The Butcherbird

by Geoffrey Cousins

  He stood and started to walk to the door but the waspish voice stung him. ‘You will not leave this room.’ Sir Laurence’s legendary self-control was close to cracking as the words were spat out. ‘I instruct you, as your chairman, to resume your seat and answer my questions.’ Jack remained standing. ‘If you ignore an instruction from me, legally given, as chairman, relating to serious matters concerning your responsibilities as CEO, you will be in breach of your contract. Do you understand?’

  Jack smiled. Now it was starting. Now the phoney war was over and the bombs would fall where they may. God help the innocent.

  ‘The contract I never wanted? Yes, I understand, Laurence.’ He opened the door. ‘I’ll see you at ten o’clock.’

  He listened to the ringing tone repeat itself as he gazed out at the squared-off shapes of the buildings surrounding his office. It was a view of angular, heavy lines; of drones, like him, sitting in boxes staring across alleys at other drones sitting in boxes. It was no view at all. He placed the phone back in the cradle as the voice came on the answering machine: ‘Hedley Stimson is unavailable. Please leave a message.’ This was the number he’d been told never to call, but the churning in his gut told him it was now or never. And not even a clerk or a secretary answered at the old lawyer’s chambers-just his own gruff voice. Jack heard a noise and swung round in his chair to see his secretary standing in the doorway. ‘Is there someone I can call for you, Mr Beaumont? Are there any other calls you’d like to make?’

  This was just what he needed, this busybody inserting her pedantic presence where it wasn’t needed. Why he hadn’t insisted on bringing his own PA from his old business instead of listening to Sir Laurence carry on about corporate governance, he’d never know. ‘Thank you, no, Beryl, I make my own calls, as I think I’ve told you more than once.’

  She smoothed her already immaculate skirt. ‘Of course, Mr Beaumont, I do know that. But you seem extremely busy this morning and with the board meeting in a few minutes, I thought I might be of assistance.’

  Jack breathed deeply. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, but I do have to make a call now. Would you mind shutting the door?’

  He pushed up Hedley Stimson’s number on his cell phone screen and was about to dial it on the desk handset, when a chill fell around him, as if the air-conditioning had suddenly dropped a gust of cold air on the desk. He replaced the handset and pushed the dial on the cell phone instead, about to make another call that he had been told never to make.

  This time it was a real voice, not a recorded one, but a soft, nervous voice. ‘Yes?’ No hello, just that one, almost frightened word.

  ‘Is that Mrs Stimson? It’s Jack Beaumont. I’m terribly sorry to call you at home.’

  She sounded almost relieved. ‘Yes, it’s me. It’s all right, Mr Beaumont.’

  There was pain in the voice, that was it, not fear. Somehow he wished he was alongside her again, in his car, on a lounge perhaps, where he could reach out and hold her arm. ‘Is Hedley there? May I speak to him?’

  There was no answer, but he could hear her breathing. ‘He’s here, but he won’t speak to anyone. He’s more angry than I’ve ever seen him.’

  ‘Could you give him a message for me? Or should I try his office later?’

  ‘He won’t be back at his office. Just come tonight, Mr Beaumont. To the workshop. I’ll tell him you’re coming.’ There was a long silence. ‘We all read the newspapers, Jack, even silly old ladies like me can read.’

  She hung up before he could tell her she was- something else. And the door to his office opened with the words, ‘It’s ten o’clock, Mr Beaumont.’

  They were all seated in their customary places when Jack entered the boardroom, except for one empty chair; the chair that was always Mac’s, vacant or occupied. No one spoke as Jack took his place alongside Sir Laurence, who didn’t turn to acknowledge his arrival. The horseshoe table was completely bare, denuded of the usual clutter of board papers, notepads and coffee cups. The speakerphone from which Mac’s voice had so often echoed was also eerily absent. Only a thin white file lay in front of the chairman’s place. As Jack glanced down, he could see his own name on the cover.

