Araluen (28 page)

‘Of course, darling,’ Penelope said. ‘I’ll be leaving in half an hour. It’s “Family Love” script conference day too; I’m sure Reg won’t mind you sitting in.’

Michael knew full well it was ‘Family Love’ script conference day, just as he knew Reg wouldn’t mind him sitting in. He intended spending
his usual hour observing the writers – it was all part of his plan.

‘Family Love’ was a successful television situation comedy which Ross (Australia) Productions had been producing for the home market for three years. Michael loved observing the monthly script conferences. And the weekly storylining sessions, and the writers’ meetings – and anything else in which he could be included. During the storyline sessions his opinion was quite often sought. ‘How do you think the younger viewers will take that, Michael?’ they’d ask, and he always had a ready answer. He was careful not to venture an opinion without its being sought, though. Heir to the throne he might be, but if Grandpa Franklin found he was becoming a nuisance, he would quickly be banned from the studios.

As usual, Karol sat in the corridor outside the conference room. Michael could see him through the plate glass windows. He simply sat there. He never read a paper or had a cup of coffee, although the table beside him was strewn with magazines and the girl at the nearby reception desk always asked if she could get him ‘a cup of something’. He simply sat. Michael found it infuriating. Today he’d get his own back, he told himself. Today he’d prove that the man was a halfwit.

‘How the hell can we kill her off? It’s a comedy, for God’s sake!’ One of the writers had taken offence at Reg’s suggestion they get rid of a major actress. ‘And Dolly’s the most popular character in the show.’ The writer had been with the series since its inception and Dolly was his invention.

‘Our market research shows us that she’s not,’ Reg explained patiently. Reg was the executive script editor and he never lost his temper. ‘The public’s getting sick of the stereotype dumb blonde who messes things up but it always comes out right in the end. The plots are predictable. After three years we need to give the viewers a fresh approach.’

The writer was about to interrupt but Reg continued. ‘What’s more, Sal’s become a pain in the arse. The directors are complaining that she’s temperamental and also her contract’s up soon and the casting department’s warning me she’s going to ask for a hell of a lot more money.’

The writer didn’t have an answer to that. Budget ruled everything. ‘So what happens if the viewers don’t like it?’ he said sulkily, ‘What happens if they want her back but we’ve killed her off? This isn’t a soap; it’s a family sitcom, damn it. We can’t rope in a lookalike and call her Dolly – they won’t accept it.’

‘Then we bring her back in the other characters’ minds,’ Reg argued. ‘We can have Dolly storylines for weeks while everyone thinks about her and fantasises about her. And we’ll bring in a new character at the same time. We phase Dolly out and after a month the viewers won’t even notice she’s gone.’ Reg turned to Michael. ‘What do you think, Michael? How do you feel about Dolly?’

‘I’m a bit sick of her,’ Michael agreed. ‘She’s funny but she’s too dumb and you always know what’s going to happen next.’

He loved discussions like this, particularly when
they made him a part of them. But they’d been talking for half an hour and he had his plan to adhere to.

‘There you are,’ Reg countered triumphantly, ‘the instinctive response of the younger viewer.’

Michael excused himself to go to the lavatory. He could feel Karol’s eyes on him as he walked down to the end of the corridor and into the men’s.

Once inside, he knew he had all of five minutes before Karol would pretend the need to urinate and join him. The man would say nothing. He’d go into the adjoining cubicle and there’d be the sound of pissing (he could obviously urinate at will) but Michael knew that all the time Karol was listening and watching.

In less than three minutes, Michael had wriggled out of the tiny window and was running down the narrow lane and into the adjoining park.

His plan was simple. He’d stay away just long enough to make them confused, not angry. His intention was to prove Karol’s inadequacy, not get himself into trouble. The last thing Michael wanted to do was incur the wrath of Franklin. He’d simply say he’d gone for a walk and had assumed that Karol had seen him leave.

Michael could hear himself: ‘But, Grandpa, I walked right past him. He could have followed me if he’d wanted to.’ (No one would be able to prove that he’d climbed out the toilet window.)

Penelope’s board meetings usually lasted about two hours and the normal procedure was for Michael to go to the canteen after his hour with the writers. Or he’d watch some filming in one of
the studios – all the time observed by Karol – and then report to reception to wait for the driver to collect them.

