Off the Record

by Craig Sherborne

  Ryan said that he was sorry for my problem. I could tell he was struggling to match a simpleton son with me. The way his voice softened to ponder the mystery. It was new to me, this type of sympathy. I did not like it. I did not like it at all.

  ‘When you speak to this Gumm tell him you’re helping me with my article. He’ll know what you mean. Keep your questions short and your tone clipped and firm. Don’t let him speak unless he’s spoken to. Ask the following: Do you expel boys for learning disabilities? He’ll say no and then you say, “Yes, you do.” Use my son Oliver as an example. Accuse the school of ruthless injustice and greed. Keeping their points high to raise fees and boost revenue.

  ‘Ask: Is this why children are resorting to plagiarism in your care? Fear of failure and expulsion and seeing their future as good as finished? Ask: How many boys have been treated this way in the past ten to fifteen years? Don’t let him waffle and deny it—cut him off and accuse him of having something to hide.

  ‘Then hang up and go to Intercourse, have a drink and forget you made the call. This is just between you and me. I appreciate it. I’m going to splash big on your brothel yarn and give you a picture by-line to go with it.’

  I walked to the car.

  Oh Ollie, I sighed. How your mum will cry! She will cry when we tell her and accuse me of every wrongdoing. She’d be right too, I said to him, because she’s your mother. She gets away with accusations because of that intimacy. But me, I said. I interpret your circumstance in a way protective fathers should. Not as a second mother who wants to cry and cuddle you and accept what’s been dealt. Nor as a father who wants to punish you. But as a practical man who can solve his son’s problems. Let’s go home and I’ll explain to your mother what has happened. Wipe your eyes. Do your seatbelt up. When you cop an injustice you don’t lie down. Injustice, that’s how I view your situation.

  18

  It was not how Emma saw things. She gave Ollie ten dollars to buy parmesan down the shops for tonight’s pasta and the moment he closed the door she stormed into the kitchen, launched into a swearing fit, lots of shits and fucking hells, very un-Emma. I was the selfish fool who wanted a clone of me like a trophy. I was the egotist with no natural care for his son, just a fantasy that I’d have a wordsmith junior.

  ‘And where has that left Ollie, Callum? With this black mark against him.’

  ‘That school can go fuck itself.’

  ‘So what now for him?’

  ‘I’m glad he’s out of that boy factory. What kind of place picks on the Ollies in the class so the bright kids flourish and keep the aggregate high? Where’s the justice in that? You’re blaming me but I smell conspiracy.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Callum.’

  ‘Laugh if you want to.’

  ‘You smell conspiracy in a glass of water. You’re in the conspiracy business. And while I’m on the subject, I have the sense Ollie is spying on me. Always snooping about. Have you put him up to this?’

  ‘You’re paranoid.’

  ‘When I ask him he goes white in the face.’

  ‘We talk, me and the boy. I’m sure he does with you. I’m always saying look after your mother. Maybe he misunderstood me. I’ll take my share of blame for Ollie but you’d better do the same. This Gordon person coming on the scene. If you want a boy to act immorally then just unsettle his home life with strange men.’

  Emma sucked her breath in and grabbed a colander to throw. But that’s not my Emma. She wouldn’t throw a cornflake. She put the thing down. My logic had got to her. Desperate, crude logic but with enough truth in it to render her guilty. I heard my phone ringing deep in the breast of my suit coat. I was letting it ring out but the noise grated on Emma. Answer it, she said. Please just bloody well answer it.

  I poked the satin of the pocket open and strode into the lounge for privacy. I expected it was Ryan saying All done. Or Katie up in Myrtleford. If she didn’t get the whys and hows of the murder by morning I’d want her back in the city to save motel tariffs. I had faith in Katie to do good foot-in-the-door. That’s another skill you can’t teach a person. It’s either in them to barge their way into a house or else they’re doomed to stand on the front step yelling, Was your family born Satanists?

  It was neither Ryan nor Katie. It was Mr Oxford, in a voice meek-toned and deferential. He asked for a moment of my time. To clear the air. To start afresh our sensitive dealings.

  ‘I was contacted by your colleague, Ryan Scullen,’ he said. ‘It’s my hope that we can resolve this matter without publicity. Perhaps reach a kind of compromise.’

  ‘You really do like informals. It’s a tic with you.’

  He wasn’t baited. He took the insult good-humouredly.

  ‘Yes, I’ll have to watch that.’

  His laugh was brittle and brief. One of those nervous laughs preparatory to raising an awkward topic.

  ‘I considered Oliver’s case sufficiently important to contact the head of school on his holiday. He’s in agreement with me that our protocols should be flexible. Rigid rules are not good for a student. We’d like to embrace Oliver, rather than to see him turned away. We’d like to work with him so he can overcome any learning problems. We’d like him to improve his scholastic results by his own true efforts. I think the best thing for Oliver is that we put our earlier discussion behind us.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. I wanted to yell, Yes! Got you! Bluffed you! You can’t let emotions ruin your gain. A soft ‘I see’ was perfect.

  ‘I do hope that is satisfactory to you, for Oliver’s sake.’