  Finally, the voice came. ‘It is well past the hour. As the CEO is now present, I believe we can commence. Thank you all for coming at short notice. We have, of course, no papers for this meeting. There are only two items, related items, on the agenda. The first is the alleged ASIC investigation of one of our directors, possibly relating to this company. We’ve no direct knowledge of this and, as far as I am aware, the company has received no written or verbal advice from ASIC. Perhaps the CEO can advise the board if that is correct?’

  Jack was stunned. Of course, it was the first thing he should have checked, but he’d been making other calls. ‘No report has reached me of any contact from ASIC, Chairman.’

  Sir Laurence sighed, very softly. ‘No report has reached you? The question was more what inquiries you have made to ascertain whether any communication has been received from ASIC, or indeed from the insurance regulator, regarding these matters. A response to that specific question would be appreciated by the board.’

  Jack tried to catch the eye of each of the directors around the table, but all eyes were down. He barely knew these people, he realised. He’d made little or no effort to become close to or understand any of them, just regarded them as appendages of Sir Laurence, or captives of Mac. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t had time to check directly, this morning, Chairman. I’ll follow up on it right after the meeting.’

  Sir Laurence eased his chair away from the table slightly.

  His eyes appeared to shift almost imperceptibly to the ceiling before they settled again on the file resting on the table. ‘Don’t bother. I have contacted your secretary. Your office has received no communication. The company secretary has received no communication, nor has the chief financial officer or the chief actuary. And as chairman, neither have I.’ He paused. ‘I believe, however, the board would appreciate a reordering of your priorities as CEO and placing this matter at the top of the list. You agree?’

  There were murmurs of assent from around the table and Jack nodded. All the eyes were on him now. He felt like a rabbit caught in a dozen spotlights. And as the interrogation continued and unrelenting, specific, reasonable questions flowed from the white file, an appalling realisation fell on him. He wasn’t up to this job. Maybe all these people were neglecting their responsibilities, maybe they were complicit, directly or tacitly, in the machinations of Mac and Renton Healey- and Laurence Treadmore, if he was involved-but what about his own efforts? By his own admission he couldn’t understand the complexities of the balance sheet. Then what was he doing running the business? He had no sound relationship with any member of the board, or the chairman, or the largest shareholder. Why? Because he assumed he was right and they were all mixed up in the same muck. But other than Mac, what evidence did he have for that assumption? Maybe Laurence Treadmore was genuine in his quest for answers.

  ‘Do you intend to answer my question?’ Jack snapped back into the room. ‘I’m sorry, Chairman, would you mind repeating the question?’

  Sir Laurence sighed again. ‘You obviously have other issues on your mind. I think it’s fair to say, however, that the board requires you to address these matters. You agree? Yes. The question I put was specific and direct. I trust the answer will be equally so. Did you remove a document from Renton Healey’s files relating to reinsurance contracts?’

  Jack was a butterfly pinned to a corkboard. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you remove this document and what relevance does it have to the inquiries that you were asked to make by me?’

  There was a long pause. ‘I couldn’t say at the moment, Laurence. I’ve not had time to have it properly analysed.’

  Sir Laurence steepled the fingers of both hands together very gently. ‘Analysed? By whom? Have you engaged people outside the company to examine confidential documents? If so, by what authority?’

/>   Jack reached for the water jug and spilled freely on the table as he filled the glass. He drank it off in one long gulp, as much for the pause as the moisture. ‘I prefer not to say at this time. And I believe as CEO I have the right to engage whatever consultants I think fit within approved budgets, without the approval of the board.’

  The two combatants glared at one another, but there was a hint of a thin smile on Sir Laurence’s face. ‘In the general course of business, perhaps. Not in matters concerning corporate governance, and particularly not when you’ve been directly instructed to report to the chairman. I require you, on behalf of the board, to answer.’

  Jack looked around the table. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t do so right now. I don’t want to hold anything back from the board, but I want to report in an orderly fashion and I don’t have a complete picture as yet.’

  Again, the lips curled slightly. ‘Have you engaged a lawyer named Hedley Stimson to consult on these matters? If so, what is his brief?’

