She pauses, expecting him to be impressed by her connection to the former model, but Higgins is nonplussed.
‘Wasn’t she in the paper the other day?’
‘Yes, she had a health scare. But she’s fine now.’
The couple at the table next to them stand to leave. Now they’re alone in the courtyard.
‘The Wexley Institute also invited me to join their board. Ironically, I was always resentful that Dick spent so much time doing work for them.’
Sherene doesn’t wince when she mentions his name. It’s as though her husband has been dead for years, faded into distant past.
‘What exactly does the Wexley Institute do?’
‘You haven’t seen one of our columns in the Queensland Daily?’
‘I tend to go straight to the sports section.’
Laughter reveals teeth as flawless as her pale skin.
‘We pose new solutions for problems in Aboriginal communities.’
The waiter returns with their coffees, cappuccino for Higgins and a skinny latte for Sherene.
‘Right, so you work with Indigenous researchers?’
‘Ah, not exactly, but we do visit Indigenous communities from time to time. We’re a non-profit association, so our travel budget is quite small.’
‘Who exactly is the Wexley Institute?’
‘Actually, it was just Dick, my father and a few others. The institute has some office space at Dick’s law firm.’
‘What’s going to happen now?’
‘The firm is still very committed. We’ll just go on.’
‘What’s next on the cards for the institute?’
‘Well, we’re going to lobby the Commonwealth to make some changes to social security legislation. Under our plan, all welfare recipients will be forced to accept any job they’re offered, anywhere in the country. Those who remain on welfare will be subject to government supervision.’
‘What kind of supervision?’
‘Their spending will be tightly controlled, for essential items only. Public housing tenants will also be subject to good behaviour covenants.’
‘That sounds harsh.’
‘So you’re happy for people who don’t even work to waste your taxes on addictions?’
He offers a grin. ‘Enough of my income is spent on satisfying my own addictions.’
Her laugh is demure, sexy.
‘So this was all Dick’s grand plan?’
‘Yes. That’s right.’
‘Did Dick live like a monk too?’
‘I don’t see how that’s relevant.’
He’s gazed into her face for too long: the light pink eye shadow and blush.
‘It’s for a photo shoot.’
Dark red lips are curved into a half-moon.
‘For which magazine?’
‘Chic.’
He’s seen the magazine sitting on the coffee table at home, even flicked through one. Dense with celebrity gossip.
‘They’re going to publish a story on our marriage, give a reconciliation theme to it. In lieu of paying me a fee, the magazine will establish a scholarship fund. We’re going to send Aboriginal children to boarding schools.’
‘That sounds exciting.’
Sherene ignores his cynicism.
She must be sick of death, sick of mourning. A butterfly that refuses to look back at its cocoon.
‘We’re in the process of getting corporate backers. Some big names have expressed interest. There’s even talk of a rock concert next year, in the mould of Live Aid.’
‘Sounds like you’ll need a punchy slogan.’
‘What a coincidence. I was discussing that very issue with my agent, only yesterday.’ She creases her forehead, mocking frustration. ‘The Firsts?’ Sherene laughs at his confused face. ‘Our slogan – it’s about creating the first generation of Aboriginal Australians to enjoy equality of access to education.’
‘And you’re sure boarding school is what Aboriginal people actually want?’
‘Well, Dick went to boarding school and he was probably the greatest leader they’ve ever had.’
She frowns at her diamond-encrusted watch. ‘Oh dear, I have to go to the photographer’s studio.’
‘But I need to ask you some questions.’
‘I don’t want to be late.’
Higgins sits back in his chair, folds his hands behind his head.
‘I know you’re busy. So busy, in fact, that you haven’t contacted me once since your husband’s death. Most people in your situation ring us daily, anxious for any information.’
She stares wistfully at the concrete Buddha in the garden, turns back to Higgins, eyes moist.
‘Why haven’t you asked me about the investigation, Sherene? Don’t you want us to find your husband’s killer?’
‘I refuse to dignify that question with a response.’
She’s biting her lip; her strong façade crumbling beneath his glare.
‘I’ve already made a statement. I really don’t know what else you could possibly want from me.’
Higgins purses his lips and wriggles his nose, as though he’s buried in concentration. But it’s all part of the theatrics.
‘It’s my experience that most people never recover when a loved one is murdered. They try to move on, but life is never the same. You, however, are an enigma. In the space of only a few weeks, you lost a lover and a husband. Yet, here you are, posing for magazines and joining boards.’
His smile is ice. ‘You take my breath away, Sherene.’
‘I’m just trying to create something positive from the tragedies.’ She reaches for a tissue from her skirt pocket. ‘How on earth can you condemn me when I’m only making an effort to turn my husband’s dream into a reality?’
‘From where I’m standing, Dick’s dream is looking an awful lot like Sherene’s ambition.’
‘How dare you!’ She springs from the chair, drives its legs into the tiles.
Higgins’ laughter oozes confidence. ‘I’m really looking forward to reading the article.’
‘Why on earth would you be interested in reading a women’s magazine?’
