The Butcherbird (28 page)

‘We’re not participating any further in this discussion until you explain the nature of this recording, the circumstances in which it was made, whether Mr Biddulph had knowledge that he was being recorded, and by what authority you are in possession of the tape.’ He glared at the FBI man, but it was a faint glare.

Mac cut in. ‘I never authorised anyone to tape me—not even you bastards.’

‘Privilege, Mac. Privilege.’

Now it was the FBI man’s turn to smile. ‘This is a recording made in the boardroom of HOA of a meeting between Sir Laurence Treadmore and Macquarie James Biddulph on September eighteenth last year. It was made with your permission, Mr Biddulph.’

Mac rocked back in his chair and was about to respond but Gerry Lacy spoke first. ‘Leave this to me, Mac. My client had no knowledge of any such recording being made. You’re perfectly well aware you can’t use material obtained in this way.’ And then, as an added thrust, ‘Even the FBI can’t use illegally obtained recordings, can they, Mr Gamble?’

The FBI man resumed his expressionless mask and placed a document before Mac. ‘Are you familiar with this document, Mr Biddulph?’

‘What is this? What document? We object to the document—’ but Mac cut him off.

‘Shut up, Gerry. Let me look at the fucking document for Christ’s sake.’

He reached for the paper. It was headed ‘HOA. Corporate Governance Committee. Policy for Security and Integrity of Information.’

‘I’ve never seen this before in my life.’

‘Privilege, Mac.’

‘Really, Mr Biddulph. Would you turn to the last page, please. Is that your signature?’

Gerry was poised over Mac’s shoulder. ‘We object, most strenuously. This meeting is at an end.’

‘It’s not a meeting, Mr Lacy. You’re here in response to a legal notice to attend, and the examination is just beginning. Now, is that your signature, Mr Biddulph?’

‘Don’t answer, Mac, I instruct you not to answer.’

‘Shut up, Gerry. Privilege. If it is my signature, I never read the document.’

‘Do you sign many documents you don’t read, Mr Biddulph?’

‘Sometimes. Fucking privilege. Sometimes. When they’re crap like this. What does it say, anyway?’

The FBI man recovered the document. ‘It authorises recording of all discussions held in the HOA boardroom between directors or senior officers of the company, whether during the course of board meetings or otherwise. It further authorises the use of such recordings in any legally constituted investigation or court proceeding relating to the company’s activities. It’s been signed by all directors, including yourself.’

The sweat was dribbling down the Mac frame now, oozing from the neck under the shirt collar, trickling onto the Mac chest—hairy at the moment, no waxing in the Kimberley—pooling in his navel, soaking through his non-sweat shirt, Sea Island cotton, hand made, initials on the pocket, double cuffs, wide gap for the big Mac wrists, wide tuck to the shoulders. It was reaching the linen boxer shorts made from pure Irish linen by his man in Jermyn Street, to his own design, to let things breathe, to let the big Mac prick breathe and flex and have a life of its own.

There was nothing to say. He was skinned, skewered, hung out to dry.

He stood and walked out of the interview room, heedless of the gaggle of protests he left behind.

She arrived at the restaurant early and parked outside to wait.

It was the quintessential Sydney summer day. The Bondi surf was rolling in with a series of long, even lines of white foam breaking along the curved beach; a line of athletic bodies in singlets and running shorts puffing past her car window, so close she could smell the sweat and suntan oil; the fragrant aroma of spiced meat sizzling on a barbecue drifting up from the grassed area above the sand; the sweet, tangy smell of freshly cut grass; and the languorous feeling of wellbeing on the faces of the tourists and surfers and posers who flocked to claim a towel’s width of territory on the white sand. She breathed it all in but, for once, it failed to move her. It was her place, where she’d grown up, had her first almost everything, met Jack, breathed free. But she couldn’t enjoy it today.

She waited for them to go in. But after half an hour, only two men had entered the restaurant and it was well past the appointed time. She pushed open the door and approached the pair seated at the long table. One came forward. ‘Mrs Beaumont? Louise? I’m Murray Ingham.’ She shook his hand and tried to avoid staring at his eyebrows. ‘This is Maroubra. Please sit down.’

It felt very lonely, to all three, to be huddled at one end of a table for twelve with nine empty chairs staring at them with vacant seats.

