by Cenarth Fox
Ralph Hetherington-Smythe drove his BMW, entering the darkened car park of the Black Rock Yacht Club. Soon after, another car arrived, and parked thirty metres away. Ralph stared towards the Bay. He heard footsteps, and checked out the person standing next to his vehicle. He released the internal lock.
The other driver opened the passenger door, and climbed in beside the Labcope CEO. The visitor had a firm handshake.
‘Nice to see you again, Doctor.’
‘Good evening.’
Small talk did not appeal to the Hyphen.
‘You have another job for me?’ asked the passenger.
‘Where the usual conditions apply,’ said Ralph. ‘You report only to me. You’ll be paid by me, the same fee as last time. This is our last face-to-face meeting. Never come to Labcope. Use the same dead-letter drop, the same web site to inform me of a drop, and the same pen name. No text messages, phone calls, emails or snail mail. Understood?’
‘Yes.’
Ralph handed the spy a page of handwritten notes.
‘Read this and start immediately. Once read, destroy. Questions?’
‘No.’
‘Target A is a current member of staff. Target B is a former member of staff. I assume they meet at her home. I want to know why and what they discuss. Questions?’
‘No.’
‘A recording device at one target’s address might mean a bonus. A recording device at both addresses guarantees that bonus.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And, as always, if you’re caught or implicated in any way, you’ve never heard of Labcope or me.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘What?’
‘Who are you?’
Ralph twigged. He liked the spy’s professionalism, which meant only relevant data was collected with never any trouble for the employer.
‘I’ll start work tonight.’
‘I want this information yesterday.’
The spy smiled and looked at the CEO. He did not smile.
Ralph started his engine giving the spy three seconds to exit, and close the door of the BMW.
The Hyphen left. His spy perused the screed, made notes in a phone, destroyed the screed, then drove to Cremorne, parked illegally in Chestnut Street, and wandered past Bernie’s house.
‘Piece of piss,’ murmured the spy.
Inside, Albert slumbered. Outside, the spy cased the joint. Annuska was right. Spies and Labcope were secretly best friends.
That night Bernie dined on Signora Conti’s signature dish, a chicken cacciatore casserole. His taste buds danced with delight but his mind was science bound.
He collected even more notes from his own experiments, factored in Annuska’s comments, and re-read serious amounts of relevant literature on drugs, which affect the brain and human behaviour.
He fine-tuned his formula. He placed the ingredients on his kitchen table, and looked at his mortar and pestle. He placed a laboratory beaker and holder beside the gas stove, took a deep breath, and became a drug manufacturer.
On paper, his formula seemed logical. But how would he ever know? Who would ever volunteer to try the drug? The only people who should be given this drug would run a mile from any opportunity to take it.
Then an idea struck.
Test the drug on myself.
He wouldn’t be the first person to trial an invention with the creator as guinea pig. Dr Jekyll turned into Mr Hyde when the good doctor ingested one of his own drugs. And another famous doctor, Arthur Conan Doyle, the publicity agent for Dr Watson’s tales about Sherlock Holmes, tested a drug on himself — and lived to tell the tale.
But did Bernie have a problem with his conscience? Was there something about which he felt bad? Because without something nasty, illegal or evil in his past, taking the drug would be useless. Only with a guilty secret could Bernie seriously trial his invention.
Then he remembered. How could he forget? He cheated during his final year Chemistry exams.
It was a terrible time. He broke up with his then girlfriend. He borrowed money from his parents to invest in an app designed to teach toddlers to read, and lost every cent. Then his father was in that horrendous car accident, and spent months in hospital. Bernie’s life had spiralled out of control, and he fell behind in his academic studies. Failure in his final year would have been catastrophic.
In the university library, he spied a swot from his class. The guy was a good student, and got high marks in every essay and thesis.
The student went to find a book, and Bernie acted on impulse. He moved to the table and, making sure nobody was looking, quickly used his phone to photograph the student’s notes.
