The Butcherbird

by Geoffrey Cousins

  But the next problem redirected Louise’s venom immediately. This was not the car park from which they had set off, where their car conveniently awaited. It was three kilometres to the nearest main road and a long wait for the elusive taxi before a bath and wine eased the tension. They’d barely spoken on the trek out, more from tiredness than from any rift between them, and thoughts of sexual activity other than a cuddle by the fire had disappeared on a lonely road under an avenue of eucalypts rustling in the chill night air.

  When they were finally sprawled together on cushions by the fire, too tired to bother with eating, Jack spoke. ‘I can’t do it any longer. I’m not going to have my family subjected to this harassment. Particularly the kids. I don’t care anymore what these people have done or haven’t done. I’m out. I’ll tell Hedley Stimson on Sunday and that’s the end of it.’

  She pushed away his comforting arm and turned on him like a female lion snarling at an intruder. ‘The hell you will. You mean I go through the humiliation of all the snide rumours about you and other women, the kids have to put up with stuff they barely understand, but they wear it because they love their father, and it’s all for nothing? It’s too hard for you to bear? How is it too hard for you? You’ve forgotten about us, have you? You’ve forgotten about all the little people who are getting ripped off by these greasy pirates lining their own pockets. It’s all difficult now so Jack’s picking up his crayons and running off to draw nice pictures where it’s quiet and easy. That’s the idea, is it? The hell it is. You’ll fight this thing to the end, whatever end it may be, if I have to drag you through the courtroom door.’

  He hated it when she was like this, even while admiring the fierce spirit. He hated it being directed at him. He knew she’d defend him with the same courage and passion, take the bullet if she had to, but when she attacked him, she diminished him in some way. He’d always looked for her approbation, always placed the plans under her eyes for praise, always checked to see if she was watching from across the room at a party, without wanting to know she was focused on him. He knew she would forgive him many things, but never weakness of spirit.

  ‘I’m not concerned for me-I’ve put all that aside a long time ago. But I can’t put our whole family life at risk on some unproven matter of principle, can I?’

  She stood over him. ‘Really? And do we have any say in this? You decide to enter the battle, you decide to abandon it. We just stand around and provide sustenance for the great warrior when he needs it. You think that’s the deal? Who am I then, Maid Marion? Bullshit. I’m a fucking Amazon and I ride in front. We fight together or we’re not together.’

  She saw the shock and fear on his face and waited a moment before she knelt and held his head in both hands, looking straight into his eyes. ‘You’re my man. I’m your woman. Nothing can change that, nothing can hurt us, or our family, unless we damage ourselves. We can’t lose against these people. Whatever happens, we win because we fight. You see?’

  chapter twelve

  Laurence Treadmore sat, at dawn, in the study of his apartment and watched the sun rise over the palm groves of the Botanic Gardens. He normally rose promptly at eight o’clock and the romance of early morning light was entirely lost on him. Indeed he stood and closed both the louvres and the thick curtains over the casement windows. The dark room was now lit only by a desk lamp. Sir Laurence reached behind him to one of the twenty-two filing cabinets and withdrew a thin white folder. He’d already taken two phone calls, one from London, one from Geneva, and although these had been the purpose of his early rising, now that he was up there was no point in wasting these unwanted hours.

  He looked at the name on the folder with some distaste. It was one of the burdens of his life that he had to deal with, even to promote, people of such undistinguished character. Sometimes it was necessary in order to resolve-or create-an intricate dilemma, but one hoped that one could redress the balance at a later time. How any person with a name like Popsie could expect to be taken seriously was beyond him. Of course, as the file demonstrated, she appeared not to have any desire to be taken seriously-just to be taken. She was an opportunist with money problems, some of which he’d helped to alleviate, briefly. It wasn’t a recipe for admiration, but it was for usefulness.

