He shook his head again, roughly, spastic with emotion like a man with his head caught in spider webs.
“Michael, you’re so pent up. You’ve got to open up and let go.”
He whirled. “Let go? Of what? You wouldn’t have a fucken clue.”
She stood in the open glass doorway and calmly lit the cigarette, inhaled briefly and blew out a stream of weak grey air.
“Yeah, Mick, like I wouldn’t have a clue.”
Flanagan dropped to the low limestone wall, a struggling garden bed behind him. There was a marijuana seedling amid the compost and he thought briefly of Randy and his kilos of bud.
“I’m sorry. I came back thinking I could sort out some of this, only I found it’s all so much worse. It’s like suicide or something.” He gave a great sigh and curled forward. “People always think they should’ve said something, that the people will always be there tomorrow. I didn’t ever think so much would change.”
“Five years is a long time.”
“I called you, from Bangkok,” Flanagan said.
“I remember,” she slowly smiled. “You were incoherent, Mick. Speaking Indonesian, I think. Laughing. But you sounded upset. That was what, four years ago?”
“I was messed up. We’d just –” He shook his head and stood, his mind changed. “Sorry, anyway. I was trying to call you for your birthday.”
“You were a month late.”
“I know. We’d been incommunicado till then. In Bangkok to celebrate.”
“We?”
“Colleagues,” he said weakly.
They both laughed.
“I’ll make the tea,” Nuala said. “You have to leave me your number this time.”
He sat down again.
“Alright.”
*
NEAR THE MARKETS, he caught a cab for Cottesloe and arrived at Peter Roosveldt’s place before there was any sign of Carlo Franco’s man at home. Flanagan started the Fairmont and turned back to Fremantle, driving down South Terrace into South Freo, pulling into the Seaview Hotel to find the old band room now a drive-thru bottle shop. It was probably just as well.
He bought two six-packs of cans and two bottles of wine, one a simple dry white, the other a Margaret River sav blanc. The Fairmont did a loop up Lefroy, on to Hampton and back until he was at the triangulation of Wray Avenue, and then he cruised down until passing Tess’s place once more. Though he had no intention of ever calling in, he sat in the Fairmont and scribbled a schoolboy’s apology on a piece of paper and set it and the bottle just behind the home’s crumbling brick letterbox. He skipped back to the car like a panicked ninja, dissolving in the coming darkness before switching on the Fairmont’s lights and driving on, and turning left yet one more time on South Terrace. The early Pink Floyd tape died and he cruised through the windy night in silence.
Flanagan pulled along the kerb on the opposite side of the road from where the ‘for sale’ notice leaned uneasily in the scarred asphalt. The three parking bays were full, but he parked on a lean anyway, quickly locking the car and going across to peer over the white wooden fence, not a sign of a light inside.
Feeling for a catch on the South Fremantle gate, it took him a while to realise there wasn’t one. He pushed in. The grey paint on the formerly red concrete was clawed and scraped, a couple of house bricks there to secure the wind-blown gate from the other side.
Flanagan rapped gently on the door, hoping his talking for the day was done at least until he had to brave the Tennysons once more. The flyscreen juddered back in place without answer. After a minute or so, he went down the side of the house, catching his shirt on a loose sheet of galvanised iron that made a low fence between the house next door. Wincing at his only injury for the day – and marvelling at it – Flanagan moved on in the gathering dark, ducking cleverly under the old hot water heater wrapped in vines and stepping unexpectedly down into a brick patio.
An old waterlogged table with a few sodden cardboard boxes was the only outdoor decoration in a fairly plain space, a long pergola running strangely away from the house along the asbestos fence dividing it from the duplex on the far side. Beneath was a sheltered garden with hardly anything living at all. A limestone fence that looked as convincing as a theatre prop divided the end of the yard, and Flanagan stood looking nonplussed until he went to a slight gap between the wall and the pergola, intrigued by the rusty metal roofline in the yard beyond.
