by Graham Guy
He smiled. By gee I’d like to see them in full bloom, he thought, seeing in his mind’s eye branched spikes carrying clusters of tiny lilac flowers.
In several pots down the side of the garage were Barbados Royal Dutch Lilies. But the coup de grace for Bill Murphy were several Diosmas; these fine, spicy-foliaged South African evergreens had been strategically placed round the house. Some were the white Breath of Heaven and others were pink. Bill Murphy walked over to get a closer look at some of the the pinks with their tiny, star-shaped flowers.
By gee, I’ll bet the people before hated leaving all this,’ he thought to himself.
The front yard, which dropped away steeply below, was the ocean. He had to have it. He also knew he had to play down his eagerness to purchase. He looked back to the salesman.
“How much?” he asked dryly.
The land agent, not wishing to look him in the eye because of his slight embarrassment at showing such a place, mumbled, “I think it’s about a hundred. But I must say, Mr Murphy, you’ve caught me on the hop a little with this one. We haven’t cleaned it up or presented it any way. I believe it’s a deceased estate. The lady who lived here had no family and my understanding is she deemed the proceeds from the sale to the Salvation Army. If it’s not sold within two years it will be bought by the government and made part of Hat Head. Don’t know how she managed to keep the title, but she did. You want to have a look inside?” Bill Murphy very much wanted to. With Lonely tucked under his arm, he proceeded to walk around the property.
“A bit over two acres?”
“I believe that to be the case.”
The grass was high and there was much debris. Years of discarded tins and bottles, broken implements, part of an old Singer sewing machine. Preserving pots, pans and jars. The rusted front fork of an old pushbike, abandoned car parts, discarded, worn-out tanks, fuel drums, oil cans. An old broken toilet cistern. Casually, Bill forced open the door to one of the sheds. Inside was crammed full of discarded junk. On one bench, a pile about two metres high of women’s magazines, some of them dating back forty years. He pulled the door shut and looked around to see if the real estate agent was following.
He wasn’t. He went to another shed. Then another. Each time the story was the same. It soon became obvious the old lady who lived there was a compulsive hoarder. When one shed was filled, she simply built another. The land agent saw Bill Murphy walking towards the house and went to meet him. He put the key in the front door and both men walked inside. A small passageway with four rooms leading off it, the kitchen on the end with a bathroom and toilet to the right. From a few quick glances, Bill could see the place was old and tired and very neglected. He turned to the salesman, a flippancy in his tone.
“I suppose this is the sort of place you blokes call a handyman’s delight?”
Trying to conceal his discomfort, he replied, “Well, yes, Mr Murphy, I will concede it could do with a bit of sprucing up.”
“What about a full-blown make-over? Bill replied, trying to talk down the value of the place. “A hundred grand, you reckon?”
The estate agent cleared his throat. “That’s somewhere near the mark, yes,” he told him, half turning away.
“Well you better ring your office and get right on the mark because I want it, but I’m not paying that sort of dough!”
Little did the real estate agent know, but Bill Murphy would not have even baulked at $150,000 if he had been firm with the price.
* * *
Three days later, Bill Murphy walked out of the real estate agent’s office with the keys to the house. A cheque for $79,000 had just been cleared by the bank and he was like an excited schoolboy. He finally had a place of his own, and right now there was much to do.
Five weeks later, all the rubbish had gone, the grass had been cut and the sheds cleaned out. Part of the roof on the house had been replaced. All new electrical wiring. New plumbing. A new rainwater tank had been installed and a new pine railing fence lined the boundary. His ravaging through old second-hand dealers’ showrooms had also produced a near-new hot-water service, Chef stove, oil heater, two room air conditioners, a washing machine and a scattering of furniture. The curtains were make-do, which didn’t bother him too much. The bed was a queen size and new, as were all his sheets and towels. So too was his recliner chair and big-screen TV. One of the bedrooms he’d even turned into an office.
I’ve found my bloody Shangri-la!
