Only Eagles Fly

by Graham Guy

  “He’s got an unusual walk. Sort of hops a bit. Anyone comment on that?”

  “No, Sarge.”

  McLoughlin walked up the street a little and turned to face the town. “Oh, you’re good, you bastard. You are real good. And I just know you were here. Don’t ask me how I know, but I know.”

  Chapter 12

  “So I guess what I’m saying to you,” Bill Murphy said as he began to wind up his speech to mark the opening of Writers’ Week at Port Macquarie, “is if you dare to dream, don’t dare to write. People love stories. People love people who tell stories well. I don’t know that you can be taught to tell stories. I think that has to come from within. It has always surprised me somewhat to see some Young Turk gain worldwide fame as an author at an early age. To me you have to have lived a little before you can sit down at a keyboard.

  “Then again, everybody’s different. I just didn’t want to get to age 65, look back and think I didn’t have a go. And the marvellous thing about writing is that there are no rules. There is no right or wrong. If I want to have five thousand jet aeroplanes fly over a mountain of ice cream and custard, I can. Hell, I just sit there and write it. If I want to have the best-looking woman in the world flutter her eyelids at the ugliest-looking bloke in the world, I just sit there and write it. If I want my heroine to sweep some great hunk off his feet and keep him as her sex slave, again, I just write it in.

  “As I say, there is no right or wrong. Where it becomes tough… after all the reading, re-reading, editing and re-writing… is finding someone who has the same enthusiasm about your work as you do—or, at least, enough to actually pick it up and read it. Your friends will. Your acquaintances will, but with over 240,000 books hitting the bookshelves in this country every year, it’s particularly difficult to even have a letter or a phone call acknowledged from a publisher or a film company. If you get lucky, you’ll invariably get the standard photocopied reply: thanks, but no thanks.

  “If you hear back from a film company the call will probably come from some damn kid who wasn’t even alive when you conceived the original concept of your story. You’ll be told, ‘Oh, we have your book. Not for us. There’s no central character driving the plot’.

  “Purely from such a comment, you know full well whoever it is who’s phoning you certainly hasn’t read what you’ve written. If they had they would know such a comment was absolute crap. But there’s no point in arguing. The little darling on the end of the line probably had another 20 authors to phone that day and what better put down than: there’s no central character driving the plot. And that’s despite the fact you may have chosen to put your main character in about three-quarters of your 500-page novel… including the first page and the last. That’s the sort of crap you’re up against. I am constantly asked how can I get read? The simple answer to that is, I don’t know how you can get read. If you go to med-school and pass, you can hang a shingle on your door and say, I am a doctor. An accountant, the same; and so on. You can spend your life trying to be a writer, and the only shingle you’ll hang over the door is the success of your last book… that is, of course, if you’re able to find someone in the first place with enough belief in you to actually sit down and read the bloody thing.

  “I thank you all, most sincerely for making The Fires of Midnight the success it is. And I thank the directors of Writers’ Week for allowing me the opportunity to speak with you today. And finally may I say, if you want to write, don’t dare to dream, because it’s within your dream so many people look to for an escape. That’s why they buy books. Thank you. Thank you all very much indeed.”

  The auditorium of the Port Macquarie town hall suddenly filled with applause. Not just a round of polite clapping but, rather, a sustained, lengthy and most enthusiastic thank you which evolved into a standing ovation. Bill Murphy was gobsmacked. Innocently, he looked to see if someone else of note had walked onto the stage. When he realised that the applause was for him, he felt his knees go weak and he lifted a hand to the rostrum to steady himself.

  The Writers’ Week director stepped onto the stage and approached the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Bill Murphy.”

  Again the applause was loud and long. Slowly Bill Murphy made his way back to the VIP table where he was previously seated. A surge of people rushed forward with a copy of his novel in their hands hoping for an autograph. He was about to resume his seat when a voice came over his shoulder.

  “Excuse me, Mr Murphy. Georgette McKinley, RTN ELEVEN. Mind if we have a quick word?”

  “I’d rather not,” he told her politely, withdrawing his chair.

  Expecting such a reply but still taken aback by it, Georgette politely backed away, deciding to wait until she could grab a moment with him alone. Because she was very well known due to her high profile on television, Georgette was constantly surrounded by people at the event eager to speak with her and touch her. Some even sought her autograph. But her gaze was constantly focussed on Bill Murphy. She knew she’d cop a fair bit of ridicule if she didn’t get a comment from the author, and that ridicule would come from Jack Rider.

  Gradually the crowd which packed the town hall began to disperse and her one fear was that Bill Murphy would leave as well. As she watched, she felt he had made a decision to depart. Again she made an approach. “Excuse me, Mr Murphy…?”

  Bill Murphy looked up. “You’re still here?”

  “Yes, and I’m not leaving till you speak with me,” she answered, offering the best and most gorgeous smile she could muster.

  “At ELEVEN, you say?”

  Georgette nodded, thinking she’d broken through.

  Bill Murphy spotted a mobile phone in her hand. “That’s George Hanks isn’t it?”

  “Oh, my boss! You know him?” she gushed.

