Gone Fishing (14 page)

‘You need a doctor, Artie?'

The old man gives a bitter laugh. ‘What for, son?'

Sam heats up the curry in the close quarters of the galley. The boat will stink of spices for days, he thinks ruefully. Where's a good blow when you need one? ‘An event, you reckon?' he says, placing their meals on the table. ‘Been holding a card up my sleeve for a while now. Might be time to play it.'

‘Wanna fill me in?' Artie says, his eyes sparkling at the thought of mayhem, leaning forward in anticipation.

Back on the
Mary Kay
two hours later, Sam kicks himself for not paying more attention to the old bloke. Refusing to join the Save Garrawi fund was like sending up a smoke signal for company. Artie shouldn't have had to do it. Not in a community like Cook's Basin where they were all supposed to be looking after each other. It's the stinking humidity, he thinks. Even our brains are turning to mush.

 

 

Chapter Twelve

Four days later, Sam treads softly down the steps from his house to the waterfront. He climbs into his tinny and with no more than a couple of pulls, starts the often cantankerous outboard. He
putt putts
across the water. It's almost dawn. He finds his ute and heads out of the car park in the direction of the city. The roads are dead quiet. Only traffic signals keep up their constant routine. Green. Orange. Red. Green. Orange. Red. Go. Caution. Stop. Well, as far as he's concerned, caution's been thrown to the wind and it's all systems go. Clichés or no freaking clichés.

He'd cottoned on to the idea on his way home from his failed mission to convert Mulvaney to the cause. A flashing-orange-lights roadside sign announcing a massive furniture sale had lit up his brain
.
Couldn't the same device be used to hammer home a few uncomfortable truths if it was stationed in full view of the third window from the southern end of Parliament House? He'd rung a machinery-hire firm, given the manager the full spiel in case he happened to be a card-carrying supporter of the current government, and received a blessing and even better, a cut rate: ‘Stick it up them, mate. Third window you say? Top floor? I'll jack up the board till it hits him in the eye.' Sam's initial plan was to run a slogan:
No Bridge, No Resort. Save Garrawi
. But when he found out the machine could be programmed to reproduce the entire contents of
Encyclopedia Brittanica
if that's what you wanted, he shifted the goal posts.

He finds a free, two-hour park half a kilometre from State Parliament. Treads across soft, dewy grass through the Botanic Gardens as the morning light spreads smoothly over treetops. The air is cool, clean. A few birds stir, their rousing tweets cutting through the quiet. He checks his watch. Plenty of time.

Five minutes later, he turns into Macquarie Street. Straight ahead, he spots the flashing screen of his pre-programmed Mobile Electronic Message Display unit. Feeling like he imagines a writer must when he sees his work in print for the first time, he stands still to better admire the show.
Who is stealing Garrawi? Who profits? Why no community consultation? Why no due process? Parks are for people, not profit. No Bridge. No Resort. Save Garrawi now! Who profits? Do you know, Mulvaney?

A security guard, who's wandered away from his post to take a closer look, saunters up, stands rocking on his heels alongside Sam. ‘Anything to do with you, mate?' he asks, tilting his head towards the machine. Heartened by a tone more curious than authoritarian, Sam holds out his hand.

‘Sam Scully. You frisked me the other day when I paid a call on the Minister for Housing and Development.'

‘Ben Butler. How d'you do?' He scrabbles back in his memory: ‘Ah, the bargeman, eh?'

‘Good memory. Thought you'd only remember the crackpots.'

Ben Butler, overweight and on the wrong side of middle-age, grins and thumbs the big office at the end of the third floor. ‘Just 'cause they're wearing suits doesn't mean they're not crazy. They just hide it better or give it a fancy name. The number of tantrum-throwers hiding behind “bipolar” these days beggars belief.' He gives Sam a serious once-over from head to toe and comes to a decision. ‘Would you fancy a cuppa tea, Sam Scully?'

‘Good of you to offer, mate. I
am
feeling a little parched. Must be the excitement.'

Ben Butler slaps Sam's back so hard the bargeman coughs out loud. ‘Did you know the press cafeteria is right across the road? Give me your phone number, Sam Scully. In case anyone asks for it.'

