‘I’m dying,’ O’Toole says by way of greeting, not attempting to rise, perhaps aware of the dawning awareness on Martin’s face. ‘The big C. Pancreatic.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I. Please, take a seat.’ The voice is deep and resonant, a voice used to being obeyed, a voice whose opinions matter. A voice that is yet to catch up with the dire reality of its owner.
Martin finds a seat, looks quickly about. It’s an old room, growing musty, as if it too is growing ill. On one wall there is an oil painting of two boys hugging a labrador, the style dated. This was once a family home, but now Martin is guessing it’s the sole preserve of O’Toole. Like a museum. Or a mausoleum. ‘When?’
‘When did I find out? About a month ago. When will I die? I won’t make the summer. No chance of parole, none of a pardon. All appeals to a superior court exhausted.’ O’Toole offers a weak smile at a joke Martin suspects is becoming threadbare. ‘And yet death is, in a sense, liberating.’
‘How so?’
‘I no longer give a shit.’
‘Right.’ Martin wonders what medication the judge is on.
The judge smiles wickedly. ‘I don’t have to worry about the consequences.’
‘Of what?’
‘Talking to journalists, for a start.’ And O’Toole laughs, as if at the absurdity of his predicament.
‘I see,’ says Martin, deciding not to waste the judge’s time. ‘Can I ask you about the Mess?’
‘Ah, the Mess. So that’s what’s brought you here at this time of night. I was wondering why such a fine young journalist as yourself would want to seek me out. The Mess, is it?’
‘Yes. What can you tell me about it?’
‘Some of the worst food, some of the most mediocre company and some of the best wine I’ve ever encountered. I’d do it all again, if only for the wine.’ And now, as if suddenly bored by his own banter, the judge grows earnest. ‘What is it you want to know, Mr Scarsden?’
‘I believe a great friend of mine, Max Fuller, was investigating the Mess, together with Elizabeth Torbett.’
‘Ah, Lizzie,’ he responds, and there is fondness in his voice. ‘Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie. You should have known her when she was young. She was glorious. A great beauty.’ And he pauses, as if remembering. ‘And feisty as all hell. There were no boundaries for Lizzie, no telling her what she should or shouldn’t do.’ Another pause. ‘We were at law school together. She never wanted much to do with the likes of me, of course; there were far more glittering stars in her firmament. And yet, for all of that, we were pals.’ There is a wistful air to him now and a misting in his eyes. Martin wonders again as to the strength of the drugs. ‘There was a night, skinny-dipping up in the Blue Mountains, when I almost thought I stood a chance. Before she started batting for the other side.’ But now those eyes return to focus and Martin can see the intelligence, the calculation behind them. ‘None of what I’m about to tell you comes out until after I die?’
‘You have my word.’
The judge smiles. ‘Ask away.’
‘Did you help Max and Elizabeth with their investigations?’
‘I did.’
‘You were a source?’
‘I was the source. Don’t give me second billing, for God’s sake. Max spent a lot of time here during the past couple of weeks, sitting where you are now. He even had a set of keys, could let himself in after the nurse had left for the day. He was here as recently as Saturday.’
‘The source for what? What drove Elizabeth Torbett to join forces with Max Fuller?’
‘Well, my little imbroglio, for a start.’
‘The suppression order?’
‘Ha. You know about that? Is there anyone who doesn’t?’
Martin shrugs.
‘So you know the situation. I was photographed in compromising circumstances. Wearing fishnets and ladies’ underwear.’ The judge smiles, the humour back. ‘There was a time when I was a young chap, I might have carried it off.’ And then the seriousness once more; Martin is getting used to the alternating moods. ‘I was here one night, feeling sorry for myself, when there’s a knock at the door. Two big men, full of muscles, and a smaller one, supervising them, gone to fat. All wearing balaclavas, like a bad movie. They knock me to the ground, haul me back up, punch me in the guts. They hold my arms behind my back. The little guy has a knife, holds it to my neck, uses his other hand to give my balls a gratuitous squeeze. They force me to drink some whisky; it tastes sweet. I’m not sure what was in it—some sort of drug. In no time, I’ve come over gah-gah. The little guy’s holding the knife up in front of me, I can see how sharp it is, how easy it would be to hurt me. I see the gleam in his eye through the holes in his mask, glistening like the blade. He wants to hurt me. I can see it. Then he gives me a choice: he can slice off a testicle, or we can play dress-ups. I’m not thinking at all straight, but the idea of dress-ups seems such an easy out. So I do it, think I’m being clever, doing something so innocuous in order to save a ball. You’ll understand: I’ve had two of them for a very long time and I’ve grown fond of them. So they strip me and I put on this women’s underwear they’ve brought with them. You know, lingerie. Make me pose for photos. They’re laughing, like it’s the biggest joke on earth. I’m laughing too, the drugs doing their work. Then they