  Jack’s face was ablaze. Blood was rushing around his body in a whirlpool and he had to stand, to move, to allow it to circulate before it burst some vessel. There was no way to answer this question. Yes. No. Both were impossible. ‘There is no brief from HOA to any such lawyer.’

  ‘No brief from HOA? Are we to understand from the phrasing of this response that you are briefing lawyers regarding company matters on your own account?’

  ‘I prefer not to answer that question.’ The silence in the room was filled with the hum of machines.

  The air-conditioning could be heard grinding away, there was a faint buzz from the speakers in the roof, the electronic gear that ran the sliding screen and the computer graphics was humming softly in its cage. Jack resumed his seat.

  ‘I need a day or two, Chairman, before I can report properly.’ Sir Laurence closed the white file. ‘If I may summarise for the board. A series of relevant, specific questions has been put to the CEO regarding significant matters, some of which may relate to an ASIC inquiry. The CEO has either been evasive or refused outright to respond to the board. You agree?’ He paused, but not for agreement. ‘I suggest the board needs a few days to consider the critical question of whether it can continue to place its trust in the CEO. Do you agree?’

  There were murmurs of assent from around the table.

  ‘The board will meet again at ten o’clock on Monday. The presence of the CEO will not be required. Thank you.’

  Jack wandered about the car park in a daze. Where had he left the car? He couldn’t remember. He’d abolished the old system of allocated places with names and titles as part of his egalitarian push. He’d been good at all of that, hadn’t he? He knew the staff loved it, loved Jack appearing in their workspace without warning just to chat, eating with them in the canteen, even pissing with them. No more executive toilets. They even seemed to love the snide articles in the press about him. But where was the car? He clicked the key remote and was relieved to see a distant flash of tail-lights. It was too early to drive to the old lawyer’s house. His wife had told him to wait till this evening. He didn’t want to go home to Louise, but he needed to talk to someone. He rang the Pope.

  As he sat with a brown paper bag on the bench by the canna lilies, the terse nature of the response came back to him. Perhaps it was unreasonable to expect a meeting at short notice, but surely the headlines would excuse it. The lean figure was beside him on the seat before he was aware of its arrival.

  ‘Pass the sandwiches. I don’t have much time.’ It was an uneasy conversation, or monologue, that ensued.

  Jack sketched out the lines of the board meeting in broad strokes but, even to his own eye, the portrait was of a guilty suspect stuttering under the harsh light of interrogation. He described his confrontation with the press outside his house and again he could see himself as a weak reed. Why was he the victim when he should have been the aggressor? He put the question to the Pope in a variety of ways, but elicited only a series of grunts.

  Finally the Pope screwed the brown paper bag into a tight ball and threw it in one clean arc into a rubbish bin.

  ‘This is difficult. Very difficult. But I may not be able to help you anymore.’

  Jack was stunned. The day was a series of sharp blows to the stomach. ‘Christ. Why? Have I done something? Or not done something?’

  The Pope shook his head. ‘It’s nothing to do with you, Jack, I give you my word. It might be okay, I’m not sure. But the group did say from the start that if any of us had conflicts, we might have to walk away. I’m just warning you.’

  Jack held the rough wood on the weathered bench with both hands and felt a splinter pierce his thumb. What was happening? The world was closing in on him without remorse. ‘I need you around. If you can. I really need you now.’

  The Pope stood. ‘I know. I’ll do what I can, but I may have to go.’

  He walked away a few paces and then turned back and held out his hand. ‘Good luck.’ chapter fifteen

  When he drove past the house, the workshop was a brooding shadow in the birch groves. He was too early. They never met before eight, but he had nowhere else to go. He parked outside the gate. What did it matter who saw him now?

  The street was alive tonight. Executive cars were ferrying executive persons back to the safety of their leafy driveways and the welcome of their patient wives. Buses were disgorging schoolboys weighed down with backpacks full of football gear and Catcher in the Rye. Young women in tailored skirts and blazers were returning from law firms and accountants’ offices insisting to their mothers that they wouldn’t be waiting by panelled doors with peep holes for the return of the master. Dogs were leaping for joy at the gathering of the pack and the smell of lamb roasting in the oven. All was safe, placid, pleasant in the realm of suburbia.

