by Judy Nunn
'The EPA's calling an immediate conference with the Mines Department and they want you and Ash there – particularly you. Can you head down to Perth tomorrow?'
Mike nodded. Oh yes, he could head down to Perth all right. He'd already planned to take the first available flight.
'Hello, Mike. How good you are here.' Cora greeted him vivaciously with a kiss on the cheek, she liked Mike very much. 'I do not see you for long time,' she said as she led the way inside. 'You happy? Your family good, yes?'
'Yes, we're all very well, thanks, Cora.'
'Hey, it's the star himself!' Spud appeared from no-where, embracing Mike in his customary boisterous hug. 'Saw you on Statewide last night, you were great! And what about this morning's headlines? Mike McAllister, Saviour of the Environment!'
'I haven't seen the papers this morning.' Mike didn't react to Spud's exuberance. 'I haven't seen the papers for the past several days,' he added meaningfully, which wasn't altogether true. He'd bought back issues of the West Australian and read up on the reports about the Beach Girl Beauty Murder case.
'Right.' Spud ignored the pointed comment and turned to Cora. 'How about some coffee, love? There's a good girl.' She trotted obligingly off to the kitchen, and he took Mike's arm, ushering him towards the balcony. 'It's so great to see you, mate.'
But as he slid the plate-glass door closed behind them, he dropped the hearty manner. He saw little point in keeping up the pretence. Mike was obviously seeking a confrontation.
'Okay, Mikey, spit it out.'
'Why didn't you tell me what was going on?'
'I presumed that you knew. It was in all the papers. Even the Australian picked up on the story.'
'So you just waited for me to contact you, is that it?' Mike was surprised by Spud's attitude; he seemed unperturbed.
'Yep. That's about it.'
'And when I didn't contact you, it didn't occur to you to call me?'
Spud had contemplated lying. He'd considered telling Mike that he'd called any number of times, but that in all the dramas of the oil spill his messages had obviously gone astray. He'd decided against it, however. Better to stick to the truth, he'd thought – at least, as far as was possible.
'Didn't want to worry you, mate. I knew it'd all blow over.'
'That's not what the newspapers said. They were about to charge the bloke.'
'I thought you didn't read the newspapers?'
'I didn't at the time. I have now.' Mike's look was accusatory, even damning. 'If they'd charged him, Spud, would you have watched him go down without even telling me?'
'No way, Mikey. No way in the world.' Spud eyeballed him back, meeting the accusation head-on. He was being put to the test, and he knew it. 'I might be a bit of a con, mate, but I don't stand by while innocent people take the rap. You know me better than that.'
Yes, Mike thought, that wasn't Spud's way. But he wasn't entirely convinced.
'How could you be so sure it'd blow over?'
'My circle of spies, mate, they're everywhere.' Spud grinned boldly with an air of confidence he hoped was convincing, but he had his fingers firmly crossed. This was where the lies came in, and Mike wasn't as easy to deceive as most. 'It's all about contacts, Mikey, always has been. I can get inside info on whatever I want.'
Spud had sought no information from his network of contacts – he hadn't wished to draw attention to himself by showing interest in the case – but his explanation certainly held the ring of truth. He could see the suspicion in Mike's eyes lessen just a little.
'A copper mate told me that the schizo's parents had come forward as witnesses – they'd sworn he'd been with them in Adelaide at the time of the killing.' A copper mate had told him no such thing. Like everyone else, Spud had read the news when it had eventually been published in the West Australian, but Mike would have no way of knowing that. Thank Christ things had turned out the way they had, Spud thought.
'I knew right from the start that the bloke had an alibi,' he said, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, a picture of self-righteousness. Time to clinch the argument and he'd be home and hosed. Everything had, after all, rectified itself extraordinarily well.
'The publicity was the best thing that could have happened to that poor schizo bastard. His parents hadn't seen him for five years. They didn't know where the hell he was. Then, right out of the blue, there was his picture on the front page of the Australian. Now he's home in Adelaide in the bosom of his family, and back on his medication. How fantastic is that?'
He jumped up to open the door for Cora who'd arrived with the coffee. Perfect timing, he thought.
'Ah, the power of the press, what a wonderful thing.' Taking the tray from her he dumped it on the table. 'And now you've got your own press to consider, Mikey.'
Then off Spud went, full steam ahead, waxing rhapsodic the way only Spud could. 'Carpe diem, mate. Carpe diem. This is just the beginning! I can see an international career beckoning. The world's going to sit up and take notice of Mike McAllister, I'd put all of my money on it, every god-damned cent. You're a star, Mikey, a veritable star!'
