Good News, Bad News

by Maggie Groff

  At 1.15 am we piled into three cars and headed north over the border to our chosen Gold Coast suburb. Bodkin, Headlice and I were in Bodkin’s BMW, as we would all be returning to Byron Bay later. Needles was in her Commodore as she lived on the Gold Coast, and Purl One and Old Blood and Guts were in Purl One’s Volkswagen Golf.

  The journey north took fifty minutes. Observing GKI protocol, we parked our cars in a dark side street one hundred metres from the two targets that were almost directly opposite each other on the main street, which ran parallel to the ocean.

  After shaking hands we pulled on our surgical gloves and balaclavas and divided into our two teams. I had to wind my long plait inside my balaclava, which according to Headlice made my head look very oddly shaped, like something out of Doctor Who. We all had swim goggles hanging around our necks, ready to be put on when we neared the target. The lookouts, Bodkin and Needles, carried the artwork and installation infrastructure.

  Needles, Purl One and Old Blood and Guts tucked their heads down and took off in silence along the footpath. As their target was on the far side of the main street they had to sneak round the back streets, cross the main street some distance away and then covertly double back towards their target. In a few seconds they had disappeared into the night.

  Bodkin, Headlice and I, keeping close to the walls and fences, crept quietly in single file along the footpath. We were halfway to the junction with the main street when Bodkin, who was in the lead, abruptly stopped. Looking up, my heart skipped a beat when I saw a police car cruising down the street towards us. If they spotted us they’d be bound to stop and investigate what we were doing creeping around the streets at night wearing balaclavas.

  In a flash we dived into the nearest driveway and huddled together behind a large camellia bush. Had they seen us? Would a dog start barking? My heart was in my mouth as I waited for the siren to signal they were onto us.

  The police car drew level with our hideout and I placed my hand on Headlice’s back for reassurance. If the car stopped, our escape plan would be to take off like jack rabbits in different directions. Personally speaking, I had enough adrenaline coursing through my veins to see me clear to Cape York.

  The police car moved slowly past us but didn’t stop. In silence we waited until it had reached the end of the street and turned out of sight. Headlice made a move to proceed but Bodkin held him back, raising his hand to indicate we should wait. Sure enough, a minute later the police car had turned around and was coming back down the street again. Oh, help! If they knew where we were hiding and stopped across the driveway we were trapped.

  I held my breath as the police car cruised slowly past us towards the main street.

  Gingerly, Bodkin peered round the bush. ‘They’ve turned right,’ he whispered.

  Headlice punched the air and I sighed with relief. They hadn’t seen us and we, thank goodness, would be turning left.

  At Bodkin’s signal we moved swiftly to the junction with the main street and withdrew into the darkness of a shop doorway. We were approximately fifty metres from our target. If they’d had no problems the other team would already be in position on the other side of the street, fifty metres the other side of their target.

  I could smell the ocean and in the distance I heard a dog barking. Waves crashed on the nearby shore and the streetlights cast an eerie glow across the deserted street. It was damn spooky.

  Bodkin checked his watch and indicated it was time to put on our goggles. We pulled them up over our eyes. Headlice and I looked at each other and stifled laughter. We looked gorgeous.

  At 2.20 am Bodkin gave the signal for us to move forward.

  Like ghosts in the night we bent over and moved quickly and silently towards the target—the automatic teller machine of a major bank. Across the street I saw the other team arrive at the ATM of another major bank.

  Holding the rod and curtains, Bodkin stood with his back to Headlice and I to partially shield us from view.

  Headlice and I had a bracket each. Quickly we peeled the backing from the double-sided tape and, making sure they were level, positioned and stuck the brackets on the wall at the upper outer corner of the ATM frame. Precision installation was important as the artwork had to look as if it was supposed to be there. There’s nothing worse than shoddy workmanship.

  In one swift move Bodkin passed me the rod with the knitted curtains and the finials already in place. Carefully Headlice and I positioned the rod on the brackets. Then I held the rod in place while Headlice pulled the curtains neatly across the front of the ATM.

  ‘Brilliant,’ Bodkin whispered, and indeed it was.

