by J. M. Green
He coughed and said, ‘Well enough.’
‘Any developments?’
He shook his head, glanced up at me, and I understood that he couldn’t or wouldn’t have told me if there were.
‘Would you like a drink?’
The chin came out. ‘Scotch. Thank you.’
Ah. Now I’d done it. I was thinking of tap water. ‘I’ve just run out.’
There was a tiny quiver at the corner of his eye. ‘I see.’
‘We could to go to the pub. Okay with you?’
He sniffed but I could see he was warming to the idea. ‘Which pub?’
This struck me as an odd question, and it forced me to think carefully, since the answer might change his mind. ‘Not far from here, the Screaming Goat.’ It was a trendy place that served craft beer, superfood salads and, best of all, was carpeted, so we could hear each other not speaking.
He shrugged, and I took that as a yes and put on my coat.
‘I wanted to thank you again for calling about Nina,’ he said as we headed down the stairs. ‘Might not have known for days, weeks otherwise.’
‘No problem.’
Downstairs, Broad was waiting by the limousine. He spotted us coming down the path and opened the door for us.
‘The Screaming Goat, Broad. Heard of it?’
‘Sir?’
I told him where it was and we cruised through the streets of my neighbourhood in grim silence, until Brodtmann turned to me and cleared his throat. ‘We were close once, Nina and I. Did she tell you that?’
His need to be believed was palpable. ‘Yes,’ I lied.
‘I wondered.’
I did the smile-without-teeth, the one that looks like a grimace. Mercifully, a small television, mounted on the rear of the driver’s seat, was on and it suddenly caught his eye. Brodtmann used a remote to turn up the volume: ‘And in finance news, Veldt Minerals signed a deal today with the federal government worth over two billion dollars to take over the Shine Point refinery.’
Some distant memory involving the Shine Point project made me bolt upright. I knew little of the detail, but I knew CC Prospecting had been bidding for the deal. And I knew that Veldt Minerals was Merritt Van Zyl’s company. So the two were friends and competitors. Brodtmann raised the remote and turned off the TV.
‘The Screaming Goat, Sir,’ Broad announced. Brodtmann and I walked inside and found a half-dozen hipsters sitting on sofas arranged around an open fire, they were nursing spirits and playing a card game. At the bar a fellow with a number-one haircut sat with his back to us, hunched over a beer.
We took a small table by the window and Brodtmann removed his coat. I was willing to bet the charcoal-grey suit he was wearing cost north of four figures. A young woman, inked to the whites of her eyeballs, suggested the Western Australian gin and we agreed. When she’d gone, he asked me: ‘Do you know of a journalist by the name of McKechnie?’
‘Let me think … No.’
He put his fingers to his temples, rubbed circles beside his closed eyes.
‘Who is he?’
‘A troublemaker. He speaks to anyone who’s had the slightest involvement with my family. Tries to get them to betray us.’
‘Sounds like an arsehole,’ I said, and felt bad about it. I thought for a moment and said, ‘Wait. Is he the bloke who wrote that article about CC Prospecting not paying any tax?’
‘That’s him.’
‘Mr Brodtmann, can I ask you something? Why don’t you pay the right amount of tax?’
He frowned.
‘I mean why don’t you just pay up? I pay tax, the woman serving drinks over there pays tax.’
He raised his eyes to mine. ‘Anybody in this country who doesn’t minimise their tax, wants their heads read … Kerry Packer said that, or something like it.’
‘Yes, but leaving the Goanna out of this for now — you don’t even pay what you are obliged to. It seems to me that you’re sponging and you’re proud of it.’
He coughed. ‘I invest millions in this country. Create thousands of jobs.’
‘But the minerals belong to everyone and the tax goes back into —’
‘You have been speaking to McKechnie, haven’t you?’
I shrugged. ‘That’s not the point.’
The woman brought our drinks, served in highball glasses and garnished with a thin slice of raw capsicum.