Bernie went home, and used those notes to write his final essay. He passed.
To this day, at different times, his conscience still troubled him; not in a massive way but enough to make him think badly of himself. His conscience flared whenever he ran into the student at reunions.
That incident could test his conscience drug.
If it works, I’ll feel terrible unless I make a full confession about my cheating.
He looked at the first batch of his formula. It was in loose powder form. He’d pinched some empty drug capsules from work but couldn’t be bothered with presentation right now.
He placed a small amount of his unproven drug in a glass of water and stirred. He picked up the glass. He stared at it, believing he could hear his heart beating. He raised the glass and drank.
Next morning Bernie woke, and immediately felt his head. There was no pain, just the appearance and disappearance of follicles. He had more on his face and fewer on his scalp. Hello baldness, my old friend.
But where was the stress, the mental anguish, the pain caused by his conscience being pricked? It didn’t exist.
He fell out of bed, disturbed Albert, and felt terrible.
My brilliant idea is useless. Mark Twain was right. Lois is right. Annuska is right. It’s pure science fiction, my son.
He prepared for work in a fog, even a funk.
What was I expecting?
Arriving at work, he felt terrible; terrible at his useless and time-wasting wonder drug, and terrible at having to tell Lois the result.
But wait, no Lois. The switchboard rang to advise that “Mother” had fallen, and been taken to hospital. Nobody knew when or even if Lois would arrive at Labcope.
Bernie plodded on with his ‘real’ job. He couldn’t stop thinking about Lois and her mum, his mum and dad, and about his failed drug test.
But hang on. If I’m thinking about that essay where I pinched someone’s notes, doesn’t that prove my drug works?
No, it proved nothing. There was no mental torment, and no prompt to make a full confession. Then a thought hit him.
What if I make a full confession to that outstanding student? If that removes any lingering feelings of guilt, maybe the drug works after all.
He started searching for Grant Littlejohn. He found him easily on LinkedIn, located his current employer, and tracked him down.
‘Grant, g’day. It’s Bernie Slim from uni.’
‘Bernie, nice to hear from you. How y’going?’
‘Good mate; yourself?’
‘Fine. Now this is a coincidence.’ Bernie held his breath. ‘Are your ears burning?’
Bernie spoke with a feeling of dread. ‘Ah, should they be?’
‘Would you believe only yesterday I bumped into a couple of guys from our final Chemistry class, and your name came up?’
‘Really?’
‘Freaky. So what’s news? You still at Labcope?’
‘Yep, still here.’ Bernie lied. ‘And that’s why I called. I’ve got a tricky research project, and wondered if I might pick your brain.’
‘Sure, happy to help if I can.’
‘Are you free tonight?’
‘I’m good for a drink after work.’
‘Great.’
They met in the Cherry Tree Hotel, a short walk from Bernie’s abode.
A beer and a handshake got things rolling, and Bernie cut to the chase.
‘Listen, mate, I’ve actually got you here under false pretences.’ Grant looked intrigued. ‘Nothing weird, just a small confession.’
‘So it was you,’ smiled Grant. Bernie’s heart sank. ‘We were talking last night, and reckoned you were the one who put that sulphur in old Furtwangler’s satchel.’
Bernie was innocent but pretended it was him.
‘Guilty as charged, but listen. I need to tell you something.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘I copied your notes for that final essay in Chem 4. I am really sorry. I felt bad about it then and still do now.’
‘Join the queue, mate.’
‘I hope you aren’t too pissed off.’ Bernie stopped. ‘Join the queue?’
Grant was grinning. ‘You weren’t the only one.’
Bernie didn’t follow. Grant explained.
‘I pinched the notes too. So did at least three other guys I know. You were just one of many, mate. And we all passed.’
Bernie looked puzzled. ‘So whose notes were they?’
‘Have a guess.’ Bernie shook his head. ‘Only that gorgeous blonde Fiona what’s-her-name.’