  For your own sake, you mean. ‘I’ll have to ask Oliver. His mother too. This has shocked her deeply. It has offended our good name. Frankly we’re appalled by St George’s heavy-handedness.’

  ‘I apologise for any perceived heavy-handedness. But I hope we can reach an agreement on how to proceed from here.’

  ‘I’ll speak to my wife.’

  ‘Of course. Of course. Just one thing I’d like to ask of you, if I may. The story you were intending to write about St George’s: I was hoping you’d decide not to continue with it.’

  When holding the upper hand you don’t lower it fast. You must let the power linger and stay threatening.

  ‘The story is already in the system. We are not in the habit of killing stories. It’s against our principles.’

  ‘I see. And there’s no exception? Not even in this case?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what. I shouldn’t do this but I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it.’

  ‘I can promise nothing. It is not an easy process but I’ll consider it.’

  And with that Mr Oxford worriedly thanked me.

  I ended the call without responding. Not even a cursory goodbye for politeness.

  I wasn’t about to celebrate. No applauding myself or chuckling. No strutting to Emma and boasting, ‘Guess what I’ve achieved.’ I live too much with one eye on those opposite forces. Therefore I walked into the kitchen frowning.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she said.

  I shrugged and said nothing was wrong. I sighed good heavens and told her there’d been a ‘turnaround concerning Ollie’. I couldn’t help but big-note myself. Just a little big-noting despite the opposite-forces worry.

  ‘I’m like a man who doesn’t know his own strength. I guess they realised who they were dealing with. That’s what you don’t fully grasp about me. I have clout in this town, Emma. I’m not some shitkicker.’

  And then I told her about my bluffing Mr Oxford. Despite my views on honesty and the trouble it causes.

  ‘You would use us in a story? You’re disgraceful.’

  ‘No, no, no. I was bluffing him, Emma. I was trying it on, and it worked.’

  I should have kept my mouth shut. You have a victory and it goes unappreciated.

  ‘I was bluffing. I was pressuring. I was using my edge. I had no intention of going ahead. This is life, Emma. And I triumphed.’

  She was staring agape at me
—snobby doctor’s-daughter outrage. If she lectured me now she’d use ‘inappropriate’ in the sentence: prissy word of the well-bred when they’re censorious.

  But she surprised me and said, ‘That’s terrible, Callum.’

  I didn’t mind ‘terrible’. It’s a hard word, strong. When applied to people it means they take the world on. They’ve got that animal trait that Pockets bangs on about. I almost smiled and blurted hooray but stopped my lips between my fingers.

  ‘If that’s the way you feel I’ll ring him back and say, “It was all just bullshit, Mr Oxford. You can kick our son out. We won’t stand up for him or complain.”’

  Ollie was at the front door. The lock unclicking as his key turned.

  ‘Come here, son,’ I called. ‘I’ve got good news.’

  I didn’t hesitate about big-noting myself to him. How often does a dad have status like this to show off? The teachers he fears were fearful of me, his father.

  ‘This whole affair was their fault, not yours, Ollie. Remember that. They take my money on the premise you’ll learn. They’ve not done their job but they will from this night on. And if they don’t I’ll get them to waive their fees.’

  Emma ridiculed the notion, a mocking puff of cheek.

  ‘I can,’ I assured her, though I was getting carried away. ‘It’s what’s called having their full frightened attention.’

  I was jabbering too much but I had Emma in a bind. Expulsion of her son was at stake—a very serious issue compared with twisting a teacher’s arm. There were no censorious utterings from her or frowns to impugn me. Perhaps I appalled and impressed her all in one, like the old days. Yes, perhaps I did. Perhaps the mix that it made was wild and attractive. The same mix she once fell in love with. Those green eyes of hers, weren’t they fixed on my face, blinklessly? No, when I smiled she did not return it. But she did say this: Callum, I want you to stay right there.

  She went to the stovetop to boil some pasta water.

  Stay right there? Could that mean stay for dinner? No, don’t make a ‘slow balance’ mistake, I warned myself. Perhaps she’d offer me wine in a minute. If she did I would say, ‘Just one glass.’ We’d clink our two glasses. We’d say cheers and I might lean forward and whisper, ‘Bet his marks improve from now on. I must say it feels grand to control ole St George’s.’

  She’d turn her ear closer and I’d kiss it like pecking.

  And I’d stay all right. I’d stay for dinner. I’d stay the night, in the spare room after too many blood-thick shirazes. I wouldn’t rush getting back into my own bed with her. We’d be happy, we’d be laughing. Flirting as if dating. Like it was when we first met and did not rush past kissing. Nervous, respectful. I was forty-eight years old and I felt thirty-three again.

  Such demurring would not last, of course. I am nothing if not a man of deadlines. My deadline for bed with her was our anniversary night.

  As Emma pushed the ticking knob that sparked the gas claws into fiery curls I bantered with Ollie about stepping on toes being inevitable in life.

  ‘You don’t get ahead and not step on toes. It’s a sad thing but life requires heels and fists. You get walked over if you’re not willing to fight back. With your brain, I mean. Use your wits. Find some leverage.’