Out the backdoor leading from the kitchen was a small veranda, then a large grassed block bordered by a small area of government land which led to a small cliff face. From Bill Murphy’s kitchen it was only a short walk to the water’s edge. To get there, a small cliff face of about 20 metres had to be negotiated. It was dotted with boulders and traps for the unwary, but nonetheless spectacular. This then gave way to a very clean, white, sandy beach. This tiny patch of coastline was secluded and mostly went unnoticed as people went sailing by.
It’s as though no-one’s ever been here, he mused.
Bill Murphy stood observing his good fortune. The waves rolled in and, when they broke on the shore, the sound amplified as it bounced off the small cliff face. He glanced round, subconsciously looking for a place to prop. Somewhere he could be alone, undisturbed and out of the wind. A few metres off to his left, and about three-quarters of the way down the face, he spotted what appeared to be an armchair. It was a solid piece of rock, worn away by millions of years of exposure to the elements. Bill went to it and sat down. Stunned at how perfectly his backside fitted into it, he laughed out loud.
“It’s even got bloody armrests. Thank you God,” he said, casting his eyes to the heavens.
* * *
Bill Murphy sliced the donut in two and handed a piece to Lonely. The young kelpie devoured it with one quick gulp and stood looking at his master.
“You’ve got to savour it a bit,” he told him. But Lonely ignored the remark and continued to sit looking at him.
“Yeah, like hell! You’re not getting mine!”
Lonely then started to whine quietly. Bill could see the saliva building round his mouth. As he took a bite from the donut, the dog’s eyes popped open just that little bit wider.
Bill laughed. “You’re a pain in the arse!”
But Lonely won the moment. Within the blink of an eye, he had devoured the remains of the donut handed to him by his master.
“What do you think, boy? Two years this week since we moved in. Not too bad is it? The old joint’s all right. Doesn’t leak. Having the ocean right out front is pretty damn good too, eh? Beats the hell out of hi-rise and peak-hour traffic doesn’t it?”
He got to thinking of the past couple of years, which had been good for Bill Murphy. He’d taken a post office box in South West Rocks and usually went into town about once a fortnight. Curious locals would sometimes comment about his presence, but no-one really took a great deal of notice when he loaded his groceries into the back of the utility. The odd comment would centre on, ‘that’s that writer bloke isn’t it?’, but he was pretty much able to maintain his anonymity. And that’s exactly the way he liked it. He knew word would get out soon enough that he was one of the world’s hottest authors. He had the phone connected to his house, but only his publisher in London had the number with instructions to ring only between eight and nine a.m. He also had a fax line, but again very few people were given the number. His post office box number, was given only to those on a ‘need-to-know’ basis. His closest neighbours were two kilometres away and, even after two years, he still hadn’t met them. Day-to-day life was very much routine.
He wouldn’t rise till around ten a.m., having been up most of the night writing. And Bill Murphy liked to write at night. He felt he was at the peak of his powers when the skies were clear, a gentle breeze wafted in off the ocean and he could hear the sound of the waves rolling in on the beach, far below.
Lonely also had his own special place. It was right by the side of Bill’s desk. He’d just
prop there, hour after hour, undisturbed by the click-click-click of his master’s keyboard.
The sound of an approaching vehicle diverted his attention for a moment. He walked to the front door and watched a car proceed past his driveway and continue on down the track.
Wonder who the hell that is? There’s nowhere to go. Just leads into that national park and that’s all scrub. Never see the bugger come back either.
Bill Murphy watched the vehicle disappear from view and half shrugged, returning to his thoughts. The past two years had also been very productive for him. He was now about four weeks from completing The Corridors of Injustice, a one-thousand page saga of love, lust, power, greed, creativity, and treachery.
The hour was late and he was toying with the idea of going off to bed when the phone rang. His eyes shot to the clock on the wall.
“Hardly eight a.m.!” he snarled as he picked up the receiver. “This better be good!” he said.
“Mr Murphy?”