'Yes, Mike,' Cora said as she started to pour, 'you are very famous man.'
Mike realised that the conversation was at an end and there was no point in pursuing it. As always, Spud's reasoning had all the elements of believability. But was he telling the truth? Mike was certain of only one thing. He would never know.
BOOK FOUR
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The challenger had made an unexpected comeback. At the fourth mark, Australia II had closed the gap on Liberty to just under one minute, and as the giant yachts raced neck to neck on the final of the downwind legs, the 1983 America's Cup became a battle royal between master tacticians.
From the day's first dawning, the crowds gathered at Newport, Rhode Island, had been in a fever of excitement, as indeed had the millions all over the world who were now glued to their television sets. Before it had even begun, this twenty-fifth America's Cup match had created history. For the first time in over one hundred years, a defender had been forced by a challenger to sail the maximum number of races. Now, with three victories apiece under their belts, the Americans and the Australians were set for a 'winner takes all' seventh and final showdown.
'We can do it, Pembo! We can bloody well do it!' Watching from the flying bridge of Ophelia, the fifteen-metre luxury cruiser he'd chartered for the week, Spud could barely contain his excitement. 'This is history in the making, mate, the stuff of legend!'
The other twenty guests aboard, courtesy of the Farrell Corporation, were viewing the race from Ophelia's cock-pit and foredeck, but, with the exception of the skipper, Spud had reserved the flying bridge exclusively for himself, Cora, Pembo and Arlene.
'Conner can't cover Bertrand!' Ian Pemberton, whose eyes were trained unwaveringly upon the yachts, studying their crews' every move, was just as excited as Spud. 'Jesus, look at it, he's going to make the pass, Spud. He's going to make the pass!'
The Australian skipper John Bertrand's tactics had paid off. Australia II was slowly but steadily pulling away from Liberty.
Spud and Ian cheered and jumped up and down like boisterous children, despite the scowls from the skipper at the helm. He normally didn't allow such behaviour on the bridge, but what the hell, he thought, the money Farrell was paying gave him the right.
At forty, age had lent a few changes to Spud and Pembo. Spud, although still strong and nuggety, had developed a distinct paunch, and Ian's hair was thinning to the extent that he had a bald patch at the back, which he found most worrying.
The two quickly sobered up and continued to discuss the tactics of the American and Australian skippers, ignoring their women, as they had throughout the race. Cora wasn't in the least bothered, but Arlene was infuriated. By now looking decidedly green around the gills, she'd told them a number of times that she wasn't at all well.
'No, poppet, we can't,' Ian had said when she'd hissed a request to be taken asho
re. 'It'd spoil everyone's day.'
'It'll spoil their day more if I vomit all over them.'
'Aren't the pills working?'
'Obviously not.'
'Oh, that's a pity. Perhaps you should take some more.'
Ian wished Arlene hadn't insisted upon coming out on the boat – she suffered acute motion sickness in the calmest of conditions. She hadn't joined them during the preliminary races, for which he'd been thankful, but she'd refused to stay at the hotel today of all days. She couldn't watch the final match on television, she'd said. She had to tell her friends that she'd actually been there.
'I'm going downstairs,' she'd announced half an hour later, very loudly and for the benefit of Spud, who, as their host, should know that one of his guests was unwell.
'Why?' Spud had asked. 'Much better view up here.'
'She's sea sick.'
Arlene had been outraged by Ian's tone. How dare he sound apologetic!
'How come? It's not rough.'
'She just is, Spud.'
'I'll have a lie-down in the cabin.' Arlene's air had been martyr-like – heavens above, she was dying, but she didn't want to put anyone to any trouble.
'You'll be much worse off below,' Spud had said. 'Concentrate on the horizon, that's the best thing.' Then he'd ignored her and turned back to the race.
Arlene had been concentrating on the horizon for the past hour, but she wasn't feeling in the least bit better.
'You are still sick, Arlene?' Cora's whispered enquiry was sympathetic.
Arlene nodded.
'When we get back to the hotel, I will make you herb tea. Is very good for the stomach.'
'Thank you, Cora.' How nice that someone was showing concern, she thought, even if it was only Cora.
For years, Arlene had taken no notice whatsoever of Cora. But when Spud had married the girl twelve months ago, she'd been forced to recognise the legitimacy of the relationship. To her surprise, she'd discovered she quite liked Cora.
Cora herself had fully understood the reason for Arlene's aloofness, just as she had understood the reason for Arlene's change of attitude. Filipina mistresses were unacceptable, Filipina wives were tolerated – that was the way Australian society worked. She personally didn't care whether Arlene liked her or not. But today she was very sorry for Arlene. It was not nice to feel sick.
