Miles Off Course

by Sulari Gentill

  Rowland didn’t move.

  Abercrombie waited. “You don’t have many choices, Rowly.”

  Rowland sat, his eyes glittering resentfully. “What do you want?”

  The Englishman sat opposite him. “You know, Rowly, I had expected to find that you were no different to all the other selfish well-heeled morons we were at school with.”

  Rowland said nothing, regarding the man suspiciously.

  “But after renewing our acquaintance and meeting your friends, I wonder if there is another way…”

  Sullen, restrained silence.

  Abercrombie gazed at him thoughtfully. “When I was at Cambridge, Rowly, I had the good fortune to join a group of men who had a vision for the world—a fairer world than we know today.”

  “I’ve read Marx too, Humphrey.”

  “Then you’ll understand. We’re trying to loosen the choking grip of capitalist power, old boy… destabilise it.” Abercrombie leaned forward, looking directly into Rowland’s eyes. “Do you know what’s happening in Germany, Rowly?’

  Rowland held his captor’s gaze. He had visited Germany the previous year. Admittedly, it had disturbed him.

  Abercrombie spoke for some time after that—of the Communists and intellectuals being detained and tortured under the direction of Germany’s new chancellor, of the seemingly irresistible rise of the Fascists and the failure of democracy to stop it. He ranted about the exploitation of workers in Britain and of colonial injustice. Rowland had heard these arguments before and he was to some extent sympathetic… but he was not a Communist.

  “You’re not in Germany, or Britain—you’re here,” he said evenly.

  “Rowly, I know you can see the truth in what I’m saying. Democracy is not going to survive in the face of the Fascists. Our only hope is to throw our lot in with the Communists. Join us—help us build a better world.”

  “And how exactly do you want me to help you, Humphrey?”

  “You could vote against the Lister franchise and you could work with us.”

  Rowland laughed. “You want me to be a spy?”

  “I am aware of your dealings with the New Guard, Rowly… It seems you’ve spied on the establishment before.”

  “That was personal not political.”

  “There’s information you could give us. You have an insight into this country that we don’t, as well as connections. With your access to funds and people we could strike a real blow against the capitalists. You could tell us how best to undermine the government, to give the working man a chance at managing his own destiny.”

  “That’s treason.”

  “Not if your loyalty is to mankind and the greater good.”

  “So why the charade, Humphrey… all this bloody hysteria? What good could it possibly do your cause to annoy the hell out of everyone around you?”

  Abercrombie was taken aback. He looked almost hurt. “I’d not expected you to be enlightened in any way, I’m afraid. I assumed I’d be dealing with a committed member of the capitalist establishment and, frankly, I was rather staggered to find you openly consorting with the Left.” Abercrombie signalled to one of his comrades who brought glasses and a bottle of Scotch to the table. The Englishman poured two drinks before he went on. “If you recall, I did try to get you away from your companions—to remain at Caves House in my suite—but you refused to go anywhere without Isaacs and Jones.”

  “And the caves? You sounded like you were terrified?”

  “We started the panic,” Abercrombie explained. “But in the darkness, I needed a way to help the boys find you—of course you just accepted it as poor old blithering Humphrey.”

  “You seem to be offended that I believed you a fool when you took great pains to act like one.”

  Abercrombie stopped, and then he smiled. “You make an interesting point. Perhaps I am being a bit precious. I suppose Rowly, as much as I could see that being the Humphrey you remembered would give me the perfect cover, some part of me wanted your respect. You were the closest thing to a friend I ever had at school. Perhaps some part of me hoped you would see through all that.”

  Rowland shook his head. “All you did was alert me to the danger.”

  Abercrombie laughed. “You were already alert to it, Rowly. All my actions did was make you determined to ignore any danger… because of course you’re nothing like me.” His voice was bitter. “It served my purpose.” Abercrombie pushed a glass of Scotch towards Rowland. “Initially, the plan was simply to make sure you were not at the Dangars board meeting. Once I realised I could appeal to your better nature I hoped that eventually I could count on you for more than that.”

