From the Stars Above

by Peter Watt

  ‘Michael!’ Jessica exclaimed. ‘How is it that you found Shannon?’

  ‘I was not aware that she was lost, but she was at a place where she should not have been.’ He turned to Mila. ‘This is a friend of mine, Mila, who helped me extract Shannon.’

  Jessica stepped back to examine her daughter wearing far too much make-up and a skirt that hardly concealed her panties. Her face clouded. ‘Go to your room, young lady. You and I will talk later. You are fortunate that your father does not know of your escapade.’

  Shannon did not protest, and went meekly to her room.

  ‘Come inside and I’ll make a pot of tea,’ Jessica said. ‘You can tell me how you came across my delinquent daughter.’

  Michael and Mila followed Jessica inside into the kitchen where she sat them down at the table. Michael explained how he had stumbled across Shannon and Tania. He left out the part about hospitalising three men in the process of his extraction.

  ‘The last I heard you had joined the army and gone to Vietnam with the SASR. I guess you’re now on leave.’

  ‘I also heard that Bryce is doing his stint in Vietnam as a nasho,’ Michael said, taking a lamington from the tray Jessica placed on the table.

  Mila remained silent until Jessica turned to her and asked, ‘Have you known Michael very long?’

  ‘We’ve just met, Mrs Duffy,’ Mila said. ‘But in the brief time I have known Michael he has proved to be a very interesting man.’

  ‘More than you know,’ Jessica smiled. ‘If he had any sense he would not be in the army but helping his mother run her companies. I say that even though she is one of my major competitors.’

  Mila glanced quizzically at Michael who was blithely sipping from his cup of tea.

  ‘My Aunt Jess means the Macintosh Enterprises,’ he said. ‘My mother is Sarah Macintosh.’

  Mila’s eyes widened. ‘I’ve read about your mother in the Women’s Weekly. She’s supposed to be the richest woman in Australia.’

  ‘Second richest,’ Michael grinned. ‘Aunt Jess here is the richest.’

  Mila glanced at Jessica sitting at the end of the table. The modest home did not reek of wealth, and Michael’s statement caught her off balance. ‘Jessica Duffy! I’ve also read about you. Your life story is fascinating. You’re a war hero.’

  ‘Thank you for the kind words, but the war was a long time ago, and I think Michael’s mother and I are on an equal footing with our business concerns. My sister-in-law might do even better if she had Michael by her side.’

  ‘That will not happen, Aunt Jess,’ Michael said, finishing his tea and lamington. ‘I suppose I should get Mila home as it is getting late. May I call a taxi?’

  Within minutes the cab was at the front door, and Jessica gave them both a warm hug. ‘Thank you, Michael,’ she said. ‘You are always welcome under my roof – and so are your friends.’

  ‘Thanks, Aunt Jessie. I might be back before I am shipped out again.’

  On the taxi ride to her Glebe flat, Mila said very little, but she slipped her hand into Michael’s.

  When they arrived Mila, without a word, led Michael by the hand in to her flat and closed the door behind them.

  *

  The sun rose on a hot Saturday morning and Michael pulled himself into a sitting position, gazing at the sleeping face of the girl he hardly knew. She was just as beautiful asleep as she was awake, he thought. Very gently, he extracted himself from the bed and quickly dressed without waking her. He exited the flat, and when Mila finally awoke she could see that he was gone, but the bed was sprinkled with red rose petals and the delicious aroma of food wafted in the air. She sat up, covering her breasts modestly with the sheet, as he walked into the bedroom carrying a tray containing two mugs of coffee and a plate of hot croissants.

  ‘I thought perhaps you had gone forever,’ Mila said. ‘The rose petals are beautiful. Thank you.’

  Michael sat down on the bed, placing the tray between them. ‘I still have some leave before I have to go back, and I could not think of anything better than spending it with you,’ he said. ‘I think it is time that I learned a little more about you, then maybe we can go to the beach.’

