by Graham Guy
“Sorry for the short notice,” he’d said, “but the old man was put on the spot by some incoming overseas interests. And they wanted to go up-country a bit, not stay in the city. We’ll send a chopper for you. The dinner starts at seven.”
The helicopter landed on time and, moments later, it was on its way to Port Macquarie. Upon arrival, a stretch limo was on hand to meet him. “Where is this thing?” he asked the driver.
“The Whalebone Wharf Restaurant I believe, sir.”
Bill Murphy smiled. As the limo pulled up outside the restaurant, Bill Murphy looked around. “Are we early? There’s no-one here!”
As Bill Murphy climbed from the vehicle, he was greeted by an enthusiastic young waiter. When he walked into the restaurant he noticed the entire dining area had been cleared, with only an elaborately laid out handful of tables in close proximity to one highly decorated with candelabras, a white silk tablecloth and silver service cutlery. There were two chairs. The ceiling was covered in balloons and streamers. The lights were soft and low.
Off to the left was a twelve-foot concert grand piano. A man aged in his mid-thirties was seated at the keyboard. Upon seeing Bill Murphy he began playing The Prayer.
Suddenly, he began to think all wasn’t coming together as he’d expected. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the waiter was all about like an excited schoolboy. There’d be a fleeting glimpse of a waitress dashing by. There was no-one to greet him. So he casually made his way across to the highly decorated table.
As the pianist came to the end of The Prayer, he followed up with The Look of Love. The waiter then casually approached Bill Murphy. “Sir, if you’ll just turn around.”
Bill Murphy gave the waiter a strange look as he glanced over his shoulder. Standing before him was Georgette McKinley, in that dress. Bill Murphy was struck dumb and his eyes filled with tears. “I’m flabbergasted,” he managed to say. “Totally and utterly. My god! I don’t know what to say.”
“You could try ‘hello’,” she told him.
“I don’t think I’m very good at this… um,” he mumbled, but the words were getting stuck in his throat.
“I’m trying to climb that mountain,” she said, with tears only a moment away.
“God, I miss you. Babe, this is dream stuff! But we can’t survive on dreams. There’s every day. We have to live every day.”
Slowly, tears began to roll from her eyes. “Every hour, every minute, every breath I take, you’re in it,” she whimpered.
He went to her and held her in his arms. “Georgie, Georgie, Georgie, I don’t think we can do this thing. It’s not you. It’s me.”
“Have we got tonight?” she sobbed.
“We’ve got tonight,” he told her. “And look at you! I have never seen a dress I adore more than that and I have never looked at anyone I adore more than you,” he told her, pulling her in close.
Bill and Georgette stood in each other’s arms for the duration of the song… and the next one as well. It was only as the last bars of The Love Theme from Romeo and Juliet flowed from the concert grand piano did they take up their seats at the table. Georgette had ordered Dom Perignon and a four-course menu she created herself: freshly shucked oysters in the half shell on ice with lemon and onion in red wine vinegar; roasted duck breast with a salad of pumpkin and watercress, with a parsnip marmalade and macadamia-nut lavish; oven-roasted snapper fillet wrapped in prosciutto with green-olive tapenade and red-capsicum coulis; cherry-ripe icecream gateau with poached strawberries and almond clafoutis with candied apple and sultana with an amaretto anglaise. Bill chose the wine, a 1994 Peter Lehmann Shiraz, winner of six gold medals in the 1996 National Wine Show.
Throughout their time together, there wasn’t a lot of conversation. Georgette revelled in the moments of simply being with Bill Murphy. And she enjoyed all the fuss and bother the staff went to. Bill Murphy was totally overawed by the occasion. Songs about love came from the piano and when they sometimes danced together, all the staff stopped what they were doing to watch them. Georgette knew, after spending another five hours with Bill Murphy, there was quite simply nowhere else on earth she wanted to be. Bill Murphy fought with his conscience all evening. He was being pulled every which-way. He knew what his life-long plan had been. He had now achieved it. He also knew that contemplating life without Georgette was more painful than he could bear thinking about.