‘Where are the others?’ She felt it was a question no one wanted asked, so she put it on the table before the pleasantries. Murray Ingham shifted in his seat. ‘The Pope said you were direct.’

‘Did he?’ She placed her hands flat on the table as if to steady herself. ‘I’m hoping you’ll be equally straightforward with me, Mr Ingham.’

Maroubra spoke for the first time. ‘We’re here to help, Louise. We’ve been trying to help already, and we’re going to press on if we can.’

She nodded and gave him a weak smile. ‘Where are the others?’

Murray Ingham leaned forward, perhaps to take one of her hands, but she drew back and folded her arms tightly across her chest. He spoke softly, almost in a whisper, in a room where there was no one to overhear. ‘I’m afraid we’re all there is. You have to understand, when we started it was agreed anyone could drop out if a conflict of interest arose.’

She waited for him to finish, but there was no more. Her eyes travelled over the empty chairs. ‘And a great number of conflicts have arisen?’

‘Yes.’ She seemed to press her arms tighter against her body and to draw back as if to protect herself. ‘The Pope said there was a lawyer in the group who would help us. Are either of you lawyers?’

‘No.’

She sagged almost imperceptibly. ‘I don’t really know much about the group. Jack doesn’t even know I’m here. Can I ask what the two of you do when you’re not lunching?’

Maroubra answered. ‘I’m a salvage operator. Murray is a writer—novelist, biographer, that sort of thing—as you probably know.’

She began to laugh, too hard. ‘God help us. A salvage man and a storyteller. That’s what we have left. We’re dead, Jack, we’re dead and buried.’

Now she was sobbing, and Murray Ingham rose and stood behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. No one spoke. Gradually she regained control and her hands flew to her face. ‘God, I’m so sorry. That was unforgivable. You’re trying to help us and I was rude beyond reason. Please …’

Murray cut her off and held her before she could draw away.

‘It’s all right. You’re entitled.’ He waited until she looked up at him. ‘You can call me a storyteller anytime. And Maroubra has been called more names than he can remember. The only insult you could throw his way would be “coward”, and I don’t think you’ll find cause for that.’ He smiled and released her hands. ‘We may not be much, but we’re here.’

When she finally began to talk, the words poured out, tumbling over one another in a disconnected series of scenes and snapshots: the death of the old lawyer, the ASIC raid, their meeting with Renton Healey, the document in the safe, the old lawyer’s wife, Jack’s determination, Jack’s lack of determination, her commitment. All were jumbled in a kaleidoscope of shifting pieces, out of context, out of chronology, beyond order. But they let her run on, allowed the catharsis of the outpouring to take its course. Finally she staggered to a halt, almost breathless, and looked around dazedly.

‘Is there water? Please, could I have water?’

Maroubra rose and disappeared through the kitchen door. Louise and Murray sat in silence until he returned with a glass. She drained it off. They waited.

‘The lawyer from the group, what’s his name? Why can’t he be here?’

Maroubra answered. ‘Tom Smiley.’ He paused. ‘He’s accepted a brief as Mac Biddulph’s barrister.’

‘Oh, God.’ Now her body slumped down. She shook her head. ‘The whole world’s against us, isn’t it? He said it would happen this way, the old lawyer. It’s just as he predicted. He told Jack everyone would run for cover once the bombs started falling, and they have, haven’t they?’

‘Not quite.’ Murray Ingham drew a small black notebook from his breast pocket and snapped back the elastic strap from its cover. ‘Why don’t you tell us the story again? Sometimes stories are more powerful than you imagine. Let’s see if we can weave a warm coat from what seems cold comfort.’

She shivered at the words, although the day was humid and the empty restaurant was airless and lifeless. ‘Did you meet him, Hedley Stimson, the old lawyer?’

Murray shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Nor did I. But Jack put all his trust, all his hopes, in him and I came to also. And then, when he died, I turned to Clinton Normile.’ She saw their vague expressions. ‘The Pope. And he brushed me aside. Now this other lawyer abandons us for Mac Biddulph. Where am I to go?’

Maroubra spoke. ‘Try us. We’re not sloping off anywhere. I know a bit more about this than you might imagine. I had people working on it for the Pope. Tell Murray the story again. His brain works differently. You might be surprised.’