  “By sending Moran to kill me?” Rowland bristled. “He was going to kill Ed, for God’s sake!”

  “Believe me, Rowly, I didn’t sanction that. He was just to hold you till my men came out to get you. Moran had his own agenda. I apologise, Rowly.” He said it so fervently that Rowland was almost convinced of his sincerity. “I would not have Miss Higgins hurt for the world.”

  “So why didn’t you talk to me at Woodlands? You’ve been living in my house for the past week.”

  Abercrombie shrugged. “Tactical decision. Perhaps I lost my nerve. I wasn’t sure I could bring you round.” The Englishman sipped his drink and glanced at his stone-faced co-conspirators. He lowered his voice. “Look Rowly, the Lister operation is only a small part of a greater putsch. I’ll admit that your presence on the board caused me to take rather a more personal interest than I probably should have. In doing so, I may have taken things too far.”

  “I noticed,” Rowland said tersely.

  Abercrombie went on. “It occurred to me at Woodlands that I could achieve the same thing by simply convincing you that Dangars was not in a financial position to take on the Lister franchise. Of course you chose to take counsel from Mr. Jones on the matter instead.”

  “And so you decided to kidnap me and Wil, because being held at gunpoint is going to convince me that yours is a reasonable point of view? Bloody oath, Humphrey, you’re an idiot!”

  Abercrombie’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Careful Rowly, I’m not the cowering buffoon you remember.”

  “No, you’re not. Now you’ve got a gun.”

  Abercrombie sighed. “I’d really hoped that we could forge a new friendship, as equals. Or is it that you can only befriend those who rely on you, so that you can lord it over them… is that it, Rowly?”

  Rowland bit his lip. “I should have let them drown you,” he said quietly.

  Abercrombie laughed. “But you didn’t. You jumped in fists flying. You did that rather a lot back then—quite the angry young man. What happened to you, Rowly?”

  “I grew up.”

  “Rather a shame, really. There’s a lot to be angry about now. Inequity, oppression, persecution—you could be so valuable to the cause, Rowly. Don’t you want to have some purpose—have your life mean something?”

  Met only with simmering silence, Abercrombie stood and brought his chair around the table. He placed it beside Rowland’s and sat down again. “I need your help, Rowly,” he whispered. “Everything that could possibly go wrong, has. I must bring them something… If I could just show them that an institution like Dangar, Gedye and Company could be destabilised, they’d see that revolutions need not be bloody.” He brushed some lint from Rowland’s lapel and straightened his tie. “Help me, Rowly, just once more.”

  Rowland stiffened, unnerved by the closeness that Abercrombie was imposing on him. He tried to reason with the man, struggling to soften his voice. “My vote won’t make a difference, Humphrey. All the other directors are for the Lister franchise.”

  The Englishman’s face darkened. For a moment he looked away, and then without warning, he turned and struck Rowland. “You’re a liar,” he said. “A coward and a liar!”

  Rowland’s head snapped back with the blow. It took him a moment to focus again, and for a few seconds he simply stared at Abercrombie. It was when the Englishman smil
ed that Rowland exploded and launched himself out of the chair.

  He landed two punches before Abercrombie’s comrades dragged him off.

  37

  UNDERWORLD RAID

  Police Offer No Evidence

  SYDNEY, Tuesday

  Joseph Dudley Prendergast (21), Albert Runnalls (32), Fred Lee (42), who were arrested in connection with the alleged raid on the shop of Kate Leigh, at Surry Hills, were charged at the Central Court today with having broken and entered the premises and assaulted Kate Leigh with intent to murder her.

  All were discharged, the police having no evidence to offer.

  The Canberra Times, 1933

  Wilfred was sitting on a low cot when the trapdoor rose open and his brother was heaved through the opening. Rowland lay groggy on the floor of the small airless attic.

  “Rowly!” Wilfred pulled him to his knees as the bolt clicked into place again.

  Rowland coughed, groaning as he struggled to get up. It was black. The attic was windowless, dark though it was now morning. It smelled of mice. Wilfred flicked open his cigarette lighter, holding it up to see by the dim wavering light.

