by John Bishop
try.’
‘What I have in mind is, you drop by and see if he seems his usual self. It’s surprising how people change their manner if something special is happening. The lost set of keys is a good idea. If his mind’s on something else, he’ll make a note and get rid of you real quick. If not, he’ll want all the details of where you found them… which was...?’
‘Out along the main road. Near the big patch of lantana I dug out tomorrow. Could ‘ave dropped from a passing car. No clues at all.’
‘You’re quick. Sounds good. Any other things we need to talk about?’
‘I can’t think of any. The scary bit is it all sounds so easy.’
‘It rarely is.’
‘Well I’m up for it.’
‘Good man. Now, I’ll get you to repeat back to me in your own words what’s going to happen. I need to be sure we’re completely clear. Then, I’m afraid it’s been a long day for me and I need to get home. But it’s been a good day. I’m sorry we’ve met so late in my life. Welcome aboard...Bill.’
Leaving the William Street building by the back entrance, Gavin was tempted to hang around the Cross for a while and celebrate. But he was already elated enough and not about to take any unnecessary risks. Best to keep a low profile. A few quiet beers in the privacy of his motel room would satisfy him for now.
Gavin relived the interview several times on the drive back to Arajinna. He pulled up in the drive of his rented property near the rail yards and turned off the engine. He hadn’t started with any wild dreams of what might come out of his approach to Lenny d’Aratzio. If he had: twenty grand, a promise of protection if things went wrong, and being somebody in good standing with Lenny’s mob, would have been up with the wildest. ‘Welcome aboard, Bill’, he murmured.
He opened the front door and picked up the mail the postman had pushed through the slot. No letters from the shire office. No scrawled messages asking him to call in for new instructions. It had been a good couple of days and he was ready for bed.
Morning Prayer
Sunday 16th August 1992
Friday and Saturday brought little action to St Mark’s. Ziggy was a veteran at stakeouts and surveillance work. He always packed two or three thick novels. ‘It helps to be a reader if you’re a sailor or a cop,’ he said. ‘My dad was in the navy. Name any book and it’s a fair bet he’s read it—remembers all the plots too.’
Max had found the light in the vestry too gloomy for protracted reading and had set himself up inside the main door at the table from which hymn books and prayer books were handed out before services. Its polished oak surface was large enough for him to open the massive old bound registers, and still leave sufficient space for his notebooks.
At Banabrook, Megan was finding it hard to maintain her cover as a surveyor while keeping track of the highly mobile Judith. It was Judith’s idea to give Megan a stack of old files from the Banabrook archives and set her up at the kitchen table, supposedly looking for a survey plan used at the original land auctions held in the nineteenth century. This provided Megan with a base at the centre of Banabrook activities.
When Sunday came, Ziggy and Max carted the camp stretchers, and the other evidence of living at St Mark’s, to the tool shed. ‘We have a small community of committed Anglicans,’ Max said. ‘But because the nearest other churches are at Bullermark and Calway Junction, our congregation includes members of other denominations who find our services acceptable. I try to make the liturgy as inclusive as possible, and I structure my sermons to deal with matters of faith common to all.’
‘How many do you get?’
‘Sometimes fewer than ten, sometimes more than fifty. Depends on the weather and the seasons. Shearing and harvesting can keep folk away or bring in extras. One year we had an entire crew of shearers turn up for three weeks in a row. Unusual, but it happens. If the boss of the gang is religious he often recruits like-minded offsiders.’
‘Well you won’t be getting the whole crew of surveyors. I’ve had a talk to Eamon. He thinks it best I don’t show myself today. He’ll attend the service and sit towards the back. He’s had a chat to your missus. She’s decided not to come because people might start to wonder why she has this shadow called Megan. They’re finding it a bit of a problem at Banabrook already. Eamon has also talked to the farm manager—Tom is it?’
‘Yes.’
Tom’s been briefed on the operation, partly because Megan being around all the time was beginning to look a bit odd, and partly because he’s agreed to hang about near the church door before the service and tell Eamon if any strangers turn up. We assume you don’t get many blow-ins.’
‘No. And we usually know where they’ve come from anyway—a hotel guest, or a traveller stopping in Arajinna for lunch and deciding to include spiritual nourishment in the package.’
