The Butcherbird

by Geoffrey Cousins

  In the half-light he saw a shadowy figure making its way slowly to the windmill. He was always first up, old Frank. Too old to ride, too old for mustering or even cutting out. Reduced to gardening, but still one of his people. There were no Aborigines working the cattle anymore, all that magic horsemanship lost to welfare cheques and booze, but old Frank stayed and worked and rose at first light everyday. He was going blind now, but he could see enough.

  Mac called to his dog and hurried across the lawn to catch the old man before he disappeared. Frank could disappear in a desert.

  ‘Morning, boss. You’re up early, eh? Not sleeping well, eh?’

  ‘I’m sleeping fine, Frank. I just didn’t want to miss the dawn. When you’re our age you don’t know how many you’ve got left.’

  The old man cackled. ‘You’ve got a few on me, eh?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure. You look pretty fit, Frank. But how are the eyes? Any worse?’

  The furrowed black face was almost obscured by a large pair of spectacles smattered with grime and dust. ‘Not so good, boss.’

  ‘Maybe you need to give the specs a wash now and again.’ The cackling laugh escaped once more. ‘Tried that, boss. Didn’t do any good. Gave it up. Save the water, eh?’

  Mac gestured for him to sit down on the edge of the trough. ‘Tell you what, Frank, they’re pretty good with eyes now. They can probably fix you up in a real hospital, no problem.’

  ‘No hospitals out here, boss. Too far for me to go, now. Just a bit too far.’

  Mac stroked his chin. ‘What about this, old fellow. The helicopter will fly you up to the Mitchell Plateau and then we’ll get a plane to take you down to Perth. We can find a good man down there-fix you up in no time. What do you reckon?’

  The shoulders slumped a little and the face looked down at the dirt. ‘Don’t know, boss. Don’t know any blackfellers ever been in one of them. Plane maybe, not helicopter. Bit too old, eh?’

  Mac clapped him on the back. ‘Bulldust. We’re gonna do it. I’m going to fix it right now. Soon as one of those lazy bastards is up and about I’ll be onto the doctor. We’ll fix it up, Frank. What do you reckon?’

  The eyes looked up at him cautiously from under the brim of a battered hat. ‘Don’t know.’

  Mac laughed and jumped to his feet. He was alive and full of action now. ‘But I do, Frank. I know. That’s what you’ve got me for, to know what to do. You’ll be bringing down roos at two hundred metres before you know it.’

  They walked together for a while, discussing which trees to plant before the wet, which fruit would set in the harsh environment of the Kimberley. Frank was the only one who stayed on the property in the wet season, when roads were impassable, mosquitoes and mould were ubiquitous, and life was unbearable. Mac wondered if he’d ever be back after the wet. Probably not. This was probably his last good season before the rains came and his own troubles with them.

  He could hear the helicopter by the time he’d reached the homestead and he thought to himself, ‘Here they come now.’

  Gerry Lacy had never been to Bellaranga before, or the Kimberley, or Western Australia, or anywhere much in his own country. He’d been to New York and Paris and London any number of times, of course. He’d been to Rome more times than he could remember. Well, three, actually. He’d been to Tuscany, and sailed from Elba to Corsica. (Not sailed with sails, but ‘sailed’ in the normal sense, with a motor.) He’d been all over France in a rented Porsche which, while it wasn’t French, seemed entirely appropriate for driving along the Cote d’Azur. But he’d never been further than a hundred and fifty kilometres inland in Australia. What was there to see anyway except a huge rock? What would be the appropriate vehicle to drive? Some ugly Toyota with a sort of snorkel poking up from its bonnet. It was hardly a Porsche, was it? There’d be dust and flies instead of cheese and wine. And no golf.

  But here he was in the Kimberley, flying around in a helicopter no bigger than a hornet, with a lawnmower motor and no doors. He shivered at the thought of no doors and cowered into the bucket seat.

