What would happen to his people here? Who would look after them if he lost this place? When he lost it. It was when, not if. He had to be realistic. Even if the banks didn’t take it, even if they couldn’t navigate their way through the reefs of dummy companies and legal atolls littered in their course, he couldn’t pay the bills anymore. Simple as that. Now the cash tap was turned off it was frightening how quickly the pipes blocked up. So who would look after his people?
In the half-light he saw a shadowy figure making its way slowly to the windmill. He was always first up, old Frank. Too old to ride, too old for mustering or even cutting out. Reduced to gardening, but still one of his people. There were no Aborigines working the cattle anymore, all that magic horsemanship lost to welfare cheques and booze, but old Frank stayed and worked and rose at first light everyday. He was going blind now, but he could see enough.
Mac called to his dog and hurried across the lawn to catch the old man before he disappeared. Frank could disappear in a desert.
‘Morning, boss. You’re up early, eh? Not sleeping well, eh?’
‘I’m sleeping fine, Frank. I just didn’t want to miss the dawn. When you’re our age you don’t know how many you’ve got left.’
The old man cackled. ‘You’ve got a few on me, eh?’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure. You look pretty fit, Frank. But how are the eyes? Any worse?’
The furrowed black face was almost obscured by a large pair of spectacles smattered with grime and dust. ‘Not so good, boss.’
‘Maybe you need to give the specs a wash now and again.’ The cackling laugh escaped once more. ‘Tried that, boss. Didn’t do any good. Gave it up. Save the water, eh?’
Mac gestured for him to sit down on the edge of the trough. ‘Tell you what, Frank, they’re pretty good with eyes now. They can probably fix you up in a real hospital, no problem.’
‘No hospitals out here, boss. Too far for me to go, now. Just a bit too far.’
Mac stroked his chin. ‘What about this, old fellow. The helicopter will fly you up to the Mitchell Plateau and then we’ll get a plane to take you down to Perth. We can find a good man down there-fix you up in no time. What do you reckon?’
The shoulders slumped a little and the face looked down at the dirt. ‘Don’t know, boss. Don’t know any blackfellers ever been in one of them. Plane maybe, not helicopter. Bit too old, eh?’
Mac clapped him on the back. ‘Bulldust. We’re gonna do it. I’m going to fix it right now. Soon as one of those lazy bastards is up and about I’ll be onto the doctor. We’ll fix it up, Frank. What do you reckon?’
The eyes looked up at him cautiously from under the brim of a battered hat. ‘Don’t know.’
Mac laughed and jumped to his feet. He was alive and full of action now. ‘But I do, Frank. I know. That’s what you’ve got me for, to know what to do. You’ll be bringing down roos at two hundred metres before you know it.’
They walked together for a while, discussing which trees to plant before the wet, which fruit would set in the harsh environment of the Kimberley. Frank was the only one who stayed on the property in the wet season, when roads were impassable, mosquitoes and mould were ubiquitous, and life was unbearable. Mac wondered if he’d ever be back after the wet. Probably not. This was probably his last good season before the rains came and his own troubles with them.
He could hear the helicopter by the time he’d reached the homestead and he thought to himself, ‘Here they come now.’
Gerry Lacy had never been to Bellaranga before, or the Kimberley, or Western Australia, or anywhere much in his own country. He’d been to New York and Paris and London any number of times, of course. He’d been to Rome more times than he could remember. Well, three, actually. He’d been to Tuscany, and sailed from Elba to Corsica. (Not sailed with sails, but ‘sailed’ in the normal sense, with a motor.) He’d been all over France in a rented Porsche which, while it wasn’t French, seemed entirely appropriate for driving along the Cote d’Azur. But he’d never been further than a hundred and fifty kilometres inland in Australia. What was there to see anyway except a huge rock? What would be the appropriate vehicle to drive? Some ugly Toyota with a sort of snorkel poking up from its bonnet. It was hardly a Porsche, was it? There’d be dust and flies instead of cheese and wine. And no golf.
