by Gary Kemble
Jess sat there, panting. In one of the houses nearby, someone was watching a horror movie. Stage screams drifted across the gully.
‘So don’t tell me about rage, Harry. Don’t tell me about what Rob’s feeling. I know. A thousand times over. If I let Kyla do what she wanted, she’d take that knife to Cardinal and wouldn’t stop until he was mincemeat.
‘But I’ll be damned if I’ll give in to her, Harry. Because if we do, if we seek vengeance in that way, Andrew Cardinal wins. All the Andrew Cardinals out there win.
‘We’re better than that, Harry.’
‘Are we?’ Harry said. ‘Have you seen the news lately?’
Jess hissed in frustration. She grabbed her bag and headed for the door.
‘Jess. Don’t leave like this, please.’
He followed, took her hand. She shook him away.
‘Bye, Harry.’
CHAPTER 32
Harry sat fuming at his desk, unable to shake the anger and pessimism that had plagued him since the fight the previous night. He had gone over the argument with Jess time and time again, imagining himself speaking differently. But it always ended the same way – with her walking out. Several times he had picked up the phone to call her, only to set it down again. His feelings hadn’t changed. The only way he could see to make things better with Jess was by lying, and there were too many lies in this sorry saga already.
‘Harry?’
Harry started, looked over his shoulder. Christine was there, a copy of the paper in hand.
‘Want to check it out?’
‘Thanks.’
He took the paper from her, laid it out on the table. Another front-page lead for Christine. Page three also. Harry had managed a page-five lead, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember writing it.
‘Did I do any of this?’ he asked.
Christine sat in her chair, raised one eyebrow. ‘A little bit. How’s the scoop you’re working on?’
Harry nodded. ‘Yeah. It’s coming along.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. No, seriously. Trust me.’
‘It’s going to be Christmas soon, Harry. No-one will read it.’
Harry laughed. ‘Oh, I think they’ll read this one. It’s a doozy.’
‘Harry?’
He turned and saw Miles beckoning him from the door to his office. Harry followed him in.
‘Close the door behind you,’ Miles said.
Harry paused. But Miles wasn’t looking at him. He closed the door and sat down.
‘Christine has been keeping this paper running single-handedly.’
‘I know. I’m working on something. It’s slow.’
‘What is it?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Harry!’ It had been so long since he’d seen Miles angry that at first he didn’t recognise it.
‘You can’t tell me? You can’t tell me! How long have we worked together? I’ve stuck by you. I’ve never questioned why you’d want to work here for so long.
‘I’ve understood that sometimes we have reasons. And when you told me you were working on something big, I didn’t press you for details. I respected your professionalism.
‘But we are not the Brisbane Mail, Harry. Even the Brisbane Mail can’t fund investigative journalism. And we have a fraction of the money they have.
‘Have you seen our circulation figures? Online ad sales? It’s not pretty, Harry. I can’t have it. I won’t have it. Either you tell me what’s going on, you confide in me, give me something, or you’re gone.’
Harry sighed, tried to break it down for his boss. He kept bits back. The Rob stuff. Used the expression ‘prominent politician’ instead of referring directly to Andrew Cardinal. Told Miles about the drug operation, the Dreadnorts’ involvement, and an edited summary of what Nick Swenson had told him, as well as what the spreadsheets showed. When he was done, Miles sat there, hand on mouth, still nodding even though Harry had finished talking.
Finally, he opened his mouth. He still looked pissed off. ‘How much can you prove?’
Harry held his hands up, palms out. ‘I have documentation on the money laundering. I have people who’ll go on the record about the Dreadnorts. I’m working on another couple of angles. I still need to firm up the links with the politician.’
Miles shook his head. ‘Harry. It’s a hell of a story. But I mean it when I say we don’t have the resources for investigative journalism. Christine’s getting burned out. It’s not hard work, not for someone like her, but there’s so much of it to do.’
Harry nodded. ‘I understand. Give me until the election,’ he said. ‘It’ll come to a head by then. . . one way or another.’