  He could see Mac Biddulph standing in the only patch of green as they came in to land. It was sad, very sad, what was happening to Mac. He was a client, after all. They were not really friends, socially, or anything near. Mac didn’t mix with the right people really, wasn’t a member of The Golf Club, for instance. They never named the golf club, the members-just called it that, ‘The Golf Club’. You either knew or you didn’t, and if you didn’t, there was no help for you. Mac was rich, or had been rich, but that wasn’t enough. An unpleasant thought disturbed Gerry’s ruminations. ‘Had been rich…’ was unfortunate terminology. He’d have to ask the firm’s accounts department to keep an eye on the payment of fees. No point in letting things drift too far; it would only add to Mac’s problems.

  Gerry looked around nervously as the helicopter landed in swirling dust clouds. It was his own fault he was here. He’d advised Mac all his phones would be tapped and his cell phone monitored. They knew about the Honey Bear-who didn’t-and that would be under surveillance, along with his residences and Bonny’s apartment. So here they were in this godforsaken place. Two days with Mac Biddulph on a cattle property wasn’t Gerry’s idea of fun-but think of the years of litigation to follow, think of the fees. If they were paid.

  ‘What a remarkable place, Mac. So… so far from anywhere, so… rugged.’

  Mac took the oversize golf bag from the pilot. ‘Lucky you didn’t crash with this thing on board. It must weigh a ton. Planning a couple of rounds in a dry river bed, are we, Gerry?’

  ‘All part of the cover, Mac. Off on a golfing weekend. We don’t want your ASIC friends snooping around, do we?’

  ‘You’re kidding? You don’t really think they’d come up here?’ They sat in the relative cool of the louvred verandah with tall glasses of iced tea. Gerry tried to explain the powers lined up against them. They never understood, these business types. They always assumed they were above the law, or that corporate crime was softer than shoplifting and the corporate regulators had the muscles of a midget.

  ‘They can legally tap your phones, run twenty-four-hour surveillance on you, subpoena you to appear whenever they want, search you and your properties and, if they develop half a case against you, freeze your assets, take your passport-the lot. Their powers are much wider than those of the police and the sanctions are severe.’

  Mac nodded. ‘I know, Gerry. I do listen.’ His anger seemed to have dissipated, Gerry thought. At least that was something. ‘What are the sanctions? I mean if they ever charge me with anything, and convict me, what can I go for? Fines, that sort of thing?’

  Gerry drank deeply from the iced tea, which was excellent. Just the right balance of sweet and sour. ‘I think it’s premature to discuss that sort of thing, Mac.’

  ‘Sure. But let’s just say they get something on me, some weird breach of some feeble law no one even knows about, what could I go for? Ban me as a director?’

  This wasn’t the perfect start to close confinement under a corrugated-iron roof, Gerry felt. There were certain words in any solicitorclient discussion that were better left unsaid. He felt one of them coming on now.

  ‘I mean, there’s no chance of jail, is there? For Christ’s sake, they wouldn’t be trying for that, would they? Just for a few bucks out of a company I built from nothing?’

  Gerry held up his hand. ‘Please, Mac, don’t tell me anything I don’t need to know. Just respond to the exact questions I put to you. And the same goes for the ASIC examination. Only answer the question put, preferably with a yes or no. Don’t add anything, don’t give anything away. That’s the art of it.’

  But the unanswered question hung between them and Mac looked at him with raised eyebrows.

  ‘You have to understand, some potential charges are criminal offences. Certain breaches of the Corporations Act, if proven, do carry severe penalties. It depends where they go.’ He replaced the glass carefully on the low table and took up a
lined pad, but Mac persisted.

  ‘And where could they go?’ Gerry referred to the notepad. ‘I was hoping to summarise that at the conclusion of our discussions, but if you insist.’ Mac nodded. ‘Very well. There’s the recent sale of your shares. That raises a number of questions-insider trading, failure to report, breach of directors’ duties…’

  Mac cut in angrily. ‘But I lost money on the fucking sale.’

  ‘I’m afraid that makes no difference. Whether you profit by ten million dollars or one dollar or lose money isn’t relevant. And yes, there are potential criminal charges.’

  There was silence for a few moments. ‘What else?’ ‘There are three main areas of concern. First, what we might term corporate governance matters.’ He saw Mac wince. ‘That is, matters related to the company’s accounts, reinsurance arrangements and the like, and your role as a director. Second, possible misappropriation of the company’s assets to your personal account. And third, flowing from these but not really a matter for ASIC, possible tax fraud.’