  Suddenly there was a loud knock. Michael slid from the bed and cautiously opened the front door to find two burly uniformed police officers standing on the steps.

  ‘Do you live here?’ one of them asked bluntly.

  ‘No,’ Michael replied. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Does Mila Welsh live here?’

  ‘I do,’ Mila answered behind Michael. She had grabbed a dressing-gown and stood clutching it around her.

  ‘Were you at a party last night in Glebe with this gentleman?’ the police officer asked.

  ‘I was.’

  ‘What do you know about the serious assault of Mr Justin Wainwright at the party?’ the police officer continued.

  ‘If that is the man I hit assisting Miss Welsh, then I am guilty,’ Michael answered in an angry voice.

  ‘You put him in hospital with a ruptured spleen, and funnily enough, we found two bikies admitted from the same party, both suffering severe injuries. You will have to come with us to the station for further questioning. What is your name?’

  ‘Michael Macintosh. I am a member of the armed services.’

  Michael had a sinking feeling that his Saturday morning was going to turn out very badly indeed.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The cells stank of human excrement and stale alcohol. The din from drunken inmates echoed around the watch house, and Michael sat in a corner of a cell he shared with the drunks gathered up off the streets of Sydney. Saturday night was approaching and he had been informed by the charging sergeant that he would appear before the magistrates court on Monday morning, charged with assault causing grievous bodily harm. Michael had said nothing in his defence, and only enquired as to the fate of Miss Mila Welsh, who had also been brought to the station for questioning. He was informed that she had provided a statement and had been free to return home.

  ‘Macintosh,’ a voice boomed. ‘You are to come with me.’

  Michael stood and followed the uniformed policeman down a corridor and into a small, dingy room. When Michael entered, he saw his mother sitting at a table, the inevitable cigarette in its holder in her hand. Her expression reflected a mixture of maternal concern and annoyance. Michael was surprised to see the concern; he had never seen it in her before.

  ‘Why didn’t you call me when the police brought you here?’ she asked.

  Michael shrugged. ‘I suppose because I got myself into the mess. How did you know I was here?’

  ‘I received a phone call from a Miss Mila Welsh informing me you had been arrested on a serious assault charge, and I immediately came here. I was told of your bail conditions and the police said I can apply for your temporary release when you go before the court on Monday.’

  ‘I doubt that I will have the cash to pay for bail,’ Michael said, ‘let alone employ a good lawyer.’

  ‘Money is not the problem,’ Sarah said. ‘It is the person you assaulted that is the problem. He is the son of a well-known Sydney family and he has had his spleen removed. The family is insisting that you face the full force of the law.’

  ‘I honestly did not intend to injure him,’ Michael said.

  ‘Be that as it may, the fact is you are in serious trouble and could be facing a prison term. I will be hiring the best defence our money can buy.’

  ‘Well, I doubt any lawyer will be able to successfully plead my case,’ Michael sighed. The worst thing about any conviction would be his dishonourable discharge, first from the SASR, and then the army.

  ‘I would not despair yet,’ Sarah said. ‘Do not underestimate the reach of my contacts in this city. Just behave and I will see you on Monday in court. If there is anything you need, just ask.’

&
nbsp; Michael stared at his mother, smartly dressed and out of place in the inner-city police station, as she turned to walk past the uniformed policeman standing in the doorway. As he was escorted back to the large cell he shared with the drunks, he wondered what his mother meant by the reach of her contacts.

  *

  ‘William, it has been many years,’ Sarah said, standing in the empty nightclub that smelled of spilled beer and cigarette smoke. A cleaner was taking down chairs from tables.

  Billy Price ushered Sarah to a table and indicated to his barman to bring them coffee.

  ‘I have to admit, as much of a bitch as you are, I have missed you,’ Billy said. ‘I have already heard your young fella has got himself into a spot of bother. He didn’t deserve that, considering how he got my Tania out of a sticky situation. Is there anything I can do? I feel I owe your lad one for sticking his neck out for my girl.’

