Dreamland

by Gilling, Tom

  The police prosecutor sipped a glass of water before resuming. ‘So you agreed to drive him to Bondi yourself ?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you didn’t actually get that far.’

  ‘No. Danny changed his mind. He decided he wanted to go back to the club after all.’

  ‘Did he offer any reason for this change of heart?’

  Nick helped himself to a drink of water. He’d spent long enough in Australian courts to know that what made an alibi plausible wasn’t actual fact—actual fact was often absurdly implausible—but authenticity. The illusion of truth, based on the accumulation of vivid but more or less irrelevant details, was often more compelling than truth itself. ‘Danny realised he’d left his phone behind,’ he said. ‘I saw him turning out his pockets. He took his seatbelt off. I remember him yelling at me to pull over. I thought he was going to throw up.’

  ‘But you didn’t pull over?’

  ‘We were in the middle of Moore Park Road,’ Nick said. ‘There wasn’t anywhere to pull over.’

  ‘Not only did you not pull over. You put your foot down. Is that correct?’

  Nick had rehearsed his evidence so many times in the days before Danny’s trial that he’d almost convinced himself it was true rather than a product of Roy Bellamy’s devious imagination. And yet listening to Merriman lead him through the story, and listening to his own obedient replies reminded Nick that this was all a charade.

  ‘Mr Carmody?’ Merriman was frowning.

  ‘Yes? I’m sorry.’

  ‘Would you like me to repeat the question?’

  ‘Yes…No…That’s right. I put my foot down. I think I just wanted to get out of there.’

  ‘So you don’t deny speeding?’

  ‘No,’ said Nick. ‘I knew I’d broken the limit.’

  Merriman nodded portentously. ‘So you turned the car round as soon as you were able?’

  ‘In a side street.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Danny had sobered up a bit. He was asking me to take him back to the club. There was some kind of party on. He told me I should come along.’

  ‘And what was your response?’

  ‘To be honest—’ The phrase almost stuck in his throat. ‘To be honest, I would just as soon have gone home. But I let him talk me into it.’

  ‘So you drove back to the club?’

  ‘No. I knew there were police on Taylor Square. I’d seen them from the Judgment Bar. I didn’t want to risk being breathalysed. I dropped Danny off and went to find somewhere to park the car.’

  Merriman ostentatiously picked up a copy of Nick’s original statement. ‘In Fitzroy Place?’

  ‘That’s right. It was miles away but I didn’t think I’d find anywhere closer.’

  ‘After parking Mr Grogan’s car, you joined him at the club?’

  ‘Briefly.’

  ‘Presumably you still had his car keys in your possession?’

  ‘I handed them to someone behind the bar.’

  ‘And you didn’t speak to Mr Grogan while you were there?’

  ‘I spoke to him but I doubt he’d remember.’

  Merriman laid Nick’s statement on the desk in front of him and took out his handkerchief. ‘Mr Carmody,’ he said at last. ‘Have you been in trouble with the police before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In your account of the events of New Year’s Eve is there anything you have forgotten to tell the court?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is there anything you wish to add?’

  ‘No.’

  Merriman nodded approvingly and said, ‘Nothing further.’

  The police prosecutor’s name was Holloway. She looked about Nick’s age. She had high cheekbones and slightly crossed eyes and there was something about the way she had watched Nick giving his evidence that made him think she thought he was lying. As she got to her feet Nick could feel his palms sweating. ‘Will you tell the court, please, about your relationship with Mr Grogan.’

  ‘We’ve known each other since we were at school.’

  ‘The two of you are friends?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Close friends?’

  ‘It depends what you mean by “close”.’

  ‘If one of you was in trouble the other would want to help?’

  Nick shrugged. ‘Probably.’

  ‘Probably,’ Senior Constable Holloway said, looking suddenly interested. ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

  ‘I mean it would depend what sort of help was required.’

  ‘Let’s say perjuring yourself to save Mr Grogan from a conviction that might send him to jail.’

  ‘Objection,’ Merriman said wearily, as if it was almost beneath his dignity to point out the absurdity of the point.

  The magistrate—a small, prim-looking woman in her fifties— looked up. ‘You’ll need to do better than that, Senior Constable Holloway.’

  The prosecutor stared at Nick. ‘Tell the court, please, how you came to hear that your friend Mr Grogan had been arrested.’

  ‘I was at work. I saw it on a press release.’

  ‘You’re a former crime reporter with the Daily Star. Is that correct?’

  Nick nodded.

  ‘Yes or no, please.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know something about how the media work?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘In any case, you knew about Mr Grogan’s arrest long before the readers of the Daily Star?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Early enough, I’d suggest, for you to start thinking about ways to help him?’

  ‘It didn’t require much thought. I knew I was the one driving Danny’s car when it went through the speed camera.’

  ‘Do you always drive that fast?’

  ‘If I did, I wouldn’t be here.’

  Holloway picked up a black and white photograph and showed it to Nick. It had been taken by the speed camera in Moore Park Road. Bellamy had shown him a copy of the same photograph, though it wasn’t as clear as the original. The car was Danny’s. Two figures were just about visible but it was impossible to identify them, or even to say with any confidence whether they were male or female. Of course Nick knew this already. His entire statement depended on it.