‘I want to know what you’re going to disclose about your marriage.’ His tired eyes are sparkling. Higgins can feel her on the hook. ‘Are you going to talk about the times Dick beat you? Or perhaps you’ll tell them about Dick’s friendship with Harrison McPherson?’
She throws her voluminous handbag on the table, takes out her iPhone. ‘Don, hi – it’s Sherene. Unfortunately, I’ve been delayed. Can we reschedule?’ She waves for the waiter. ‘Thanks, Don. See you then.’
For the waiter, Sherene has the rigid smile of a corpse. ‘May I have another skinny latte?’
The chair legs screech as she plants herself back down, but Sherene won’t look into his eyes. She plays with keys of her phone like a sullen teenager.
Higgins smiles at the waiter. ‘I’ll have another cappuccino, thanks.’
The waiter is barely out of school. His nose is freckled and fine brown hair too long. He smirks at Higgins, suspecting a lover’s tiff. Higgins reflects the warmth of a grizzly bear.
‘Are you sure you don’t want a Scotch?’ she says, tartly.
‘At this time of the morning, no,’ he replies casually, unwilling to take her bait.
The construction in Albert Street is a huge metal cage, an ant colony of workers with hardhats. The drilling and banging have melded with the sounds of the traffic. A man walks past their table, heaving a trolley containing replacement bottles for water coolers. He imagines Sherene standing by a water cooler, breathing in the fumes of office politics.
‘You’ve had quite a transformation, Sherene.’
‘It’s called a make-ove
r, detective.’ Her smile is cool, confident. ‘You could do with one yourself.’
He laughs assuredly, but Higgins is tiring of this game. The Commissioner has become his shadow and his marriage is in its dying days. Matthews wants to screw him over.
‘The real life story, that’s what I want. None of this airbrushing rubbish.’
She expels a sigh and he can tell it’s more resignation than a plea for relief. She meets his eyes across the table and he knows he’s broken through.
‘We were happy, at first,’ Sherene says. ‘We met at uni, got married after graduation. Then Dick went away to Harvard and came back with a public profile. Once he began his love affair with the press, our marriage began to deteriorate. By the end, I barely knew him . . . And once Dick started having affairs, the train leapt off the tracks.’
He tries to suppress thoughts of Lisa, but it’s pointless. This is too close to home. You make so many promises when you’re young, assume that she’ll always forgive.
‘Did he ever discuss the Corrowa case?’
‘No, but I know he had a great deal of animosity towards the Corrowa, especially Charlie Eversely.’
Higgins feels the adrenalin, but his face remains expressionless. ‘Why’s that?’
She shrugs. ‘I’m the wrong person to ask. I don’t know anything about black politics.’
It’s an odd remark coming from a director of the Wexley Institute, Higgins thinks, but these days people rarely let a lack of knowledge deter them from anything. Jury members think they’re Perry Mason. The neighbour tells him he should watch CSI.
‘What kind of things did Dick say about Eversely?’
‘Oh, the usual. Eversely had his head stuck in the sand. They could never go back to the ’70s. I think Dick was hurt, as well. In the early days, some of the older activists looked down on him . . . and responding well to criticism was never Dick’s forte.’
‘Harrison McPherson?’
‘What about him?’
‘How well did you know him?’
‘Barely. He didn’t practise family law and I do. So I never had reason to brief him.’
‘But Dick worked closely with him?’
She waits, murmurs thank you to the waiter for her second coffee. ‘Dick and I went to some Christmas parties at his chambers, but I always left before things got out of hand.’
He lifts his eyebrows – a silent question mark that hangs in the air.
‘Two years ago I received a telephone call from one of Harrison’s former secretaries. It was the morning after the Christmas party. She’d been matching Harrison drink for drink. The next thing she knew, she was naked, on top of his desk. The men were taking turns.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘To go to the police.’
‘Did she?’
‘No.’
‘Did you discuss it with Dick?’
‘By then I knew better,’ she says, wryly. ‘I didn’t want to end up with another broken arm.’
‘Why didn’t you leave him?’
She stares to the ground, shakes her head. Once again, Higgins’ mind drifts to his own marriage. It’s the lock of hair that won’t be tamed.
‘How much time did Dick spend with McPherson?’
‘Harrison often called Dick at home. I overheard Dick making plans for drinks, dinner.’ She pauses, reflecting. ‘I was never invited, of course.’ Bitterness resounds in her voice. ‘And Harrison always attended Dick’s public lectures; those were really the only times I saw him. Even then I tried to avoid him.’
‘After what happened at the Christmas party, I can understand why you wouldn’t want to be in the same room as that animal.’
‘Actually, I’d always felt that way about him.’
She stares at the waterfall in the corner, drinks in the reflection of luminescent orange. ‘Have you ever met someone you just know is dangerous?’
‘I’m a cop. Instinct plays a huge part in my job.’
‘I think there are some people in this world who are pure evil. McPherson was one of them.’
She sips her coffee.
