Something Fishy (2 page)

Lyndal tugged down her hem and smoothed her dress. ‘Who are you calling heavy?' Her hands lingered on her abdomen for a moment longer than necessary as she adjusted the fall of her skirt. ‘Let's go and have a celebratory drink. We've got things to talk about.'

I gave her my hands and let her haul me to my feet. ‘Should you be drinking?' I tutted.

‘Believe me, Murray,' she said. ‘If it wasn't for drink, I wouldn't be in this condition.'

Hand in hand, we ambled towards the Hilton, the nearest licensed premises. ‘This'll mean a lot of changes,' said Lyndal.

‘About twenty a day for the first few months,' I agreed. ‘There'll be crap everywhere. We'll need nappy service. Lucky for you I already have some experience in these matters.'

‘That's one of the things we need to talk about,' said Lyndal. ‘How do you think Red will react to the news?'

Red was my thirteen-year-old son, the only good thing to come out of my marriage. After several years of Olympic-standard wrestling for custody with his mother, Wendy, I won the prime-parent medal when Red reached high-school age. Very convenient for Wendy, who had meanwhile plighted her imperious troth to a silvertail Sydney lawyer and spawned a brood of twins.

‘Red adores you,' I said. ‘He'll be just as pleased as I am.' An exaggeration, but only a slight one. Fact was, the two of them got along like a house on fire.

‘He won't mind that his father has knocked up the babysitter?'

‘That was a low blow. Red doesn't think of you like that.'

But it was a role she played well, tending to the home fires and riding herd on the lad's homework when duty compelled my attendance at an all-night sitting of parliament, a party meeting or a commitment in the constituency.

At a break in the traffic, we skipped across the road, hands still linked. The day was drawing to a close, the last beams of the sun slipping between the office towers of the central city, catching the filigree of cast-iron lacework on the rows of terrace houses that faced across the gardens. Had I looked over my shoulder, I might have noticed the police helicopter, a distant speck, still inaudible, coming fast out of the setting sun.

We entered East Melbourne, a district of well-heeled gentility, its appearance largely unchanged since the 1890s. A block away, down a slight incline, lay the Hilton.

Conrad's pleasure-dome was a recent interloper, a tower of shit-brown bricks erected in the 1960s on the ruins of the Cliveden Mansions, an elegantly loopy late-Victorian lodging house for gentlemen bachelors. In place of four-poster beds and brass-potted aspidistras, the Hilton offered weekend-getaway packages and express checkout. Hardly our usual watering hole. But these were exceptional circumstances. Lyndal's news required immediate access to a flute of Moët.

‘Anyway,' I said. ‘You never complained about keeping an eye on Red from time to time.'

And she hadn't, of course. After all, we'd been shacked up together for the best part of a year. Informally at first, a matter of convenience. Then, after I sold the cramped little workman's terrace I shared with Red in Fitzroy and moved to a larger place in the electorate, officially.

We sauntered, our arms around each other's waists, our hips moulded together. ‘If you're going to be a cry-baby,' she said, ‘you'd better make the most of it before the real thing arrives.'

‘Show me the picture again,' I said. ‘I couldn't read the name-tag.'

Lyndal pulled the Polaroid from her bag and dangled it in front of my eyes. ‘Lysistrata,' she said. ‘See. Says it right there. Lysistrata Luscombe.'

I snatched it away and tilted it to the light. ‘Lysistrata Luscombe-Whelan, don't you mean?' I said. ‘A bit of a tongue-twister but it's got a certain ring. Wasn't Lysistrata that Greek chick who went on a sex strike? I hope you're not getting any ideas along those lines.'

To assure myself otherwise, I backed her against the cast-iron fence rails of the nearest terrace, pressed my lips to her neck and began to work my way upwards. Lyndal squirmed against me in a gratifying manner. ‘Get it while you can,' I whispered. ‘Before your body is devastated by stretch marks and the ravages of childbirth.'

