by Judy Nunn
'No,' Mike said coldly. 'It doesn't.'
'Nah, didn't think it would. Well, we'll just have to wait and see what happens, I suppose.'
He crossed to the door, then lingered for a moment.
'I'm sorry everything's turned out the way it has.'
Sorry? Mike thought. He was sorry?
'You're a bastard, Spud. You'd sell your grandmother down the river, you're rotten to the core.'
'Yeah, but then you've always known that, haven't you?' Spud said reasonably. 'You know me better than anyone, Mikey. I took advantage of you, I admit it, and I'm sorry. But you let it happen. Deep down you must have known I was out for what I could get. I always am, that's my way.'
'You're saying I'm responsible?'
The look in Mike's eyes was murderous, but Spud didn't flinch.
'No, of course I'm not, you had no idea what was going on. But as chairman of the board of the McAllister Institute, you should have. I'm saying that you turned a blind eye. We scored the money for you, and you never asked how and you never asked why. That's what I'm saying.'
He opened the balcony door.
'For what it's worth, I'll promise you one thing. Whatever happens to us, I'll do all I can to stop the Institute copping the flak. I owe you that much, and you have my word on it.'
There was no response.
When Spud had gone, Mike stood motionless for quite some time, his cold fury ebbing to be replaced by a terrible, terrible doubt.
Was it possible there was some truth in what Spud had said? Certainly, he'd never once asked for accountability; he'd left the entire financial administration in their hands. He was ignorant when it came to economics. He'd told them that right from the start. He was the academic, they were the experts. But had it been ignorance? Or had he deliberately blinded himself to the fact that the Institute had been funded by corrupt money?
He walked down the rear steps that led to the beach and stared out across Cockburn Sound. He looked at Carina where she sat in her berth at the jetty, and he looked back at the Institute, where it sloped impressively down to the shore. Doubt slowly became a reality as their words stabbed dagger-like in his brain.
All ends justify the means, don't they . . .
Could that have been his own deep-seated reasoning? If so, then for all of his high moral principles, he was no better than they were.
You've been as crooked as us and you know it . . .
He had been, surely. Blinding himself to the truth had made him a part of it.
You've been living a lie for years . . .
The realisation horrified him. It was true, he thought. He was to blame. He'd placed Spud and Pembo in a position of trust because it had been to his advantage.
Then Pembo's words, screamed in hysteria as they had been, hit home with a devastating vengeance.
Where will your good fucking name be when the world finds out about Mayjay? Your whole life's been one fucking lie from the start . . . You're a fraud, mate! You're a fucking fraud!
Pembo was right. He'd been living a lie ever since that fatal night. He'd been a fraud from the moment he'd failed to report Mayjay's death. Oh, he remembered the tremendous guilt he'd suffered at the time, seeing it as an act of cowardice, but even that had been a lie. Cowardice was a common human trait, contemptible perhaps, but understandable, forgivable. His crime had been far greater. His actions had been governed by self-interest and ambition. Nothing must threaten his career. And nothing had, had it? Mike McAllister, saviour of the environment! He'd been dining out on his reputation for years, accepting the accolades, living his life as a man of dedication and un-impeachable character. And now he was about to be exposed. The whole world would know him for the fraud he was.
Mike left the beach and returned to the laboratory, where he worked through the rest of the day in an agony of self-recrimination.
That evening, at home over dinner, he tried to appear as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He joined in Allie's excited conversation about the expedition planned for the following month. They were to take Carina north, a job for the Papua New Guinea government, and for the first time Allie was to be a member of the team. As she chatted away, animated, eyes sparkling with anticipation, he tried to match her enthusiasm, but all the while his mind was plagued by questions.
How will she feel when she discovers her father's a coward? How will she feel when she finds out that the man she's perceived as a hero her entire life is a fraud and a liar? How will she feel when I go to jail? What look will I see in her eyes then?
Allie, in her excitement, didn't notice her father's distraction. But Jo did. Something was bothering him, she thought. She wondered what it could be, but said nothing. He would tell her in his own good time.
Later that night, as they prepared for bed, Mike still seemed preoccupied, but she didn't question him, waiting instead for him to confide in her, as he always did. She switched off the bedside lamp and snuggled close, silently encouraging him to talk, sensing in the darkness that he wanted to.
Mike was wondering how on earth he should begin. He knew that he must warn Jo of what lay ahead. But how? What words could possibly prepare her?
'How were things at the hospital today?' he finally asked.