At that point, he noticed a concrete path leading away from the bricks as they curled around and behind the limestone wall. They drew him into an entirely separate back yard with a worn-out permaculture garden, a mulch tumbler, a stack of timber and chicken wire, and a long tin shed-cum-rear garage of fantastic proportions. Like he was in the presence of something mystical, Flanagan walked slowly to the shed and worked the door until the handle fell off in his palm. Then he re-attached the knob and put his shoulder against the convict-era-style panelling, lifting the antique latch from its socket. The landlord kept the electricity running, and he flicked a web-encrusted switch triggering a light dangling in the metal struts overhead. The tin roof was eaten away in places and the concrete floor stained and uneven, but the shed itself was voluminous, divided into several sections filled with promise. A roller-door suggested an alleyway, spots on the floor the ghosts of cars that had parked there through the years. Flanagan took a final look around and closed the door behind him.
The moon was up in the back yard. As the traffic noise from South Terrace waxed and waned and finally ceased, he was sure he could hear the swishing of the sea no more than a block-and-a-half away. He imagined the house keys in his hand and tossed them into the air, smiling to himself as he walked back down the side barely looking in through the windows before hitting the street.
*
THE OCEAN ROAD was barely lit as he joined the flow of neon tail lights streaming toward the city. The half moon overhead had a luminosity all its own and the Indian Ocean, humming with enormous power and glowing softly with its own blue-black light, filled the windows of the Fairmont on the left-hand side. Flanagan turned over the tape in the deck and let Floyd start up again, the volume lending itself to distortion.
Lord called while he was still in transit. Juggling the stereo and the phone, Flanagan assured him he was just moments away, and yes, there would be beer.
“Teneille wanted me to check up on you, that’s all,” the lawyer explained. “She said you were off to see those guys today and you’d been gone for hours.”
“It was an eventful day. I’ll tell you about it when I get back.”
He resisted saying home.
“OK, we’re doing a hot pot.”
“Count me in. See you soon.”
His stomach was burbling with acid and he hoped Teneille wouldn’t be too shocked to see one of the six-packs already started as he helped himself, opening the can between his thighs as he turned off the road at Glyde Street, delving into the leafy suburb.
A cheerful glow seemed to permeate the Tennyson house, reflecting off the light-coloured boards and matching antiques. Lord and his wife sat on separate sides of the sunken living room, the white couches and shag carpet a marked dissimilarity from the rest of the place. The TV was on and the lawyer was living out the cliché, shoes off but socks on, tie loosened and a thick glass of whiskey in one hand. Teneille smiled and stood as Flanagan let himself in, offering a drink and moving to the counter to fix it. On the ABC, they discussed the latest scandal involving the State’s Labor government.
“Flanagan, how did you go?” Lord asked.
“Let the man have something to eat first, Fred.”
“No, it’s –”
“Oh my God, you’re hurt,” Teneille gasped.
Flanagan glanced down in surprise and she was there a moment later, lifting up his shirt to reveal the scratch beneath his ribs where the metal fence had nicked him. As Teneille winced, Flanagan actually laughed, pulling the shirt back down self-consciously over the slight extra meat aro
und his hips.
“It’s nothing. I caught myself on a fence at a house in South Freo.”
“What were you doing out there?”
“Looking at a house.”
“Not sick of us already, I hope,” Teneille said.
“I’ll have to think about it eventually.”
“Well, it’s a good time to buy, if you’re able to,” said the lawyer. “There was I thinking you’d been out roughing it all day with thugs.”
Flanagan smiled and shrugged. Teneille gave an apologetic look that caused Flanagan to laugh aloud, accepting the drink from her red-painted fingers.
“Well, I did,” he eventually said.
As briefly as possible he recounted the day’s events, finishing with the comment that Carlo Franco said he would call.
“So you didn’t see my sister?”