  The prosecutor showed Nick the photograph. ‘Do you recognise this vehicle?’

  ‘It’s Danny Grogan’s Audi.’

  ‘Can you tell me who is driving it?’

  Nick looked at the time printed on the photograph. ‘It would have to be me.’

  ‘Do you recognise yourself in the driver’s seat?’

  ‘No. But at the time the picture was taken, I was the driver.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘From the picture it could be anyone, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘It could even be Mr Grogan?’

  ‘It could be.’ Nick paused. ‘But it’s not.’

  Senior Constable Holloway took back the photograph.

  ‘You were aware, of course, when you agreed to drive Mr Grogan’s car, that he had a history of serious motoring offences?’

  ‘I knew Danny had been in trouble before.’

  ‘And yet it didn’t stop you from using his vehicle to break the law?’

  ‘I didn’t set out to break the law.’

  ‘And yet—’ She flicked through the contents of a cardboard folder, ‘you’ve never had a single demerit point before now.’

  ‘I’m used to driving a ten-year old Camry,’ Nick answered. ‘I got carried away.’

  The door opened. He saw Danny’s mother creep into the courtroom and take her place on the wooden bench closest to the dock. She didn’t remove her sunglasses. It was as if she couldn’t bear to be recognised, or to recognise herself.

  ‘I put it to you,’ Holloway continued, ‘that the story you have just told the court is a fabrication contrived solely for the purpose of keeping your friend out of pr
ison.’

  ‘No,’ said Nick. ‘It’s not.’

  ‘I put it to you that you only came forward because the defendant’s parents pleaded with you to save their son.’

  ‘It was my decision,’ said Nick. ‘Nobody forced me.’

  ‘Do you consider yourself an intelligent man, Mr Carmody?’

  Intelligent. The question surprised him. He’d won a scholarship to St Dominic’s. He’d fought his way over the obstacle course that weeded out 95 percent of applicants to the Star’s trainee program. And he’d spent the past seven years sleeping with a lawyer. Of course he considered himself intelligent. Intelligent enough to know when he was being goaded. Intelligent enough not to take the bait. He looked across at Danny, struggling to stay awake, and answered, ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘But you’re not stupid?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘How much did Mr Grogan offer you to lie for his son?’

  Nick glanced again at Danny, who looked away, as though afraid to meet his gaze. And suddenly Nick had the feeling that something else was going on here, something he knew nothing about—a conspiracy he was involved in but somehow not party to. He looked at Merriman. What did the barrister know? His face gave nothing away. He was an actor, like all barristers—but did he know what part he was playing?

  ‘Nothing,’ said Nick.

  ‘You mean he asked you to do it for nothing?’

  ‘I mean he didn’t ask me to lie for his son.’

  ‘You and Danny Grogan were classmates. You felt you owed it to him.’

  ‘I’m not doing this for Danny. I’m doing it for myself.’

  The prosecutor stared at him for a few seconds, as though asking him to save himself. ‘No further questions,’ she said, and sat down.

  As he stepped down from the witness stand he noticed a half-smile on Bellamy’s face. What did it signify? Approval? Gratitude? Or just relief ? It wasn’t the sort of job any journalist should feel proud of having done, and yet he had done it, and got away with it. Nick felt something he hadn’t felt before: the self-satisfaction of the successful liar. He walked out of the court and down the sandstone steps to the brick courtyard where he’d often sat as a reporter. It was here that Detective Inspector Malcolm ‘Doggo’ Raffles, who dealt heroin, wholesale and retail, from the children’s playground opposite Redfern police station, took a swing at him for asking whether his kids would be visiting him in jail. In the shade of a plane tree a flock of pigeons was fighting over a bag of hot chips. Nick lit a cigarette and stood for a while watching the ludicrous struttings and stalkings and head-buttings. In a week or so he would be formally notified of the speeding offence to which he had already pleaded guilty and given fourteen days to pay the fine. And that, he hoped, would be the end of it.

  A letter was waiting for him at home. Most of his mail was automatically redirected from the flat in Elizabeth Bay but this had been sent direct to the house in Abercrombie Street. Inside the plain white envelope was a machine-signed cheque for $8,607.45 drawn on a firm named Vaucluse Investments, made out to cash. Nick looked up the company name in the phone directory, not expecting to find it.

  Over the next few weeks he would receive other cheques and look up other company names—Pacific Holdings, Consolidated Machines, Southern Cross Traders—not expecting to find them either. Experience had taught him that the Sydney phone directory wasn’t the place to look for companies like these. He would have more luck searching in the Cook Islands or Costa Rica or the British Virgin Islands—tax-friendly domiciles favoured by multinational corporations and drug dealers alike. The transaction felt soiled and secretive but what had he expected—a personal cheque, presented by Harry Grogan on the steps of the Australian Stock Exchange?