‘He interviewed me once.’ He held the glass in both hands but didn’t drink. ‘I had no idea he was, well … It’s the whole profession; they can’t be trusted.’
I drank half my gin in one swallow. ‘What happened?’
He looked up. ‘My wife had died. He asked me all about that. I thought we would discuss the jobs I’ve created, the wealth I’ve brought to the state, the entire nation.’ He took a big drink and put the glass down. ‘More of a gossip columnist than a financial reporter. Only interested in my relationship with my second wife, the family dynamic. All very tawdry stuff.’
As he spoke, I glanced about the room. The man sitting at the bar — something looked familiar. I turned back to Brodtmann. ‘Is that why Nina came to Melbourne?’
He stroked the corners of his opened mouth. ‘Frankly, I don’t know.’
I chewed my capsicum, thinking he must have known. Everyone I spoke to knew Crystal and Tania hated each other.
‘How would I know? I tried to talk to her …’ He put down the glass. ‘Miss Hardy, if anything happens to Nina I’ll never forgive myself —’
I held up my hand and he stopped speaking. I could see the man at the bar in profile now, as he spoke to the barmaid. He picked up his backpack, rifled through it — then he lifted out a laptop and showed it to her.
‘Excuse me a moment,’ I said to Brodtmann. I stood up and walked to the bar. I made a fist and, pulling my arm back and as hard as I could, punched the man on the side of the head. He howled in pain and nearly fell off the stool. The hipsters all looked up. I could see Brodtmann was on his feet. The inked barmaid came tearing over the bar to restrain me. But Ben did nothing to stop me. ‘Stella, how’d you find me?’
‘Relax,’ I said to the barmaid. ‘The laptop’s mine.’
She’d worked this out for herself. ‘Get out, both of you.’
‘I don’t want any trouble, I just want my damn laptop and I’ll be on my way.’
‘Guess I can’t stay at your place tonight then?’
For an answer, I hissed at him. When I went back to the table, Brodtmann was gone. I put the laptop in my bag and both arms in the sleeves of my coat, and headed outside. I walked home, surprised by the pity I felt for Brodtmann.
With the DVD now back in my possession, I decided it would be prudent to make a copy — maybe several copies — of the report, in case I ever lost it again. Besides, I didn’t want to be the only one who had access to the report, given the startlingly real possibility that I might die or something. I set up my laptop on the table and opened The Blue Lagoon. I attempted a simple drag and drop onto my desktop but the file bounced back to its original folder, as if held off by an invisible, repellent force. The document file would not attach to the email. I tried again. Each time, the icon skittered back to the DVD folder.
Out on the third floor landing of PineView, music was playing at a volume that could peel the skin from your face. If I had to guess, I’d say it was Slayer. I was pretty sure Brown Cardigan did not favour thrash metal. It was coming from Jack and Amber’s. I put the DVD in the case, and went and pounded on their door. Jack opened the door in a highly stroppy state, bespectacled, bearded, and beanied. ‘What?’
I entered and turned the music down.
‘Wait. Stella. You can’t do that.’
‘Need to use your printer.’
‘Get your own fucking printer.’
&nbs
p; ‘I really need to use your printer.’ Perhaps it was the emotion in my voice. He jumped up and turned the music off completely.
‘What for?’
‘This.’
He shook his head. ‘A movie?’
‘Not movie.’
‘I don’t have a disc drive.’
I held out my laptop. He took it from me and started to fiddle at the back with the cables. ‘Amber doesn’t like metal. I can only listen when she goes to her sister’s,’ he said, not looking at me.
‘No need to explain.’
‘This thing’s ancient. Gotta install print drivers off the internet.’
‘Install away, Jack.’
He tapped the keys and the printer began a frenzied mechanical response. I watched as he opened the file, the disc whirring in the drive. He hit the print command and a message box appeared. Password. He tried to save it in a different format. Function not available. He ejected it and handed it back to me.
‘I tried to email it but it won’t attach. Something blocks it.’