  “Bloody hell, Rowly… for God’s sake, sit down!” He eased Rowland onto the cot.

  “I’m all right, Wil,” Rowland said, grimacing. “I used to box, remember.”

  “You don’t look like you were very good at it.”

  “I meant that I know how to take a punch,” Rowland returned indignantly.

  Wilfred put a bottle of lukewarm water into his hands. “Here, drink.”

  “Don’t waste the lighter fluid.” Rowland spluttered over a mouthful of the tepid stale liquid. “We’ll need it to find a way out of here.”

  “What happened?” Wilfred’s hand remained on his brother’s shoulder.

  “They wanted me to vote against the Lister fanchise.” Rowland tried to pull himself together. “Humphrey completely lost his rag… he’s gone somewhere, so we have a little while, I think.” He tried to stand again.

  Wilfred stopped him. “Just take it easy for a minute, Rowly.”

  “We have to get out of here, Wil. Humphrey’s trying to save face… When he gets back, they’ll start on you. He wants something to show that he’s not a complete moron.” Rowland tested the bruise on his left brow gingerly. It was sticky with blood. “Let’s be honest, they can’t just let us go now.”

  “Give yourself a second while we figure out what to do.” Wilfred sat beside him. “I take it your friend is some kind of international insurgent.”

  “Believe me, he’s not my friend anymore,” Rowland muttered, thinking of the perverse pleasure Abercrombie had taken in belting him senseless while he was restrained from fighting back. Now more than ever, he wished he’d left him in the pond.

  “He did this?” Wilfred’s voice was hard.

  “I’m starting to realise that Humphrey doesn’t take rejection all that well.”

  “God, Rowly.” Wilfred took a deep breath. “What the devil did you do to him?”

  Rowland swore as he shifted too quickly. “Apparently, I humiliated the bastard.”

  “When you were schoolboys?”

  “Yes, then… and now it seems.” Rowland was fed up with Abercrombie’s wounded feelings. “Humphrey’s been so obsessed with me, he’s cocked up his part of this grand operation.”

  “So the Dangars vote is just part of a general campaign to destabilise the country?” Wilfred handed Rowland his handkerchief.

  Rowland soaked it with water and applied it to his head. “Humphrey seems convinced that economic recovery will cement capitalist dominance and allow the Fascists to march in.” He sighed. “I can’t say I’m altogether happy about the Fascists either.”

  For a moment Wilfred said nothing and then, “What exactly were they trying to get out of you?”

  “In the end nothing. Humphrey was just angry… settling some old scores while he had some friends to help him. I wouldn’t know anything particularly useful anyway.”

  “Of course.”

  “I wouldn’t have told them if I did, Wil.”

  “I know that Rowly. How are you feeling?”

  “I’ll be all right. Nothing’s broken.” Rowland moved his battered body tentatively to make sure that was the case. “We have to get out of here. Humphrey’s got it into his head that you might have some sort of information or influence he could use… I don’t think he’ll be long.”

  Wilfred stood. Flicking open his lighter he surveyed the attic. He flinched slightly when he looked at Rowland again in the light. “Some of this wood looks quite rotten. We might be able to break through it and kick out the tin.”

  “It’ll make a hell of a noise.”

  “We’ll have to risk that.”

  Rowland nodded. “Okay then. Let’s get started.” He removed his dinner jacket. “It’s bloody hot up here.”

  Wilfred dragged the iron cot over the trap door. “That should slow them when the noise starts.”

  They found a patch low in the sloping ceiling that had been particularly affected by white ants. The lining boards came away without difficulty and they were able to breach the bearers to which the roofing iron was secured. Light streamed in through large holes of corrosion. Wilfred inspected the area carefully. “This looks jolly rusty, Rowly. We might be lucky. I think it’ll give with a decent kick.”

  Rowland stood back and allowed his brother to do the honours. Wilfred went about the task with his customary force and efficiency and soon there was an opening in the roof large enough to allow them through. Rowland draped his jacket over the jagged edges of tin, blanching in the sudden brightness of the morning. Already they could hear scrambling on the floors below.

