Draw the Brisbane Line (5 page)
Read Draw the Brisbane Line Online
Authors: P.A. Fenton
Dave started to shiver as the lift descended to the basement car park. He wondered if Cain had fallen at the same rate, or faster? Had his stomach lifted up into his chest the way Dave’s was, tethered to helium balloons in his throat, making him gag?
The lift slowed, highlighting just how fast he’d been falling. He swallowed hard to dislodge his heart from his collar bone. The doors slid open to the massive HDR-illuminated garage. Dave wove his way between Ferraris and Bentleys and Maybachs and Maseratis to his pauper-amongst-princes Jeep Wrangler. It was one of the things the public loved most about him — number three in the top five, according to his PR guy Clary White — his down-to-earth personality. No frills, no bling. Good thing they couldn’t see his Hermès underwear, a Christmas gift from Jenny. He wore them despite their tendency to travel up his crack when he walked.
What would Jenny say about his morning so far? Beer and assisted suicide, nicely done Sportacus? You fuckwit? She’d say, none of this would have happened if you hadn’t been such a stubborn dick, if you’d just listened to me. She’d say, if you’d just put my needs before your own narrow idea of our future, we wouldn’t be here right now. And she’d be right.
He screwed it up because he couldn’t admit that, to her or to himself. He was starting to see the cracks in his static plan.
His phone bleeped at him from his pocket, and he knew the tone without needing to take it out, knew what the reminder was. He had an interview on Good Morning Today. He slipped in behind the wheel of the Jeep and started steering it down the lines of BMWs, Mercedes and Humvees. When he turned the final corner to approach the exit ramp, his hands slipped off the wheel. The Jeep wobbled towards a matte black Porsche Cayenne, and he regained control just in time to avoid a collision. His tyres squealed with terror. Heart pounding, he climbed the ramp and waited for the security shutter to clear the roof of the Wrangler before slowly moving out into the street.
He shouldn’t be driving, he knew that. He was in a state of shock, a sensation he could still recognise after being struck by a motorcycle when he was eight, the Yamaha thundering up an otherwise quiet suburban street. Now, like then, there was a lightness in his limbs. His senses felt like they’d been removed and packed in cotton wool before being re-injected into his body through his arse.
Police cars were parked outside the building in lines of flashing red and blue, occupying most of the block. Two officers stood with Chen, the head of building security, and when Chen saw Dave’s car emerge into sunlight he waved and walked over.
‘Mr Holden. There has been an accident. Two accidents, two jumpers. Splat, splat.’ He pointed in the direction of the points of impact.
‘Two jumpers?’ Dave said, his voice cracking on two.
‘Yeah, we think they might have been partners. Both men but, you know, boyfriends.’
‘We?’ one of the cops said, a thickset guy with Mediterranean colouring who looked like getting dressed was the most exercise he saw in a day. ‘Who’s this we, exactly? You joined the force when my back was turned, did ya?’
‘I was the first responder!’ Chen said.
‘No, you called us, and we responded. First.’
‘Yeah? Then why was I the one standing out in the middle of the road, stopping the early-bird drivers from making a bigger mess of the bodies?’
At the word mess, Dave turned his head to where there was the most activity. The cops already had white tents up over the road, shielding the bodies from swarming cameras and ghouls. For that, Dave was grateful.
‘Steady on, steady on,’ the other cop said, apparently the more senior of the two. ‘Let’s just help Mr Holden get on his way before this sideshow turns into a full-blown circus. Mr Holden.’
‘Please, Dave.’
The cop smiled. ‘Dave, take a left up out of here, we’ll open the barricade for you, and come back in the same way. If we’re still here, just give us a wave and we’ll let you through.’
Dave thanked the police, and Chen, and drove slowly past the barricade. Once he was around the corner and out of sight, he tripled his speed, because he didn’t want to be late for the interview on Good Morning Today. If his mind was locked onto the task of not crashing, it was less likely to stray back to Cain.
