Above the Fold

by Peter Yeldham

  “More or less the rest of your life. Along with a list of recent affairs, including our Rach. My God, you have been busy. Can’t think when you found time to write anything.”

  “ASIO says Rachel Ives and I had an affair?”

  “Of course.”

  “I suppose it’s pointless to say it’s bullshit.”

  “ASIO never makes mistakes. At least there’s no mention of Helen Richmond, now Mrs Meredith-Lacey. Funny, I thought there might be. She always fancied you. Didn’t get around to her?”

  “You’re enjoying this, you bastard.”

  “Not particularly. Most of the time I’ve spent wondering why this sudden visitation has happened. All these years, just one very brief communication.”

  “Hang on, I went to visit you and left a message. Not my fault the bloke didn’t deliver it.”

  “But you never followed it up. Not a call, no Christmas card, nothing! I assumed it was one of two things: either we were never proper friends at all, or you’d got too bloody big-headed to bother with mates from the past.”

  The maître d’ came to their table before Luke could respond, to ask if Mr Silvester and his guest had enjoyed their meal.

  “Excellent as always,” Barry assured him. “Great food, fine wine, and enjoying a chat about old times. We were at kindergarten together.”

  “Fuck you,” Luke said when the maître d’ had gone. “Tell your spy mates they got it wrong about Rachel. And I’m getting out of here.”

  “I was about to suggest it,” Barry answered smoothly. “A breath of fresh air. Let’s walk on the links and you can tell me why I’m the object of your attention after all this time.”

  They watched as one of the well-dressed golfers on the first tee carefully lined up his ball, tried a few professional looking practice swings, then stood ready to address it. Instead he stepped back, selected a different club, made one further practice swing with it, then moved to the ball and hit it horribly. It trickled off the tee and stopped about ten yards in front of him.

  The other three players remained poker faced. “Hard luck, Norm,” one of them said. “This might not be your day, old man.”

  “Bloody spectators,” Norm said resentfully with a glance at them, “hanging around like that. Put me off.”

  Luke and Barry moved tactfully away. They had only stopped out of courtesy, as the four golfers were about to play. The incident had come just after their exit from the dining room, before either had a chance to speak.

  “Ever take up golf, Luke?”

  “Never. Felt I might make a goose of myself like that bloke. Besides, ASIO would’ve told you my handicap. They’d have got it wrong, of course.”

  “Pissed you off, did it? Me reading your bedside story?”

  “I thought you’d changed, and was actually listening. I should’ve known. You always preferred to talk than hear what anyone else had to say.”

  “Okay, let’s call a truce while we walk off our lunch around the first nine holes, and you tell me why you’re here. I don’t flatter myself you flew down just to have a meal with me after all this time.”

  “No. I’m sorry our friendship went adrift. It used to be important to me.”

  “And me,” Barry shrugged. “However, tricky things, friendships. Sometimes shit happens. Our tight trio, as you said, began to splinter. About the time Claudia came into your life. She didn’t like me.”

  “I wouldn’t necessarily say that.”

  “You don’t have to. It was obvious. And she’s nothing to do with either of us anymore, so I’m sorry I even mentioned her name.”

  Luke tried not to react to this typical aggression. “Okay, Barry, let’s walk and talk about the present, not keep harking back to the bloody past.”

  “Your call, I think.”

  “It’s really quite simple. I came to see if you can help me.”

  “How?”

  “I’m writing a new book. I don’t know if you ever read an article I wrote once about a boy named Kaito. He was burnt and infected by radiation at Hiroshima.”

  “Yes, I remember reading it. Poor little bugger.”

  “Ever since, I’ve been anti-nuclear. Some of the fees I was paid went into a foundation named after Kaito. Run by a pretty special sort of doctor in Tokyo named Yuri Nakamura. My book so far is partly about his work, the advances he’s made, the way he’s helped survivors. Even after this time, so many years later, people still show the symptoms and die suddenly from radiation. But I’ve tried to cover the whole nuclear story, from Albert Einstein alerting President Roosevelt that Hitler and the Nazis were trying to purify uranium and build a bomb and how this led to America’s ‘Manhattan Project’, costing millions at Los Alamos and producing what demolished Hiroshima and Nagasaki.”

