Above the Fold

by Peter Yeldham

  “Shit,” Luke said, after this rant. He was impressed. “Sounds like it’s connivance and needs to be stopped. But how? What’s the answer?”

  “You are.”

  “Me?”

  “I can’t write this, but you could,” Rupert said. “As an old friend who grew up with her while she won First Class Honours and the University Medal. Your surprise that this skilled advocate has to work on her kitchen table, because the jealousy of male barristers refuses to allow her to purchase, repeat purchase, rooms that are vacant.”

  “All right,” Luke gestured with both hands to shut him up. “Here we are, story editor and junior scriptwriter, some years on. It feels like we’re just along the street, and you’re telling me it’s a load of crap, and not to write about princesses and diamonds.”

  Rupert grinned, and bought them another beer. “Except,” he said, “this princess happens to be the lady I love, and she’s getting a rotten deal. And maybe an article along those lines,” he gave a mock bow, “not that I’d presume to dictate, but an article by the former child prodigy might shaft these fucking lawyers and stop them upsetting my missus.”

  “I think you’ve made your case, Rupe. Can I use some of your passionate argument, or will I be accused of plagiarism?”

  Rupert laughed, and they touched glasses. “You’ve been away too long, mate. We’ve all missed you. Now, tell me why you’re back, and what you’re working on.”

  “Skulduggery in Maralinga,” Luke said.

  When he returned to the hotel there was a message from the other of Gordon’s contacts, who said he was unable to supply any information about secret nuclear tests. In fact, he believed there may not have been any, as there was no proof they’d ever happened. Luke was unsure whether he was telling the truth, or had been asked to remain silent, but it left him feeling he was up a creek without a paddle.

  So what to do? He had choices. He could fly to South Australia and make enquiries there. He had the names of some of the soldiers that Yuri Nakamura had treated, although Yuri felt it was unlikely they’d talk to anyone about their time at Maralinga, because of the severity of the penalties. He had also given Luke the address of the soldier who died, or rather the address of his widow, who intimidated the poor bloke, and according to Yuri was widely known as the Dragon.

  Or, he thought, he could first try a long shot, see if he could locate Barry Silvester, who was not answering his phone at Macleay Street and was involved somewhere in the political sphere, to find out whether they were still mates or not.

  THIRTY-THREE

  He was standing outside the Canberra terminal, leaning against the wall, his tie loose, the jacket of his suit slung over his shoulder, unmistakably Barry, as aloof and nonchalant as ever. Still with a thick head of hair, the same careful appraisal when Luke approached. Same hard handshake, as if it was a test of strength.

  “Thought we’d seen the last of you, sport” he said. “How long is it? Ten or eleven years?”

  “Nearer seventeen,” said Luke.

  “Christ! That long? We’re nearly middle-aged.”

  “Well, if you know Shakespeare’s seven ages, we’re halfway to sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.”

  “Trust you to remember gloomy bullshit like that. You look okay. Still got your own hair. How did you get that suntan in Pommy land?”

  “As you must know, Baz, the sun does shine there now and then.”

  “Not that I remember. Spent a holiday there with my ex-wife last year. Pissed down every day.”

  “Well, this year happened to be a good summer. Besides, I had a week in Greece. Stopped on the flight out.” They made their way across the terminal. Luke only had an overnight cabin bag, so they went past the queue for baggage collection. “Which ex-wife?” he asked, having heard from Rachel that Barry had several of them.

  “Claire. Ex number two. I’d have called you, but we spent the whole time either fucking or fighting. Typical of our marriage, good in bed, but bloody hopeless out of it.”

  There was a Holden Statesmen waiting outside the terminal with a Commonwealth numberplate and driver. Barry pointed towards it.

  “Is this us? Luke asked.

  “This is us these days.”

  He could see Barry trying to suppress a smirk.

  “Shit. Should’ve worn my best suit.”

  “You mean you have one? By the way, remind me to lend you a tie. We’re lunching at my club, and they’re fussy about the dress code.”