Miles looked at Harry, adjusted his glasses. ‘Have you apologised to Redwood yet?’
‘No, but. . .’
‘Well, get on it. This afternoon.’
Harry went back to his desk and checked his phone. Missed call. Tom. The counsellor. He’d left a message too, which Harry deleted without listening to. Harry had a feeling that by election day, just a week and a half away now, he’d be in need of plenty of counselling. But until then, he’d have to do without.
He went to work on the ‘to do’ list that was reaching critical. He powered through the tasks, pausing occasionally for a stroll into the office kitchen to make himself a coffee.
Harry’s phone rang again. He picked it up, expecting Tom. Or maybe Jess.
‘Hello?’
‘Harry?’
It took Harry a moment to process the voice, so unexpected was the call. ‘Bec?’
‘Hi.’
Harry’s body dumped a load of adrenaline into his system. In a matter of seconds his face was flushed. His fingers and toes tingled. Palms sweaty. He was finding it hard to draw breath.
‘Hi,’ he managed. He felt dizzy. He closed his eyes, but that just made it worse.
‘I. . . I just wanted to see how you’re going?’
‘Um. . . fine.’
‘I ran into Christine in the city the other day.’
Now Harry did squeeze his eyes shut, wondering what Christine had told her.
‘Oh yeah?’ He glanced in her direction. But she was staring at the screen, pointedly not listening.
‘She said you’ve got some tattoos.’
‘Yeah, well, there’s no law against it.’
‘No, but I mean. . . wow. Bit of a change, hey?’
What? So he was now more exciting, because he had tattoos? He clamped his eyes shut and waited. Listened to her breathing. Could almost smell her perfume. He opened his eyes, grounding himself.
‘Harry, the reason I called is. . . I wanted you to know. . . I’ve met someone,’ she said.
Harry dropped into a pit. A grave. Twenty foot deep instead of the usual six. It was pitch black, but if he looked up he could see life somewhere up above him. Points of light against a night sky. He opened his mouth to speak, felt it fill with dirt.
Well, he’s definitely dead.
Hyuck, hyuck, hyuck.
‘I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you. I didn’t want you to find out from someone else. And Christine said you were going on a date. . .’
Harry heaved. Swallowed. Took a deep breath. He couldn’t speak. Bec filled the void.
‘His name is Paul. He works at Queensland Health, in the PR department. You’d like him, Harry. . . ’
‘Stop. Bec. Stop. Thanks for telling me, but I don’t need to know his fucking name. Goodbye.’
Harry hung up. She was still talking when he pushed the button.
He swivelled in his seat, until he was facing Christine.
‘I’m sorry!’ she said. ‘I saw Bec in the city and. . .’
‘Yes, she said.’
‘I thought. . . I was just worried about you.’
Harry closed his eyes. All his tattoos throbbed. The sensation pulsed into his brain, latching onto the seed of a headache. Nourishing it. Making it grow.
‘I didn’t know she was seeing
someone,’ Christine said.
Harry held his hand out. ‘Stop. Just. . . stop.’
He walked, without thought. Concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Out of the office. Down the stairs. Out of the building into a wall of hot, humid air. He thought of Chermside Shopping Centre. Endless noise. Chattering kids. Mobile phones.
He turned away from the shops, towards the main road, where lunchtime traffic crawled. Followed the cars headed towards the city. Walked. Picked up the pace. He wasn’t in a trance, he was just walking, hands thrust into his pockets, feeling the heat beat down on his head. It was the wrong thing to do, with the headache now blooming inside his skull. But he needed to hurt himself a little. Without this, he’d punch a wall. Do something stupid. Buy a gun. Make a list. Kill some people.
Stop.
Who would he kill? Heathy. Crow. For starters. With a knife. He’d tie them down and stick them with holes.
Stop.
When the floor was tacky with their blood, he’d prod their bodies with the toes of his boot. Yep, they’re definitely dead.
Fucking stop!