  “Yeah, I know him. Used to work together. Get him on the line for me.”

  Georgette quickly dialled the number. “Hello… Hanks.”

  “Hi babe, did you get Murphy?”

  “About to, I think. He’s with me now… wants to talk to you.”

  “Sure, whack him on.”

  Georgette handed Bill Murphy the phone. “George?”

  “G’day maaaate… Jesus, it’s been a long time?”

  “Certainly has… Listen George, sorry to get to the point so quickly, but have you got a reporter up here doing a story on me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell her to leave me alone will you. The last thing I want to do is stick my head on a TV screen. Christ, I used to work in the business, remember?”

  “Well, you’re a bit of a recluse, old son… she only wants a grab.”

  “Piss off, George. No! Not even for old times sake.”

  Bill Murphy didn’t wait to hear any further conversation. He handed Georgette back her phone and walked away.

  George Hanks was still wondering if there was anyone on the line and kept calling into his phone. Georgette didn’t put it back to her ear. She was too embarrassed to continue the conversation. Instead, she pushed the ‘off ’ button.

  “Jesus, he’s got a mind of his own,” her cameraman commented.

  Georgette was fuming. “What an arsehole! That prick really humiliated me!”

  “Forget it,” the cameraman responded. “At least you tried.”

  Bill Murphy climbed into his utility. “Fixed her bloody wagon,” he laughed out loud, as he drove back to his motel. Back in his room, he showered, shaved and changed.

  Georgette McKinley, he thought. He reached for the phone and called RTN ELEVEN. “George Hanks, please”

  “Jesus, Bill, you could’ve given us a grab for fuck’s sake!”

  “Don’t do interviews, Bill, you know that. Besides, didn’t you and I once sit down all day… all bloody day discussing the fact that if ever we became famous we’d tell the media to piss off?”

  “Don’t remember!”

  “Bullshit, George… anyway, where is she?”

  George Hanks laughed. “So she’s g
ot under your skin?”

  “Pig’s arse! Is she still here, or did she leave?”

  “Got a pen?”

  “Yep.”

  George Hanks gave Bill Murphy Georgette’s mobile phone number. “And she’s still there… thirty seconds Bill?”

  “Don’t be an arsehole… talk to you.”

  Bill Murphy dialled Georgette’s mobile. “Georgette? Bill Murphy… Got time for a drink?”

  “You’re joking! After what you just did to me?”

  “Yes or no?”

  “I’d prefer dinner. How did you get my number?”

  “Ways and means… I called George back.”

  “So why are you ringing me if you’re not feeling guilty?”

  Bill Murphy was on the verge of hanging up. ‘“Somehow I don’t think this was such a good idea,” he told her his voice trailing off.

  Georgette could sense she was about to lose him. “OK. Dinner. Seven o’clock at the Whalebone Wharf Restaurant. It’s on Hastings River Drive. You’ll find it. See you then.”

  Bill Murphy put his phone back into his pocket wondering why he even bothered to call her. “Mate, she’s everything you detest in a woman. You only have to look at her to know she’s got balls. Pretty face. Great tits. Call her back you idiot. Bail out. You don’t need it’.”

  But he couldn’t make the call.

  * * *

  “Good evening sir, welcome to the Whalebone Wharf Restaurant, do you have a booking?”

  “Hi, yes… for two… Murphy. Did you get my message…?”

  “Indeed we did, sir.”

  “I am expecting a young lady to join me. When she does, would you kindly oblige when I give you the nod?”

  The waiter smiled. “We thought as much sir… of course.”

  Bill Murphy had arrived a few minutes before seven and ordered a beer while he waited for his guest. At ten minutes past seven he saw Georgette McKinley walk in the door. He noticed she hadn’t seen him, so he dropped his eyes and pretended to read the wine list which was already on the table. Moments later, the waiter approached his table.

  “Mr Murphy, your guest has arrived…”

  Georgette offered the waiter an artificial smile. Bill Murphy rose from his chair and held out his hand.

  “So… here we are,” she began, taking her seat.

  “Looks a nice place,” Bill Murphy commented, attempting to break the ice.

  “So why the phone call… did you change your mind?”

  Bill shook his head. “No, I didn’t change my mind. Did you think I would?”

  “I was hoping.”

  “I worked in the industry for 30 years. I don’t want my head on television.”

  “Come on… is it still Mr Murphy?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Is this Georgette McKinley, journo or Georgette McKinley, private person?”

  “Does it make any difference?”

  “You better believe it does.”

  “How?”

  “I despise women journos.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I thought it might be interesting to see if you had a private side.”

  “Why do you despise women journos?”

  “Another story for another day… if we get that far.”

  “Not looking too flash at the moment is it?”

  Bill Murphy shrugged his shoulders.

  “Word out there is you’re a recluse. Are you?”

  “Is this the journo asking or the private person?”

  “OK. The private person.”

  “Where’s your phone?”

  Georgette opened her handbag and held it up.

  “Switch it off.”

  “I can’t do that…”

  “You working or not?”

  Georgette huffed and puffed and grumbled. “What if someone is looking for me?”

  “Here in Port Macquarie?”