  “Just how important are you, Bazza?”

  “Thought you’d never ask,” Barry said. “Quite important. Acting Head of Department of Parliamentary Services. You’d know all this if you were still one of us, and not an expat who doesn’t keep in touch.”

  “I did try once. I left a note with a commissionaire, I suppose you’d call him.”

  “That thieving bastard who looked like a pantomime extra? He got sacked.”

  “Obviously chucked my message on his way out of the job. So tell me, what does this department of yours do?”

  “Ensures parliament is working properly. We oversee research information, radio broadcasting and television, Hansard, communications, security — you name it, we handle it.”

  Luke reflected on this. It did sound important. The driver opened the car doors for them. When they’d settled in the comfortable back seats Barry said, “Sanders, this is my oldest friend, Luke Elliott. We were in kindergarten together, where he had to repeat a few years.” The driver dutifully chuckled over this and was introduced. “Luke, this is Sanders.”

  They exchanged polite hellos. Luke wondered if Sanders had a first name, or was this current form of address in the public service nowadays? As if in answer Barry said, “His name is Bert River, but he responds to Sanders. Sings like Paul Robeson when he’s had a few grogs.”

  Sanders obliged with another forced chuckle and asked, “The club, Mr Silvester?”

  “The club, Sanders.”

  It was a smooth ride. Lots of leg room in the back seats, built for ultimate comfort. Luke asked after his younger brother, Felix.

  “Haven’t seen the young swine in ages,” Barry said, “and I can’t say I miss him. He’s up in Queensland, working as a mining engineer. Making a fortune, I’m told. Says he can hardly sleep at night, worrying about his tax bill.”

  “He was always pretty smart.”

  “Smart-arse, you mean. Young prick, back in those days. Ruined my chances with Helen in the back seat of my old man’s car.”

  Luke refrained from a comment on this, and steered the conversation to a polite enquiry. “How are your parents?”

  “Both dead.”

  Well, that takes care of the small talk, Luke thought. He gazed out the window. Canberra was unknown territory to him, his fleeting trips home had never taken him to the capital. After a time Barry started to point out a few places of interest, art galleries, King O’Malley’s Irish pub, Lake Burley Griffin, the parliament building itself, until finally they drew up outside a large Queen Anne-style building adjacent to a golf course. There was a brass sign on the entrance: THE VALLEY COUNTRY CLUB. MEMBERS ONLY.

  Luke, now wearing a spare tie that was kept in the car, was welcomed by an attractive receptionist, and again introduced as Barry Silvester’s oldest friend from kindergarten days. Inside it was like a luxurious manor house. A wide staircase led to a second floor, while the ground floor consisted of a number of conference rooms, an area with several billiard tables, and a very English-style bar with an open fireplace, comfortable armchairs, and daily newspapers from each state. A few members sat reading these, others were grouped in quiet discussion. One or two appeared to be asleep.

  In the restaurant French windows looked out on a putting green and tennis courts, as well as the first tee of the immaculate golf links. Barry led the way to a reserved table by the windows that overlooked the view, and as they sat a steward was already approaching to take their order.

  “Beer for me,” Luke said. �
��Draught, if you have it.”

  “Of course, sir,” replied the steward, as if this was an unnecessary request, “and for you, Mr Silvester?”

  “My usual, Damien.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen.”

  “Posh place, Bazza.”

  “Very exclusive. But one needs a bit of indulgence, having to spend so much time in Canberra. Upstairs is discreet. Private rooms and call girls on demand. Used by members from both sides, so there’s no parliamentary discrimination.”

  They settled down to find out what each other had been doing. Luke expressed his surprise at Barry’s new direction.

  “I thought you were lined up for a seat in Uncle Bob’s party.”

  “Changed my mind. Top grade of the public service pays better, and you don’t have to get on the stump and convince voters every few years.”

  “Do you see any of the old bunch?” Luke asked.