“I’m sorry,” Flanagan said. “She wasn’t there, and no clues on where she’s staying, either. If you’ve got someone to back me up, we could go into the Coogee house tonight and see if she’s there.”
“Back you up?” Teneille frowned.
“Sure. I know Franco has at least two shotguns after today – and he’s pretty keen to use them.’
“Steady, Mick,” Tennyson said. “I don’t think anyone’s suggesting a home invasion.”
“Then you’re going to have to hear about the next move when I do.” He made a contrite face. “The ball’s in their court.”
“Bastards,” Teneille said softly, but with a woman’s venom.
“God, it’s enough to drive you crazy,” her husband agreed and stood. “Come on, let’s eat. I’m starving.”
TWELVE
THE WATER OFF South Beach helped Flanagan make up his mind. At eleven, still wet from the salt water, he called the estate agent for the house on South Terrace and asked about seeing through the property ASAP. The young woman was eager, making Flanagan wonder whether South Fremantle really was one of the fastest-rising suburbs in the State. The working roots of the town, as well as the run-down footpaths and empty shops, were obstacles to be overcome, but the days of the coal smelter and tannery at Robb Jetty and the South Fremantle power station were done.
The inspection only confirmed what Flanagan knew already. The big property couldn’t be sub-divided because of the narrow street frontage and the inability for the back property to meet restrictions regarding the road. The interior was bare, someone responsible for a half-arsed decoration that left the property with an eggshell grey colour scheme and a useless bathroom. But it would do. They wanted just over half a million, which seemed a bit steep for only two bedrooms – apartments down the road were going for three hundred – but as ever, he knew when someone wanted something bad enough, they’d pay the price. So it was with him.
He took the agent’s card and used the bathroom before leaving the Fairmont parked and exploring the walk into Fremantle and the bank. The free orange bus appeared half-a-dozen blocks away, turning at South Street for Marine Terrace. Flanagan jogged to catch it at the next stop and climbed breathlessly aboard.
Banking in Fremantle made for a curious encounter. Clearly the manager wasn’t used to customers walking in and asking to see him personally, but when he came out to eventually tell Flanagan about their appointment times, the clean-shaven figure in the cramped entranceway opened the carry-all with most of a hundred thousand in American bills and suddenly they had an agreement.
It was something about the foreign money. Like the prestige Australians gave to foreign management, Flanagan knew the US dollars had an immediacy all their own.
The mousy-looking bloke stroked his moustache like it was a vice as he sat on the far side of the desk.
“I haven’t used my account for a number of years,” Flanagan said slowly, knowing it wasn’t a point in his favour.
The manager only hummed, a finger beneath his whiskers as he looked into his computer screen like the Oracle of Delphi.
“When was the last time you made a withdrawal, Mr Flanagan?”
“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I’ve been out of the country five years. For the two years before that I was in and out of Canberra. I would’ve used it then.”
“So I can see,” the manager hummed, then flicked an understated gaze Flanagan’s way. “You worked for the government?”
“That’s right.”
“And when did you cease employment with them? I’ve got payments here from the Department of Defence.”
“Five years ago.”
The manager clucked. “That’s not what it says here. You’ve got a regular salary going into this account up until . . . just under four years ago.”
Flanagan frowned. “So how much is in the account?”
The manager had already verified the ID, so he eased back in his chair and smiled confidentially.
“Ninety-two thousand, six hundred and eighty dollars flat.”
Flanagan kept his cool and nodded, nudging the carry-all he’d subtly left in the middle of the man’s desk.
“I’d like to deposit that. And I’ll need a new key card.”
“Of course. There’s a fee for currency transferral, I’m sure you’re aware?”
“There’s a fee for everything, I know that much.”
The manager bristled, but said nothing, and Flanagan dropped the single colour-printed sheet for the South Terrace duplex.
“I want a loan to cover me for the rest of this amount,” he said.