It was past midnight before they walked from the restaurant to the hotel room Georgette had booked. As they came together as one, the early morning sun was soon waking up their day. The helicopter was still on standby. Firstly to return Bill to his home, then to fly Georgette back to Sydney.
“Come up to the house for the day,” he said.
Georgette’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I’d love that.”
Two hours later, Bill was sitting in his stone chair. Lonely was at his feet and Georgette was sitting on the ground with Bill’s jacket across her shoulders, leaning back between his legs. As the waves rolled in on a day of clear skies and bright sunshine, both soaked up the moments of being together. After a while, Georgette moved a little to Bill’s side and sat gazing out over the ocean. He noticed a different expression on her face. He thought it peaceful, but distant.
“Where are you?” he asked.
She looked at him, hesitated, then spoke. “About three dreams away,” she told him.
“Meaning?”
She paused for a moment and said, “Oh… You. You and Me, and Forever.”
Bill Murphy didn’t comment. Instead, he rose to his feet and quietly walked down the cliff and onto the beach. Georgette watched him until he became a tiny speck in the distance. As she sat there she began to write some lines, but screwed up the paper, discarded it and returned to the helicopter. It was over an hour later before Bill Murphy returned to where he’d been sitting. First glance told him Georgette had gone. He turned his face to the wind as his eyes filled up. When he sat down in his chair, he saw a screwed up piece of paper lying near his discarded jacket.
Casually he leaned over, picked up the piece of paper and unravelled it. He recognised the writing as Georgette’s.
The day that we met, it was only by chance
I felt you were just a lost soul.
But when I looked up and noticed your glance
My forever began to unfold.
But today you say you won’t go there again
And a hill can be too high to climb.
But if one dream’s too far, then I know that your heart is three dreams away.
I know you said you can’t do this anymore
And a hill can be too high to climb.
But your touch is a journey I’ve not been before and your feelings are where I belong.
Today you say you won’t go there again,
And a hill can be too high to climb.
But if one dream’s too far, then I know that your heart is three dreams away.
Bill Murphy’s heart sank. He folded up the piece of paper and put it in his pocket. Then he leaned into his seat threw his head back and opened up his arms.
“So what the hell am I supposed to do?” he called out. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”
The faster he searched his mind for a logical conclusion, the more confused he got. “It can’t be,” he said out loud. “God knows, it just can’t be.”
For the next three weeks Bill Murphy suffered the most agonising period of his life. He’d experienced anxieties before a broken marriage, disappointments in jobs, frustrations in waiting on replies from publishers, but this was something totally different. He knew he had to pull himself together. He knew this wasn’t what he’d spent his life dreaming about. He knew he had to make a decision. Again. Only this time a final decision.
Chapter 21
Ken McLoughlin called the two police ministers and the two Police Commissioners to inform them he’d be taking a couple of days off to drive to Nambucca Heads. He was tempted to unstrap his shoulder holster and h
is ankle backups. He’d even slipped his shoulder from one of the straps when he changed his mind.
Never bloody know, do you! he thought to himself as he put it back on.
He was driving up the freeway towards Gosford when his thoughts went to Kazumi. He took his phone from his pocket and dialled.
Katie Caplin answered the phone. “Ken, hello. How nice to hear from you.” She hesitated before saying, “Are you well? We heard about your partner in the news.”
McLoughlin took a deep breath. “We were on a job together…”
“Oh my god… it could have been you then?”
“Katie, I can’t talk to you about it now. I will one day when this whole thing’s over, OK?”
“So you’re still on it?”
“Yes, I’ll see it through…”
“But you’re not calling to speak to me are you?”
“Now, Katie… !”
“Hold on, I’ll get her.”
Katie put the phone down and walked outside. She called to Kazumi, who hurried inside the house.
“Hello! Mr Sergeant Ken. Yes?”
McLoughlin giggled. “Kazumi?”