‘Not Stretch-Jeans Fiona?’
‘The very same. Remember how she’d sashay to the front of the lecture room with every guy staring and drooling.’
‘I’m still drooling.’
‘You and me both.’ They laughed.
‘Perhaps I should make my confession to the lovely Fiona.’
‘Bit tricky, mate.’
‘Oh?’
‘She’s inside.’
‘Inside?’
‘The slammer. What a waste. She had the body of a goddess and the brain of a genius, and ended up with some scumbag who led her astray.’
‘Damn. I wish she’d led me astray.’
They laughed again, enjoyed their drink, and left promising to keep in touch. Bernie had a short walk home.
Maybe his drug didn’t work because his conscience didn’t need a jolt. Maybe his guilt had been spread thinly between all the other cheats.
Nah, that’s baloney. The drug doesn’t work.
7
THE NEW SHADOW ATTORNEY-GENERAL made waves. She attacked the government, and especially the Attorney-General. She raised issues the public found troubling. She asked tricky questions about riots in youth prisons, home invasions, and the threat of terrorism in the state. She put the government on the back foot. People noticed.
But despite her success in wounding the Government, the polls were not good for the Opposition. Could leader, Trevor Rand, unkindly known as Trevor Bland, turn around the SS Liberal? He trailed the Premier, and didn’t look like making ground. A safe pair of hands and trustworthy were the characteristics the party machine applied to dear old Trev. He never rocked the boat; in fact, he never even set foot on the jetty.
Rumblings grew within Liberal ranks.
‘We can’t lose this year.’
‘Not another term of Labor rule.’
The Opposition Treasurer, Michael Riley, made no secret of his leadership ambitions, which were insipid at best. He couldn’t backstab a corpse, and with the election in nine months, Riley had to challenge now.
Jessica and Genevieve watched this maneuvering from afar.
Over a lunchtime takeaway, Jessica dropped a bombshell.
‘I forgot to tell you. This morning I was asked if I had any interest in running for deputy leader.’
‘By whom,’ snapped Genevieve?
‘Some lackey. He works for Riley who, by the way, thinks he’s a shoo-in to replace Trevor.’
‘And of course you gave the scripted answer,’ threatened Genevieve.
There was a pause. Genevieve’s face contorted. She blurted.
‘You didn’t? Oh Jess, there are double agents everywhere. They work for Bland, sussing out where you stand in any challenge.’
‘Keep your wig on,’ said Jessica. ‘I did exactly as Mother told me.’ Jessica had taken to referring to her adviser as Mother. ‘I laughed a lot making the whole thing a joke, and that way I kept them guessing.’
Genevieve relaxed. ‘Good girl. Listen, I’ve been thinking.’
‘Here’s trouble,’ replied the wannabe Premier.
‘If we do nothing, we lose. If we do something, we lose.’
‘Ah, the logic of genius.’
‘We know there’s a growing number who’ll vote against Trevor if there’s a credible alternative.’
Jessica mocked herself. ‘Just call me Credible Alternative.’
‘I reckon the best way to challenge Trevor is to make you the victim.’
Jessica was clueless. ‘The victim of what?’
‘I have a plan but as I’ve so often told you, timing is everything.’
‘Yes, yes, what’s the plan?’
‘If we launch now and win, there’s too much time for Trevor’s mates to leak and damage us leading to the election.’
‘Assuming we win.’
‘Oh we’ll win, kiddo, trust Mother.’
‘Fine, just tell me the plan.’
‘If we delay much longer, we won’t have enough time to show the electorate you’re the answer to a maiden’s prayer.’
‘If you delay much longer in telling me this effing plan, you’ll be a maiden in need of a prayer.’
Genevieve paused. She couldn’t say the words. Jessica sighed, her frustration palpable. When Genevieve spoke, Jessica felt ill.
‘Your husband’s a paedophile.’