Michael walked through the park. What would he do for the next hour and a half, he wondered. He would dearly love to catch a bus into the city and go to a movie but that would take too long and clearly be seen as an act of rebellion.

The studios were in Randwick, not far from Bondi Beach, and it was a boiling hot day. That was it, he decided, he’d go to the beach.

He heard himself: ‘It was really stuffy at the studios, Grandpa, I just went for a walk to the beach, that’s all … ’ And why not? he asked himself. Perfectly reasonable.

It was school holidays and Bondi Beach was crowded. People in droves, sunbaking and surfing. The waves looked so enticing Michael wished he had his bathing costume with him. He bought an ice cream at the pavilion and sat on the stone steps looking out over the blue bay and the crowds wallowing in the surf. Karol would be searching the studios for him by now. He looked at his watch. Another half an hour and the driver would arrive to collect Penelope. That was when they would expect him to be waiting in reception. Only another half hour to go, he thought, and wondered what to do next.

He strolled up to the expanse of lawns which overlooked the beach. A blue heeler cross was insanely trying to round up the seagulls. Michael stopped and observed the mayhem as the dog
charged like a mad thing through the groups picnicking on the grass. People dropped their milkshakes and fish and chips as hundreds of gulls screeched their annoyance and took to the air.

Michael laughed and was about to sit on the grass to watch the dog’s antics when a figure appeared beside him.

‘Time to go, wouldn’t you say?’

He turned, startled. It was Karol. Michael stared back at him, dumbfounded. The man had appeared from nowhere.

‘Come on.’ Karol turned to go. ‘We wouldn’t want to keep your grandmother waiting.’

And Michael had no option but to follow.

They walked back to the studios together in silence. Karol demanded no explanation and he gave none in return. He didn’t tell Michael that he’d been expecting this for a whole year. He’d sensed the boy’s growing irritation and had been fully prepared.

For the past twelve months, each time Michael had gone to the men’s, Karol had wandered a little further down the corridor and had watched the tiny lavatory window through the plate glass reception doors. After a five-minute lapse, he knew it was safe to visit the toilets and relieve himself. By then he usually needed to, and by then he knew it was safe – if the boy was going to make his bid it would be within the first few minutes of his disappearance.

It was only when they were waiting comfortably in reception that Karol finally spoke.

‘It’s not fair to play games, Michael,’ he said.

Michael felt a tiny stab of fear. Was the man
threatening him? Was he angry because the prank might have jeopardised his job? But since Solly’s death, Karol didn’t need a job – he was a wealthy man; he owned massive shares in the Ross Corporation. Was he angry because Michael had tried to make him look bad in Franklin’s eyes? No, that wasn’t it either.

‘It’s not fair to play games on your grandfather,’ Karol continued. ‘He has a big stake in you.’

Then Michael realised that Karol wasn’t angry at all. And that there was no threat. Karol was simply devoted to Franklin Ross.

An unspoken truce was declared after that. Michael never again attempted to goad Karol and Karol, in turn, stopped crowding the boy.

Thankful as he was for the extra space, Michael’s opinion of the man hadn’t radically changed. Admittedly Karol had a certain cunning, but he was still thick and humourless and Michael preferred to ignore him – until two years later, when something happened that rendered it impossible for him to ever again ignore Karol Mankowski.

It was barely a week before Michael’s fourteenth birthday, a Saturday, and he was playing in his school rugby union semifinals. Michael was a fine sportsman. For the past two seasons he’d represented the Junior 1st XV as a winger and he invariably picked up the award for best and fairest player.

It was a fine spring day and, despite the fact that it was only a semifinal, the grandstand at Waverley Oval was packed with spectators.

Michael had been thrilled when Franklin had decided to come along at the last minute.

‘Are you sure, Grandpa? It’s only a semi,’ he said, trying to sound nonchalant. On the rare occasion that Franklin had been in Sydney for the season and had attended the finals, Michael had basked in the reflected glow which always surrounded his grandfather. Franklin Ross was an eminent man whose picture had been on the covers of
Time
magazine and the
Bulletin
and everybody wanted to meet him. Michael was very proud of his grandfather.