  He read the document carefully, then wrote a name and a phone number on a notepad. He replaced the folder, opened the second drawer and removed a similar, but much thicker, file. As he slowly leafed through the file, a steady stream of entries flowed into the notepad. Nearly two hours had passed by the time he’d read and re-read the document and then distilled his note-taking onto one page. It was eight o’clock and Mavis would be bathing downstairs. She’d be surprised if he didn’t emerge shortly from his quarters, showered and dressed, and he never liked to surprise Mavis. He was unaware that he had done so many times in their early years, but not for a long time now. He rang his office number in order to leave a message for Mrs Bonython to make separate appointments for the two people he’d just been reading about. He would see them later in the morning. And he had no doubt they’d be there, even the second one. Proud, and a stiff neck he might have, but he’d be there. But first Sir Laurence would breakfast at the club. Eggs, he felt like scrambled eggs. The croissant on his desk could sit there or Mrs Bonython could have it for her dinner. On a day like this, Sir Laurence Treadmore would eat eggs in the main dining room at the Colonial Club, cholesterol be damned.

  He arrived at his office only five minutes before the first of the two appointments. Mrs Bonython became flustered when told to remove the newspapers from the desk and take the croissant home. Sir Laurence was a man of strict habits and any interruption to his rituals was unusual and disturbing. As was the appearance of the woman who arrived promptly at ten o’clock. She was not the sort of person who usually entered these austere and sombre rooms, dressed expensively but showily in a frock more suited to a romantic picnic than a business meeting with a Knight of the Realm. It was also unknown for Sir Laurence not to keep a visitor waiting, but there he was at the door to his office calling, ‘Come in, dear lady, do come in,’ before Mrs Bonython could reach for the intercom. If it had been any other employer she might have thought Sir Laurence was engaged in a liaison of dubious nature, but some things were not possible.

  ‘What a delightful office, Laurence,’ said Popsie Trudeaux as she looked around with distaste at the bland interior. No colour. Popsie liked colour, loved colour, what was life without colour? Her present attire was ample evidence of this passion and Sir Laurence recoiled from it surreptitiously. It was still early in the day, and it was upsetting an excellent breakfast.

  ‘And how is your new business progressing? I only hear most impressive reports.’ Sir Laurence was seated behind the exceptionally wide desk and had pushed his chair back towards the window as if to situate himself as far as possible from both the violent kaleidoscope of contrasting hues and the sizeable bosoms encased in it.

  ‘Thanks to you, Laurence, it’s a triumph. I’ve been showered with work by everyone. I really can’t handle it all.’

  Or any of it, thought Sir Laurence grimly. It was true the work was pouring in, his sources confirmed that, but Popsie’s ability to administrate and control costs appeared to be in inverse proportion to her ability to conjure up bizarre concepts.

  ‘Indeed, how wonderful. I’m so glad to have been of minor assistance. And I hear you’re bidding for some of the Grand Prix work. Now that would be a major project and a tremendous coup. The chairman of the committee happens to be a personal friend of mine. Should I mention it to him or would that be indiscreet?’

  Discretion was not a consideration that had weighed heavily in any previous concern of Popsie’s. It was certainly not a factor she wished to play a part in deterring Sir Laurence from mentioning her favourably to the chairman of the Grand Prix Committee. The chairman of this committee could save her life. She’d never met him, whoever he was, but he could have it all, on a plate, if he’d just give her
this contract. She couldn’t believe it had come to this. It had never occurred to her you could lose money running a successful business. The money poured in one end, a veritable tropical thunderstorm of dollars thundering into the bank accounts, but then it seemed to wash away down some stormwater drain and she was left with unpaid bills and an overdraft. At first she thought her accountant must be stealing it. After all, he was also her husband’s accountant, and now that she had pretty much told Angus to fuck off-because why would a successful, creative businesswoman need a dull lawyer husband with a limp dick hanging around?-well maybe the accountant was siphoning funds off to Angus. So she’d hired another accountant and he’d said the same thing-cost control was not one of her skills. He’d also said if she didn’t hire a professional manager and win a big contract instead of just parties and weddings, she’d be begging Angus to represent her on reduced fees in a bankruptcy court.

