meant nothing. How many married men’s jockey shorts had she run her hand into only to find out they were pillow biters? Besides, no one ever saw his wife. Perhaps she didn’t exist. And yet the old prune didn’t seem to have any juice running through him at all. She was sure he was asexual, just not interested. Which made it more mysterious. What did he want with her?
‘I’ll take your silence as tacit approval to have a word with Ron Strutter. No reason he shouldn’t know of the talent on offer.’
Sir Laurence removed a sheet of paper from a drawer and placed it carefully on the bare desk. The leather surface was slippery from its morning polish and the paper slid gently towards Popsie.
‘I’ve another small matter that may interest you. From time to time clients and associates ask me to find trustworthy persons to act as directors of their private companies. I serve in this capacity myself for a few friends where the companies aren’t particularly active. But I don’t have the time for too many. There’s one on foot at present with a small private concern-a subsidiary of a company in Bermuda needs a local director, largely inactive, perhaps a little share trading or banking from time to time. They don’t pay a great deal, only fifty thousand dollars per annum in this case, but it all adds to business experience and some people find a little extra cash flow helpful. I realise money isn’t a consideration for you, but I thought you might enjoy expanding your corporate knowledge base.’ Sir Laurence smiled broadly, as he thought, and gestured to the paper on the desk. ‘This is a Consent to Act form, and really signing that and a few other documents from time to time, plus a rather nice lunch once or twice a year, is all there is to it.’ He paused. ‘And, of course, the annual visit to Bermuda. If you have the time.’
Popsie thought she would have the time. She also thought ‘extra cash flow’ was a term she could come to respect quickly. She was also aware she was being set up as a stooge for someone or something. Even Sir Laurence couldn’t think she was a complete idiot. But who cared? He wasn’t a crook, he was a highly respected doyen of Australian business. If some friend of his wanted a tame director to sign a few documents for fifty grand a year, ring Popsie. That’s what she thought.
‘How kind of you to think of me, Laurence. You really are the most generous of men. I would love to learn more about corporate life. Naturally, I’d need to read all the relevant documents and so on. Company rules and-all those documents.’
Sir Laurence waved a dismissive hand. ‘Of course, dear lady, the company’s articles, balance sheet, all of that will be provided immediately.’ He waited a few moments, feigning thought. ‘Would you prefer to receive those first, or are you happy to sign this document now? Mrs Bonython could witness for you.’
The next visitor sat quietly in the waiting room for ten minutes before the phone buzzed on Mrs Bonython’s desk. Her cubicle was only partly screened from this room, containing one hard-backed chair and no reading material, but she made it a practice not to chat to Sir Laurence’s supplicants. She would be bound to say the wrong thing and, somehow, he would know she’d said it. She emerged to conduct him to the office door. ‘Sir Laurence will see you now, Mr Normile.’
It had been three years since Clinton John Normile had sat opposite this man he hated as much as any he’d ever met. No, that was wrong. He’d never hated any person before, except in the abstract. But this was a visceral, gut-wrenching emotion that caused him to recoil when he had to say the name or shake the hand. The fact that he was required, forced, to do both only added to the turmoil in his stomach and spleen, and his bowels, in the lungs that couldn’t seem to catch enough air, in the throat that wouldn’t swallow. He tried to remain still, arms folded, the unaccustomed collar and tie half-strangling his shallow breathing, eyes looking through the figure in front of him to the light beyond.
‘There’s little point in wasting time on pleasantries. You agree? Good. And how is your son?’
The Pope turned in on himself. He wasn’t in this room, there was no light blinding him behind the seated figure, he would hear no words if they were spoken, feel no pain if it was administered. He was in a very different room where he could hear too much, see too much, feel the pain of others, and especially, sickeningly, of his son. Yet, was this his son? This wasted, filthy, ragged, shivering bundle. Could this be the boy who stood erect, shining, leather straps polished, leather boots blackened, brass glinting in an afternoon sun, receiving the Winston Churchill Award as the Senior Army Cadet of New South Wales? Or the boy, man perhaps, who placed the steadying hand on his father’s arm when they stood together at a sister’s, a daughter’s, funeral?