  “Pushy bugger aren’t you?” she remarked, pushing the ‘off’ button.

  “Never get told what to do, do you?” he retorted.

  “No… but it took a lot of hard work to get to that.”

  “And you’re spoiled, too.”

  “Jesus! anything else?”

  He simply smiled his reply. Out the corner of his eye Bill Murphy could see the waiter standing a short distance away, watching him. Without moving his eyes off Georgette, he signalled with his hand. Almost immediately, a bottle of Dom Perignon and two crystal flutes appeared in front of them.

  Georgette tried to cover a faint smile with her hands. “If I’d remained Georgette the journo, I suppose it would have been a mineral water?” she asked with a slight sting.

  “If you’d remained Georgette the journo, I guess I would already have made my apologies and left,” he told her.

  “So what do I have. Murphy the writer, or Murphy the recluse?”

  “They’re one and the same.”

  “So you don’t like people?”

  “Would you like some of this?” he asked, almost off-handedly.

  “Yes, of course, but I’d also like an answer to the question.”

  Bill was about to reach for the bottle as he’d specifically asked the waiter on the phone earlier not to pour it in case his guest didn’t partake. But he was beaten to the punch. The waiter was quickly at the table.

  “Oh, please, allow me.”

  Both watched as the flutes filled. “So what do we drink to?” she asked.

  “Women journos,” Bill replied facetiously.

  Georgette raised an eyebrow. “So why don’t you like people?” she asked again.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “As good as.”

  “I’m just happy to live my life away from them.”

  “Without people you wouldn’t be a successful author.”

  “Now you’re being a journo.”

  “And you’re evading the question.”

  “There shouldn’t be any questions to evade. You want to talk about the weather or something?”

  “Is it Mr Murphy or Bill?”

  “Are you working, or aren’t you?”

  “I turned my phone off.”

  “Bill,” he said, holding out his hand to her a second time.

  She took it, but both knew it did little to smooth the way.

  “So why do you write?”

  “Do you read?”

  “I haven’t read your book, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You’re lucky you didn’t roll the camera because that would have been the first thing I’d have asked you.”

  Georgette smiled. “Had that one covered,” she replied confidently.

  “I’ll bet you didn’t.”

  “I’ll bet I did… try me.” Georgette opened her handbag and withdrew a copy of Fires. She opened it to a specific page and was about to ask a question when Bill Murphy interrupted.

  “That’s the oldest trick in the business,” he laughed. She looked at him. “When you interview an author, you always have a copy of their book with you and ask about a specific passage. That’s supposed to convince the writer you’ve read it. If you’d have done that to me, I’d have asked you to explain to me what was written on the ten pages before.”

  “That’s very clever, Mr Murphy.”

  “So you are working?”

  “OK… Bill.”

  “Hey, listen, I did the same job as you for 30 bloody years. I’ve interviewed a truckload of authors. Most of ‘em I found were better read than listened to, but one day I damn near got caught out on the exact scenario I told you about. It just so happened I had read the book and could tell the guy about the previous ten pages. You should be careful of that. If you reckon my phone call embarrassed you, that would have been a whole lot worse. On camera, too. And what’s more I would have done it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you didn’t come all this way to further my career. You came all this way to further your own. You see,
for some reason, everybody reckons I’m hot property. Incredible isn’t it? Two years ago, nobody wanted to know me. Two years ago I would have driven down to see you for a 30-second grab. Amazing how things change, isn’t it? Like to order?”

  Georgette scanned the menu and chose a small entrée and a main course of John Dory fillets. Bill followed suit. After each had given their order, an uneasy silence fell between them. There was something about Georgette that Bill Murphy found particularly attractive. If nothing else, he knew he was proving a difficult challenge for Georgette. Neither was prepared to give an inch and both knew it. He also knew she didn’t like the fact that he, Bill Murphy, without a doubt, knew more about her job than she did. And in the area of writing books, again she was forced to admit defeat.

  He also made damn sure he gave nothing away in regard to how he felt about her. No compliments. No double-meaning remarks. Not the slightest indication that she was even female. He was sure this was an entirely new experience for her. He was also sure it bothered her that she couldn’t pigeon-hole him. He knew that a day in the life of a woman like Georgette McKinley would be filled with compliments, passes and one-liners. Such was her glamour. But he’d be damned if he was going to say so.

  She was attractive, but not irresistible, and he wasn’t convinced that he’d pierced her journalistic skin to expose the real person anyway.

  Their chit-chat continued, though it was strained at times.

  Their entrées arrived. Both agreed they were delicious. Bill Murphy seemed happy enough. He was content to chat away the evening and for each to go their own separate ways. That was until their next exchange. Georgette leaned across the table and asked him in a voice a little above a whisper.

  “You rang me, remember? Now what the fuck’s the problem? Have I got three heads or something? Open up a bit will you? I know you despise women journos but, for god sakes, I do have feelings!”

  Bill Murphy’s eyes popped like saucers. “What the hell did I do?”

  “It’s what you haven’t done. We’re not having dinner. We’re going through the motions. The Dom’s a delight. The food exquisite, but there’s something missing here.”