‘When Dean rang from Melbourne, did he give you any idea of what he was doing? Anything at all?’
She made a helpless shoulder movement, looked away. ‘I shouted at him, started crying. I’d had it, it was all too bloody much. Birthday party, no-one to help me. Then Lorna, the little one, they’re all rushing around, she fell and hit her head against one of Dean’s bloody garden boulders, I never wanted the ugly things. He wanted these rocks, I couldn’t see the point. Little girl lying there, not making a sound, blood pouring out of her head. I thought she was dead…’
She let go of my hand.
‘Anyway, when he rang, it was after eleven that night, the girls were asleep, I wasn’t going to wake them, just went ballistic, how can bloody work be so important that a father can’t be at home for his little girl’s birthday? Said that sort of thing. I mean, can you blame me?’
This was possibly therapeutic for Meryl but it wasn’t helping me. The view was palling, too.
She fired up another cigarette. ‘So, he said, Dean said, listen, pull yourself together, I’m not having a holiday here. He was cross. Really cross. Shouting. Never like that. Never.’ Tossed her head.
Silence. I could feel her shivering.
‘Christ, it gets cold. Then it’s hot. Never felt well since the day I came here. Never. Hate the place.’
She shook her head, scratched her face. Chemical relief was needed. She turned to me, tears down her face, put out a hand, put it on my chest, on my heart, leaned her head. ‘Love him so much,’ she said. ‘I just couldn’t cope. Stupid, weak person.’
I put my right hand over hers, pressed it. ‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re a strong, brave person. What was he shouting?’
‘He said, he’d been drinking, I can always tell, he said, “Two more days with this bastard Connors and I’m home and fucking Black Tide’s over.’’’
‘The name. Connors. You sure?’
‘Yes.’ Sniff. She sat back. ‘Connors. That’s what he said. This bastard Connors.’
‘The other thing. Black Tide? Is that it?’
‘Yes. Black Tide.’
‘You knew what that was?’
‘No.’ Sniff. ‘Well, knew the name, didn’t know what.’
I waited.
Sniff. ‘We went to a barbie at the Conroys’. Friends, well, Tony’s a friend of Dean’s. She says she can’t talk to me any more.’
‘Who?’
‘Deirdre, Tony’s wife. I rang her after they came to tell me.’ She looked around, distracted.
Prompt: ‘And at the barbie…’
‘Tony said to Dean…They were doing the meat. I came out with beers and I heard Tony say, Black Tide’s running again. So I asked Dean on the way home, what’s Black Tide? A horse? And he said, forget you heard it. Don’t ever mention it to anyone.’
She put a hand to her hair, stood up. ‘Stuck in my mind. Black Tide. S’pose I shouldn’t mention it to you. What the hell does it matter now? Got to go. Kids.’
I stood up. There was an intimacy between us. She came closer. ‘He’s everything,’ she said. She touched her head to my chest. I put my lips to her pale hair, sweet-smelling, my hands on her shoulders. Total strangers on a former hilltop.
‘Listen, Meryl,’ I said. ‘I’ll try to find out about Dean. Don’t sign anything, don’t accept any offers these people make. I’ll get a lawyer to ring you.’
She said, muffled, ‘Aren’t lawyers all crooks?’
I crossed my fingers. ‘That’s a myth,’ I said.
Meryl gathered herself. She took something out of the top pocket of her jacket and offered it to me. It was a photograph of a man with a child on his shoulders.
‘Dean,’ she said. At the door, she looked back, raised a hand, feigned a smile. I raised a fist, felt stupid immediately. It was a symbol of strength, solidarity, hope. What did I know of strength, solidarity and hope?
I waited a while, went back inside, wandered around to the lifts. When one came, I politely allowed everyone in, decided to take the stairs. Caught another lift on the next floor. Getting into a cab, outside the front entrance, I looked back. The only person looking my way was a tall man in a grey suit, convict haircut, bony face. He was moving, bringing dark glasses up to his face. And then he found them uncomfortable, stopped to adjust the fit.
Could be nothing. Could be otherwise.
More than two hours to kill. I got dropped in the city centre, or that’s what the man said it was, walked around, found a bookshop, bought a promising-sounding novel called In the Emptiness of Time, found a cafe, drank coffee, reasonable coffee. I saw many men in rubber-soled brown shoes, spotted a number of women with buns: insufficient evidence to back up Shane DiSanto’s generalisation but certainly a worrying incidence. Enough to justify a large university research grant.
I didn’t see the bony-faced man in the grey suit. But not for want of looking.
And still I was early for the plane. In the tawdry bar, I asked for a beer with half a shot of lime.
‘Dynamite combination,’ said the barman. He was young and pale, long nose, sleek fair hair, very likely a final- year student at the local university, cultural studies student perhaps, deconstructing our encounter.
‘Beer cocktail. What kind of glass? Martini glass?’ He had a look, a smart amused look.
Bartending was clearly a fun experience out here at Canberra airport. Low-level politicians. Public servants. Assorted jovial political parasites. Polite people. No hard-core drunks, no unpredictable people to take offence at your smile, throw a full ashtray at you, climb over the counter, get you in a headlock and try to drown you in the drip tray. Around here bartending was just a source of income and good party stories. About how you said all these smart things to this old fart who wanted a beer with lime.
Beer with fucking lime. I ask you.
These thoughts came to me while looking at the person. I was tired. I didn’t say anything, just looked at him. He looked back, smiled another kind of smile, looked away. After a while, even the young and smart and playful recognise men at the edge of endurance.
‘Coming up, sir,’ he said.
23
Planes are good for thinking. Reading seems an unnaturally complacent activity when you are risking your life in a hissing aluminium tube that seeks to defy gravity. I studied the picture of Dean and his daughter. He wore rings on both little fingers, small rings with dark stones. He didn’t look like someone who did secret government work, away for months at a time. He looked like a man who repaired things, washing machines, fridges, photocopiers perhaps. Went home at night, Holden in the drive at 6.30.
Two more days with this bastard Connors and I’m home and fucking Black Tide’s over.
Dean Canetti was keeping an eye on Gary Connors on April 3. And he planned to spend two more days involved with him.
What did with Connors mean? Following him? Something else?
Two more days. Did that mean he’d been close to Gary for longer than the day of April 3? Gary had been overseas until April 2. He’d been away from home for more than a week when he telephoned on April 3. Had Canetti followed him overseas?
Canetti was from the government. But not the shopfront government. The hidden government. Gary was from somewhere else: corrupt policeman, then TransQuik, then a person consulted on security by impenetrable foreign companies, including Klostermann Gardier. But still a TransQuik person, according to Barry Tregear, a man not given to conjecture.
Canetti, the man from the government, and Gary Connors, the man from free enterprise, almost certainly bent free enterprise, came together. Presumably, the former was in pursuit of the latter. And then they vanished. On the same day.