  The ATM now sported snazzy yellow and black curtains. I could already see it as a feature article on corporate design in the Financial Review. Hell, it might even make the cover of Time with the caption AUSTRALIAN BANK LEADS THE WORLD IN CUSTOMER-FRIENDLY APPROACH TO BANKING.

  Registering a flash, I spun around. On the other side of the street Needles had taken a photograph of their target ATM, which was now adorned with attractive red and black curtains. It was the reminder I needed—I’d been so caught up daydreaming about our future fame, I’d forgotten I was my team’s designated photographer.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the other team slink away into the darkness. Headlice and Bodkin were already moving stealthily towards the corner. Savouring the moment, I took my time to snap several photos.

  I was putting the camera back in my pocket when a siren whirled behind me and I literally jumped with fright. The police must have switched their headlights off, and over the roar of the ocean I hadn’t heard them approach. There were two officers in the front of the car and one of them was wagging his finger at me. They turned on their headlights, which blinded me. I heard the sound of the car door opening.

  Deciding not to stick around for artistic accolades, I sped off in the opposite direction to Headlice and Bodkin, running as if the devil himself was after me. Hopefully the cops would follow me and not pick up on Headlice and Bodkin. I didn’t think Bodkin would be able to run too fast, and at the forefront of my mind was the stark reality that, if Sam were caught, my sister would kill me and my mother would help her. It would be a much more pleasant end to be shot while escaping from the police.

  As I ran I pulled the goggles down around my neck to improve visibility. My mind was racing almost as fast as my legs. I debated whether to discard the balaclava, goggles and surgical gloves, but decided they afforded me an element of anonymity.

  Arms and legs pumping, I reached the corner and turned left and then right at the next crossroads. I hadn’t a clue which direction I was heading in or where I was. I turned left along a back lane and then left again on another street. Exhausted, I stopped to catch my breath. Across the street I spied children’s play equipment . . . a park . . . there must be a park.

  Panicked, I looked back to see if the police car had followed me. There was no one in sight, although I could hear a siren wailing. Praying they hadn’t followed Sam, I ran towards the play equipment and dived into the darkness under the slide, landing on what smelled and felt like pine bark chips. Covering my head with my arms I lay perfectly still, face down on the ground. The police siren stopped and all I could hear was my heart pounding in my ears. I listened out for footsteps but heard none.

  I stayed motionless and my imagination went into overdrive. What if there were perverts lurking nearby, ready to rob me or jab me with an infected needle? And where were the police? Had they gone after Sam? What if they’d shot him? The headline flashed in front of my eyes—EMINENT SURGEON’S SON SHOT EVADING POLICE . . . AUNT ARRESTED PLAYING ON SLIDE IN CHILDREN’S PLAYGROUND AT 3 AM.

  Lying on the cold ground in a park in the middle of the night in winter is not your optimum health activity. The damp chill was creeping right through to my bones. I was freezing cold and my teeth were chattering. Slowly it dawned on me that other things were also slightly out of whack. Was I trembling from the cold or was my blood sugar leve
l heading south?

  There’s always a risk with type one diabetics that stress and strenuous exercise can trigger a serious drop in blood sugar. And in long-term diabetics like myself the situation can be a lot worse than the symptoms are indicating.

  Trying to remain calm, I took stock of my physical self. I was sweating, shaking, my heart was beating like a cicada’s back legs and I was a little dizzy. Yep, my blood sugar level was dropping and I could go into a coma if I didn’t do something about it.

  Cursing that I didn’t have my mobile phone, I tried not to think melodramatic thoughts about being found dead by an early morning dog walker, as per Midsomer Murders. I rolled carefully onto my back. My fingers were numb and I fumbled with the pack around my waist. Eventually I undid the zip, took out a sugar pill and popped it in my mouth.

  One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes.

  Patiently I stared at the underneath of the slide and waited for the sugar to take effect. You’ve had attacks in worse places, I told myself encouragingly, but none actually sprang to mind.