  “Had to do it, because those two bombs finally ended the war,” Barry said, and Luke remembered his bitter argument with Steven Pascoe, just after the bombs had been dropped.

  “Maybe they did,” Luke said, not wanting to pursue this, “but it led to a vast amount of deaths and tragedies like Kaito. And once the ultimate weapon was produced and used, other countries felt they must have it, too. So a lot of what I’ve written is concerned with the mad years of the cold war, and the insane race between America and Russia to build the most bombs in order to hold the balance of power. In a few years they’d each managed to build enough of a stockpile to blow up the whole flaming universe.”

  He paused as they heard a distant warning shout. It came from another quartet of golfers poised to approach a green near them, and Luke and Barry moved a safe distance away. They watched all four players hitting high and straight shots that landed close to the flag.

  “A better class of golfer,” Barry commented. “So the Yanks and the Ivans were at it.”

  “Then everyone else wanted to join in,” Luke continued. “Britain had been part of the American build-up, but when a couple of their physicists turned out to be Soviet spies, America put up the shutters and the Poms were out in the cold. That was when Clement Attlee, then Labour prime minister, decided they’d build their own.”

  He hesitated for a moment, but still had Barry’s attention as he came to the most important part.

  “But where could they test them? So he got on the phone to your friend Menzies, who said, of course, ‘Australia will be there’. We’re always there when the mother country or the USA needs a helping hand or has a war. Think about it, Barry. We were at the Sudan, the Boer War, World Wars one and two, Korea, Malaya, and any minute we’re about to get involved in this bloody mess in Vietnam. Half those wars had nothing to do with us.

  “Anyway, Menzies agreed they could test bombs in our backyard. His own private decision. He didn’t even bother to get permission from cabinet. Which brings us to Monte Bello and Maralinga, and my belief the tests of a few years ago caused damage to the Aboriginal tribes in the region. We both know these bombs were exploded on tribal land, because Australians don’t give a stuff about the original inhabitants.”

  “This is history, Luke. What’s your point?”

  “I’m coming to it. After that came the secret tests on nuclear material that have been carried out since then. Illegal trials.”

  “You’ve got me, mate. What illegal trials?”

  “There’ve been four series, covering hundreds of trials in the last few years that were never revealed. Against international law.”

  “That’s utter bullshit.”

  “Just shut up for a minute, and listen. Five years ago in Geneva, the United Nations demanded a nuclear moratorium. America agreed, then Russia did. The Brits in charge at Maralinga were told all firings of radioactive material must stop once the last bomb had been publicly tested. My information says this was ignored. Britain went on with secret tests, and changed the name of what was being carried out, calling it ‘the Maralinga assessment program’. In defiance of the UN decree and Geneva conference.”

  “Complete fucking crap,” Barry said aggressively.
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br />   “Given a chance I’ll prove it.”

  “How?”

  “By going to Maralinga and finding out for myself.”

  “I don’t think you’ll be allowed there.”

  “Then I’d assume the stories are true, and say so. That Russia and America agreed to it and stopped, but we didn’t.”

  “What the hell is this to do with moi? What exactly do you imagine I can do?”

  “Use your influence. Get me permission to go there so I can talk to people. Maybe inspect the site.”

  “You overestimate my influence.”

  “In your own words, you’re important. Acting head of the department, and a mate of Bob Menzies.”

  “Nobody is that good a mate of Menzies. You don’t break ranks on cabinet decisions.”

  “Are you saying it’s a cabinet decision?”

  “It’s my turn not to comment. Look, it’s not my domain. I shouldn’t even be talking to you about this.”

  “Well, I thought it was worth a try.” Luke decided a change of tactics was necessary. “But I’m certainly not going to ask you to risk your career.”

  Barry glanced at him. “I’m glad you appreciate there are limits.” He indicated a bench beside a drinking fountain that they were approaching. There were no other golfers playing on this section of the course. “Let’s have a sit down.”

  “I thought this was a therapeutic stroll to settle our lunch.”