  Jack waited for an hour, watching. It reminded him of the life he’d grown up with and the relaxed easiness of it all came back to him in a drift of nostalgia. He remembered riding his bike down streets like this, arms in the air, just balancing with the sway of his body, not a care in the world. His cell phone rang and rang out. He switched it off. The street was quiet now. Dinner was being served. Homework books were being discovered under unwashed tracksuits next to half-eaten apples.

  Television was siphoning off minds into unreality. The lights went on in the workshop.

  Still he lingered. He was reluctant to go in. He placed both hands on the steering wheel, expecting them to be shaking with the irregular rhythm of his breathing, but they rested calmly on the yellowy leather. It was time.

  He eased open the door then closed it gently behind him, as if it were important to be quiet. Clandestine meetings that everyone knew about still required respect for the conventions. He trod carefully on the soft covering of leaf litter. There was no wind to rustle the birches tonight, no moon to silver the trunks. A possum hissed and leapt in the branches above. He hesitated on the stone path when he could see the lighted window above the workbench, and listened to the whirring of the lathe. Sometimes it screamed and yowled as it tore at the wood, but tonight it was a steady, mechanical whirr. He knocked on the heavy, ribbed door.

  There was no response. The lathe whirred, the birches stood guard. He rapped with a closed fist and the door rattled against the jamb. Nothing. Normally, all sounds would cease at his first knocking and then he would hear only the soft pad of slippers on the wide boards. He reached for the forged hasp, its manufacture previously described to him in loving detail, and the door swung open. He could see the dense bulk of the old lawyer hunched over the workbench, intent on the machine before him. He called out a greeting, but there was no response. And then he knew.

  He was frozen. He couldn’t approach the workbench. He had to move, but his systems wouldn’t obey. He gulped great lungfuls of air. And then, in a rush, he was at the bench and his hands were on the shoulders and the body fell forward, face down on the rough wood.

  He cried out as the lathe continued its scream, dangerously close to
the gnarled face. Why was it still operating? The foot pedal. He sank to his knees and grasped the ankle in the thick wool sock and pushed, hard, but the foot wouldn’t shift off the ugly contraption. It was wedged somehow, the weight of the body twisted onto it. He tried to lift the leg, to free the man from the machine, to stop the appalling noise that was now screaming into his brain. If only he could stop the noise everything would be all right.

  He knelt higher, sweating under the bench, frantic, panicked, grasping at the legs and the trunk to shift the weight. He lifted and pushed simultaneously and suddenly the foot was free and the scream was stifled. He fell back in relief and sat, panting like an exhausted hound.

  And then, before he could prevent it, the body began to slide, crashing to the floor in a swirl of sawdust and shavings. Now it wasn’t a body anymore, but a man. The face was compressed into a grimace by the neck forcing it onto the floorboards, but it was the face he’d come to trust, to admire, maybe more.

  He crawled to the man and held the face in his hands and wiped the shavings away. Should he be forcing the mouth open, breathing his breath into these lungs, pounding this old heart, running, ringing, someone, somewhere? But he knew he was holding only the body, not the life. He gently turned the face away from the floor and straightened the bent legs and flayed arms. The old lawyer was sleeping now, at peace in the detritus of his life’s work, ready for the rituals of the world he’d left behind.

  Jack slumped into the chair by the stove. He was shaking, shivering, still gulping air to no purpose and then, without warning or knowledge, he began to howl.

  The long, haunting wail rose into the beams and rang off the iron roof and seemed never to stop.

  That was how she found him, in her husband’s chair, keening over his body. She’d lost a son, and part of a husband, long ago; she knew the living had more need of her. She knelt before the chair and wrapped his head in her and gradually the howling subsided into sobbing until finally his whole body relaxed into her, and it was over.