‘It’s set up with a layer of security, password protection. All copying or printing functions, stuff like that, you need the password.’
I thanked him and left. Immediately, the Slayer volume went back up.
Back in my flat, I checked my phone: no message; my landline: no message. I was looking longingly out the window when I saw a white van drive down Roxburgh Street and park opposite my building. I inspected it from a distance — flecks of paint all over it. I dared to hope. The driver’s door opened and out he stepped, in a clean shirt and jeans, the face stubble a sheen of silver. His hair was combed into an extravagant rockabilly arrangement. It was a sight of unutterable magnificence. I ran downstairs and he clocked me as I sprang across the road. He held his arms out and I let him wrap them around me.
‘You eaten?’
‘Not since last century,’ I said.
23
VYVY’S WAS on Racecourse Road. Brophy and I both spotted the one empty table, second from the back, simultaneously, and we ran for it. As if there was a chance it might be taken from us, we started placing bags, jackets, and scarves over the chairs to stake our claim. A waiter brought menus, jasmine tea in a thermos, and two small cups. Brophy ordered vegetarian laksa. Extra tofu.
I said, ‘Two.’
Brophy said, ‘There are Laksa King enthusiasts out there, poor misguided fools. Right here, best laksa in Melbourne.’
I looked at him, amused. ‘What am I, a blow-in?’
He lifted his chin in query.
‘I practically live in this establishment. I work down the road.’
Brophy acted chastened. ‘Forgive me. It’s a bloke thing. We like to appear knowledgeable.’
The remark had charm. ‘This once.’
He nodded, keeping steady eye contact. He looked away. ‘Your brother —’
‘Jesus, look at this. The soy sauce and the chilli sauce are in the same kind of bottle.’ I made a careful study of them. ‘Those two you do not want to mix up.’
He smiled. ‘Right.’ But the crease in his brow deepened.
‘Just saying.’
He rested his hands on the laminex and pushed back in the chair. Possibly preparing for departure. I had blown it.
‘I spoke to your daughter on the phone,’ I said. ‘Very bright. Socially aware.’
‘Marigold? I suppose so. Sometimes.’ He pulled at his ear.
‘She was interested in my welfare. At her age, I didn’t know other people existed.’
‘Oh yeah.’ Relief in his voice. ‘She can be caring.’
‘And the language, the way she speaks.’
‘Ah. That’s her mother’s influence. Well, the boyfriend. He’s into rap.’
I nodded. A tangle of discordant family relations. Yay!
He did an imitation of a rap artist, with a hand-flicking gesture. ‘Keepin’ it real.’
‘Yo.’ I countered. There was silence. I tried to think of something to say; came up blank.
He leaned forward, sipped some tea. ‘So, you like Peter Jackson.’
‘I do?’
‘The Lord of the Rings. The director.’
‘Oh, that Peter Jackson.’
He leaned over the table. ‘I like the movies but I prefer the books.’
‘You say that like it was heresy. I like the books but prefer the movies. That is heresy.’
He laughed. ‘Go on then, what do you like about them?’
Tell him? I wanted to. I had quite a lot to say on the subject actually. But how could I answer without revealing something of me? The haunted, lonely individual who found solace and meaning in the actions of characters in a movie, and who was brought to tears by the bravery of imaginary people. Admissions like that hinted at too much secret suffering; made me appear emotional, weird — more red flags than a May Day parade.
‘The final scene in Moria,’ I said, keeping my tone cool. ‘Gandalf falling. Those battles, when they’re outnumbered. The humans versus Sauron thing. The odds are so small. Impossible really.’
‘Yes. And the sword, of course; layers of symbolic meaning there.’ His blue-grey eyes had a pleasant intensity.
The arrival of bucket-sized bowls of soup put an end to that wistful moment. Scary slices of red chilli floated in it. The lemony aromas made me want to close my eyes and swoon. Brophy launched in, spoon digging up noodles, vegies, and broth. I watched him: loud slurping, unreserved — a good eater. I raised the china spoon to my lips and the world became quiet. There was only tang and heat.