The studio space was in the former offices of a collapsed tech company in North Sydney. With the rate of business failure being as high as it was, the pop-up shop concept had extended into a variety of non-retail enterprises, and the TV network made full use of these low-commitment venues for talk shows without live audiences. He’d appeared on Good Morning Today more times than he could recall. The last time had been in a former public library which had been sold off by the state government to a private development company, who then went bankrupt soon after.
The furniture was an unpleasant constant, a garish yellow-leather modular sofa with a matching armchair for the special guest. That’s where Dave sat now as the makeup artist gave him the bare minimum, a light coating of pancake to cut the glare from the lights. She was an intern named June, and she still wore her hair in the single tight plait she probably had in school.
At least the lights were soft in this place. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked back over the bridge and the city, and Dave realised as he turned around far enough he could see his apartment from his seat.
‘Mr Holden, please? I’m almost finished.’
‘Sorry June.’
A few lighting and sound guys scurried around the set, making adjustments to equipment and taking readings. A few years ago, this whole operation would have been like the control room of a moon landing, but the catchphrase these days was shoe-string. Someone handed Dave a coffee — he couldn’t see who it was because June was finishing up on his face and ordered him frozen — and he took it with thanks. He was relieved, when sipping it, that the budget for the show extended to real coffee. He’d been half-expecting instant and was prepared to hide his disgust.
Clary called him, the PR man’s incoming ringtone set to the tune of Dirty Deeds. Dave answered while trying not to upset June’s busy hands. ‘Clary.’
‘David,’ Clary said. The only man who ever called him that. Considered himself a father-figure, it was the only explanation Dave felt made sense. ‘You’re OK.’
‘Thank you Clary, I wasn’t sure — but yes, I’m OK. You’re OK too.’
‘The news, David, the news. I saw your apartment building on it. There were police.’
‘Was my name mentioned?’ As in, police are seeking to talk to Dave Holden in relation to an apparent suicide in the city this morning? Coffee climbed up into Dave’s throat out of his stomach, hot and sour.
‘No, no, nothing like that. If it was, I wouldn’t be calling you, would I?’
‘Wait. You thought it was me? You thought I jumped?’
‘We all get stressed David, a little bit sad sometimes. With everything that’s happened lately, and Jenny …’
‘Clary, I’m not suicidal, OK? Jesus, what a way to psych me up for a TV interview.’
‘I’m sorry David, I didn’t mean anything by it. I worry about you.’ He waited two full seconds for his sincerity to settle in before asking, ‘Have you given more thought to the Weetbix campaign?’
‘No Clary, I have not given more thought to the Weetbix campaign.’
‘They really want you for it Dave, they won’t settle for anyone less.’
‘I’m going to hang up now Clary.’
‘They’re willing to give you thirty-percent creative control.’
‘Really? How are they going to measure it?’
‘Thirty percent, David. That’s showing a lot of faith. They believe in you.’
‘Goodbye Clary.’
‘David. Try to stay away from your brother. On the show. Don’t let them steer you that way.’
‘Sure,’ Dave said. A headache started to pulse behind his eyeballs like a tiny subwoofer. Fwump, fwump, fwump. ‘Easy done.’
‘He’s cancer to popularity, David. No offence to him. I love Tom.’
The hosts arrived on set a couple of minutes after June the intern finished up, Yvette Winterson and Jeff Jones. Yvette was the headliner of the show, a veteran of daytime television at thirty-two, Jeff the relatively new off-sider. Yvette wore an impossibly crisp and tailored white shirt with a collar which flared out like small wings, beige trousers which had somehow blended silk and linen, and a pair of deceptively casual sling-backs which probably cost more than the daily rental on the studio space. Jeff wore some nondescript navy suit and tie combo. He wasn’t supposed to stand out, and he knew it. Yvette took Dave’s hand and air-kissed his cheek. Her blond hair remained perfectly in place despite the motion, as though each strand were afraid to slip out of line.
‘Lovely to see you Dave.’
‘Always a pleasure Yvette. So what’s on the cards this morning?’