  ‘There is,’ Sarah said. ‘But time is of utmost importance because Michael is due to appear in court on Monday morning.’

  Billy Price looked hard at Sarah. They had been lovers during the war but had eventually drifted apart. Billy had married one of his very attractive barmaids and settled down to a seemingly respectable domestic life. But it was only a front, as he was considered one of the most dangerous gangsters in Sydney’s criminal underground. His power reached into the pockets of corrupt politicians, police and even judges and magistrates. ‘What did you have in mind?’ he asked with a half-smile.

  ‘I thought that you might have a quiet word with Justin Wainwright; see if you can persuade him to withdraw his statement.’

  ‘I can do that,’ Billy replied. ‘Do you know where this Wainwright fella lives?’

  ‘He has a flat in Glebe he shares with another student,’ Sarah said. ‘I have the address here.’ She passed the underworld figure a scrap of paper. ‘I believe he is still in hospital for the moment, recovering from an operation.’

  Billy took the paper, glanced at it and turned to the barman. ‘Go and tell Blitzer and Jack I need them to come around to the club now.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Billy returned his attention back to Sarah. ‘Consider it a done deal,’ he said. ‘I heard that you are a widow now.’

  ‘William, times have changed, and my true love is my business – you know that.’

  ‘It always has been,’ Billy sighed.

  Sarah rose and left the nightclub, stepping out into the streets of Kings Cross. A few hungover American servicemen with young girls on their arms wandered in search of a cafe for breakfast. Sarah signalled to her driver waiting at the kerb to pick her up. She had done all she could. Now her son’s fate was in the hands of her old lover.

  *

  Monday morning arrived and Michael had not been able to shave or wash before he was escorted to the magistrates court adjoining the police station. He was held in a room off the courthouse, and a man in a smart suit sought him out from the other prisoners awaiting their appearance.

  ‘Mr Macintosh, I am the solicitor who has been hired by your mother to represent you at this hearing. My name is John Hertz,’ he said, shaking Michael’s hand. ‘I have been informed of certain matters, so you will not have to speak at all unless you are addressed by the beak.’

  ‘Okay,’ Michael said, just a little confused at the brevity of his defence. The solicitor disappeared, and after an hour Michael heard his name called three times, as was the legal tradition.

  He stepped into the courtroom, glancing around and seeing his mother sitting on a bench in the public section. She smiled and nodded to him. The solicitor waved for Michael to join him at a table, and the police prosecutor stood to address the case to the magistrate. Michael remained seated as the prosecutor and magistrate engaged in legal talk. But what Michael did understand was that the aggrieved party had submitted a statement to say that he had made a mistake and that Michael Macintosh was not his assailant. However, the prosecutor argued a witness statement from a Miss Mila Welsh contradicted the victim’s misidentification.

  ‘Stand up, Mr Duffy,’ the magistrate said. ‘I believe that you have recently returned from a tour of duty in Vietnam with our SASR, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, Your Worship,’ Michael replied.

  The magistrate frowned, and Michael sensed that he was not out of trouble.

  ‘I must ask you a very important question, Mr Macintosh. Did you in any way intimidate any witness who might have brought evidence against you?’

  ‘I swear on the honour of my regiment that I did not in any way attempt to influence the witness, Your Worship.’ Michael was telling the truth, but he had a sneaking suspicion his mother was somehow behind Wainwright withdrawing his statement.

  The magistrate looked down at the paper file on his bench and was silent for a moment. Then he looked up at Michael standing before him. ‘I have two conflicting statements, and I must view Miss Welsh’s version of events as potentially being tainted by your association with her.’

  ‘Your Worship . . .’ the police prosecutor protested but was silenced by the magistrate raising his hand.

  ‘Sergeant, I will finish my address, if you please,’ he said. ‘I feel that it will not serve justice to proceed with this matter as Mr Macintosh is returning to Vietnam in the near future. I feel that is enough to justify dismissing this case, since the victim of this matter does not wish to give evidence against Mr Macintosh. Now, I think we should have a break for morning tea.’