“Oh, Mr Ken… hello.”
“I’m driving up the freeway thinking about you. How are you?”
“I good, Mr Ken. You all right good, too?”
McLoughlin chuckled as Kazumi wrestled with the language. “Yes, I’m all right good, too. I thought when I get through with what I’m involved in, I’d call by and pick you up. Maybe go to the beach for a few days… yes?”
“Oh, Mr Ken… a few days?”
“Don’t you think Katie will give you the time off?”
“Wait. I check.” McLoughlin heard her ask Katie in the background if it would be all right to take some leave. She obviously had agreed because Kazumi spoke back into the handset, “Miss Katie. She say all right. But just a couple of days.”
“So what do you think? The beach. The city. The country?”
“I think the beach, yes?”
McLoughlin said goodbye and pressed the off-button, thinking about the places he’d like to take her. Suddenly, as if jammed in the rear with a cattle prod, he shot bolt upright in his seat and craned his neck as he drove past a service station.
“Shit! it’s him. It’s fucking him! It’s the fucking Weasel! You mother-fuckin’ son-of-a-bitch.”
McLoughlin quickly checked his mirrors, then brought his car to a standstill in the service lane. He grabbed his binoculars and looked back through the rear window. The first thing he noticed was The Weasel’s unusual gait. He was leaving the service station carrying two large paper bags. Then for a brief moment he got a clear view of his face.
Running a bit short on things are you, mongrel?
McLoughlin lowered the binoculars to the number plate of the vehicle he was driving. It was different from before. BJL-998. He wrote it down. But he needed more time. He wanted to take him there and then.
That won’t achieve anything. I have to find his hiding-place.
Still watching through the glasses he saw The Weasel move his car to a parking bay, lock it up and walk into the toilets.
He grabbed his phone and pushed the button which would hook him straight up with the New South Wales Police Commissioner.
“Sir, McLoughlin. I’m on him, right now. He’s taking a piss. I spotted him at a service station as I was driving past here at Coopernook, about twenty or thirty K’s the other side of Taree. Sir, there’s a lot of traffic. I need to follow him, but I can’t get too close. If he spots me, we’re dead in the water.”
“What do you need?”
“Where’s the chopper?”
“Christ, up your way, I think.”
“I need that chopper, sir. Now. I have to get a high-altitude surveillance on this prick. But they’ll have to stay well up.”
The Commissioner gave him the contact details so McLoughlin could talk direct to the chopper. “Tell them what you want, Ken. If they’ve got a problem, tell ‘em to call me.”
McLoughlin had just put his plan in train when The Weasel sped past him. Watching him approach, he slunk down into his seat to avoid any chance of recognition. Quickly he followed, but from a long way back. When he checked his speedo, he saw he was travelling at one hundred and thirty K’s. Way over the limit. He reached for his phone again and called Commissioner Johnson. He quickly explained the situation and asked if there were highway patrols in the area to back off and not pull The Weasel over.
“I’m on it, son,” the Commissioner told him.
Twenty minutes later, McLoughlin’s phone rang.
“Airwing, Sergeant. Right over the top of you I’d reckon.”
“OK. Can you go right up? We can’t afford for you to get seen on this. Go as high as you can and tell me if you see him.”
“Wait on the line.” Moments later. “We’re at 3200 feet. BJL-998. Is that him?”
“Can you stay on him?”
“We can give you 93 minutes.”
“That might just do it. I don’t have a bloody clue where he’s going, so for Christ sakes don’t lose him. I’ll hang back a bit. Ring me every couple of minutes, OK?”
The Weasel made good time heading north. Approaching Kempsey, he turned to the right and took the Gladstone road.
“You on him?” McLoughlin called.
“We are.”
“How much longer can I have you?”
“Twenty-one minutes… hang on, Sarge, he’s slowing down. Back off, Sarge. Jesus Christ. Back off, Sarge! Can you pull up?”
McLoughlin slammed on the brakes.