  “Not for ages. Helen hasn’t managed to take silk yet, so I was right about her.”

  “She’s a barrister,” Luke reminded him.

  “So what? Portia of the suburban magistrate courts. Married your friend Rupert, which I must say was a bit of a turn up!”

  “Very happily married,” Luke interrupted, but Barry took no notice, and Luke did not argue about it.

  “Rachel’s in London being a bit of a star, but of course you know that,” Barry said and grinned. “You had an affair with her.”

  “Me?”

  “You, according to a very reliable grapevine.”

  “Bloody hell! We had two lunches and one dinner. She was between boyfriends.”

  “And you were between her legs, or so the grapevine says.”

  The drinks arrived to spare Luke a reply. He noticed Barry’s sly grin and decided to ignore it.

  “One draught lager, one usual. Your good health, gentlemen.”

  “Thank you, Damien”, said Barry. They touched glasses, wished each other good health and sipped their drinks.

  “What’s your usual, Baz?”

  “Tonic water and angostura. Had a gallbladder, no grog on my doctor’s orders. That’s why I’m thinking of changing doctors.” He looked at Luke. “So, any report on your dalliance with the lovely Rachel?”

  “We met twice for lunch and once for dinner. If you can’t believe that, then it’s no comment.”

  “Says it all, you lucky bugger. Good pair of legs, our Rach. She’d be a bit of a star between the sheets — an athletic fuck,” he said, and while Luke tried to think if it was worth another reply, Barry added, “I’d hazard a guess you haven’t seen Steven and Claudia.”

  “No.” Luke forced a smile, despite the remark. It was pointless coming to see Barry if they didn’t remain civil. Let him think what he liked about a mythical affair with Rachel, but this needed an answer. “Not since a letter a long, long time ago, informing me of their move to Noosa in Queensland,” he said, making it as nonchalant as he could.

  “Must’ve come as a hell of a shock?”

  “Back then, yes. I suppose it did.”

  “Shook the rest of us rigid when we heard. Strange girl, our Claudia. Always was. I blame those years she spent in France.”

  Luke knew this was an attempt to get a rise out of him, and steered a careful course towards a relaxed reply.

  “She wanted to help him, and I’m told he’s on the way to recovery. Walking a little bit these days, with the aid of a frame or a stick. So if you don’t mind, Baz, that belongs to the past. I just got on with the rest of my life.”

  “So tell me about it.” Barry took out a silver cigarette case and matching lighter, offering the opened case to Luke who shook his head.

  “Wish I could give it up,” said Barry as he lit and inhaled. “It was a big surprise to a lot of people that you never came back here from Japan, and gave up writing radio plays.”

  “I got this offer to transfer to the newspaper in Tokyo. Harry Morton, the editor arranged for me to get a discharge there. It was too good to turn down, particularly after Claudia and Steven …” He shrugged and took a sip of his drink. “To be honest, there didn’t seem much to come back to. My mother by this time had returned to England, and it was clear she’d decided to live there. I didn’t feel there was much attachment here. Our own crowd had sort of splintered. When you’re very close for so long and it breaks up, well … it’s probably worse than if we’d been just casual friends.

  “As for the radio plays, I think we all knew television would soon take over and there wouldn’t be a proper living for writers in radio. Not that there ever was much of one. It was exciting being a kid and getting plays on, but they paid peanuts, and it was never going to be much better. So Harry made the offer and I jumped at the chance.”

  Luke drained his beer, and Barry raised his hand to signal for a refill.

  “You sure you want to hear all this?” Luke asked.

  “Of course.”

  Damien, the attentive waiter, arrived with another beer. Luke took a sip and grinned appreciatively.

  “You know, when I was first in England I asked for a cold beer, and the publican said they’d didn’t have anything cold, but he’d put an ice cube in it for me. These days it’s better, there are a few pubs, like the Aussie joint in Earl’s Court where you can get a cold lager. But it’s not a patch on this drop of ale. So, where were we?”