A car horn bleated in the distance, followed by screeching tyres and the faint metallic
clump
of a low-speed fender-bender. My head turned at the sound and Lyndal blew a raspberry in my ear. Snatching the Polaroid from my hand, she wriggled free.

I lurched after her, the two of us playing tiggy-tiggy-touchwood in the golden light. The only thing missing was a veil of gauze over the lens and a soundtrack of violins.

But it wasn't Mantovani and His Orchestra that surged in the background. It was the thunder of an approaching motor, a swelling chorus of sirens, the bass thump of a helicopter.

As we turned, wondering at the sudden ruckus, a powerful motorbike erupted from the gardens, its rider hunched low over the handlebars. A passenger straddled the pillion, the two helmeted figures clad in identical orange coveralls. Rocketing across the kerb, the bike cut the path of the oncoming traffic, then banked sharply to the right, coming our way.

A police car flashed past us, speeding to intercept, siren wailing, lights flashing. Cut off, the bike swerved and went into a skid, spilling its riders as it toppled over and skittered across the roadway. It came to rest against a parked van. The prowl car braked and two uniformed cops jumped out. Drawing sidearms, they crouched behind their open doors, bellowing for the riders to halt.

But the boiler-suited men were already back on their feet. One sprinted for the bike, the other hobbled to catch up. The cops were yelling, more sirens were converging, horns blared, tyres screeched. The first rider reached the bike, wrestled it upright and climbed aboard. His limping confederate struggled to cover the distance. A shot rang out. He was shooting at the cops. They returned fire.
Pam
,
pam
,
pam
.

We were thirty metres away. It didn't seem nearly enough. I caught Lyndal by the wrist and pushed at the front gate of the nearest terrace. The iron latch was down. I fumbled with it, letting go of her.
Pam
,
pam
,
pam
. Above the sound of the shots, the bike roared into action. My mind was clear but my fingers were putty. My legs turned liquid. The bike reared, front wheel spinning, then it burned rubber and shot forward, past the police car, up over the gutter and along the footpath, heading straight for us.

Lyndal pressed herself back against me as I finally managed to lift the latch. The gate sprang open and I stumbled through, reaching back to drag Lyndal with me. As I grabbed her elbow, the speeding motorcycle slammed into her, tearing her from my grasp and flinging her into the air like a doll.

Above the roar of the departing bike, I heard a crack as her head hit the stonework of the gatepost.

I dropped to my knees at her side, just in time to see the light go out of her eyes.

On the day the coroner's report was due to be released, I woke in darkness.

But not, it gradually came to me, total darkness. A faint, blood-tinged glow hovered at the edge of my consciousness. After a while, I rolled onto my side and turned my eyes towards it, the digital display on the clock-radio by my bed. For exactly eighteen minutes I stared at the numbers, counting them off. One minute for every month since the events in East Melbourne.

At 5 a.m., I threw back the bedclothes, planted my feet on the floor and cancelled the alarm just as the sting sounded for the news. The news could wait. As far as I was concerned, the whole world could fucking wait.

The house was cold and I cursed myself for having forgotten, yet again, to pre-set the timer on the central heating. Truth be told, the house was too big for just the two of us, much bigger than our old place in Fitzroy. But a member of parliament should live in his constituency and Fitzroy did not fall within the boundaries of Melbourne Upper, so a move was inevitable from the moment I was endorsed for the seat. Anyway, there were three of us when I bought the place. With more to come, I'd hoped.

I padded down the hall in slippers and bathrobe, straight into the kitchen without knocking on Red's door. Another ten minutes wasn't going to make any difference. And a growing lad needs all the sleep he can get. Thirty-six hours a day, minimum, if Red was any indication. I lit the gas, opened the blinds and stood at the window while I waited for the kettle to boil. Not that I could see anything. The October dawn was still an hour away.

In daylight, I would have seen a rectangle of dewy lawn, slightly overgrown and bordered with clumps of daffodils. Garden furniture, still sheathed in winter plastic. Drifts of japonica blossoms, turning to mush. My personal low-maintenance Gethsemane. And beyond the back fence, the rooftops of Melbourne's northern suburbs.