  Mac rose and walked to the verandah steps. ‘Well, thank you, Gerry. That really sets me up for the day. Why don’t you get settled-Martha will show you to your room. Then we can start. I’m going for a ride.’

  Gerry had to admit the fish was superb. Grilled barramundi with just a slice of lemon and a dab of macadamia pesto. He’d never had pesto made with macadamias before but it was surprisingly good. And the wine-the wine was incomparable. When the ‘94 Grange Hermitage arrived with the meat, he was in heaven.

  ‘This is beyond expectations, Mac. You really live very well here.’

  Mac glanced at him sourly; it had been a long day. Gerry Lacy might not be his choice as a life partner, but he was thorough, very thorough. Not that five hours of questioning had improved Mac’s temper, or his confidence. It was worse than the banks-at least they couldn’t put you in jail.

  ‘What is this meat, Mac? It’s delicious. And the relish? Some sort of chutney, is it?’

  ‘Wouldn’t have a clue about the relish. Ask Martha when she brings dessert. The meat’s kangaroo, killed on the old place. They don’t hang it long. Better to eat it when the blood’s still fresh.’

  Gerry felt he hadn’t needed to know about the fresh blood. But the meat was tender and moist, and then there was the wine.

  ‘Seems bloody ridiculous. Some goddamn game of rules where you don’t know the rules.’

  Gerry was startled. Somehow they’d leapt from blood to rules. ‘I’m sorry, Mac. Rules?’

  ‘These ASIC idiots. Running around saying I’ve broken some rule or other. What fucking rule? Where are they written down?’

  Gerry took more than a sip of the wine, to fortify himself for a long debate. ‘Well, strictly, they’re written down, Mac, in laws.’

  Mac pushed his plate away. ‘Laws. Who can read laws except you bloody lawyers? No offence. How does the average citizen get on? How’s the average bloke supposed to know when he’s breaking the law?’

  Gerry’s gaze took in the relaxed grandeur of the homestead’s main room, the enormous cowhide sofas, the table they were dining at which could comfortably seat twenty people, the sideboard struggling to support an astonishing array of fruit, decanters, bowls of nuts and a silver dish of what appeared to be gold bonbons. He couldn’t for a moment bring to mind an appropriate response, so he sipped the wine again.

  ‘I mean who makes the goddamn rules anyway?’ Mac’s face was now beginning to redden, either from anger or wine, or both.

  ‘Well, I suppose parliament makes them, Mac.’

  ‘Fucking parliament. Fucking politicians. Scumbags. Arseholes. Never done a day’s work in their lives, any of them. Who are they anyway? Who do they represent?’

  It was difficult for Gerry to avoid responding. There were only the two of them in this vast room. There was nowhere to hide. ‘I suppose the people. I mean, they’re elected after all. In a democracy. So they represent the people.’

  Mac’s fist crashed into the table and sent a shower of cutlery onto the floorboards. ‘Don’t lecture me. All goddamn day I’m being lectured. By who? By a fucking lawyer.’

  He stomped to the verandah door, then turned and walked back to stand over the seated figure. Gerry Lacy flinched visibly at the unbridled belligerence on the face glaring down at him.

  ‘That’s why you like golf, isn’t it, Gerry? Rules. All the fucking rules in the world. The Golf Club. Pretentious place for pretenders like you. Lawyers and wankers and people with a map of their family tree on the living room wall. They blackballed me, you know? Did you know that? No, I can see by your face you didn’t. Years ago, some snide prick, even though they say there’s no blackballing. One word to the committee-that’s all it takes. Probably thought I was a Jew. They don’t like Jews at The Golf Club, do they Gerry? But they can’t say it; only in the locker room. Let the Jews have their own golf club. I probably am a Jew, for all I know. My dad drifted all over the world and washed up here. I never looked it up. Never gave a damn what I was, what anyone else was. Just what they did. And I don’t give a fuck for your rules either.’

  He slammed the screen door and then there was silence. Gerry sat quite still for a moment. He’d been afraid there might be a physical attack on his person. His appetite had almost departed with the fury that stormed out the door. Although it would be a shame to waste the wine. He sipped. Perhaps a taste of the meat to complement that rich back flavour. He wondered if there’d be cheese-much more appropriate than anything sweet with a wine of this quality.