  “You’d just jumped at Harry thingummy’s offer.”

  “Harry Morton.”

  “So you moved to Tokyo. How was that?”

  “Terrific. I was with the Forces paper until the Korean War began, then covered it for them. Harry sent a lot of my articles to British and American papers, so The Guardian knew me. Even better, so did The New York Times and The Washington Post.” By the time the sommelier had arrived with a wine list he’d described some of the incidents at the Valley of Death.

  Luke paused to ask, “Does your doctor allow you wine, Baz?”

  “No, but I’ll take the risk. There’s a Pinot Noir 1958 that can’t be dismissed and may amuse you. Very delicate touch of peach with a distinct aroma of woodland,” Barry said, and the sommelier tried to look as if he hadn’t heard this send-up. “We’ll have a bottle of that to start with, Gaston old chap.”

  “The 1958? Certainly, sir.” His tone was acid, for his name clearly lettered on his jacket was Francis, but the wine was smooth and delicious. As was the food. Luke had lamb shanks cooked Grecian style, Barry in deference to his gallbladder and the doctor had grilled sole. While they ate the meal he encouraged Luke to continue.

  It made Luke feel relaxed and comfortable, able to speak of things he’d kept secret. “It’s peculiar, Baz, I used to be scared shitless at the idea of the war in New Guinea and being drafted to serve there. Fortunately it never happened, but in Korea I was often in the front-line covering the fighting. Got known as a bit of an idiot who’d take risks, but because it was a job I liked and the stories were getting me known. The editors kept asking for my slant on things, my view from up there at the shitty end and I never felt afraid. Bloody shells going off all over the place — there was a kind of thrill to it, an adrenaline rush, I suppose, being in my early twenties and a war correspondent.”

  In the end, Luke thought, old friends did matter. He could not remember confiding these feelings to anyone else, but here in this club with its faux old-world atmosphere and Barry opposite listening attentively. Barry, who hardly ever listened to anyone, who’d rather talk than bother to hear what others had to say was a rapt audience. For more than two hours, over drinks and the leisurely lunch, he continued to pay close attention, although Luke began to have an uneasy feeling a lot of this would be known to him. He was fairly sure there’d be a file on him, particularly since publication of his book on Evie Petrov.

  So it was not a complete surprise that by the time they reached the coffee stage and Luke had brought him up to date on the past few years — now a freelance author with a London agent as well as one in New York, four published books an
d commissions to write special articles — that Barry stopped giving the impression all this was brand new.

  “Menzies reckons you’re a bit of a leftie,” he said abruptly.

  It made Luke laugh. “Bob Menzies reckons that about anyone who’s not on his side. When did he say that?”

  “Last night.”

  The reply stopped Luke laughing. “You told him we were meeting?”

  “In casual conversation. We’re pretty good friends, old Bob and me. He mentioned a file ASIO compiled on you. Said I should get hold of it and have a read before we met. Which kept me awake till the wee small hours.”

  “Last night? You read my file?”

  “As much as I could. Pretty thick file.”

  “Then why the hell did you let me rabbit on like that?”

  “Thought I’d check if you were giving me the full story,” Barry said with another of his sly smiles. “Just as well I did.”

  “Well, of course I gave you the full story.”

  “Not by a long shot, old mate. You left out the juicy bits. All the sex.”

  “What …?”

  “All the fucking you did, when you shared a pad above the cinema in Tokyo. You and your mate Alfie Metcalfe, shagging yourselves stupid.”

  “God Almighty! Is that in the ASIO file?”

  “Of course it is. First thing those spooks delve into, your sexual activity. They need to start by finding out if you’re queer. You passed that with flying colours,” he said, grinning.

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Really let yourself go, after Claudia dumped you. ASIO says it was non-stop rooting there. Made me randy and a bit jealous, just reading it.”

  “You are a bastard, Bazza. You might’ve told me.”

  “I was waiting to see if you’d tell me.”

  “So what else is in my file?”