  The court constable ordered all to rise as the magistrate left his bench.

  ‘Does that mean I am free to go?’ Michael asked his solicitor, who rose from his chair, briefcase in hand.

  ‘And there will be no black mark on your record,’ the solicitor said, slapping Michael on the back just as his mother approached with a broad smile. Michael gave her an enquiring look.

  ‘I knew that they would not convict you,’ she said, patting him affectionately on the cheek with her gloved hand.

  ‘Miss Macintosh,’ the solicitor said, ‘thank you for the prior information. It certainly helped me out with the shortest GBH I have ever defended in court. I must hurry back to the office, so I will congratulate you, Mr Macintosh, on being able to walk out of here, thanks to your mother.’

  He scooped up his paper-stuffed briefcase and hurried away.

  ‘What did you do?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Nothing that you need know about,’ she replied with another pat on the cheek. ‘I would ask you to join me for lunch, but I think you need to return to your accommodation, shave and take a shower. You have my phone number.’

  When Michael stepped out of the courthouse he saw Mila standing forlornly at the bottom of the sweeping stone steps. She ran to him.

  ‘Oh, Michael, I am so sorry,’ she said, embracing him. ‘I told the police that you were protecting me, and your solicitor said that I might be called to refute my statement, but it obviously did not come to that. I am so sorry I caused so much trouble.’

  ‘You did the right thing,’ Michael replied. ‘I never dreamed that I would be walking out of here today, except on bail. The magistrate has dismissed the charge against me. Now, I think I will go to my uncle’s flat, have a shave, a shower and a cold beer. Would you like to go out to dinner with someone who has just been released from police custody?’

  ‘I would love to,’ Mila replied without hesitation. ‘And I promise I won’t invite you to any more parties.’

  Michael smiled. He kissed Mila goodbye and then caught a taxi to Sean’s flat, had his shave, shower and cold beer. But he knew there was something else he must do and caught another taxi to the offices of the Macintosh Enterprises near Circular Quay.

  He was ushered into his mother’s office where he found her briefing one of her managers. Her face lit up when she saw her son.

  ‘I thought I should come and thank you for gettin
g me off the charge,’ he said when the manager departed.

  ‘It is the least a mother can do,’ Sarah said. ‘I know that you and I have never had a close relationship, but I have realised that all I have achieved will mean nothing if you are not involved in the future of the Macintosh Enterprises. I have always harboured the idea that your real father, David Macintosh, is the embodiment of our ancestor, Michael Duffy, but now I think it is you.’

  ‘Charles will always be my real father to me,’ Michael said. ‘It is obvious that David Macintosh spurned me from the very beginning.’

  ‘He was not in a position to accept you as his son,’ Sarah said. ‘There was a war on, and he did not think he would survive.’

  ‘Charles was flying spitfires over Darwin, and his chances of survival were pretty slim, but he took me on as his own son, giving me the love of a father,’ Michael said.

  ‘That is all in the past,’ Sarah said with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘Your enlistment will be over next year and I hope you will consider returning home. You have done enough for your country. It must occur to you from time to time to settle down to a peaceful life with a wife and children. I am not referring to this Mila Welsh girl, of course. She is the daughter of immigrant parents. I assume she is simply a passing distraction.’

  Michael looked sharply at his mother, feeling his anger rising. ‘I don’t know at this stage what Mila is to me, but it is not any matter that concerns you, Mother.’

  ‘You must meet a young woman from your own station in life – not the daughter of refugees.’

  ‘You haven’t changed a bit,’ Michael said, shaking his head. ‘Still only interested in the precious family name. But despite everything, you are the only mother I will ever have and I am stuck with that. When my time is up in the army, I will take up your offer of a position here.’

  Sarah’s face lit up with a happiness Michael had never really seen before. She crossed the room to him.

  ‘Thank you, Michael,’ she said and held out her hand to welcome him to the Macintosh Enterprises. So much for the warm embrace of a mother.