  As Mac stumbled onto the lawn, his dog ran from its kennel under the steps. It was a working dog, a kelpieblue heeler cross, never allowed inside the house. It brushed Mac’s leg gently with its tail and waited for instructions. He bent down and rubbed its head. ‘G’day, you mongrel. Just a mongrel like me, aren’t you, Bluey? Come on, mate, let’s have a walk.’

  They left the house lights washing onto the soft lawn and trod, morosely in Mac’s case but joyfully in the dog’s, into the blackness of the Kimberley night. Once they were a short distance from the homestead and all the artificial light had vanished, the stars were as bright on the horizon as they were directly above. But there was no moon and the ground was rocky and uneven.

  He was surprised to fall. It seemed unfair to be lying on your own ground, on a track you’d walked a hundred times, with pain in your leg and a rock under your hip. He tried to roll to one side and then the pain screamed at him from his hip. He cried out at the intensity of it, but there was no one to hear except the dog. Where was the dog? Off chasing roos or rabbits. No, here it was, licking his face and then stepping back to watch him. Christ, the pain was awful.

  ‘Jesus, Bluey, this is crook, old feller. Mac’s not so good.’ He tried to sit up and gain leverage to stand but fell back with another cry. ‘No good, mate, no good at all.’

  He lay there, panting, with the dog walking around him now, sniffing. It whined quietly when he didn’t move and then snuffled and licked at his legs. It was cold lying on the ground and he began to shiver with the night air and the pain. The dog came to his face again and licked his head and neck, and he didn’t brush it away. He moaned quietly as he tried to ease the hip. The dog walked away a few paces and watched him, its head on one side. It came back and nudged at his body with its snout. He didn’t move. It sat alongside him, watching, listening.

  He was very cold now, and frightened. The Kimberley temperatures could be like a desert. No one would come for him till morning. He often walked at night, although usually with a torch. Martha would leave, Gerry was useless. They’d be here all night.

  He felt the dog sniffing him again and tried to reach out a hand to pull it near him, for its warmth. But as he did so, he felt the whole body step over him and lower itself gently onto his body, with its face below his chin.

  Frank found them that way after dawn, one on the other.

  There were four of them this time. The three who’d come to Bonny’s apartment and a newcomer
. He looked different, the new one. Not just because he wasn’t in a grey suit; the navy blue jacket, white shirt and the black shoes weren’t enough in themselves to make a difference. There was something else Mac couldn’t pin down. He was polished at the edges somehow, someone to watch, someone to fear.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Biddulph, Mr Lacy. My name is Todd Gamble. I’m assisting the Australian Securities and Investments Commission in this investigation.’

  There it was-an American accent. Gerry Lacy leaned forward immediately. ‘Assisting? What is this? Are you an employee of ASIC, a lawyer assisting-what is your status?’

  The nerd who had been the leader in the search, the nerd who’d had Bonny’s knickers nestling in his suit pocket, interrupted. ‘Mr Gamble is a consultant who’s been employed by ASIC under the terms of the Act. We have a right to seek expert advice from wherever we choose. Mr Gamble was formerly a senior investigator with the FBI.’

  Mac felt a shiver run down his spine. Shivers actually ran down spines? He’d only read about that in books or heard about it in movies. But it happened. He’d heard plenty about FBI agents in movies. And now they’d sent one after him. Jesus.

  ‘My client reserves the right to object to the admissibility of any evidence obtained in this examination. It seems quite improper to have outside persons, people from other jurisdictions, involved in an Australian process.’

  The nerd just smiled. ‘This isn’t a court hearing, Mr Lacy. There’s no judge to object to. Now can we get on?’

  Gerry placed a sheet of notepaper in front of Mac with one word handwritten on it in black letters. In their briefings Gerry had said: ‘We’re claiming legal privilege for each answer you give, Mac. That positions us better in any subsequent court proceedings, but you have to claim it yourself before each answer. You have to say the word privilege before each and every answer, otherwise that particular answer doesn’t have legal privilege attached to it. You understand?’

  Gerry could see him nodding now at the word on the notepaper. ‘My client will be claiming privilege for each of his answers. This is not an admission of any guilt but merely the result of legal advice.’