Gone Fishing (24 page)

‘We talkin' 'bout Fast Freddy laughin'? Or Jenny? Or Ettie?'

‘No, mate, strangers. We're talking about strangers,' Sam says gently.

The kid's face lights up with relief. ‘Aw jeez. Is that all? They can laugh all they want, Sam. Nothing to do with me, is it?'

Amelia stands back with a smug look that says the deal is done. Sam fears the worst. Kate offers to find a manager who'll charge somewhere between ten and forty per cent of the fee (Amelia almost reels then says she'll manage her son's media career with a little input from Kate, if Kate doesn't mind), Marcus says he will phone his lawyer who will be on call to make sure the contracts are fair.

Amelia's enthusiasm falters for a second. ‘Thank you, chef,' she says. ‘Never been crash hot with the fine print.'

‘And perhaps,' Marcus suggests, ‘it might be permissible to draw up a trust for Jimmy to access at the age of twenty-one, or even twenty-five.'

Amelia looks nonplussed for a second, then nods. ‘It's his money, chef. I'm well aware of that fact.'

Ettie, who's been quiet all evening, finally chips in: ‘One way of keeping a little control over the interview might be to suggest it is done right here in Cook's Basin where we can all keep an eye on proceedings.'

Kate nods. ‘Good idea. All we have to do is make sure it's stipulated in the contract. If we explain Jimmy gets confused and agitated in foreign environments, they'll have to agree.'

‘So it's on then?' Sam asks. Every head around the table nods, with the exception of Jimmy, who's focused on the dog. Sam walks away with his phone and makes a call to say yes to the highest bidder. He can't shake the feeling he's participating in a form of child abuse.

‘When do I get me ute?' Jimmy whispers, coming up behind Sam and cupping his hand around Sam's ear so no one else can hear.

‘Rome –'

‘Wasn't built in a day.'

‘You understand what the saying really means?'

‘Sure, Sam,' he replies uncertainly.

‘Patience, mate, that's what it means. Have patience and you'll end up with an empire.'

‘I know that, don't I? But we've started buildin', haven't we? We getting' the foundations laid, right?'

‘Yeah. I guess so,' Sam says, hoping like hell they're not ripping them apart.

Kate, pleading genuine exhaustion, is the first to leave. Amelia and Jimmy follow. Sam says yes to a second beer. ‘You're a smart man, Marcus. How do you think this is going to pan out?'

The chef shrugs. ‘No one can even guess. But the boy, he has a good heart, no? It would take a criminal to try to crush that for a little entertainment. And this show, it is the best, I think. The reporters do not look for scalps unless they are political, of course, but that is to be expected, yes?'

‘Hope you're right, mate,' Sam says.

For no reason at all, Ettie suddenly stands and excuses herself, putting her hand on Marcus's shoulder, telling him to enjoy the summer night with Sam. After she's out of sight, the chef turns to Sam: ‘You see? She is ill, of this I am sure. But she won't talk to me. Me, the man who loves her like no other.'

‘It's menopause, mate. According to the Misses Skettle, Jenny and Kate, Ettie's just hit middle-age with a vengeance.'

‘Menopause? What does this mean?'

Sam shrugs, grins: ‘Beats me. Secret women's business. But it's not life threatening, so you can relax. A word of warning. Whatever you do, don't mention the word in her hearing. She's liable to clout you with a cast-iron frying pan. One of the symptoms, apparently, is a short fuse.'

Sam's phone goes off. He checks the caller number, puzzled. ‘Freddy, you all right? Broken down and need a tow? Calm down, mate, I can't understand what you're trying to say. Easy, Freddy. Start at the beginning again.'

Sam listens. His face goes white, he ends the call gently and gives a
stop
hand signal when the anxious chef makes a move towards him. Then walks slowly, almost blindly, to the end of the jetty where he bends from the waist and dry retches over the water in violent, noisy spasms. A couple of minutes later, he straightens, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and shuffles back along the timber boards, holding onto the painted white rail like an ill old man in need of physical support: ‘It's the
Mary Kay
. She's been scuttled.'