Ziggy laughed.
‘It’s hard for strangers to go unnoticed in a place this small,’ Max added. ‘I find that aspect of country life comforting right now.’
It was late in the day when they retrieved Ziggy’s gear from the tool shed. Afterwards they stood in the doorway of the church, looking out.
‘If it wasn’t for the circumstances, I could really get to enjoy this place,’ Ziggy said. ‘The aromas of the country are amazing.’
‘I noticed some early freesias,’ Max pointed towards the graveyard. ‘Oh, stuff this, Ziggy! Let’s go for a stroll.’
‘As your bodyguard, I’m compelled to advise you—’
‘No, mate. As my bodyguard, you’re compelled to join me. Life’s too damned short, and it might be about to get shorter.’ He headed into the graveyard.
‘You’re giving me grief, Max,’ Ziggy said tersely, as he followed. ‘Shit, man. I’ve got a job to do!’
‘Relax,’ Max said. ‘I’m the one at risk.’
‘You’re the one who might draw fire you mean. I’m putting my life at risk for you because it’s my job, not because it’s fun. And I don’t appreciate you ignoring advice that might keep both of us alive.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it that way. I apologise. But it’s done now. If we’ve been seen, we’ve been seen. Let’s just enjoy the evening for a minute. One minute, okay.’
‘Okay. One minute.’
‘Bugger it, Ziggy. I’m as taut as a bloody violin string.’
‘I know mate. I know.’
‘It shows?’
‘You’re doing better than most in the circumstances. You’re only a minister, Max. You’re not God!’
The freesias had come up between stones around the Blake plot. As they breathed the scent, Ziggy said, ‘Those are Hebrew symbols. So’s the inscription. It’s the same verse as on my Mum’s grave.’
‘Judith’s mother,’ Max said
‘In an Anglican graveyard?’
‘Long story. I’ll tell you over dinner. Let’s go back inside.’
Echium Lycopsis
Sunday 16th August 1992
Monday 17th August 1992
The man sometimes known as Tom Jones opened the screen door and tapped on one of the glass panels of the sleep-out. Gavin opened the back door without turning on the external light. It struck him this could be a dangerous thing to do on a Sunday night when the neighbouring industrial properties were in darkness; but there was little crime in Arajinna, and he was expecting a clandestine arrival.
‘Tom Jones?’ Gavin asked.
‘If you say so, sunshine.’
In the dim light from the hallway, Gavin saw the man grin. He stood aside to let him pass, then closed and locked the door. ‘This way, mate.’ He led Jones to a door at the side of the sleep-out, opened it, and switched on the overhead light to reveal what had probably been a storage room when the house was built. It now contained a single bed, a dilapidated wardrobe, a bedside table and a chair. ‘Will this do?’
‘Show me around first.’ Jones was wearing a small haversack, which he did not take off.
Gavin led him across the sleep-out to another door, a mirror image
of the first. ‘Shower, shit, and shoe-shine, in there.’
Jones looked and nodded. Gavin took him through another door into a narrow hallway running the length of the house. The bottom half of the front door was timber. There were two narrow opaque leadlight glass panels at the top. The house was constructed symmetrically about the central hallway, with rooms opening off on either side. There was a kitchen and a sitting room on one side, and two bedrooms on the other. One of the bedrooms had been set up as an office for Gavin’s alter ego, Bill Smith. ‘There’s a laundry in an outbuilding at the back.’
‘I hope I won’t be here long enough to use it.’ Jones stopped at the front door. ‘I’ve seen the front yard and the verandah. There was enough light from the rail yards as I came in.’ He returned along the hall, taking a second look into each room. Arriving back at the room off the sleep-out, he entered and took off the haversack. ‘Genius, sunshine. Just what the doctor ordered. Designed for the job.’
Gavin felt unexpectedly pleased. ‘How would a beer go down?’
‘Cup ‘a tea, for me. Not a wowser, mind you. Never drink on a job though. Don’t let me stop you.’
‘I’ll have tea too.’
‘That’s real sociable, sunshine. Tea for two, and we’ll sit down and nut out this little job for Uncle Len. He said you had maps and things?’
‘They’re in the office. I’ll get them while the kettle’s boiling.’
The next morning, Gavin was out on the roads before five. It was earlier than he