“Who’s calling?”
“I have Felicity Nobleman-Spinks from Lysaught Publishers on the line from London. Please hold.”
“Hello… Bill?”
“Felicity…” he began, reaching for a smoke.
“Sorry to break the rules,” she began urgently, “but I thought you’d like to know Fires went into its sixth print run today. This thing is through the roof…”
Bill Murphy suddenly forgot about the embargo he’d placed on his phone line. “Good heavens! six?”
“Isn’t that marvellous?” she gushed. “It’s now into 27 countries. Hollywood wants an option. What do you think?”
“Do I have to do the screenplay?”
“Do you want to?”
“No way!”
“Then I’ll tell them that.”
“What do you think? he asked, putting the question back to her.
“Oh, come on, Bill! It’s your book, your success. What price?”
“You do it, babe. Nothing’s changed from when we first spoke. If you’re doing it on behalf of Lysaught, then negotiate a fee and take fifteen per cent off the top for the company. If you decide to accept my offer and be my agent, then go for 20 per cent off the top. Load up the price accordingly. It’s up to you. You can stay employed if you want to or you can be my agent. See what the gurus are prepared to pay and have a think about it.”
Bill Murphy had asked Felicity Nobleman-Spinks before to be his agent, but she declined, preferring the security of a regular pay cheque. But now, with his increasing success, he tried his luck again. And the irony was, the two had never met. He just liked the way she dealt with him and, as Bill Murphy had a way of taking people at face value, the relationship had blossomed.
“What about the deal with Lysaughts?” she asked.
“This won’t affect that. There’s nothing in the contract about movie deals. If you get one, it’s a bonus. Now that bonus can either go to your employer or to you. It’s the same with The Corridors of Injustice. The contract is for a book deal only. My contract with Lysaughts runs out as soon as Corridors hits your desk. Get me seven figures up front for my next three books and 20 per cent is yours… plus the same with any movie. I don’t want to do all that stuff Felicity. If you think you can, draw up the paperwork and I’ll sign it. You keep selling me and keep the cheques coming in and you could make a pretty good life for yourself. Screw with me and I’ll cut you off. Do you want to do it?”
“Oh, for goodness sakes, I’d love to. But you don’t even know me. We’ve talked over the phone, but we’ve never met. Are you sure you want to hand a woman 20,000 kilometres away a comfort zone until time immemorial?”
“OK… let’s do it your way. You married?”
“No.”
“Engaged?”
“No”
“Spoken for?”
“No”
“Ever been in jail?”
She laughed.
“No.”
“Anything about you I should know but don’t?”
“Well, I’m not Mother Theresa!”
He chuckled. “So does that mean a packet of paper clips or a bounced cheque?”
Again she laughed. “The paper clips. But only a few off the top.” “You want the job?”
“I think you’re wonderful.”
“No you don’t. You like money like I do. See a solicitor and fix it up. Take this as a handshake over the phone,” he told her.
“And that’s it?”
“What else do you want?”
“Will you put it in writing?” she asked hesitantly, not wanting to appear over-pushy.
“It’ll be on your fax today. You need any money to start up?”
“Well, I’m certainly going to need a few things…”
“I’ll get a cheque off to you as well… oh, Felicity?”
“Yes, Bill.”
“Thank you.”
Bill Murphy hung up the phone and picked up a copy of The Fires of Midnight and held it to himself.
“So now it’s going to be a bloody movie! You hear that, Lonely? They’re going to make a movie of my book.” He walked around the room throwing his arms in the air. “Could there be a greater thrill? My God! What a hoot! You’ve read the book, now see the movie. Yeees! “ he yelled. “So who the hell are they gonna put in it? Don’t know! Don’t care! Look at that!… up there on the screen!… written by Bill Bloody Murphy… Wow! Just send me the money you bastards… just send me the money!”
Bill Murphy was still beaming with excitement when he drove into town to post a cheque to Felicity. He checked his mail box and looked inquisitively at an envelope marked for his personal attention.