‘I’ve only ever met one other person like that,’ he says, leaning into the table. He lowers his voice. ‘And one thing I’ve learnt over the years is that holding onto a secret can be an incredible burden.’
His eyes dangle over the hint of white lace beneath her blouse, follow the contours of her breasts. Higgins can’t understand how someone so beautiful and sophisticated could allow herself to remain in a marriage that was crushing her. Embraces the familiar pull in his chest, it niggles like a toothache.
I should send the baby to Mum for the night.
Take Lisa out for dinner.
Life’s too short.
‘Sherene, I know there’s something you want to tell me.’
‘You’ll think I’m deranged.’
‘The truth is you’re one of the most intelligent women I’ve ever met.’
She laughs softly. Higgins would have said anything to get her to this point. But his words are true.
‘When Dick and I were first married, we went to his home town, Mount Isa.’
‘I know the Isa well.’
He smiles, encouraging her.
‘Dick didn’t want to go but I insisted. In those days, my opinions still meant something. On our first night, we went to a barbecue at his aunt’s house. His family was polite, but I could tell something wasn’t right.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The way they acted around us. It was as though they were frightened of something. No one looked me in the eyes and each one of them was reluctant to hug me.’
Her phone shrieks. Sherene ignores it.
‘The next day, Dick took me to this creek. It was quite a way out of town. I was struck by how cold it was. Here we are in Mount Isa, in the middle of January, and I was shivering. That’s when I saw him.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know who or what he was. The water was so deep, but he was standing. He was glaring at Dick, like they knew each other. I’ve never been more terrified.’
‘What happened?’
‘Dick took my hand and we practically ran to the car. We didn’t speak a word about it on the way back to town.’
‘Did you ever find out who the man was?’
‘That’s the thing . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘You’re going to think I’m crazy.’
‘Sherene!’
She shakes her head, already dismissing words still unspoken.
‘Ever since Dick passed away, I’ve dreamt about that . . . man. I don’t think he’s in Mount Isa anymore.’
Tiny hands mask Lesley’s face with soggy paper. The ink on the paper has run but the Premier can still see the departmental logo. They’re briefing notes. Her name is printed in bold at the top of each page. He’s only read one of her briefs – she’d weathered criticisms about his government at some community meeting. He was furious with her. The last thing he needed that day was a barely legible note about bickering blacks.
The grey tea-cosy is matted and streaked with red. Her body is how he’d imagined it, slack and dimpled. Neither one of them is embarrassed by their nakedness. He’s still uncertain if Lesley is even aware of his presence.
‘Lesley!’
‘Shhh.’
‘Lesley.’
He begins to whisper then curses himself. ‘Lesley, it’s me, the Premier!’
One of the papers falls from her hands. The note is dated two days ago. Its heading reads, ‘Negotiations with Protesters at Meston Park’. The note confirms what he already knows – there will be no negotiated solution to the impasse.
‘Lesley, is this why we’re here?’
> ‘You can’t mess with the business.’ Her voice is earnest, calm.
‘Lesley, do you know who you are?’
‘What a silly question. I’m a coconut!’
‘Lesley, how did we get here?’
‘I’m a cooocooonuttt!’
The Premier snatches the papers from her hands, only to be confronted by emptied sockets where eyes had once lived.
Why isn’t she in pain?
We must be dead.
Hundred-dollar notes appear to be glued to her lips. Lesley suddenly shrieks, but it’s euphoria rather than pain.
‘I’m getting that house!’
‘Fuck those other blacks!’
‘I’m a doer!’
Stale cigarette smoke wafts, together with cheap wine that’s too sweet, too young. Snakes are everywhere, in the carpet, the ceiling. Neon snakes. He imagines himself watching the earth spinning on its axis. It comes to a sudden halt when his body hits the ground.
Once again, he feels the chill. His heart sinks to the soles of his feet. And it’s heavy with guilt.
‘Why are you staring at me?’
Madeline’s eyes are playful.
I take her hand. ‘What do you think of marriage?’
‘Are you asking me to marry you?’ She smiles coyly.
‘Yes. Yes, I want to marry you.’
‘Darling, I have something to tell you.’
‘Madeline, I have to go to a branch meeting. I’m already late. Can’t it wait?’
She looks down at her svelte waist. ‘This is important too.’
Car keys shriek when I throw them on the kitchen bench. ‘Go on then. Spill!’
She runs to our bedroom. I can hear her crying behind the door.
Politics is an elegant cesspit. The constant mud-slinging, the rumours, the lies – I grit my teeth and swallow.
My family has no choice.
It always seemed inevitable that Darren would be the first to crumble. Even when he was a baby, Darren’s foundations were brittle, his gumption only dust. He’d cry whenever Madeline left him, even if only for a few minutes. Irrespective of expensive schools, stern reprimands and heartfelt advice, he knows Darren will probably always struggle. Kylie, on the other hand, is the prodigal daughter, with consistently high grades and admirable community spirit. Already one of the rising stars of Young Labor. But he knows there are occasions when she too feels the strain.
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