  As nothing seemed to be happening, I took another sugar pill and waited some more. Slowly I sensed my body returning to normal, although I felt fragile and very cold. I stood up cautiously and dusted bark chips off my clothes. I took a couple of steps, then a couple more. So far so good. I looked around.

  Where was I?

  Using the night sky as a guide, I walked in the direction of a glow hovering over what I assumed was a main road. My progress was slow, as I couldn’t risk stressing my body further. If I felt myself going downhill again I would have to knock on someone’s door for help. Typical, I thought. There was never a policeman around when you need one.

  Suddenly I heard the rhythmic beat of someone running and I veered into a driveway. It took a moment to hit me that I knew the young man running past. Relief flooded through me and I stepped out of the driveway and called, ‘Sam!’

  He stopped, whirled around and ran back to me.

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ he puffed. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I think so. I’m pretty weak and I’m cold.’

  Sam took out his mobile and called Bodkin. ‘I’ve got her. Drive up to Beach Street and I’ll flag you down. Put the heater on full.’

  He put his mobile away and threw his arms around me and rubbed my back.

  ‘You’re frozen,’ he said. ‘And in case you’re wondering, my phone was in Bodkin’s car.’ His explanation was needless, as I hadn’t given it a thought. I was so pleased to see him that I wouldn’t have cared if he had broken all the rules.

  Ignoring my remonstrations, Sam took off his sweatshirt and pulled it on over my head. I could feel the warmth enveloping me, but I couldn’t stop my teeth chattering.

  Shortly a car loomed ahead of us and Sam waved his arm. Bodkin pulled over and jumped out of the car and raced round to me.

  ‘Been for a bit of a jog, have we, lass?’ he said, opening the front passenger door and gently helping me into the car. I felt frighteningly weak but I managed a grin.

  As he drove off, Bodkin said, ‘The others are at the rendezvous point. The doc wouldn’t leave for Brisbane until she knew you were okay.’ He glanced over his shoulder at Sam. ‘Call her, will you, lad?’

  ‘The p . . . p . . . police?’ I stammered.

  ‘They must have got an emergency call at the same moment as you took off,’ Bodkin told me. ‘If you’d stopped you’d have seen them head south with their lights flashing and siren blaring.’

  I mumbled that I’d heard the siren, and then I must have drifted off in the warmth of the car because the next thing I knew we were parked at the rendezvous point in Coolangatta and Old Blood and Guts was testing my blood sugar level. She nodded and said, ‘You’re okay, thank goodness. You gave us quite a scare.’

  ‘Thank you for waiting,’ I said.

  Old Blood and Guts smiled at me. ‘Here, drink this. Needles had a thermos of tea. It’ll warm you up.’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ I said. There’s nothing I hate more than stewed tea from a flask.

  ‘It’s not negotiable,’ she said, forcing the cup into my hands and then handing me an Anzac biscuit. ‘Doctor’s orders!’

  I took a sip of the tea, and darned if it wasn’t wonderful.

  Chapter 20

  On Friday morning I was not experiencing the usual euphoria that accompanies the day after a GKI mission.

  Lack of sleep, the close call with police and the vagaries of diabetes had taken the edge off last night’s adventure and left me feeling tired and uneasy. I was also concerned about Harper, and Toby’s arrival home was one day closer. Like tomorrow!

  Before he left, Sam had checked online to see if GKI activities had made the morning papers, but there was nothing yet. I waved him off and as soon as he was out the door I attended to laundry chores, hoping domesticity would settle my restless state. It didn’t, and at 10 am I rang my daughters. When I’m feeling like this I always need to check on my chickens. Either that or I start moving furniture around.

  Niska answered on the second ring.

  ‘Hi Mum, what’s new?’

  ‘Nothing much, darling. How about you? Have you spoken to Max?’

  ‘Tasha called him. The three of us are seeing a movie tonight.’

  Pleased, I asked, ‘How’s work?’

  ‘Oh, you know, the usual in-house politics at a lad’s mag. It drives me nuts.’

  Although Niska complained, I knew it was just bluster. From an early age boys and books had fascinated her, and she was in her element writing for a gentleman’s magazine. She’d found her niche, as they say, and my mother would eventually stop telling the neighbours that Niska worked for a bridal publication.