‘Oh, the usual. What you’ve been up to, reliving some past glories. We’ll try to keep away from Jenny.’
‘Appreciate that.’ He took note of the particular word try. He knew that meant they wouldn’t, not really.
‘OK, so are we ready to do this?’
YVETTE: Hello, and welcome to Good Morning Today, Australia.
JEFF: Hello everyone.
YVETTE: We have a very special guest here in the studio with us this morning. Dave Holden, Australian sporting legend! Good morning Dave.
DAVE: Yvette, Jeff. Thanks for having me.
YVETTE: Our pleasure. Dave, so tell us: What have you been up to?
DAVE: Well Yvette, I haven’t been playing much tennis lately if that’s what you’re wondering. I’ve been spending a lot of time trying to sell a few apartments and houses, emphasis on trying.
JEFF: It’s a hard market out there, isn’t it?
DAVE: You’re not wrong Jeff. In some areas people have stopped reporting price drops in percentage terms, they’ve boiled it down to yes and no.
YVETTE: It’s certainly a hard time for a lot of people, and our hearts go out to them. But you say you’ve been feeling a lot of pain from the property market lately?
DAVE: Of course, it’s my business. My knees won’t let me chase yellow balls around a court anymore.
YVETTE: But your brother predicted this a while ago, didn’t he? Didn’t he offer you any advice?
DAVE: Tom had, ah … He had a lot of ideas, a lot of theories. Some of them were solid, some of them not so much. When we were kids, he convinced me to go swimming in a neighbour’s toxic, uncleaned swimming pool. Thought it might give me super powers.
YVETTE: Ha ha ha. And did it?
DAVE: No, I’m afraid not. Made me pretty sick from what I can remember, gave me my first taste of antibiotics. So yeah, Tom warned me plenty about over-capitalising on property, and I didn’t think I had been. Still don’t know if I have.
JEFF: Do you know where Tom is now, Dave? The last reported sighting was in New York, at the UN Security Council, but that was over three weeks ago. Do you know if he’s OK?
DAVE: To be honest, I haven’t heard from him either.
JEFF: But do you have any kind of …
DAVE: What, psychic feeling? I hate to break it to you, but while we’re twins, I’ve never experienced any kind of psychic link with my brother. I don’t know when he’s in trouble, or happy, or sad, any more than you do, or Twitter does.
YVETTE: Dave, so your property endeavour isn’t looking too healthy, and it doesn’t sound like there’s much chance of a return to the court.
DAVE: Nope. None.
YVETTE: So there’s a rumour flying around that you’re in the frame to become the primary spokesperson for Weetbix. Is there any truth to that rumour?
DAVE: I, ah. I can’t comment.
YVETTE: Oh, come on. Just a hint?
DAVE: Sorry, not even a wink or a raised eyebrow.
JEFF: You just winked! I saw it!
DAVE: No Jeff, that was a blink. A wink is less subtle.
JEFF: What about Jenny? Surely she’s in favour of you getting on board.
DAVE: She has, ah, her views.
JEFF: Ha-ha, at odds with yours, eh? Trouble in paradise?
DAVE: …
JEFF: There was an article in the Daily Mirror yesterday, saying Jenny was pressuring you to relocate to the US with her. That she didn’t want to live in Australia.
DAVE: …
JEFF: Does Jenny want you both to be based out of the US?
DAVE: …
YVETTE: Where is Jenny now? We have reports she’s been spotted up in Queensland.
DAVE: Yeah, she’s spending some time at Noosa with her sister and nephew.
YVETTE: That sounds lovely, but aren’t you worried about her?
DAVE: Worried?
YVETTE: Yes, with all the trouble stirring up north. We’ve heard reports of large-scale fights and looting breaking out in towns around Mackay, and now it appears to be spreading further south. Police haven’t publicly speculated on what’s causing the unrest, but from what we can gather it seems to be a mix of feelings of economic abandonment by the southern states, and in some cases military abandonment — though that seems to be coming from the smaller factions who believe we’re about to be invaded by Indonesia.’