Halfway through, he wiped his mouth. ‘Arwen. When she chooses a mortal life.’
‘Yes?’ Perspiration on my face; I could feel it. I put down the spoon, patted my chin with the napkin.
He looked at me, serious. ‘Why become mortal?’ A rhetorical question.
I answered anyway. ‘Love?’
‘You can love in the Undying Lands.’
‘Right.’
‘Immortals can love.’
‘Right.’ I liked this Peter Brophy.
‘Mortals die, don’t they?’
‘Yep.’ I was drinking in the arch of his eyebrows. ‘Pretty much what the word means.’
‘And facing death. That’s the ultimate fear. We all have to do it.’
I posed, philosophical, hands together, fingers steepled. ‘Go on.’
‘Immortals can never know what that’s like.’
I considered that idea. ‘They can’t die, so they can’t experience fear. They exist in a fear-free zone.’
He lowered his eyes. I gazed at his mouth — a crooked smile. ‘They’re missing out.’
I guffawed. ‘On what? The joys of terror?’
‘A test of courage.’
I had to wonder if he had been reading my mail, going through my rubbish.
He drank the last of his soup straight from the bowl. He lowered it. ‘Or something like that.’
‘You are familiar with Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon?’
‘I’ve seen it.’
‘At the end, when Mu Bai is dying from Jade Fox’s poison dart and he finally tells Shu Lien with his dying breath —’
‘She says he must use it to meditate, so that his soul rises to eternity.’
‘Yes! But he doesn’t,’ I said, breathlessly. ‘He tells her he’s wasted his whole life!’
His eyes shone. ‘He lived on the mountain, in peace and tranquillity.’
‘Yes, but it was a form of cowardice. He never admitted his love for Shu Lien. Only at the very end he tells her that he loves her and has always loved her and that he would rather give up enlightenment and drift as a ghost by her side as a condemned soul.’
‘Because of her
love, his spirit would never be lonely.’
‘And Shu Lien kisses him, and then he dies.’
On the walk back to his van, Brophy’s hand slipped into mine. It had rained. The wet footpath reflected the city lights. I said, ‘If Arwen really wanted to test her bravery she could always become a St Kilda supporter.’
We were at the van now and he unlocked the door. When he turned, I stood on my toes and he bent his head, and my mouth was on his, and I was pushing him against the van. I pressed my hips against him and put my arms around him, breathing in the warmth of him rising up through his clothes.
24
A RUBBISH-TRUCK, working the hydraulics, lifting bins, dumping them. Then daylight. Brophy’s soft breath. I closed my eyes, drifted back to sleep. Light filled the room from high, bare windows. My eyes were closed but I was awake. I moved my hand around his bare chest, along his arm. I turned to meet his face, and kissed his mouth.
‘Tigers,’ he said, a lingering, ridiculous smooch on my cheek.
‘What about them?’
‘Braver. A Tigers supporter.’
‘You poor sap.’
‘Hereditary. My old man, his father.’
‘Born like that then. Unfortunate.’
There was a persistent meowing at the bedroom door. Brophy went to let him in. Then he went to the kitchen, and I could see the cat fold itself around his legs while he fossicked in cupboards for cat food. I raised myself up on an elbow.
‘Have you heard of Oarsman’s Bay?’ I called through the open door. ‘Fiji. Wonderful this time of year, so I hear. Paragliding, snorkelling.’
He looked at me over his shoulder; one eyebrow rose.
He made toast and tea, and I was feeling content. Then my phone sang ‘Map of Tasmania’. I retrieved my bag from under our clothes on the floor.
Mrs Chol. ‘Stella. Are you in Melbourne? Can you come now?’
I’d forgotten. ‘Now?’
‘Yes. Please.’
Brophy was kissing my shoulder.
‘I’ll come … today. Soon.’ I ended the call. ‘I have to go.’
‘Can I drop you off somewhere?’
Too soon, we were outside the commission flats on Flemington Road.