She found the question surprising. She'd been practising full-time at Royal Perth Hospital for over a year now, but they rarely discussed her work. Their conversations always revolved around the Institute, in which she still took a great deal of interest.
'Fine,' she said. 'Busy, as always.'
'You're happy there, aren't you?'
'Yes, I am.' Where was this leading, she wondered.
'I'm glad,' he said. He was. He only hoped that the hospital would prove salve enough when her world collapsed around her.
'Do you regret all the years you lost working for the Institute, Jo?'
'Of course not.' She was puzzled. 'Why would you ask me that? They weren't lost years, why should I regret them? The Institute's been the most worthwhile cause of my life.'
'But it was my cause, wasn't it? Selfish of me to insist it become yours.'
Jo leaned over and turned the bedside lamp on.
'Do you want to tell me what's bothering you?' she asked, rolling on her side to face him.
Now was the time, he thought.
'Spud and Pembo came to see me today. They're being called up before the Royal Commission. They're to give evidence in two weeks.'
So that was it. He was worried for his friends.
'Well, we always thought Spud would be called up, didn't we? He and Brian Burke were very pally, remember?'
'Yes. Yes, they were.' Of course they were, he thought, and to his own personal advantage, but how could he tell her that?
She could see he was troubled. But he shouldn't be.
'Mike,' she said, sitting up, cross-legged and businesslike, prepared as always to get straight to the heart of the matter. 'You have to be practical about this. I know the three of you have been best friends all your lives, but if Spud and Pembo have dealings to answer for, then that's their concern. You mustn't worry yourself.'
He'd always admired her honesty and her directness. Just as she'd always admired his – that was what made it so impossibly difficult.
'But I do worry. I worry that their involvement with the Institute might reflect badly upon us.' He fumbled his way awkwardly towards the truth, trying to break the news as gently as possible. 'I worry that some link may be made between their dealings and the Institute. Our reputation could suffer . . .'
'Oh, for goodness' sake,' she laughed, 'the Institute's reputation's beyond reproach. And what possible detrimental link could there be? If anything, Spud's and Pembo's involvement with the Institute will stand them in good stead. I presume you'll offer yourself as a character witness?'
'I already have.'
'There you are then. You've done everything you can.' She flopped back on the bed. 'If they've been up to no good then they'll just have to face the
music, won't they?'
'Yes, I suppose they will.'
He couldn't tell her. He knew what he should have said. I have my own music to face, Jo. But the words simply wouldn't come out.
'I suppose they'll have to.' He kissed her. 'You're right.'
'Of course I am. Now stop worrying.' She leaned over and switched off the bedside lamp. 'Good night, my darling.'
'Night.'
He turned away, quickly feigning sleep, but for hours he stared into the darkness. He'd made a mockery of her life, he thought. She'd devoted herself to the Institute. She'd given up her career for his personal dream, and now her name, along with his, would be dragged through the mud. A woman of honour like Jo! Mike was consumed by a fresh agony of guilt.
The following morning was a Saturday and he took himself down to North Cottesloe for a swim. He didn't take his surfboard for fear Allie would want to join him; they often surfed together.
'Just going for a dip,' he said, 'lot of paperwork to do when I get home,' and he left very quickly. He needed to be on his own.
The beach was already crowded, the day promising to be a scorcher typical of late January.
He swam beyond the breakers, strong, even strokes, further and further out into the open sea, wishing he could just swim and swim and finally disappear. But he couldn't do that. There was nowhere to hide, and what would be the point anyway? Even the drastic measure of suicide wasn't an option. It would only mean further implication. Disappearance or death – both would be seen as a sure sign of guilt. He had his own music to face, and face it he must, whether he wanted to or not.
In a strange way, Mike did want to answer for his actions. He would have found a form of relief in unburdening himself about the death of Mayjay, as he should have done all those years ago. And he would somehow have liked to have acknowledged his deliberate ignorance of the Institute's source of funding. To publicly purge himself of his guilt would at least be the action of an honest man. But the disastrous effect his admissions would have upon the Institute, and even more importantly upon his wife and his daughter, remained a torment.
He heard the siren and came to a halt, treading water as he looked back towards the beach. In the distance he could see people scrambling from the surf, desperate in their bid to reach the shore, and he could hear the screams of panic-stricken women calling to their children – a common occurrence on a hot weekend when the shark alarm sounded.
Only a minute or so later, he saw the shark, its fin cleaving the water barely ten metres from him, quite large for a grey nurse, but harmless. He smiled ironically as the thought crossed his mind. If it had been a hungry white pointer that chose to mistake him for a seal, then all his problems would have been solved. An accidental death would have been perfect.
