the dryness in his mouth became extreme. He hadn’t bothered to bring any more than one small bottle of water, long since drunk, on such a pleasant day. He recognised the first signs of hypothermia and suddenly he was afraid.
The boat wouldn’t sink, that was no concern-but he might. If the swell continued to increase and a real southerly buster blew in, there was no way he could keep the canoe upright. Then the question was how long he could hang onto it. He’d given up any hope of making a landfall this side of New Zealand. The important thing was not to lose his nerve, not to panic. Panic in the sea was death, he knew that, had told people that. But he wasn’t eighteen; his body felt spent and feeble, and he ached and shivered as light rain began to whip across the white caps. Visibility was only a hundred yards now-and who would look for him out here where he wasn’t meant to be?
He heard the voice before he heard the engine. ‘Hello over there. What the hell are you doing out here, having a picnic?’ It was a battered old fishing boat, but the most beautiful craft Jack had ever set eyes on. ‘G’day, mate. We don’t pull many fish like you out of the water. You’d better climb up here before the sharks get you.’
He’d forgotten about the sharks. The area around Barrenjoey where the fish came in to feed was notorious for sharks. He was hauled into the boat, wrapped in a blanket, handed a flask of tea. The canoe was tossed onto the deck like a discarded banana.
‘You’d probably rather have a whisky, but no grog on this boat, mate. Not while we’re at sea anyway. Make up for it later. What, did you get blown around the headland by the southerly?’
Jack was still shaking despite the warmth of the blanket. ‘Something like that. I feel a real idiot, I must say. Thank Christ you came along.’
‘No worries, mate. Still, there was no one else around today so you might have been pulled out by the Maoris if we hadn’t found you. The yellow canoe, that’s what saved you.’
The fisherman stood in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt as the rain beat under the canopy, making Jack feel even colder.
‘You want to get home, mate, into a hot bath, have a couple of beers or a scotch, into bed with a good woman, hey? Stay away from the canoes for a while.’
When they dropped him off to shore he left them with profuse thanks-they’d accept nothing more-and drove off with the car heater blasting, home to the safety of Louise. He just wanted to hold her, to nestle into her back, to breathe into her hair while she slept. He wouldn’t roll away as he usually did once she was asleep. He would stay, locked against her all night, not sleeping. He would stay, now, locked against her, always. Or at least until he had to face Sir Laurence in the morning.
Sir Laurence gazed contentedly around his room. He loved the silk on the far wall, the discreet patterns of flecks and circles woven into the texture. He loved the majestic space of it all, the sweep of the horseshoe table, the rich quality of the mahogany colour, the deep comfort of the upholstered chairs. The only artwork, an oil by Sir Arthur Streeton, was worthy of a place in any public gallery-indeed the museum had wanted to buy it.
But he preferred it here. Two knights together.
He thought of this room as his own. It might belong to HOA, technically, or to the landlords more technically, but it was his in every other sense. He was not just the chairman but the conscience of this company. Yes, that’s what he was. The conscience. He’d never thought of it that way before. Mac might have created the business in the raw sense, but who steered it away from the follies and indiscretions and crude manipulations that people like Mac and Renton Healey were capable of committing? Even his own special arrangements were poor recompense for the value he added. And of course, his contributions were not evident, so he received scant public recognition. But he bore no grudges. The work was sufficient unto itself.
The great bronze door to the boardroom swung open, cutting short these pleasant thoughts. In fact, it was not only the opening of the door but the person entering that reversed his mood. Jack appeared to be even more bronzed than usual. It was revolting. He looked like some sort of native more used to scrabbling around in the soil for roots and tubers-although perhaps it was the women who did that. No doubt Jack would be lounging around in a loincloth, doing nothing but waiting to remove the loincloth. Disgusting. And now here he was in this beautiful room, decorated by Sir Laurence himself, coatless, tieless, probably with a loincloth under the trousers.
‘Jack, thank you so much for coming. Very good of you. I know how busy you’ve been with the results. And the media.’
Two things in these opening remarks caused Jack to pause. It was the first time Sir Laurence had ever used his name-and with warmth. And the reference to the ‘media’ had just a hint of an edge to it. But perhaps he was imagining it. He’d never seen Prue Patterson after the dinner and nothing had appeared in the press. Probably she was offended by his rejection of her offer. But Jack-the-lad was no more. He’d never be able to live without Louise, he knew that. This whole HOA mess had brought home to him how much he relied on her.
‘So I must say you’re looking wonderfully well, Jack, despite the pressure of the job. It doesn’t bother you at all, the dimension, the intricacy? You take it all in your stride? I must say your public appearances seem to be virtuoso performances.’
Jack wondered how long the web of flattery would be wound around him before the sharp end of the meeting was revealed.
‘And I must commend your major initiatives within the company. Particularly, I refer to your efforts to reduce costs and your concentration on the soundness of our P amp;L and balance sheet. I understand you’re also looking into the precise nature of the company’s reinsurance contracts?’ He waited for some affirmation, which wasn’t forthcoming. ‘As chairman, I am formally requesting you to report any concerns or irregularities on any of these matters directly to me. I want you to pursue all of them relentlessly and, if possible, to redouble your efforts. We must adhere to the highest standards of probity and fiscal certainty, so if any evidence, no matter how flimsy, should surface which gives you cause for concern, you must bring it straight to me. I’m sure you see the importance of this.’
Alarm bells were ringing in Jack’s head, but to what purpose was unclear. ‘Of course, Laurence. I’m just doing some preliminary work, particularly on the cost side.’ Hedley Stimson had warned him to be circumspect with Sir Laurence when he informed him of the impending meeting.
‘Watch him, son, he’s a twisted vine that one. See if he takes notes in the meeting. He’s probably trying to get something on the record to cover his own back. If he takes notes, you take notes. He can’t use a recording without you knowing and without your permission, but watch him.’
There were no notes taken. Sir Laurence sat very still in his chairman’s chair, which was upholstered in the same beige material as the other nineteen chairs around the table, but with a higher back. The suit was immaculate as always, the tie perfectly knotted, the shirt pink as always.
‘My suggestion, Jack, is that you form a committee to investigate these matters, should any of them crystallise as real issues. Such a committee might comprise yourself as chairman, Renton Healey on the financial side, and perhaps our internal auditor. Something of that nature. You could then report directly to me. We must be proactive at all times, yes?’
‘Yes, of course, Laurence, and thank you for the suggestions. It may be a bit premature for that, but I’ll certainly bear it in mind.’
‘Excellent. That’s agreed then. You will alert me immediately if anything develops. You have my complete support in all your efforts. Proceed without fear or favour.’
chapter nine
The sky was ablaze with weird geometric shapes in brilliant colours, vaguely reminiscent of a cubist painting. Somewhere in the Domain or the gardens surrounding the Museum of Modern Art, lasers or other devices of illusionists and magicians were creating shifting pictures on the clouds, as the human interest swarmed in through the portico. The women were in full plumage. The invitation had read ‘Party’, not ‘Cocktails’ or ‘Reception’, and the starting time was eight, rather than six-thirty or seven. There weren’t so many real parties nowadays-maybe there’d be dancing, mixing, darkness, happenings, scandals, gossip… In the forecourt, beautiful young women in dinner jackets were strolling about with peacocks on leads and a tall, muscled black man, also in a dinner jacket but with no shirt, just a bare chest and a white bow tie, stood motionless with a brightly coloured parrot on his