Back in the Square by midday, after giving the hire firm the go-ahead for a weeklong electronic barrage (that he's funding out of his own pocket) straight through Mulvaney's clear glass windows, Sam keeps to himself. He's tempted to pull the plug on the working day and sink into a celebration frigidly cold like it's Saturday instead of Monday. It's not every day a bloke gets to set a match under the backside of a Minister of State. He's getting the hang of pyromania. Likes – nah, feeds off – the rush of adrenalin that comes from stepping forward instead of standing still like an easy target. Too wound up to consider food, he taps his fingers on the picnic table. Unwilling to let go of the warm feeling of the morning's success.

The phone goes off in his pocket. Sam checks the caller ID but can't place it.

‘Sam Scully,' he says.

‘Mr Scully? It's Dale Carnegie from the
Telegraph
. I understand you're the genius behind the flashing screen in Macquarie Street?'

‘Can't hear you, mate. I'll call you back when I tie up the barge.'

Shit, he thinks, ending the call in a rush. First time he's tested and he tells a lie straight off. He bolts for his tinny, heads for where the
Mary Kay
is tied to her mooring. If he's quick, he may be able to convince himself that – technically – it was only a white lie.

In the tinny, he dials Siobhan. ‘I've had a call about Garrawi . . . Who from? . . . The
Telegraph
. Dale . . .'

‘Carnegie. Political reporter. How'd he hear about it, I wonder.'

Silence hangs between them like a challenge. Deciding he's no match for Siobhan, Sam breaks first.

‘Er, I've been doing a bit of er . . . freelancing.' He is beginning to understand the endless possibilities that open up with the use of a word he'd heard for the first time a few days ago.

‘Freelancing, is it?'

‘Yeah, it means . . .'

‘I know what it means, you eejit.' Siobhan pauses. Sam decides to keep quiet this time. ‘You talk to Dale?'

‘Caught me on the hop. Said I'd call him back.'

‘Thank God. Do not, under any circumstances, call him. If he calls again, let it go to message bank. If you speak to this man, I will personally garrotte you. Clear enough?'

‘Crystal,' Sam says, not sure whether he's off the hook or still dangling by his throat.

‘Dale's OK, but it's Delaney we'll talk to first. The other eejits can wait their turn.' The phone goes dead. Sam wipes sweat from his brow. His shirt is drenched. He is, he realises wryly, terrified of the woman.
 

He's due to service three moorings, none of them urgent enough to warrant immediate action. Jimmy's knee deep in worm castings. Becoming quite an entrepreneur. Amazing what having a goal will do for a kid. Although why he's deadset on a ute when a good boat would be much more useful is beyond Sam's comprehension. So . . . nothing seriously urgent. He could – reasonably – skive off for the day. Point the bow of the
Mary Kay
out to sea and rock on the waters near Cat Island, reliving every heady moment, planning the next.

He picks up the scent of roasting garlic. Raises his nose. His stomach flip-flops. His mouth starts to water. He heads for the café.

‘A mug of your best brew, love, and something more hefty than a muffin this morning, if you don't mind. Been a long day already.'

Ettie gives him a sideways look. Sam smiles back innocently. Says not a word.

‘How about a chorizo and pea omelette, with a few potatoes fried with onions and olives then doused in a little sherry on the side?'

Sam makes a smacking sound with his lips, kisses his fingertips: ‘Easy on the olives, if you wouldn't mind.'

Deciding a man has to keep abreast of events if he's trying to influence them in a small way, he forks out $1.20 for a newspaper for the first time in living memory. Ettie almost has to be resuscitated. ‘You going to frame it when you've read it?' she asks.

‘There's a first for everything,' he replies. He finds a table on the deck in morning shade and settles in. Suddenly remembers he promised to deliver a couple of tons of firewood to a house in Kingfish Bay, so it was just as well he ditched the Cat Island idea. Still, delivering firewood in midsummer went against his grain. As he'd dutifully pointed out, it was like writing an open invitation to a bushfire. The bloke wouldn't listen. What kind of a tight-arse would risk his house burning down just to get timber at half price? Mind you, with the current wet spell, it was an effort to even get a backyard barbecue fired up. People love bargains though, and who could blame them considering the current erratic global economy. If he were the type to worry, he'd be chewing his own nails. Business is down. Everyone's sitting tight and trying not to worry whether they'll still have a job when they wake up in the morning. At least he's his own boss. Anyway, there's no point in sweating what you can't change, as his father used to say.