Andrew Cardinal. Andrew Cardinal was a tricky one. He’d have government security. Those guys were good. Sometimes they were even former SAS. It would be hard getting anywhere near Cardinal. He had said some crazy things about Afghanistan, about how Australia should invest more troops in the region. That made him even more of a target. A bomb was too risky, too unreliable. Civilians would get hurt. But a sniper rifle. A really good one. Harry had no idea what a really good sniper rifle looked like, and yet he could see one in his mind’s eye. He also had no idea where he would get one. He shook his head. Yes, he did. Maybe.
In his mind he saw Andrew Cardinal arriving at the Brisbane Cultural Centre for the Labor Party launch, a week before polling day. Harry was across the river, in one of the office buildings. He was dressed as a cleaner. He had a cleaning trolley. And inside the trolley was the gun. He wouldn’t go from the roof. No, not the roof. There would probably be security on all the roofs anywhere near the Cultural Centre, even that far away. And even if there wasn’t, there would likely be air support. A Black Hawk or two, maybe even a gunship.
But from the office building. A shaped charge to take out the window just before he fired. Cardinal would be dead before. . .
‘Fuck off! Rob – fuck off!’
Harry realised he’d spoken aloud. Looked around him. But there was no-one nearby. He was standing outside a used-car yard. A couple of people drifted between the shiny cars. Hot wind rattled the plastic flags. Inside an air-conditioned office, a fat salesman stood, waiting to see if there was any point venturing into the heat of the day.
‘Fuck this.’
Harry turned around, heading back to the office.
CHAPTER 33
Harry stood outside Lutwyche Shopping Centre, sweating in the early afternoon sun. From one side the shopping mall’s white facade beamed light and heat back at him. From the other, waves of pollution washed over him from the traffic on Lutwyche Road. He felt bad about letting Miles down. He felt even worse about lying to him after their conversation, telling him he was heading out to collect some vox pops on the election. He checked his watch, wishing he’d objected to SASmate’s suggested meeting place. He didn’t have a clue what this guy looked like. A nagging part of his brain insisted this was part of some elaborate trap. Cardinal was in military intelligence, after all.
He looked at his watch again. He was hoping to get over to the Brisbane Mail later in the afternoon, and one of Swenson’s front companies was based in Bowen Hills, too. Harry planned on checking it out on the way over. Behind him, the automatic doors opened, giving Harry a brief waft of cool air, before the heat of the day swept it away.
‘Harry Hendrick?’
Harry turned, squinting despite his sunglasses. The man had a long grey beard. Messy hair tucked under a Broncos cap. A faded Bridge to Brisbane t-shirt. Paint-stained shorts. His arms were tanned, and marked with tattoos. He looked like he was in his mid-fifties.
‘Yeah.’
‘Jim. Jim Matthews,’ he said, then grinned, revealing a mouth of misshapen, nicotine-stained teeth. ‘SASmate.’
They shook hands. Jim’s hands were rough, his grip suggested strength borne of hard work, not time at the gym.
‘Come on, I’ll buy you a drink,’ Jim said.
They walked south, towards the city, past a row of worn-out-looking shops. Faded signs. Dirty windows. An abandoned laundromat. A tattoo parlour. Harry peered in, as he compulsively did these days, scanning the designs. He thought about Jess’s cardplayer with the bad hand.
‘Sorry about the odd meeting place,’ Jim said. ‘I just wanted to check you out, make sure you are who you said you are.’
‘No worries. I would have done the same. Except I know nothing about you. I’ve checked out your posts online, but they don’t really tell me much.’
The shops gave way to nondescript office blocks. The sorts of places Jess was talking about. Mail slots. Dirty glass. Names that meant nothing. Ahead of them, the road dropped away, revealing a vista of two giant fig trees and, beyond them, the city skyline. Trucks and cars churned the humid air as they waited at the pedestrian crossing.
‘Yeah. I try not to get too involved in those forums,’ Jim said. ‘But you get sucked in. I’m on a disability pension now, so. . . you know. Not much else to do. It’s stupid. When I got out of the army, one of me mates who was in security consulting said he didn’t get out of bed for less than $800. And here I am, counting loose change to see if I can afford a beer.’