The manager leaned forward and looked down his spectacles at the piece of paper like it was a urine specimen with its own stand-up routine. He stared at it upside-down for five seconds and then reluctantly turned the sheet around, the movement suggesting the importance of his time.
“That’s a lot of money still in deficit, Mr Flanagan. Your government employment record puts you in good stead, but what is it you do now, exactly?”
Flanagan stared at him for a moment. “I’m starting my own security company. Corporate security.”
“You’re just starting this now?”
“Steady, mate. I’ve only been back in the country two weeks.”
The manager finally managed to separate his linked hands from their intercourse.
“I’m not sure the bank could underwrite that amount without substantial confidence in your ability to repay.”
“The investment sense in the property alone has got to be worthwhile.”
The other man shrugged. Flanagan thought he’d said his name was Norman. It didn’t matter and it might be better if he didn’t recall.
“You got any cameras in here?”
“Cameras?” The manager smiled, completely at ease, and swivelled slightly in his chair as he gestured into the empty corners of the ceiling and said nothing except to separate his steepled fingers once again and chuckle.
Flanagan dug into the bag and separated five bundles of US bills, each one a thousand foreign dollars. When he had them in a handful and tapped quickly together, he leaned across and slapped them down on the table and stood in the same instant.
“Best tuck those away in your lunch box then, mate.”
He took a pen and wrote his mobile phone number on the bottom of the pamphlet and pushed both across and under the stack of money, the bank manager looking on startled, managerial poise in ruins.
“I don’t want to deal with any more crap,” he said. “Organise the loan and process it and we’ll both be happy boys.”
Flanagan made a show of stretching, and then patted the carry-all he intended to leave in the bank’s care. It took a moment for the manager to find his voice.
“You’d . . . you’d best leave a forwarding address for the bank card.”
Flanagan smiled. “Good idea.”
After lunch and a coffee at Gina’s, he took the free bus as far as it would go toward the car. As he approached, Flanagan crossed the road and jerked the ‘for sale’ sign from its weak roost and tossed it over the picket fence into the front garden. Within a minute, h
e had the Fairmont started and was driving away.
*
ON FRIDAY, THE Markets were open in Fremantle, and Flanagan bought fresh bread, olives, sun-dried tomatoes, freshly-ground coffee, a Led Zeppelin CD, and thirty dollars worth of fruit and vegetables before driving back to Mosman Park with the window down, a cigarette clamped between his teeth and Thin Lizzy playing at top volume in the ancient tape deck. Gulls practically swooped the car as he drove across the Traffic Bridge and into North Fremantle, all the cars and delivery vans slowing for workers who’d blocked off half the lanes. Flanagan didn’t care. The sun was shining and he felt confident the mysterious ex-pat Welshman RJ might just convince his boss to give up mischievous Allyson without a turf war.
The phone started ringing as he turned into Glyde Street. He pulled in beside the over-priced quilting store to answer it.
“Mick, it’s Nee,” his sister said.
“Nuala,” Flanagan replied. “What’s up?”
With even a few syllables, she conveyed a sense of dread.
“I just rang to warn you. I’m sorry. I spoke to mum and I told her I’d seen you.” She paused a moment as if expecting a rebuke. When there was none, she added, “I wanted to give you warning, give you a chance to call her before leaving it too long.”
“I should call her, do you think?”
He knew she wouldn’t be able to read the irritation in his voice.
“I’m just saying you might want to,” Nuala said. “You’ll do whatever it is you choose to do. God knows, you always have.”
“Maybe,” Flanagan conceded. “There’s some things it doesn’t seem right to do on a telephone, though maybe these little portable things have changed all that.” He sighed. “How did she take it?”
“She was . . . stunned . . . and happy.”
“Happy? I should call her.”
Nuala repeated the Hilton number even though it wasn’t needed. Nonetheless, Flanagan thanked her, and stilted suddenly, the sails of their conversation crumpling without anything to power them, Nuala hung up.
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