A shadow falls across the newspaper.

Jenny clutches a small green book to her chest. ‘Forgot to give this to you yesterday.' She holds up a slim, dog-eared volume with a lino-cut of banksias, wattles and grevilleas on the cover.
The Battlers for Kelly's Bush.
Sam raises his eyebrows in a query.

‘Have a read. It's an eye opener. Just remember that protecting the environment was a new and radical thought when all this happened. Threats and intimidation tactics were rife and it took enormous guts and courage to stand up for what you believed in. Remember Juanita Nielson? Same era.'

‘Nothing changes, eh?'

‘Really gotta run. Appointment with the skin specialist to remove a few sunspots on my face. Oh, and how about Jane as treasurer? She's still got the first dollar she ever earned.' She's off before Sam can answer which means it's already set in stone. He opens the book as Ettie delivers his breakfast. The mouth-watering smell of chorizo beats the lure of the book. He dives on his food with gusto. Lighting spot fires is hungry work.

‘Kelly's Bush?' Sam mutters. He wipes his mouth with a bare arm, his fingers on his shorts. Reaches for the book. His parents' era. The end of the swinging sixties. Wasn't it all about flower power, free love, peace and swarms of dope-smoking students marching in the streets to call an end to the war in Vietnam? He wasn't even born. He's about to skip the details. But nothing changes, does it? He opens at the introduction. Sees Jack Mundey's name. Feels a frisson of déjà vu. Way back in the rip-it-down-to-make-way-for-a-block-of-flimsy-flats days, Sam's father had idolised Mundey. Had a grainy black-and-white picture of him tacked on the boatshed wall near the kitchen table where no one could miss it. ‘A man of the people and for the people, son. Why fight for higher wages and better conditions, he pointed out, if there was nowhere left with trees, parks and clean air?'

Sam settles down to concentrate. More useful than heading out to sea and diving into the celebratory six-pack he is fully aware he wouldn't have been able to resist. Gnats hover above the water, playing Russian roulette with fish who strike and win nine times out of ten. The gnats stay put. Literally throwing themselves into the jaws of death. He looks away. Wonders if there's a moment when it's wise to back off and live to fight another day.

Kelly's Bush, eh. He reads it had been used as a playground and picnic spot since the early 1900s with the full approval of the state government. Despite it having been decreed an Open Space, in 1971 the state government and the local council were about to approve a high-density housing estate development on the site.

Out of the blue, thirteen well-groomed middle-class women, mostly housewives and mums who thought lifting a hemline above a knee was about as risqué as it got, decided to fight the development. The men in suits dismissed them as a bunch of twinsets-and-pearls women without a clue. But every time some bureaucrat or politician treated them like idiots, they dug in deeper. Never underestimate the power of a determined woman, Sam thinks. He pulls a pencil out of his pocket, underlines a paragraph:

These men invariably behaved as though it should have been a simple matter to persuade these women to their point of view. After all, wasn't money simply everything? . . . Housewives we were, but determined ones with strong principles for which we would fight.

He reads about the setbacks. He learns that at one point the battle was essentially lost but the women dug in harder. He discovers that a call from Rod Cavalier, a union organiser, set in motion a series of events that literally tipped the power of land developers worldwide on its head. The Builders Labourers' Federation, headed by Jack Mundey, agreed to help out by refusing to work on other sites owned by the developer. The action became known as the world's first Green Ban. Hell of an achievement, Sam reckons, closing the book. If a bunch of gritty housewives could pull off a world-beating victory, the residents of Cutter Island and Cook's Basin should hang their heads in shame if they fail to bludgeon the current proposal to death.

He picks up his mobile. Dials Jimmy. At this stage, he realises, celebrations of petty victories are not just premature: they risk obscuring the main aim. He picks up his plate and takes it inside. Finds Ettie holding open the door of the fridge, her head thrust in as far as it will go.