  “Let’s just sit-bloody-down,” Barry insisted.

  Luke nodded agreement. They sat on the bench in silence for a few moments. He waited for Barry to speak.

  “This anti-nuclear stance of yours isn’t just a gimmick, is it? Not just another way to sell a new book?”

  “No, it’s not. It never has been. Ever since I saw that small boy trying to shelter in the rain. I think you’d have felt the same.”

  “Don’t bet your house on it. And don’t try to soft-soap and bullshit me. You’ve always regarded me as an ambitious self-centred bugger, and maybe I am. But I got where I wanted to go. Most of the way, anyhow. I won’t do anything to jeopardise that. But let me think about this.”

  “About what?”

  Barry sighed, as if the question was stupid. “About whether it’s possible to help you, without me falling on my arse from a great height.”

  Luke turned and looked at him, but Barry seemed to be gazing at a spot on the ground and deep in thought.

  “Does this mean more to you than losing Claudia?” he suddenly asked. “And don’t say it’s a daft question, because it’s obvious to me you still love her. Or at least so far you haven’t found anyone else to love that much.”

  “I haven’t found anyone else,” Luke admitted after a time. “But this matters. Whether it matters more than my feelings for Claudia, I find it difficult to say. Because I doubt if we’ll ever get back together again.”

  “Is it true you helped Steve financially?”

  Luke felt a shock. “Bloody hell. Is that on my ASIO crime sheet?”

  “They don’t miss much. But not everything is to your detriment. I personally thought it was pretty bloody generous. Whoever compiled the file called it rather honourable. Funny old-fashioned phrase, but they’re a curiously conventional outfit.”

  “Nice to know I get at least one tick,” Luke said. After a pause he said, “Let’s forget my ASIO file. I should contact Rachel and tell her she’s on it, so she could sue, but I won’t. We’ll forget it.” After another brief pause he asked, “Are you going to be able to help me?”

  “It’s the file that makes it difficult. There could be queries. For instance, why were we here having lunch together?”

  “Because we went to the same kindergarten. You made a point of it, several times. We go back a long way.”

  “How would you feel about going to jail?”

  “Shit, Bazza. Funny questions …”

  “It could happen. I’m trying to think of a way that might steer you to what you want, and manage to leave me well out of it.”

  “It would depend on how long in jail.”

  “Perhaps only a week or two.”

  “I could put up with that. If it keeps you in the clear.”

  “I intend to be in the clear, I can assure you of that. I might be able to give you a possible lead to someone. Clearly it has to be someone with a permit, able to take you into that area.”

  “Of course.”

  “So, no promises. And if it goes wrong …”

  “If it does, we had lunch. I asked a lot of questions, a lot too many, and you told me to go to hell.”

  Barry gazed carefully at him and nodded. “That’s how it has to be. When we go back to the club, you and I will part on not very good terms. You’ll take a taxi back to the airport, rather than travel in the car with me. I’ll stay for a drink after you go, and tell that lovely girl on the desk how friendships don’t last, or some such comment. I’m clearly pissed off at my chum from kindergarten, who’s become a bloody journalist, big time author, etcetera.”

  “I’m certain you’ll do it expertly,” Luke said, and got a sharp look.

  “You can assist by behaving like a pain in the bum. Which I’m sure won’t be difficult for you,” Barry snapped back.

  “Right, Baz. But before we go into full pissed-off rehearsal mode, when can I expect to hear from you?”

  “You won’t hear from me. In a couple of days someone will come to your hotel. They’ll give you details. After that you’re completely on your own. And if you should end up in the deepest of deep shit, old mate, you’re still on your own.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  On the flight back to Sydney Luke had much to think about. The ASIO file for a start. And then Barry. His sudden change from aggression to mate. Was it possible to trust him? Or was Luke being uncharitable? Baz had agreed to help, provided he kept his hands clean, so perhaps there did exist some trace of esprit de corps among Brookvale High, after all.

  On leaving the golf course Luke had acted in accordance with the script, first heading into the club where he grumpily asked for a taxi as soon as possible to take him back to the airport.