Harry nodded. He wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t want to offer platitudes.
The Crown Hotel had been done up as an Irish bar in the mid-’90s, when that was all the rage. The current owners had pulled back a little. But it was still painted dark green, still had a miniature keg over the entrance, with a harp on its side. Someone had draped a bit of Christmas tinsel over it.
‘I’ll get them,’ Harry said. ‘What’ll you have?’
‘Just a XXXX. Thanks, mate.’
Harry returned with the beers to a table at the back of the room. He set the drinks down and sat opposite Jim. The first sip was heavenly, and he felt pangs of homesickness for his old life. Beer on the couch, watching the footy, waiting for Bec to come home.
‘Cheers,’ Harry said. ‘So, what do you know about the crash?’
Jim grinned. Sipped his beer. ‘Hang on a sec. Why do you want to know? What’s it got to do with the Chermside Chronicle?’
Harry shook his head. ‘We’ve been through this . . . Okay, fine.’ Harry leant forward. Lowered his voice. ‘I’m working on a story. It’s not specifically about Chermside. It started with a local businessman, but it’s spread much further than that.
‘Like you, I suspect there’s more to the crash than the official report makes out. I’ve got information that someone may have been trying to kill a couple of the guys on that Black Hawk. But I need to confirm the information and, ideally, find someone who’s willing to go on the record.’
Jim nodded. ‘Fair enough. I can help you out with the first part. . . and we’ll see about the second.
‘I was deployed with the SAS team on board the Kanimbla,’ Jim said. ‘So there was us, and there was this spook. Military intelligence guy. I never saw him. Well, at the time I didn’t think I saw him.
‘That morning, the morning of the crash, I went to check the bird. And there was this guy coming back from it. He had the coveralls on. Standard issue. He had gloves on, they were greasy.
‘I didn’t think anything of it. Why would you, right? Hundreds of people on the Kanimbla. Everyone with their jobs to do.
‘At the last moment he looked up and I did this double-take. He had a tattoo, beside his eye. A tear. In the early morning light, it looked like blood.’
Harry felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He kept his face neutral.
‘It was weird. Facial tattoos stan
d out like dogs’ balls in the ADF. Technically you’re not meant to have them. Afterwards I thought, what was he doing out there? By himself. That early. An hour or so later, Tim and Justin were dead.’
Harry picked up his notebook. ‘Do you mind if I take notes?’
Jim shook his head. His eyes were watering. He drank some more beer.
‘So, I reported it, right? I reported what I saw. Reported the tattoo. No-one could remember a crew member with a tattoo like that.
‘I don’t know if they thought I was lying, originally. Or if they thought I was seeing things. That I wasn’t fully awake, or that I was exhausted after the flight out from Perth. Both of which were true, by the way.
‘I told them to check the security footage. There was a big block of time missing. No-one knew why. And that’s when I got really suss. And the rest, as far as I’m concerned, was a big fucking exercise in covering your arse. No-one wanted to be lumbered with the blame. It made me sick when the report came back blaming Midsy. You know, they were all about fucking protecting the family, looking after his wife and kids. And then they dropped him in it. Dead men can’t talk, right?’
Harry looked up. A little stunned. ‘Right. Yeah, of course.’
‘That’s why I got out. And then I had problems. . . stress-related. Marriage fell apart. Blah blah blah.’
He waved it away. Drunk half his beer. Harry sipped his.
‘Did you know Rob Johnson?’ Harry asked.
Jim rubbed his face. ‘Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. He went missing. Him and that chick of his. What was her name?’
‘Kyla.’
‘Kyla! That’s right. She was all right.’
‘You knew them?’
‘Ah. You know. You know everyone in the SAS. We’re tight. I reckon there was something dodgy with that, as well.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Come on. Someone fiddles with the Black Hawk. Rob survives. Only to go missing barely a year later. I think someone was tying up some loose ends.’
Jim peered at Harry. Harry stared down at his notebook.
‘You do, too,’ Jim said.
Harry looked up. ‘Yeah. Yeah I do.’