Then he saw one of the surf club's rubber duckies roaring in his direction. It slowed down to idle alongside him.
'Get aboard,' one of the two young crewmen urged, leaning forward to help drag him over the side. 'Get aboard.'
'It's a grey nurse,' Mike said, avoiding the helping hand, 'harmless, don't worry. Thanks, fellas, but I'll find my own way ashore.'
'Get aboard, please, sir.' The young man's voice was now officious and his hand was still firmly on offer.
'Right you are.' Mike accepted the hand, the kid was only doing his job. He allowed himself to be hauled aboard.
'You should have made for shore. Didn't you hear the shark alarm?'
'Yes, I did,' Mike said as the rubber ducky headed for the beach at speed.
'You shouldn't have been this far out anyway.'
Young Sean Brougham was cursing himself. He'd been on watch and he hadn't noticed the swimmer well beyond the breakers; he'd been keeping his eye on the tourists in the shallows. There was a bit of a rip and he'd presumed they'd be the ones in trouble. Christ, when the spotters had seen the shark and the alarm had sounded . . .
'Sorry.' Mike could tell the kid was a bit shaken.
'Okay,' Sean said, 'all's well that ends well.' He was still playing his role, still a little officious, but he appreciated the bloke's apology, it had sounded genuine. Then he suddenly realised who the bloke was. 'Hey, you're Mike McAllister, aren't you?'
'Yes.'
'Well, how's about that?' He grinned. 'How do you do, sir, I'm Sean Brougham.' He offered his hand and they shook, but they didn't talk any further, grasping firmly to the rubber ducky's rope handles as it caught the breakers and surfed its way ashore.
All three clambered out and Mike shook hands with the other surf club crewman. 'Thanks, boys,' he said, as if they'd saved his life. He felt it his duty to do so. 'Sorry to be a trouble. You do a great job, keep up the good work.' And he started to walk away.
But Sean wasn't about to leave his side. 'I know who you are,' he said, following, 'you're pretty famous and all that . . .' The officiousness had gone, he was just an eager kid. 'But you actually know my mum. She went to uni with you.'
'Yeah? Who's your mum?'
'Natalie Brougham. She was Natalie Hollingsworth then. She still talks about you whenever you're in the papers. Says you're an inspiration.'
Natalie Hollingsworth, Mike thought, one of his first girlfriends, how could he forget? Natalie with all her causes – heritage buildings, the Vietnam War, women's rights. He'd always admired Natalie's passion. He wondered why he hadn't seen her around. Everyone knew everyone in Perth, even these days.
'Good to meet you, Sean,' he said, shaking the young man's hand again. 'How is your mum? I haven't seen her in years.'
'We've been living in Albany – Dad was a teacher there. He died a year ago. Things were pretty tough on her then.'
The kid dug his heel into the sand. Things were obviously pretty tough on him too, Mike thought. He couldn't have been more than eighteen.
'But she's got on with her life.' Sean smiled. 'She works with Greenpeace now, that's why you're one of her heroes.'
'I'm sorry to hear about your father.'
'Yeah. Heart attack. Right out of the blue. He was only forty-six, came as a bit of a shock.' Sean concentrated on his heel and the sand for a second or so; he still wasn't over his father's death. 'Anyway,' he said looking up, 'Mum's okay, and that's the main thing.'
'Give her my best, won't you.' Mike needed to get away. 'She's a fine woman, your mother.'
'Yes, I will, sir.'
'Mike'll do.'
'Yeah, thanks.'
The kid stood there waving as Mike walked off down the beach to where he'd left his towel on the sand.
'See you, Mike,' he called.
But Mike didn't turn and wave back. He was too lost in thought.
Forty-six. The kid's father had been a whole three years younger than he was. A heart attack right out of the blue. That was the answer, he thought. He didn't need to be mistaken for a seal by a hungry white pointer; he had a heart attack at his beck and call.
A congenital heart weakness, that's what the doctor had told him when he'd had his attack at the Abrolhos all those years ago. If he'd been older and less fit he might not have survived, the doctor had said. Well, he was certainly older, and presumably less fit, although he felt as strong as ever. He'd had not one twinge of a warning in all this time. In fact, he'd virtually forgotten that he had a weakness. He'd even ignored medical advice – he'd been diving for years. But then he'd never pushed himself to the absolute limit, had he? Not as he had at the Abrolhos.