon lunged towards it, it woke and flew down, squawking. Its squawks woke up the rest of the neighbourhood and cock-a-doodle-doos rang out across the forest.

  ‘Nicely done,’ I called up to him. ‘Are you a professional chook catcher, by any chance?’

  ‘Years of experience, darling.’

  From then on, it was pretty much a run-and-grab operation. Simon attempted several flying tackles. I was more of a sneak up and pounce girl, myself. It took a long time, but eventually we each had a rooster tucked under our arm.

  ‘So, I think we’ve effectively established their modus operandi,’ I said. ‘Shall we call it a night?’

  Simon and I were just coming to the edge of the rainforest when a stick snapped behind us. As we turned, a tawny shape dashed past. There was a loud squawk as the animal grabbed a rooster and vanished into the shadows, the stripes on its rump blending into the leaves.

  We stood there speechless for a few moments.

  Simon spoke first. ‘Wow. Wow.’ He shook his head in amazement. ‘Wow. That was it, wasn’t it?’

  I nodded.

  ‘That is so …’ He shook his head again. ‘Wow. I’ve got to come back here with Chris tomorrow night for a stakeout. See if we can get some footage. Keep it quiet, will you? I don’t want all those other journos all over it.’ His voice exuded excitement.