  “Won’t you be travelling back with Mr Silvester?” the charming girl on the desk had asked, so Luke explained it was the last thing he needed to do, and would she please call him a cab pronto. Then he’d apologised for his mood, which was good timing for that was the moment when Barry had returned, glared at him and stalked straight into the bar.

  “Oh dear,” the receptionist had said after glimpsing this, “did you two kindy friends have a misunderstanding?” She informed Luke a taxi would be there in five minutes. So he apologised again, asked her to return the tie to its owner, and told her it had been a long time since kindergarten, but there were some people who did not improve with age. Or perhaps Mr Silvester was upset by the treatment for his ‘condition’. He thought it quite a cutting line. If Baz ever had any hopes of scoring with this beauty, it might well cramp his style.

  Then he took up a position outside the club to wait for the cab, feeling rather chuffed with his performance, and hoping Barry could be equally as convincing, so that Uncle Bob or ASIO wouldn’t link him to any shenanigans that might arise from their meeting. It all seemed a bit like overkill to Luke, but on the other hand, not knowing what was intended, Barry had rashly told the Prime Minister of the meeting, so he needed these precautions. And it strengthened Luke’s feeling there were things that had happened out in the desert which the government was keen to keep secret. Barry’s fear for his job, if assistance could be traced back to him, appeared to substantiate that hypothesis.

  In fact, his promise to help had come as a welcome surprise, for on the golf course Luke had truly felt his trip to Canberra had been wasted. Barry had seemed cold and remote, about to refuse any kind of support. Even after returning to Sydney Luke still wasn’t quite sure. But two days later someone did arrive at the hotel, not to ask for him at the desk, nothing as traceable as that. Luke had given Barry the
hotel name and room number, so the emissary simply avoided the reception desk, took the elevator and rapped on the door to his room.

  Luke expected a man; it was a young woman. Dark wavy hair, brown eyes, hardly any make-up and nice enough looking without it. He asked if she would like coffee or a cool drink. She refused, just handing him a manila envelope with nothing except the room number written on it.

  “Is this from Barry?” he asked.

  “Who’s Barry?” was her puzzled answer. She worked for a courier service, and someone had walked in and paid for the envelope to be taken to the Menzies Hotel direct to the occupant of this room. Her instructions were simple. Speak to no-one, just go to the second top floor and deliver it.

  “Thank you,” Luke said, and on closing the door sat down to read what he’d been sent. There was just a name, Todd Boyd, and an Adelaide phone number. Ring Mr Boyd if you wish to meet him, was the only typed instruction. So a few minutes later he rang Mr Boyd who was waiting for the call. He suggested they meet at the airport, and that Luke should catch the ten o’clock flight out of Sydney, tomorrow morning.

  Boyd said he’d be waiting by the bookstall in the terminal, reading the morning paper, and they would be driving long distances, so he should bring light summer clothes. Shorts and tee-shirts if he preferred, because it was stinking hot where they were going. Country boots might be better than city shoes. Before hanging up Luke proposed a daily rate that the man in Adelaide accepted with thanks.

  With the rest of the day ahead of him, and the George Street branch of David Jones just a five-minute walk away for shorts, comfortable boots and anything else he needed, Luke had time to sit and try to write the short article that he’d promised Rupert. It didn’t take long, and was unnecessary to use Helen’s name; the barristers playing hardball would all know who was meant.

  He started by relating a historic detail. It was almost sixty years ago when Ada Emily Evans, the first woman to graduate as a lawyer in Australia, was forbidden to register or practise as such because of prejudice and antiquated restrictions. Whereas today, he continued, when no ban of this kind would be allowed, male barristers have their own methods to restrict the fair sex by blatant and un-Australian prejudice towards them. A brilliant young woman, a friend of mine since childhood I’m proud to say, and a winner of First Class Honours and the University Medal, is being prevented from buying a room in any Sydney chambers, even in places where rooms are both empty and available. It is a case of blind bigotry as bad as anti-Semitism or xenophobia, a scar on the profession, where a group of jealous and clannish legal eagles are behaving like chauvinist pigs protecting their own well-cultivated troughs.