For more than thirty years, off and on, I'd lived and worked in this part of town, breathed its vapours, taken its temperature, counted its heads. I was a kid when my father took the licence on the Carter's Arms in Northcote. After university and a stint as a union official, I returned to run the office of the area's representative in the state legislature. A job which I now held in my own right, thanks to 69.52 per cent of its voters on a two-party preferred basis. It was my Province, to use the terminology, from the Ford factory in Broadmeadows to the Greek senior citizens home at Thornbury, in all its brick-veneer, blue-collar splendour.

Unfortunately, my election had coincided with the utter defeat of the Labor Party after a decade in office. The worm had turned and, for the past three years, my constituents had been punished for their traditional adherence to the party of social democracy. Their schools and hospitals had been closed, municipal councils abolished, a poll tax imposed.

About which, at that particular moment, I could not have given a tinker's. What did the voters of Melbourne Upper, asleep in their beds, know of loss?

Most days, I managed to keep a lid on my self-pity and heartache. But that particular morning, I felt entitled to the consolations of blame.

The kettle began to whistle. I poured boiling water over a tea-bag and carried the brew towards the bathroom. As I passed, I thumped on Red's door with a balled fist, threw it open and flicked the switch.

‘Yes or no?' After a silent count of ten, I repeated the question. ‘Yes or no?'

The lump on the bed shifted. Sock-clad feet emerged from the quilt accompanied by a compliant moan. ‘Okay, okay.'

Exactly twenty-seven minutes later, we crossed the Yarra at the Punt Road bridge. The streets were almost deserted. As usual, Red hibernated the whole way, his school uniform stuffed into the backpack between his feet. He was fifteen now. His voice had deepened, fluff was sprouting on his upper lip and he would soon be taller than his father. But although no longer a cub, he was not yet the full grizzly. He was still my baby boy.

Over the river, I followed Alexandra Avenue along the bank, the ribbon of water veiled in a thinning mist. The sky was high and clear and the last of the stars were fading fast. A fair spring day was predicted. As we approached the boathouse, I shoved the
William Tell Overture
into the tape deck and cranked up the volume.

Red lunged for the eject button, swearing like a stevedore at a joke that was even more tired than he was. He fumbled for his bag as I nosed into the kerb. ‘I've got play rehearsal after school, don't forget, and we're working on the maths challenge at Simon's place. Won't be home until eight-thirty.'

‘Got everything you need?' I dug out a twenty. ‘Rake the path and mow the lawn, I'll double it.'

‘Weekend,' he yawned, feeding a tangle of limbs though the car door.

He was long and lanky, taller and thinner than I had been at fifteen. His teeth were straighter than mine, too, thanks to an orthodontic bill that would have financed a moon shot. But the similarities outweighed the differences. In the ways that mattered we were very alike.

As he closed the door, Red paused. ‘That inquest thing,' he said. ‘It's today, right?'

I nodded.

‘Fucking coppers,' he said. ‘Covering their arses.'

Other lads were already lowering sculls into the water and sorting equipment. Hoisting his backpack, Red shut the door and loped down the incline. When he reached the bottom, he looked back and raised his arm in farewell. He made his open palm into a clenched-fist salute.
Venceremos
, Comrade Dad.

I drove towards the city centre, following the course of the river.

I turned on the radio for the six o'clock bulletin. The announcer's voice droned. Jury still out on O. J. Simpson. Federal election tipped for early in new year.

A butterscotch smudge was creeping upwards from the eastern horizon. Over the mist-shrouded river, beyond the tubular metal canopy of the tennis centre, lights were appearing in the office towers. A pod of joggers powered along the path beneath the newly mantled elms. This was the postcard view of Melbourne, the garden city on a river of bridges. It was a pretty sight at dawn, one that I enjoyed three times a week, thanks to Red. But the pleasure was qualified. My home town was changing fast. Not just the shape of the skyline but the spirit of the place.