  Sally had been drafted to work on the State Budget. She was going to spend all day in the lock-up, attempting to make sense of the Budget papers while they were still under embargo. Jess had a runny nose, which saved her mum from having to look for excuses to keep her out of pre-school. Since Nick wasn’t due at work until five, he offered to take her shopping in the city. Jess didn’t like buses so they caught a train and got out at St James station, across the road from David Jones.

  ‘I want to look at the fountain,’ Jess said as they reached the middle of the pedestrian crossing.

  The green pedestrian light had changed to a flashing red.

  ‘It’s too late,’ said Nick. ‘We’ll cross the road and then come back.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ said Jess, squirming out of his grasp.

  Nick just had time to snatch her up in his arms and sprint to the pavement before four lanes of traffic swept over the crossing.

  ‘See,’ said Jess. ‘I was right.’

  Nick’s heart was racing. ‘Don’t do that again, Jess. You could have got us both killed.’

  ‘Do what?’ she asked.

  ‘Slip my hand when we’re crossing a busy road.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘All right, you didn’t. But don’t do it again.’

  Although it was clear as they walked up the path towards the Archibald Fountain that the fountain wasn’t working today— and was in fact surrounded by scaffolding—Jess insisted on going all the way. ‘It’s not working,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ said Nick. ‘They must have turned it off.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe the fountain needs cleaning.’

  ‘But it’s full of water. It’s already clean.’

  ‘Maybe they’ve been collecting the coins.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If they didn’t collect the coins from time to time then somebody would steal them.’

  Jess leant over the polished wall of the fountain. ‘Mummy let me throw a coin.’ She frowned. ‘And now it’s gone.’

  ‘Here,’ said Nick, pulling a handful of coins out of his pocket. ‘You can throw a couple of these.’

  ‘Can I throw them all—please?’

  ‘I think that’s too many, Jess.’

  ‘Pleeease?’

  Nick shrugged and watched while Jess picked the coins out of his palm and flung them one by one into the fountain.

  As they walked back through the park Nick felt a hand on his shoulder. A weedy-looking man in a white shirt and tie and grey polyester trousers was smiling at him. At first Nick took him for a Jehovah’s Witness. He glanced around, looking for a companion: Jehovah’s Witnesses always hunted in pairs. The man said, ‘Excuse me.’

  Thanks to Jess, all Nick’s loose change was lying at the bottom of the Archibald Fountain. He didn’t feel like giving the stranger his last twenty-dollar note. ‘I’m sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘We’re in a bit of a hurry.’

  The man was pulling a clipboard out of his briefcase. He smiled at Jess. ‘It won’t take long. Just a few questions. If you could just spare five minutes.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’re late already.’

  ‘No, we’re not,’ said Jess.

  ‘All right, all right,’ Nick said. ‘Five minutes.’

  The man pointed to an empty seat. ‘There’s a bench if you want to sit down.’

  ‘Standing’s fine.’

  ‘My name is Robert.’ The man pointed to the plastic badge on his shirt pocket. ‘First of all I need to ask, are you the person primarily responsible for household cleaning chores?’

  Nick knew he could have ended the interview there and then, or let Jess do it for him. But Jess was preoccupied with watching two men lugging metre-high chess pieces around an open-air board. Nick heard himself answer, ‘Yes.’

  With an audible sigh of relief, Robert turned the page. ‘When cleaning the bath, do you prefer to use (a) liquid scourer or (b) a powdered product or (c) whatever is available?’

  To Nick’s shame it struck him that he had never used either, that somehow in all the years he and Carolyn had lived together, the bath had always been clean without his ever having cleaned it, or thought about cleaning it, or considered who might have cl
eaned it. He’d vacuumed the carpet, and he’d pulled on rubber gloves and unblocked the u-bend under the kitchen sink, but he’d never cleaned the bath. ‘Always a liquid scourer,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ said Robert, although Nick couldn’t tell whether it referred to the answer or simply the fact of his having answered. ‘Next question. In choosing a liquid scourer, is your selection determined by (a) brand or (b) price or (c) personal recommendation by friends or family?’

  To his knowledge Nick had never had a conversation with friends or family or—until now—anyone else about liquid scourers. ‘Definitely brand,’ he answered.

  The questions went on and on, and Nick derived an odd kind of satisfaction from giving false answers. It didn’t take long for him to realise that Robert’s survey had been commissioned by Unilever, or one of its multinational rivals, and that Robert felt an obligation to report the sort of answers that Unilever would want to hear. His thin mouth rose and fell according to the boxes he ticked. Most of the time it was obvious which response Robert was hoping for, and Nick was happy to deliver it. In the beginning he felt he was doing Robert a favour but gradually it dawned on Nick that he wasn’t doing this for Robert. To Robert it was a job, but to him it was something else—an intellectual exercise, no, a creative exercise, a way of being himself and somehow not himself at the same time. He found it strangely exciting.

  After answering all the questions Nick had to supply his first name, age, marital status and approximate income. Robert reached into his briefcase and took out a sachet of blue liquid with a sticker that said ‘Not for sale—promotional use only’.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘You add it to your wash. When your clothes come out they’re as soft as new.’

  ‘So it’s a fabric softener?’