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Three

Sam Scully takes a deep breath and dives into tepid black water, pushing through a burst of phosphorescence that sparkles festively, obscenely, in the moonless night. On his jetty, a hundred Islanders in pyjamas, nighties, crumpled boxer shorts, or just a towel wrapped around a waist lean forward in anxious silence. Everyone is aware, without a word being spoken, that the battle has ramped up to a notch they have never before experienced and have no idea how to handle. Sam's busted taillights were bad, the smashed windows and trashed house were shocking. Sinking the
Mary Kay
, a much-loved local icon that has rescued, resurrected and stalwartly provided for any vessel in strife and never failed the community, is one step short of murder.

Islanders gaze into dark water where she lies silent and lifeless, a heartbreaking, ghostly sight as the pale green torchlight washes over her. One or two women swallow sobs. A couple of the blokes wade in deep to rescue whatever floats. Ropes. Fuel containers. The flashy red cushions from the infamous banquette. Sam surfaces, gasping. Duck dives again. Anxious eyes follow his beam of light. She looks so perfectly undamaged and inert, like she's sleeping soundly with just a slight lean where she nestles into the seabed, but the
Mary Kay
, once the beating heart of Cook's Basin, is going nowhere.

After six dives, Sam hauls himself on to the jetty, where he sits dripping wet with his legs over the side: ‘Hole in the hull the size of an orange,' he says, to no one in particular. ‘Perfectly round – edges neat enough to satisfy a shipwright. Done from the inside by a pro.'

A hissing sound caused by quick intakes of breath passes through a crowd that suddenly parts to let Jimmy, approaching at a flat-out sprint in nothing but a pair of banana print boxers, to line up alongside his captain. The black-and-white mutt, ears flying, is not far behind. He drops down. Flings his painfully young arm around Sam's neck: ‘Me money's all yours, Sam. Every penny. Soon as I get it.'

Sam shakes his head. ‘We're good. Mate. All good.' But in his heart, he knows the
Mary Kay
will never be the same again. She will take up her old career with a new crane provided by the insurers but she will wear the scars of her time on the seabed forever. So will I, he thinks, feeling a terrible sadness for his own loss of innocence. He gets to his feet, stumbles under the heavy weight of consoling hands on his back, shoulders, even his cheek. Jenny slips an arm around his waist and falls in step beside him.

‘So it's over, eh? They've won,' she says, her eyes focused on her feet, tears in her eyes.

Sam stops short, trying to get his head around what she's saying. ‘Won? Not bloody likely. The thing is, Jen, I can't stand bullies. Never been able to. But it's my battle now. Mine alone. And I'll die before I'll let them get away with this.'

Jenny lets out a long, sad sigh. ‘Well, it looks like if you die, you won't be alone. We're all with you, Sam. Whatever it takes, we're up for it. So you better make bloody sure we win.'

He nods. He feels a warm, wet touch on his hand. He looks down. Longfellow gazes up with button brown eyes full of sorrow. He gives the hand another lick. And it is the dog's mute tenderness during a horror night that brings Sam undone. Without another word, he runs up the steps to his house and locks the door behind him.

At dawn the next day when the first light is nothing but a pale grey loom and it's still too early even for the cockatoos to rant, Sam is wakened by his mobile phone. Eyes closed, he fumbles on his bedside table, feeling for the off button. Then he remembers. The
Mary Kay
. His eyes flash open and he checks the caller number.
Private
. The goons.

‘Yeah,' he says sharply.

‘Figured a man with a barge, you'd be up and around by now.' Gravelly voice, a hint of humour in the tone. So not the goons. Not unless one of them has had a recent lobotomy reversal and found his laughter gland.

‘Who'm I speaking to?'

‘I wanna help you. Help you fight for Garrawi.'

‘Great. You know any politicians? Celebrities? Journalists?'

‘No.'

‘Well, thanks, mate, I'll put your name on a list and if I need you to write a letter . . .'

‘I'll give you a million dollars.'