  ‘How’s your love life?’ I asked. Her last boyfriend had been an industrial designer called Hansel fforbes de Vere Hungerford, whom my mother had referred to as a nice boy. This damning indictment had heralded the kiss of death for that relationship. Nice boys had no place in Niska’s life.

  ‘Lousy, how’s yours?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘When’s Toby home?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’ Even I could hear the trepidation in my voice.

  ‘You don’t sound excited.’

  ‘I’m nervous. He’s been away a long time.’

  ‘You, nervous!’ she exclaimed, and without missing a beat she added, ‘You’ve met someone else, haven’t you?’

  I was tempted to spill the beans, but somehow it didn’t feel like the sort of thing a mother should discuss with her offspring. Then again, I didn’t want to lie, so I opted for the middle road and mumbled, ‘Mmmm, maybe.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Gorgeous.’ The one word said it all.

  ‘Flashman gorgeous or Darcy gorgeous?’

  I thought for a second. ‘Definitely Flashman.’

  Peals of laughter came down the line, and then Niska suddenly asked, ‘God, it’s not Dad, is it?’

  I stifled a gasp. It had never entered my head that she might think that. Did all children hold a dream that their divorced parents would reunite?

  ‘No, darling, it’s not your father,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Men don’t like to be messed around,’ Niska informed me. Naturally, because of her job, my daughter considers herself an expert on men. Cripes, did she have a lot to learn.

  ‘I’m trying not to,’ I said. ‘And there’s no need to mention this to Tasha or Grandma, okay?’

  ‘My lips are sealed.’

  ‘Did you buy a present for Grandma?’

  ‘Yeah, a cardigan.’

  ‘Is it pretty?’ I asked.

  She sighed. ‘No, Mum, I bought the ugliest one I could find.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Dumb question.’

  ‘Look, Mum, I’ve gotta go.’

  ‘Okay, Nisk, I just wanted to hear your voice.’

  I closed my phone and looked at Chairman Meow. He must have sensed my apprehensive mood as he had stuck to me like a limpet since I’
d got up. He followed me out to the kitchen and watched while I washed up, and then followed me back to the study and watched me while I called Tasha.

  She was on a ward round at the hospital.

  ‘Is everything okay, Mum?’ she asked quickly.

  Tasha isn’t into phone chats and always assumes that something is wrong when I call. This time she was kind of right.

  ‘Yes, thank you, darling. I just wanted to know you’re okay, that’s all.’

  ‘Have you talked to Nisk?’

  ‘Yes, I just called her.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll catch up on your news tonight.’

  ‘I don’t have news,’ I said calmly, hoping that Tasha wouldn’t wheedle my secret out of her sister.

  ‘Did Nisk tell you we’re going to the movies?’

  ‘Yes, she said you’d called Max.’ Tasha and Max have always been close and I wondered if he had confided in her.

  ‘I did, and he told me what’s happened. I can’t believe it of Uncle Andrew. It’s so out of character.’

  ‘That’s what Sam said.’

  I heard a beeper. ‘Sorry, Mum, duty calls.’

  I put down the phone, flopped back in the chair, sighed dramatically and thought about my sister.

  Although she would never admit it, Harper was in an extremely vulnerable position, and I doubted that her early months of pregnancy, during which, I knew from experience, she was prone to volatile emotions and irrational outbursts, was a good time for her to be making life-changing decisions.

  I also had a gut feeling that she was delaying telling Andrew he had been seen with another woman for fear that he might confirm an affair.

  I didn’t want Harper’s future to be based on suppositions, and even though she would poleaxe me for going behind her back, the only way to know the truth was to activate my previous idea and have Andrew followed. And the sooner the better.

  To be honest, I didn’t relish the idea of a private detective delving into my family’s dirty washing, so I toyed with the idea of spying on Andrew myself. Reason prevailed and I quickly ditched that idea. Two minutes later I realised that I knew just the person who could undertake such a task without Harper or Andrew ever knowing. Someone who Andrew had never met.