‘Of course I want to come,’ Franklin said, gratified by the boy’s obvious delight. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Now hurry up and get ready and you can come with Karol and me, we’ll even watch the warm-ups.’

Phil, the security man who’d been assigned to accompany Michael to the game, was waiting by his car in the main drive when Franklin and Karol stepped outside.

Franklin’s pesonal driver pulled up in the Bentley and Phil opened the door for Franklin, then he returned to his own vehicle and opened the passenger door in readiness for Michael.

‘It’s all right, Phil,’ Franklin said, getting into the Bentley, ‘Michael’s coming with us. You can go on ahead – we’ll meet you there.’

‘You’re going to the game, sir?’ Phil looked a little taken aback.

‘Yes, yes,’ Franklin said with a touch of irritation, ‘hurry up, boy,’ he called, ‘or you’ll be late for the warm-up.’

Michael raced out, stuffing his football boots
into his sportsbag. Karol opened the back door of the Bentley for him and he jumped in. ‘Sorry, Grandpa, I nearly forgot my boots.’

‘Hell of a lot of good that’d do you.’ Franklin couldn’t resist the lecture. ‘You should have packed them last night.’ Much as he adored the boy, Michael’s lack of attention to detail and his lack of punctuality always irritated the old man.

Karol stood watching Phil for a moment before he joined Michael in the back seat and he continued to watch Phil’s car ahead as they drove to Waverley Oval.

It was a good match. Michael’s team won and he played well. Franklin felt proud. He barely followed the game, his eyes on his grandson the whole time. What a fine figure of youth and health the boy was.

Karol didn’t watch any of the game. His eyes were on Phil the whole time. The man was nervous, he thought. Why?

At halftime Phil went to the lavatory. Karol went too. It was unusual for Karol to take a toilet break at the same time as another security operator. And Phil knew it.

‘Good game, eh?’ he said, as they stood beside each other at the urinal.

Karol nodded and watched the beads of sweat on the man’s brow.

At the end of the match Karol left the grandstand. He stood among the spectators who had gathered to congratulate the winning team on their way to the change rooms. From his position he was able to watch both Phil in the grandstand, and
the boy as he left the field. That was when it happened.

A man came out of the crowd and gently took Michael’s arm. He appeared to be shaking him by the hand but, as he did, he was edging him away from the team and away from the door to the change rooms. Then, suddenly, he pulled the boy around the side of the grandstand and out of sight.

Michael was so taken by surprise that, for a moment, it didn’t occur to him to fight back. And he couldn’t yell. The man was strong, his hand was over Michael’s mouth. He was virtually lifted from the ground and carried towards the waiting car. By the time he realised what was happening and started to kick and struggle, he’d been bundled into the back, the man was beside him holding him down, and the car was taking off.

The driver slid into second gear. It was a woman. Michael could see her blonde hair. Then, through the windscreen, standing in the road only yards ahead, he saw Karol. Both arms extended. A 9 mm Beretta in his hands.

There was a flash from the barrel of the gun, the windscreen shattered and the woman slumped back. Her blood splattered Michael in the back seat and her blonde hair dripped red.

The car slowly veered to the left, hit the curb and came to a halt. The man beside Michael opened the back door in a bid to escape but there was no time. He had one foot out on the curb and Karol was there.

Michael couldn’t see what happened next, but he heard a muffled crack and the man’s head jerked back. He slid into the gutter, face up, one
foot still in the car and a bullet hole through his forehead.

Michael remained frozen. He saw Karol put his gun back in his shoulder holster and take a switchblade from his pocket. He pressed a button on the side, the blade flicked open, and he placed it in the man’s right hand.

‘Don’t forget, Michael, there was a knife,’ he said as he leaned forward and pulled the boy from the car.

For Michael, everything after that was a blur. He was in a state of shock. They took him home and washed the blood from him. There were the police. The questions. Was there a knife? ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, the man had a knife.’

He said it over and over. It appeared he couldn’t remember anything else.

There was an inquest. The verdict was justifiable homicide by a man licensed to carry a firearm. Franklin’s lawyers even managed to minimise the fact that the dead man had been left-handed. He’d used his left hand to open the car door, they said.