And so she began. The sun patterned the yellow floorboards as the pen moved relentlessly across the lined pages. On and on she went, only stopping to clarify in response to a question or to drink when Maroubra returned with more water. As she watched the notebook fill with her words, with their life, her hopes rose. Unreasonably, illogically, she began to believe there was a power in those pages that would save them. When she stepped out into the sun again, leaving the two men at the table as they had been when she’d entered three hours earlier, her spirits lifted with the roar of the surf and the smell of salt. She wanted to run down onto the sand, into the breakers, fully clothed—to feel the grip of the water, to wrestle with the waves. But she turned away, to the car, to Jack. What news did she have to bolster him with? Pages in a notebook. She’d make something of it.

Jack wasn’t at home when Louise returned to Alice Street. He was deep in the paperbark forest in Centennial Park, staring blankly at the peeling sheets of white-pink bark, listening to Joe sloshing through the reedy swamp. The dog was where it shouldn’t be, in the pungent mud of Lachlan Swamp, but then so was everything else where it shouldn’t be. He walked slowly along the raised boardwalk, counting the slats as he went, for no reason. He had nothing else to do, no office to go to, no speeches to make, no conferences to attend, no meetings to take, no plans to draw, no colleagues to converse with, no accolades to accept, no reports to read, no orders to give—nothing. Just the trees and the swamp and a dog mired in rotting compost. He came to a clearing in the forest and leaned against the pulpy surface of an ancient trunk. The sheets of fibrous bark compressed under the weight of his body and he let his head fall back into the softness. The tree was alive in its skin, welcoming, comforting, giving. You could strip great sheets of its bark and make vessels or carrying bags or wrappings as the Aborigines had, or just hold the skin and let the life flow into you, as he was now. He spread his arms around the trunk, three trunks really, melded together in a fluted pillar. He closed his eyes and let the sun fall through the dense canopy onto his hair and face.

When he opened his eyes, both Joe and a small group of Japanese tourists were staring at him with some interest, obviously intrigued to see a genuine Australian tree-hugger in a native forest. He wondered if they’d taken pictures. He called to the dog and they emerged from the paperbarks, heading towards a wooden bridge.

As they did so, he noticed the figure of a man he remembered seeing earlier in their walk. He was wearing a dark tracksuit and a peculiar cap with an unusually long brim. Jack glanced at him quickly then strode off at a brisk pace towards the ponds. He didn’t look back until they’d reached the kiosk where the bike-riders came to refuel on Saturday mornings. He couldn’t see the man and was relieved. Somehow he’d felt he was being followed. Paranoia was creeping into his psyche. He had just clipped the malodorous dog back onto the lead, when he noticed a familiar shape near the queue at the kiosk. There was the peaked cap.

He tugged at Joe’s lead and they almost ran between the two ponds and into a dense palm grove. Why he should be running from anyone he wasn’t sure, but panic was upon him. The dog sensed the change in mood and whined and pulled at the lead. He released him now they were clear of the waterbirds and the animal darted in and out of the palms, chasing shadows and sunbeams, looking back now and again to check if his master was still intent on a mad dash through the fallen fronds. Jack couldn’t see the dark tracksuit behind him, but he could hear someone crashing through the brush. He was sweating, panting, dry in the mouth and, he suddenly realised, a ridiculous figure. What was he running from? Who could be following him? What harm could they do him in a public place? Well, not so public here, in this lonely dark grove, but who would want to harm him anyway?

He stopped, breathing heavily, and stood behind one of the palms to wait for whatever was coming. The dog also halted its insane careering about and stood to one side, a gothic hound covered in a coat of drying mud and attached debris. Jack could hear his pursuer’s laboured breathing now as he made heavy weather through the thick matted fronds. And then, suddenly, the familiar shape with the long peak over the face emerged only a few metres away. Jack stepped from behind the trunk.

‘Who the hell are you? Why are you following me?’ The figure let out a startled cry, looked up from the ground in surprise, and as it did so, tripped and crashed into the crackling brush. The dog, growling at this bizarre disturbance, rushed at the fallen figure, snarling over the face. A man’s voice called out from the ground.

‘Jesus Christ. Get it away, for Christ’s sake. It’s me, Jack. It’s Mac. Call the dog off.’

Now it was Jack’s turn to cry out in surprise, but he had the presence of mind to clip the lead onto Joe’s collar and pull it away. ‘He won’t hurt you. He’s only frightened.’