  As these thoughts were tumbling through her mind, she examined Sir Laurence in minute detail. Was he gay? He looked gay. Neat as a hotel bed, all those pink shirts and flowers in the buttonhole. He was married, but that meant nothing. How many married men’s jockey shorts had she run her hand into only to find out they were pillow biters? Besides, no one ever saw his wife. Perhaps she didn’t exist. And yet the old prune didn’t seem to have any juice running through him at all. She was sure he was asexual, just not interested. Which made it more mysterious. What did he want with her?

  ‘I’ll take your silence as tacit approval to have a word with Ron Strutter. No reason he shouldn’t know of the talent on offer.’

  Sir Laurence removed a sheet of paper from a drawer and placed it carefully on the bare desk. The leather surface was slippery from its morning polish and the paper slid gently towards Popsie.

  ‘I’ve another small matter that may interest you. From time to time clients and associates ask me to find trustworthy persons to act as directors of their private companies. I serve in this capacity myself for a few friends where the companies aren’t particularly active. But I don’t have the time for too many. There’s one on foot at present with a small private concern-a subsidiary of a company in Bermuda needs a local director, largely inactive, perhaps a little share trading or banking from time to time. They don’t pay a great deal, only fifty thousand dollars per annum in this case, but it all adds to business experience and some people find a little extra cash flow helpful. I realise money isn’t a consideration for you, but I thought you might enjoy expanding your corporate knowledge base.’ Sir Laurence smiled broadly, as he thought, and gestured to the paper on the desk. ‘This is a Consent to Act form, and really signing that and a few other documents from time to time, plus a rather nice lunch once or twice a year, is all there is to it.’ He paused. ‘And, of course, the annual visit to Bermuda. If you have the time.’

  Popsie thought she would have the time. She also thought ‘extra cash flow’ was a term she could come to respect quickly. She was also aware she was being set up as a stooge for someone or something. Even Sir Laurence couldn’t think she was a complete idiot. But who cared? He wasn’t a crook, he was a highly respected doyen of Australian business. If some friend of his wanted a tame director to sign a few documents for fifty grand a year, ring Popsie. That’s what she thought.

  ‘How kind of you to think of me, Laurence. You really are the most generous of men. I would love to learn more about corporate life. Naturally, I’d need to read all the relevant documents and so on. Company rules and-all those documents.’

  Sir Laurence waved a dismissive hand. ‘Of course, dear lady, the company’s articles, balance sheet, all of that will be provided immediately.’ He waited a few moments, feigning thought. ‘Would you prefer to receive those first, or are you happy to sign this document now? Mrs Bonython could witness for you.’

  The next visitor sat quietly in the waiting room for ten minutes before the phone buzzed on Mrs Bonython’s desk. Her cubicle was only partly screened from this room, containing one hard-backed chair and no reading material, but she made it a practice not to chat to Sir Laurence’s supplicants. She would be bound to say the wrong thing and, somehow, he would know she’d said it. She emerged to conduct him to the office door. ‘Sir Laurence will see you now, Mr Normile.’

  It had been three years since Clinton John Normile had sat opposite this man he hated as much as any he’d ever met. No, that was wrong. He’d never hated any person before, except in the abstract. But this was a visceral, gut-wrenching emotion that caused him to recoil when he had to say the name or shake the hand. The fact that he was required, forced, to do both only added to the turmoil in his stomach and spleen, and his bowels, in the lungs that couldn’t seem to catch enough air, in the throat that wouldn’t swallow. He tried to remain still, arms folded, the unaccustomed collar and tie half-strangling his shallow breathing, eyes looking through the figure in front of him to the light beyond.