Before long, Arlene disappeared to the cabin and the lavatory. The horizon had not worked, she needed to vomit. Neither Spud nor Pembo noticed her go. Australia II and Liberty were turning for the final upwind battle, the multitude of spectator boats following.
'Stay with them for a while, then head for the finishing line,' Spud directed the skipper. 'I want to be right there when they cross the mark.'
Having vomited, Arlene felt considerably better. She lay down on the double bed in the master cabin and waited for the interminable race to finish, too drained to be cross any more. She was actually glad that this week away had proved such a distraction for Ian. It was good to see him happy, she thought selflessly. The poor dear had been in such turmoil for months, but at least the decision had been made. And not before time, she thought. Dear God, it had been eight whole years since Gordon had died.
Arlene had resigned herself to the five-bedroom house they'd bought in South Perth, but she'd never given up the battle for Peppermint Grove. It had become a deep-seated obsession with her. Ian owed her that home. So did Cynthia, for that matter. After all, she'd done the right thing by the family. She'd borne two children, a boy and a girl, just as she'd planned – thank God they'd been twins and she'd got it over with in one go, she'd so hated being pregnant – and it really was incredibly selfish of Cynthia to remain all alone in that big house. Surely she could see that it was the perfect home for her grandchildren.
Ian didn't seem to register the fact at all – not that she'd ever put it to him directly.
'I worry about Cynthia, sweetie. Her mind wanders so, and she's a danger to herself all alone in that big house.'
'God, Mum'd rather die than leave the place.'
Arlene wished that she would.
'But if you're really worried, poppet, I could arrange a live-in companion for her.' Ian had thought his mother was coping quite well now, several years after Gordon's death. She'd even taken up bridge again, just once a week.
'But she'd hate having a stranger in the house,' Arlene said.
'We could get rid of the pool and build a granny flat down the back.'
'And ruin the landscaping? Cynthia adores the garden – she designed it herself. It'd break her heart.'
Ian had found his wife's arguments both contradictory and confusing, and he'd given up trying to follow them. Arlene, finally forced to change her tactics, had decided to concentrate her efforts on Cynthia instead.
'You seem a little weary, Cynthia. Are you sure you're not taking on too much? This house is so big, the up-keep must be a constant strain, and of course there's the garden . . .'
'Oh no, dear, I leave everything to the cleaners. And I enjoy pottering around in the garden, it's so peaceful. A man comes in once a week to do the heavier duties.'
All of which Arlene knew, but she remained resolute in her concern. 'I worry about you nonetheless. You're looking so terribly tired lately.'
'Am I really?'
'Yes, and you seem a bit jumpy. I feel something's not right.'
'It's true, my nerves do get the better of me at times.' Cynthia started to feel worried herself. 'I haven't been sleeping all that well lately.'
'I knew it.' Arlene nodded sympathetically. 'Why don't I make an appointment with the doctor? He'll prescribe a nice mild sedative.' When Cynthia hesitated, she added, 'I'll come along with you, if you'd like the company.'
'Would you?' Cynthia smiled. 'Oh my dear, how very kind.' She really didn't deserve a daughter-in-law like Arlene, she thought gratefully.
Valium and Normison became the order of the day, and a year or so down the track, when the Normison no longer had the desired effect, Cynthia switched to Nembutal upon Arlene's advice. On the occasions when the doctor was reluctant to renew the prescription, it didn't seem to matter. Arlene always had a regular supply.
Cynthia gave up bridge; she couldn't seem to concentrate. Then, one Saturday afternoon, she had a fall in the garden. That was when the conversation turned to nursing homes.
'But it's only a sprained ankle,' Ian protested.
'And the next time it could be a broken femur,' Arlene countered. 'She could be lying there in agony unable to get to the phone and no-one around to help her. For God's sake, Ian, she's your mother! Don't you care?'
Of course he cared. He was sick with worry. His mother was aging before his very eyes. Over the past several years she'd become shockingly vague and at times even dotty.
Arlene dutifully checked out all the best nursing homes, and having found the ideal one, she reported back to Ian with enthusiasm.
'You could hardly even call it a nursing home, sweetie. She'll have a divine little unit all to herself, with her very own verandah, and someone at her beck and call whenever she needs it. They have a communal garden too, with a little fountain in the middle – she can sit there with the others. Just think, she'll have a whole new group of friends. Won't that be lovely? The poor darling, she must be so lonely.'
Ian still hedged. Months went by and he was unable to make the decision. Then one morning, while Arlene was at the hairdresser, he called in unexpectedly on his mother. He had the twins in tow, having picked them up from their tennis coaching session.