“He’s now on a side road leading into the Hat Head National Park. Don’t know where he’s going because the road doesn’t lead anywhere.”
McLoughlin was ecstatic. I think I’ve got the bastard! I think I’ve found the fucker’s hideout. Woooow!
“Thanks, guys. That road leads off to the right about half-a-K ahead?”
“Yes, it does. We can stay with you for only another 90 seconds.”
“Get me onto that side road.”
“Coming up on your right.”
“This one now?”
“That’s it. Sarge, we gotta go or we’re out of gas.”
“I love you blokes. Thank you very much.”
McLoughlin slowed right down, straining to see any sign of The Weasel’s car. As he drove along the dirt road, he noticed a little house sitting on a cliff off to his right with a long driveway leading in to it. A fellow sitting out the front with his dog, waved as he went past. The further he went the more it bothered him that he hadn’t spotted The Weasel’s car. McLoughlin pulled up. He checked his back-up weapons in his ankle holsters. He double-checked his Glock. He got out of the car and took the triple two from the boot while putting on his bullet-proof vest. He got back in behind the wheel and slowly proceeded along the dirt road. There was still no sign of The Weasel.
Then the fear of god hit him. If I corner this prick and he lines me up with that .50 calibre again, I’ll need more than a goddammed vest for protection. He contemplated backing off right then and calling in the SAS. He decided against it. He drove on. As he did so he found himself running out of road. Suddenly, only scrubland was in front of him.
So where the hell did he go?
He backed his vehicle up about fifty metres and got out. The road surface was too hard to pick up any recent tracks. He didn’t recall seeing any run-offs as he drove along.
So where the hell is he?
McLoughlin felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Instinctively, he moved around the side of the vehicle which he thought would give him the best cover. He leaned in against it, straining his ears for the slightest sound. There was nothing. Slowly he moved forward. He wondered about taking the triple two. He decided against it as he moved away from his car and into the bushland. He suddenly remembered his phone and reached into his pocket and switched it off.
He moved forward, taking one step at a time, being careful whe
re he put his weight. Selecting as much cover as he could, he adopted a semi-crouched position, moving deeper and deeper into the bushland. Constantly checking behind him and on both sides McLoughlin began to perspire profusely. He knew The Weasel was nearby. But was he watching him?
You son-of-a-bitch, by Christ, I’m close, aren’t I? But where’s the bloody car?
He was now about 400 metres into thick scrub and bushland. He paused to take a breath and check his surrounds. He took his Glock from its holster and chambered a round. Then added the extra one to the clip. He was about to move off when something alerted him. He didn’t know what it was. A breaking twig? A kangaroo darting through the bush? He crouched down, hoping he may hear it again. Seconds later he did. But he still couldn’t make out what it was. He felt his heart now begin to pound in his chest.
Is that you, you son-of-a-bitch?
He scanned the area in front of him. He waited. Listening. Watching. Wiping his brow. His nerves were at screaming point. He took deep breaths to try and relax. He knew something was about to break and when it did he needed to be sharp. Focussed.
What McLoughlin heard next frightened the living daylights out of him. He jerked back so suddenly, he cracked his head on a small, over-hanging branch. He cursed loudly, but silently.
“Draw!” came a scream, not more than 30 metres away from him.
McLoughlin hit the dirt, thinking the command was directed at him. Instantly he heard six shots fired in quick succession.
But they weren’t being fired at him. They were going in the opposite direction. Lying prone with his Glock pointing in front of him, he was frantic and totally confused. He scrambled back behind a tree to collect himself, and moments later he heard the command again, “Draw!” followed by six shots fired in quick succession.
Jesus, this is bizarre! McLoughlin thought, his heart pounding.
He continued to sink down by the tree. Moments later the same thing again. “Draw!” followed by another six shots fired in quick succession.
McLoughlin moved forward on all fours. He was now only metres from The Weasel but heavily screened by thick bush. McLoughlin had him in full view. He wanted to laugh at what he was witnessing. The Weasel was acting out the role of a wild-west hero.