But here he was in the Kimberley, flying around in a helicopter no bigger than a hornet, with a lawnmower motor and no doors. He shivered at the thought of no doors and cowered into the bucket seat.
He could see Mac Biddulph standing in the only patch of green as they came in to land. It was sad, very sad, what was happening to Mac. He was a client, after all. They were not really friends, socially, or anything near. Mac didn’t mix with the right people really, wasn’t a member of The Golf Club, for instance. They never named the golf club, the members-just called it that, ‘The Golf Club’. You either knew or you didn’t, and if you didn’t, there was no help for you. Mac was rich, or had been rich, but that wasn’t enough. An unpleasant thought disturbed Gerry’s ruminations. ‘Had been rich…’ was unfortunate terminology. He’d have to ask the firm’s accounts department to keep an eye on the payment of fees. No point in letting things drift too far; it would only add to Mac’s problems.
Gerry looked around nervously as the helicopter landed in swirling dust clouds. It was his own fault he was here. He’d advised Mac all his phones would be tapped and his cell phone monitored. They knew about the Honey Bear-who didn’t-and that would be under surveillance, along with his residences and Bonny’s apartment. So here they were in this godforsaken place. Two days with Mac Biddulph on a cattle property wasn’t Gerry’s idea of fun-but think of the years of litigation to follow, think of the fees. If they were paid.
‘What a remarkable place, Mac. So… so far from anywhere, so… rugged.’
Mac took the oversize golf bag from the pilot. ‘Lucky you didn’t crash with this thing on board. It must weigh a ton. Planning a couple of rounds in a dry river bed, are we, Gerry?’
‘All part of the cover, Mac. Off on a golfing weekend. We don’t want your ASIC friends snooping around, do we?’
‘You’re kidding? You don’t really think they’d come up here?’ They sat in the relative cool of the louvred verandah with tall glasses of iced tea. Gerry tried to explain the powers lined up against them. They never understood, these business types. They always assumed they were above the law, or that corporate crime was softer than shoplifting and the corporate regulators had the muscles of a midget.
‘They can legally tap your phones, run twenty-four-hour surveillance on you, subpoena you to appear whenever they want, search you and your properties and, if they develop half a case against you, freeze your assets, take your passport-the lot. Their powers are much wider than those of the police and the sanctions are severe.’
Mac nodded. ‘I know, Gerry. I do listen.’ His anger seemed to have dissipated, Gerry thought. At least that was something. ‘What are the sanctions? I mean if they ever charge me with anything, and convict me, what can I go for? Fines, that sort of thing?’
Gerry drank deeply from the iced tea, which was excellent. Just the right balance of sweet and sour. ‘I think it’s premature to discuss that sort of thing, Mac.’
‘Sure. But let’s just say they get something on me, some weird breach of some feeble law no one even knows about, what could I go for? Ban me as a director?’
This wasn’t the perfect start to close confinement under a corrugated-iron roof, Gerry felt. There were certain words in any solicitorclient discussion that were better left unsaid. He felt one of them coming on now.
‘I mean, there’s no chance of jail, is there? For Christ’s sake, they wouldn’t be trying for that, would they? Just for a few bucks out of a company I built from nothing?’
Gerry held up his hand. ‘Please, Mac, don’t tell me anything I don’t need to know. Just respond to the exact questions I put to you. And the same goes for the ASIC examination. Only answer the question put, preferably with a yes or no. Don’t add anything, don’t give anything away. That’s the art of it.’
But the unanswered question hung between them and Mac looked at him with raised eyebrows.
‘You have to understand, some potential charges are criminal offences. Certain breaches of the Corporations Act, if proven, do carry severe penalties. It depends where they go.’ He replaced the glass carefully on the low table and took up a lined pad, but Mac persisted.
‘And where could they go?’ Gerry referred to the notepad. ‘I was hoping to summarise that at the conclusion of our discussions, but if you insist.’ Mac nodded. ‘Very well. There’s the recent sale of your shares. That raises a number of questions-insider trading, failure to report, breach of directors’ duties…’