  ‘There’s little point in wasting time on pleasantries. You agree? Good. And how is your son?’

  The Pope turned in on himself. He wasn’t in this room, there was no light blinding him behind the seated figure, he would hear no words if they were spoken, feel no pain if it was administered. He was in a very different room where he could hear too much, see too much, feel the pain of others, and especially, sickeningly, of his son. Yet, was this his son? This wasted, filthy, ragged, shivering bundle. Could this be the boy who stood erect, shining, leather straps polished, leather boots blackened, brass glinting in an afternoon sun, receiving the Winston Churchill Award as the Senior Army Cadet of New South Wales? Or the boy, man perhaps, who placed the steadying hand on his father’s arm when they stood together at a sister’s, a daughter’s, funeral?

  He would save his son. It was simple. He would analyse the problem logically and solve it. That’s what he did, solved other people’s problems. There were three issues: the medical issue, the question of criminality- ridiculous as it may be to suggest these tragic, wasted waifs were criminals, but it had to be dealt with-and whatever was the underlying cause. He would deal with all three. His son would shine again.

  How long had it taken him to understand some problems have no solution? It was the most jarring realisation of his life. He heard a voice far off in another world and jerked back to attention. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘I merely stated that no bad comment has reached me about his behaviour, which is, in its way, good. I’m sure you agree?’

  The Pope looked directly at Laurence Treadmore for the first time. Why did he hate this man? He’d no reason to do so. On the contrary, gratitude would have been a more reasonable emotion. He would be visiting a jail every Saturday instead of a halfway house if not for Sir Laurence’s intervention. But he hated being beholden to someone who literally made his skin crawl-an expression he’d never understood before he shook the limp hand. The fact that this aloof, cold mannequin even knew of his son’s predicament seemed peculiar, abnormal, to carry a portent of evil and corruption. There had been no publicity, they had no mutual friends, they nodded to one another at the club but nothing more. It was years since there’d been a passing connection in the insurance industry. Yet help of the most valuable, most essential kind had been proffered. And later, it was he, not Sir Laurence, who had vented unreasonable rage at eminently reasonable questions. If either had cause for animosity towards the other, it was the wraith he could barely see behind the desk in the glaring light.

  ‘He’s holding the line. He’s taken up sculpture. He’s very good at it. He started with pottery, but has since moved on to working wood and stone. It helps a great deal, but it’s not everything.’

  Sir Laurence nodded thoughtfully and drew another paper from the desk drawer. ‘No, I suppose not. I confess I’m not greatly familiar with these matters.’ He paused. ‘I’ve come across something that may be of further assistance. An acquaintance of mine has directed my attention to a foundation that helps with problems of this kind. They’ve established a retreat in
the Southern Highlands, away from any temptation, where long-term residency is available and where, if I recall correctly, one of the major activities is art, in particular sculpture. They’re searching for a new chairman, someone who would take a close and personal interest. I thought of you. And your son.’

  There it was again. Where he should have felt gratitude and relief, only anger and suspicion reared up. The man had known about the sculpture before he mentioned it, he must have done. Why was he watching them, why was he helping? And yet it was exactly what Gary needed. Maybe it was exactly what he needed himself.

  ‘It’s very considerate of you, Laurence, to spend time on this. I don’t know how to thank you. I never have thanked you properly and I deeply regret the comments I made. It was a time of great stress.’

  Sir Laurence waved away the words with the dust mites. ‘We all say things we don’t mean from time to time. Here’s a background paper on the foundation. They need to move quickly, so let me know before the end of the week.’

  The Pope reached forward to take the document. ‘Thank you again, Laurence.’ He waited a few seconds. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

  Sir Laurence stood immediately and walked from behind the desk to the door. ‘Not at all, not at all. We help where we can. I’m sure you do the same.’

  The hand was extended as the door opened and the Pope, reluctantly but gratefully, shook it and walked unsteadily to the lift.