Sam sighs. A nutter, he thinks in despair. Jeez, it's too early in the frigging morning to have to deal with nutters.

‘I'll give you a million dollars now. Who do I write the cheque to?'

Mad as a cut snake, thinks Sam: ‘Look, mate, I can't take your money, but thanks –'

‘I'll give you a hundred thousand dollars now.'

‘No. I can't take your money.' Trying to humour the bloke.

‘I'm gunna pull out my cheque book. I'll write a cheque for fifteen thousand dollars right now. Who do I make it payable to? Sam Scully?'

‘Jeez, mate. No. Don't give me any money.'

‘How about the campaign? You got a fund? I can transfer the money to the fund right now.'

Pigs might fly, Sam thinks, but he gives him the details and hangs up. Then he heads for the shower. Onwards and upwards, as his dad used to say. No use crying over spilt milk, according to his mum. He comes up with one of his own: Don't let the bastards wear you down. At least he thinks it's an original. Maybe. He nicks himself shaving and sticks a bit of loo paper on the cut to stop the bleeding, then he ignores the early hour and calls the Water Police and the insurance hotline. It's time to resurrect the
Mary Kay
. He can't help wondering how she'd look with a cannon on her foredeck. Jimmy would love it but there's probably a law against installing major artillery in peaceful times. Peaceful? Who's he kidding? He'll get the bastards. He really will. He just needs time to come up with a plan. On an impulse, he dials Delaney's number. The big man picks up.

‘Where the bloody hell are you?' Sam shouts in relief.

The big man goes in fast and hard: ‘Heard they're out to skin you,' he says like he's talking from the bottom of a canyon. ‘I'm out of the country –' The line drops out. When Sam redials, the call goes to message bank. Bloody journalists. You wouldn't want to depend on them for the time of day.

It takes all morning to raise the bedraggled
Mary Kay
from deep water, drain her and plug the fist-sized hole in her hull. Then she's towed to Frankie's boatshed with a support flotilla of banged-up tinnies guided by angry Islanders on full battle alert, itching to fire up their arsenal of leftover flares at any bastard who looks even slightly dodgy. At the boatshed, the dishevelled but still essentially grand
Mary Kay
is gently positioned between the two steel arms of a boat cradle and hauled up the cement slipway into dry dock in small, smooth increments. ‘No bumps and bangs for the old girl. She's been through enough,' Frankie says, patting the hull like she's a frail old lady.

The classic 1960s, low-speed, high-torque Gardner diesel marine engine, designed to drive sewing machines in the early 1900s then tanks during World War II, will be pulled apart, wiped down and restored to former solid, workhorse glory. If a war couldn't wipe out the machine, a simple saltwater dunking hasn't a hope.

On the other hand, salt water is a fatal mix with the delicate electronic wiring of the crane's gearbox. There is no choice but to dismantle it and consign it to the tip.

The insurers send in a team to assess the damage and sign off without quibbling over the dollars and cents. Sam's never made a claim in more than twenty years of hauling. ‘We'll need a report from the coppers, though,' they tell him. ‘Nothing flash. Just a note the barge was sabotaged.' He nods.

Frankie puts all his other work on hold without bothering to call a single client to say they'll have to wait. ‘They'll know what's going on.' He shrugs, tilting his black cap over his eyes. ‘If they don't like it, they can go elsewhere.' They won't, of course. Sam nods a thank you and the work begins. ‘A week,' Frankie estimates. Sam nods again. In any other boatyard it would take a month. ‘Get the bastards, eh?' Frankie says. ‘Scum's got to be scrubbed off with a wire brush.'

‘Still thinking about the marina?'

‘What marina?'

Sam gives him a quick salute and climbs into his tinny. It's the middle of the working day but without the
Mary Kay
, he's stymied. He feels like a man who's lost his connection to reality and he hasn't the faintest idea what to do next. He detours to call in on Artie. The old bloke might have one or two ideas. Long as he doesn't suggest shooting the bastard that did in the
Mary Kay
, he thinks, because right now, I won't need a heap of persuading. Which brings him to another thought: What are the odds of getting away with murder? He sure as hell is tempted.