  “We’re going to have to make our way up the roof and along,” Wilfred said, as he climbed out and offered Rowland his hand. The cot started to buck as the trapdoor was pushed from below. Rowland grasped Wilfred’s arm and hoisted himself onto the roof. He took a moment to find his feet on the slope before they clambered up the steep corrugated face to reach the ridge capping.

  “Rowly!” Wilfred seized the back of Rowland’s shirt as he slipped. Rowland grabbed the chimney.

  “Are you all right?” Wilfred asked.

  Rowland nodded, impressed by his brother’s pragmatic calm. He looked along the adjoining roofs for some way to safety.

  Wilfred followed his gaze. “If we shimmy along the ridge cap to that one,” he pointed to a terrace house with a verandah at the back, “we might be able to slide down and drop onto the verandah roof without breaking our necks. We can drop down from there.”

  There was a crash beneath them.

  “That’s the cot,” Rowland said, swinging his leg over the peak of the roof. “We’ll have company soon.”

  They wasted no further time, working their way along the rusted ridge caps. Three men emerged through the hole in the tin.

  Both Sinclairs turned when they heard the scream. Rowland saw the man grab desperately for the chimney. He missed and slid down the roof and over the edge. There was a splintering thud as he hit the ground, and more screams from the street.

  Rowland swore, horrified.

  “Keep going, Rowly,” Wilfred commanded. “If we’re lucky someone will call the police.”

  “Shouldn’t we just shout for help?”

  “We don’t know who’s here. The whole flaming neighbourhood could be Red for all we know.”

  The remaining men in pursuit were now shouting that the Sinclairs were burglars. The roofing iron was already starting to heat, and sections of it were rusted and jagged. Rowland gritted his teeth and tried to keep up with his brother in the precarious, awkward scramble towards their planned escape route. People from the street joined the shouting.

  Wilfred reached the roof of the terrace with the verandah first. He’d just turned to speak to Rowland when the missile caught him unawares—a half brick hurled from the street.

  “Wil!” Rowland’s arm shot out as Wilfred over
balanced. He grasped Wilfred’s elbow and, for a moment, held the weight. But he too was off balance and the result was that they both fell down the steep corrugated incline and then onto the roof of the verandah. Although the verandah had a gentler pitch, it was not wide enough to halt the momentum of their fall and they plunged headlong over its edge.

  “Rowly?” Wilfred got to his knees first and nudged his brother.

  Rowland pulled himself up onto his elbows. The ground was soft. They’d fallen into a vegetable garden, flattening a rather splendid crop of silverbeet. He glanced over at the staked tomatoes in an adjoining bed. All in all, they’d been lucky.

  Wilfred hauled him up. “Come on.”

  An elderly gentleman wearing a wide straw hat burst out of the terrace, berating them in Italian and waving a tea towel. Rowland tried to calm him, to explain why two men in dinner suits had fallen from the sky into his silverbeets. His words fell on ears too angry to hear them.

  “Rowly, tell him we need help,” Wilfred said, pulling his brother under the verandah.

  The old man was bemoaning the destruction of his crop. Suddenly he turned and threw his towel at them. Rowland ducked the gingham cloth, and then the straw hat, and then carrots pulled straight from the ground.

  “I don’t think he’s going to help us, Wil.”

  The door into the house opened to reveal a quite substantial, roughened woman who had squeezed through the opening to investigate the commotion. She wore an oversized hat and, despite the heat, a silver fox stole. Bejewelled and bedecked she glared at them with small eyes set in a broad red face.

  “Madam, please don’t be alarmed. We mean you no harm,” Wilfred started.

  The woman answered with profanity, loudly and consecutively. Wilfred stepped back, appalled.

  “Look sweetheart, it’s not the first time some stuck-up ponce has thought he could put one over on me—but Katy Leigh didn’t come down in the last shower…” She rummaged in her purse and pulled out a gun. “Now, just suppose you tell me what Matilda Devine sent you two gents to my joint for.”