by John Kelly
At his home in Melbourne, Quentin Avers paced across the lounge room floor, his mind near drowning in a sea of uncertainties. He even began to wonder why he had started the whole process of trying to clear his father's name. Who still remembered the events of 1946 anyway apart from a small number of ex-occupation veterans still alive? He knew his father was above suspicion. He knew Derek Avers to be an honourable man. And even if he had dabbled in a little bit of racketeering, was that really so bad? In a Japanese post-war vacuum so hopelessly disorganized, demanding ever more of its protectors, what was the harm? As the occupation forces re-established law and order, helping the homeless and the downtrodden regain their self-esteem, what harm was there in making a small gain here and there? Given the way his government today had ignored the occupation veterans their rightful entitlements, given how they had consistently refused to recognize claims for compensation for radiation exposure over the past sixty years, perhaps it was fortuitous in the long run that he had compensated himself. His father was a true patriot; he deserved better. He certainly was not a racketeer, but at the end of the day, who really cared?
As Quentin Avers' mind scanned a multitude of concerns, there was one thing about which he remained certain. If assets lay secreted anywhere or held in a bank in his father's name as was intimated in the journal, then he was the one entitled to it. Not, Ronnie Maclean, not Michael the mystery writer of the journal. If his father had left instructions for monies to be invested in some form, or used in a particular way, then any residual deposits plus sixty years of interest belonged to him. He was the rightful inheritor. But if it was true, why had his father not told him?
22.