He would save his son. It was simple. He would analyse the problem logically and solve it. That’s what he did, solved other people’s problems. There were three issues: the medical issue, the question of criminality- ridiculous as it may be to suggest these tragic, wasted waifs were criminals, but it had to be dealt with-and whatever was the underlying cause. He would deal with all three. His son would shine again.
How long had it taken him to understand some problems have no solution? It was the most jarring realisation of his life. He heard a voice far off in another world and jerked back to attention. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’
‘I merely stated that no bad comment has reached me about his behaviour, which is, in its way, good. I’m sure you agree?’
The Pope looked directly at Laurence Treadmore for the first time. Why did he hate this man? He’d no reason to do so. On the contrary, gratitude would have been a more reasonable emotion. He would be visiting a jail every Saturday instead of a halfway house if not for Sir Laurence’s intervention. But he hated being beholden to someone who literally made his skin crawl-an expression he’d never understood before he shook the limp hand. The fact that this aloof, cold mannequin even knew of his son’s predicament seemed peculiar, abnormal, to carry a portent of evil and corruption. There had been no publicity, they had no mutual friends, they nodded to one another at the club but nothing more. It was years since there’d been a passing connection in the insurance industry. Yet help of the most valuable, most essential kind had been proffered. And later, it was he, not Sir Laurence, who had vented unreasonable rage at eminently reasonable questions. If either had cause for animosity towards the other, it was the wraith he could barely see behind the desk in the glaring light.
‘He’s holding the line. He’s taken up sculpture. He’s very good at it. He started with pottery, but has since moved on to working wood and stone. It helps a great deal, but it’s not everything.’
Sir Laurence nodded thoughtfully and drew another paper from the desk drawer. ‘No, I suppose not. I confess I’m not greatly familiar with these matters.’ He paused. ‘I’ve come across something that may be of further assistance. An acquaintance of mine has directed my attention to a foundation that helps with problems of this kind. They’ve established a retreat in the Southern Highlands, away from any temptation, where long-term residency is available and where, if I recall correctly, one of the major activities is art, in particular sculpture. They’re searching for a new chairman, someone who would take a close and personal interest. I thought of you. And your son.’
There it was again. Where he should have felt gratitude and relief, only anger and suspicion reared up. The man had known about the sculpture before he mentioned it, he must have done. Why was he watching them, why was he helping? And yet it was exactly what Gary needed. Maybe it was exactly what he needed himself.
‘It’s very considerate of you, Laurence, to spend time on this. I don’t know how to thank you. I never have thanked you properly and I deeply regret the comments I made. It was a time of great stress.’
Sir Laurence waved away the words with the dust mites. ‘We all say things we don’t mean from time to time. Here’s a background paper on the foundation. They need to move quickly, so let me know before the end of the week.’
The Pope reached forward to take the document. ‘Thank you again, Laurence.’ He waited a few seconds. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’
Sir Laurence stood immediately and walked from behind the desk to the door. ‘Not at all, not at all. We help where we can. I’m sure you do the same.’
The hand was extended as the door opened and the Pope, reluctantly but gratefully, shook it and walked unsteadily to the lift.
Renton Healey strolled, some might say waddled, back to his office in a comforting haze of cabernet sauvignon and garlic fumes. Life was pleasant, very pleasant indeed. He earned a great deal of money, was ferociously intelligent to the point where he could confuse directors, regulators and his wife with a few convoluted sentences, he was no longer made fun of because of his appearance, because he made a great deal of money (some women, an increasing number of women, were prepared to overlook his appearance-yes probably for the same reason but who cared), and he was comfortably full of the aforementioned cabernet sauvignon.
His secretary, Janet, who was not yet one of his women but who, he felt reasonably certain, soon would be, was not in her position outside his office when he reached it. He would scold her for that, gently. If she wanted to eat, and it was probably better that she didn’t, she could have someone bring her a salad of bean sprouts at the