Genevieve made many suggestions, but this latest took the biscuit.
Jessica finally managed to speak, or rather mouth the words represented by the letters WTF. Genevieve calmed her friend.
‘Don’t panic. Of course it’s not true.’
‘Of course it’s not true,’ hissed Jessica. ‘So why the hell would you say such a thing?’
‘All’s fair in love and war, my dear, and to smash your opponents, we need an axe, not a feather duster.’
‘This had better be good.’
It was. When Genevieve explained her statement, and the reasoning and strategy behind it, Jessica became calm; well, relatively.
‘You are one devious bastard, Genevieve Kovács.’
Her advisor shrugged, and agreed by not speaking.
Before they could continue discussing the matter, a staffer came in to say a member of the public was outside asking for Ms Reid.
‘What do they want?’ asked Jessica.
‘I’m not sure, and he may be suspicious. He said something about a murder.’
‘Call Security,’ ordered Genevieve.
‘The guard’s with him now.’
‘This is beautiful,’ said Jessica, smiling. The others looked at her. She rubbed her hands together. ‘Oh I miss the underworld.’
‘I’ll deal with this,’ said Genevieve, heading out to Reception.
Last month, Brendan Murphy carried out an audacious sting on rival Luca Parisi. The Irish drug baron stitched up the Italian drug baron with Luca arrested for murdering short arse Hoops, one of Murphy’s minions.
The cops were rapt to nail the crook they had been chasing for years. Murder was a top result. The scumbag was going down.
Luca seethed. Animal went to visit his boss in jail, where Luca explained the sting, and Animal choked with rage.
The boss’s murder charge was bullshit. Murphy had framed Luca, and Animal and his mates could do nothing legal to change the situation. If they hit back, the cops would clobber even more of Luca’s gang. But doing nothing wasn’t an option, and Animal had a brainwave.
He remembered a chick with red hair, a solicitor, who got him off a drugs charge years ago. She was bloody good.
He went to the CBD, and the legal chambers he once visited.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said the receptionist.
‘G’day. Look I come here a few years ago and saw a solicitor, and she give me some help when I had a bit of trouble with
the cops.’
‘And who was the solicitor?’
‘Ah, her name was Jessica something. She had red hair and her office was down there,’ said he pointing.
‘That’s Ms Jessica Reid, sir.’
‘That’s her, Jessica Reid. Can I see her? It’s real important like.’
‘I’m afraid Ms Reid doesn’t practise here anymore, sir. She’s still a partner but today is a member of parliament.’
Animal’s dial displayed confusion. ‘Parliament? In Canberra?’
‘No, state parliament, here in Melbourne. In fact Ms Reid is the Shadow Attorney-General.’
Animal wondered how anybody could be a shadow but didn’t wish to advertise his ignorance.
‘So I can’t see her?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. But I can recommend other solicitors. May I ask the nature of your issue?’
‘Murder,’ said Animal, looking straight at the receptionist.
‘I see,’ she replied, shifting in her seat. ‘Well if you’d like to take a seat, I’ll get someone to see you.’
Animal thought about it. ‘Nah, you’re all right. Thanks.’
And with that, he turned and headed for that place the bird said.
No, state parliament, here in Melbourne.
He asked an old geezer in a suit where the state parliament was, and took off for Spring Street. He located the offices of Her Majesty’s Opposition, and entered a foreign world. Another receptionist loomed large, and a security guard hovered in the background.
The receptionist smiled. ‘Good morning, sir. How may I help you?’
‘Does Jessica Reid work here?’
‘She does. What is the nature of your enquiry?’
‘Ah, she helped me once, and I need her help again.’
‘Well if it’s a constituency matter, sir, you’ll need to contact her office in Brighton.’ She reached for a card with the Honourable Member for Brighton’s details, but stopped when Animal spoke.
‘It’s about a murder.’
The security guard came alive. The receptionist had never had a member of the public raise such a topic, certainly not before lunch.