Chapter 8
Senior Sergeant Ken McLoughlin and Senior Constable Dave Bourke got an early start from Mildura and headed for Sydney. McLoughlin, upon leaving Gabe and Katie Caplin, headed for the beach resort of Robe where for three days he took in walks along the beach, an afternoon in a charter boat fishing for snook at Pink’s Beach and just generally taking the time to smell the sea air. But he was pre-occupied.
Preoccupied with John James McGregor-McWeasely.
How the hell am I gonna catch this little mongrel?
On the morning of the fourth day, McLoughlin packed his car and drove to Melbourne’s police headquarters. It followed his call to the armoury that he would be dropping by to pick up the weapons and accessories he wanted. After checking all was in order, he called Dave Bourke and told him he would pick him up in Mildura early the next morning.
During the trip to Sydney, McLoughlin briefed his partner on the assignment ahead.
“What makes them think you can grab him?”
“Not me, mate… we. We can grab him. Jesus, they wanted to load me up with all these pricks I didn’t even know. So I just told ‘em straight… no Dave Bourke, no Ken McLoughlin.”
Bourke laughed. “Yeah! and my heart pumps piss for you too! Who is this prick anyway?”
“Someone who’s too damn clever to be caught. So if he’s that good, he must have a few things going for him. I don’t know if he’s a sole operator. I think he is.”
McLoughlin went on to explain the ins and outs of the credit cards, the mobile phones, the special police badges and the weekly phone call required to the Police Commissioner. He gave Dave Bourke the names and phone codes of the two Police Commissioners and the two Police Ministers who would be available at all times.
“Bloody hell,” he said, “I don’t know where to even begin with something like this. It really is the great unknown.”
“Start at the start I guess.”
“Meaning?”
Bourke looked at him. “Homicide and armed robbery used to drink at the Sussex. What do you think?”
“Yeah, as good as place as any to begin with, I guess.”
Senior Sergeant Ken McLoughlin and Senior Constable Dave Bourke were about half-way between Liverpool and the city of Sydney, travelling in an unmarked car, when an announcement on the radio interrupted th
eir conversation.
Minister if you wouldn’t mind waiting a moment, I just need to cross to the newsroom. Thank you, Craig. I’m John Emery in the ABC newsroom. There’s a major police drama being played out in the city right now. Peter Oliver is there…
“Hang on!” McLoughlin said, leaning over to turn up the volume, “What the hell’s all this about?”
McLoughlin pulled the vehicle into a loading zone to fully comprehend the immensity of what he was hearing. Both men sat staring at the radio.
The drama began just after ten o’clock this morning and ended a few moments ago right here on the corner of George and Liverpool streets in the city. Five men have been shot dead by police and two police officers have been wounded. One, I’m told, has a bullet wound to the head. Earlier today, at eight minutes past ten this morning, an Armaguard truck carrying a $150,000 payroll pulled into the Grenco Meatworks in Fyfe Street, Marrickville.
As I speak, the place is crawling with police officers. The bodies of the dead are being stretchered into ambulance vehicles and firemen are hosing the blood off the street. Bags, allegedly those taken from the Armaguard truck, have been collected by detectives and the entire area has now been sealed off. Bullets have shattered several nearby shop-front, plate-glass windows. But, right now, the atmosphere is a little surreal. People seem to be wandering around… almost in a daze. Did this thing really happen here?
You can almost hear them asking the question. Of course the answer is, yes it did, but I don’t think those who witnessed it can yet fully comprehend what took place. Police have just released two names of the deceased robbers; one was Lester James Abbott, another was Edward Albert Lansing. Both men were known to police. At this stage, the names of the other three are not known.”
McLoughlin and Bourke looked at each other in dismay. They turned the radio off, not waiting for the end of the report.
“Well I’ll be fucked!” McLoughlin said. “Edward Albert Lansing! Teddy bloody Lansing! He only got out last week.”