He knocks on Artie's hull and climbs aboard the yacht at the old man's invitation. When he goes below, he finds two glasses filled with rum and Artie looking as businesslike as Sam's ever seen him. No bed hair today. And he's wearing a shirt, for chrissake. Sam didn't know he owned one.

‘This calls for new strategies, son,' Artie says, straight to the point. ‘I've called a few of me old pals who know a bit about the danger of dark alleys and the power of crowbars.'

‘Call off the dogs, Artie. Not that I don't appreciate the sentiment behind the action but that doesn't make it right.'

Artie sculls his tot of rum, coughs as the fire runs down the back of his throat: ‘Wouldn't have expected you to say anything else, I s'pose. It'll hurt though. Kinda lookin' forward to seeing a few ugly heads roll. I saw 'em, ya know, when they shipped into the er, flare safety demonstration parade in that ugly black torpedo that passes for a boat. Didn't say nothin' at the time. No point. But I recognised the type. Not a brain the size of a pea between them. The kind of idiot that shoots first. Asks questions later. So you watch out, son. They're after ya and even if they're only aimin' to hurt, they're dumb enough to kill you by mistake.'

Sam uses his finger to slide his glass across the table into Artie's easy reach. ‘Long as it's only me,' he says.

‘Ya might think about shiftin' the battleground under their noses, if ya get my drift.'

‘Not sure I do, mate.'

‘Keep tabs on Mulvaney's movements. Send in the hecklers every time he gives a speech. Annoy the shit out of the bastard till it feels like a bad itch that won't go away. It'll get you prime-time coverage. Guarantee it. Round up a few protesters and set a day to march in the streets of Sydney. Placards and kids, a few good-lookin' women in low-cut tops –'

‘Jeez, Artie.'

‘Orright, orright. But think about getting' yourself a mob, mate, and storm the palace. This is an election year.'

‘Ah jeez,' Sam says again, sliding out of his seat in a hurry. ‘I forgot. Jimmy's big media debut is being filmed today.'

‘Pity,' Artie says, drawing the glass towards him. ‘Bloody pity. It'll ruin the boy.' But Sam is long gone.

In the Square and under the shade of the giant white cockatoo, its heat-stressed cockscomb wilted by the weather to a custardy mush, an elderly woman with pale blue hair sits at a fold-up card table (red-check tablecloth circa 1970) with a Thermos, cups, apples, a bag of nuts and a large cake she's cut into small slivers. ‘Anyone can join me,' she tells passers-by, who mostly nod and smile and write her off as batty. She says the same to Sam when he rocks up searching for a dog, a kid and a television crew. He can't think how to refuse politely, so he pauses.

‘Sam, right? Lost your beautiful barge this morning. Same barge I've been watching out of my window for years.' She points at a cluster of buildings up the hill to show him where she lives. ‘Thought you might be having a really bad day so I decided I'd prop here for a while. It's time you lot on the other side of the moat know that onshorers have hearts, too, and we're with you all the way. You're going to win, you know. Right always knocks the stuffing out of might.'

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,' Sam says, bowled over, suddenly less heartsick and more heartened. She hands him a slice of chocolate cake, beckons him closer to whisper in his ear. ‘Could claim I made it but I bought it at the café. I'm a lousy cook. Least that's what they tell me at the bowling club where I run the chook raffle every Saturday night.'

Sam laughs, scoffs the cake, suddenly famished. ‘You happen to see a kid and a television crew around here?'

She points a red-painted fingernail at the Island. ‘Took off about an hour ago. Nice kid. Different. But definitely made of the right stuff.'

‘Thanks, love. And . . . well, thanks.'

Sam finds Ettie getting ready to close up. She's packed a pile of leftovers into a basket, which she passes to Sam without comment. Then she comes around to the public side of the counter and wraps her arms around his beefy body in a clinch so tight she cuts off Sam's oxygen supply.