  Emma did not mean stay the night. She did not mean wine and dinner, rapprochement. She meant stay in the don’t move sense. She had a bone to pick. I was not to leave like some swaggering eminence.

  ‘Ollie,’ she said, ‘you watch the water. Yell when it boils. You come into the lounge, please.’

  ‘I don’t think you need to talk to me like I’m a child.’

  ‘Oh, I think I do,’ she said, closing the big lounge doors that phumph their latches on meeting.

  ‘I hate being in this situation, Callum. On the one hand our son facing expulsion for deception. On the other hand you fixing it by deception. Damn you, Callum. Ollie is not like you. Do not try and turn him into you. I will go to lawyers to prevent you seeing him if I have to.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Emma. You’re upset. I understand.’

  ‘I will do it, I swear I will.’

  ‘For saving my son’s future? Seems the older you’ve got the less adventurous have become your attitudes. But I’m not going to argue. You married a muckraker and now complain about his morals? You go tell that to lawyers and see if they keep a straight face. You’re the parent at fault here for not saying I’d do anything for my son: deception, murder, stealing, anything.’

  Ollie was hollering now about the water being ready. I kept on with my self-justification.

  ‘I’m not saying we go around murdering and stealing. We’re too middle-class. In slums or Uganda we might think very differently. But in our world we can tolerate a little deception. For a good cause. For our Oliver.’

  Ollie kept yelling. Emma barked Coming. She had lips thin as cotton thread now. Her thinking-face lips. Yes, I had her in a bind.

  ‘All right. Just this once, Callum. Just this once, for Ollie’s sake, we say it was worth it. But promise me this. You would never consider using us in one of your stories.’

  ‘Sure. I promise. Like I said, I was bluffing.’

  She opened the doors. I turned left down the hall. I called good night to Ollie but not to Emma. I was angry. I’d been threatened with lawyers. She’d put a fear into me.

  19

  Fear does two things in the bloodstream of a human. It runs like stinging venom through your body. Your legs are enfeebled and your bowels turn watery. Your natural reaction is to yield to the symptoms. To shrink from the one who scared you. To cower. It is not ennobling. Your manly pride is not spared. You are under the thumb of another. You are not a free man. That’s when your powers of resentment take over. You turn against the fear, and fight and rage at it. No Emma or lawyer had the right to control my normal nature: I’m in the business of controlling. I’m the thumb.

  For instance, this Mr Oxford fellow. My normal next step would be to employ the following maxim: when you have good leverage it should never be wasted. People take advantage if you don’t follow through. Mr Oxford might recover his dignity, call bluff to my bluffing and Ollie be maltreated for his father’s trickery.

  And with leverage comes opportunity to secure more leverage. Was it possible, say, to finesse Ollie’s grades? That would raise journo leverage to a level called blackmailing. Was it possible? Yes, of course it was. All my life I’ve exploited other people’s lives, their tragedies and their triumphs, to earn my wages. Those little thefts were not considered crime. Blackmail was no worse in my opinion. For once the dead glitter in me would be worth it.

  On I went with this thinking between the tasks of the next few days. I didn’t contact Ollie—I was in that mood where he gave me the shits. So much disappointment in him. So brainless a son. Why me?

  I left Emma alone to let her cool down. Let her become more grateful to me for sparing her the shame of an expelled offspring.

  Katie Brooks had filed her Myrtleford story and I gave it a good smithing. ‘Still saw no corpse,’ she complained, but she did have an interview: an exorcist from an order of Catholic friars. ‘He really is, Words. I promise. He’s an exorcist. In town to de-Satan the death house.’

  He’d let Katie watch and she took secret photos.

  My headline? Two Bloody Marys and a Holy Water!

  I rang Peeko and said let’s have another meeting. By the foreshore again, the Pub on Pier.

  I did not confide every morsel to the woman. I simply admitted my personal grievance—that my own flesh and blood had been maligned by snobs. The education system was corrupt and heartless. No child of Callum Smith’s would be cast aside like rubbish because his brainbox had a defect that was no fault of mine. The love you have for your children is the ultimate instinct.

  ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ I said—I assumed Peeko was childless. Never assume is the first rule of journalism. There I was not applying it, like a negligent novice.

  ‘That so
?’ she said through a smoke emanation. ‘I know about children. I’ve got one of them. A son.’

  Peeko Mellich a mother? I could tell she was serious by the tilt of her head. A tilt that meant don’t scoff or from now on she’d hate me. The last thing you’d want is a Peeko-held grudge.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘A son, you say? You’ll understand a parent’s love, then. Our protective urges.’

  ‘That’s why I put him in a boarding school in New Zealand. As far away as I can afford from his mother’s influence. I want him to grow up…decent. Upright. He knows nothing of the work I do.’

  Was I supposed to be honoured to witness such self-loathing? I did not ask who the father was. I didn’t have to. She informed me he was dead. With someone like Peeko you want to ask, ‘Did you kill him?’

  ‘Metaphorically dead,’ she said. ‘Even I have had one-night stands.’

  I hadn’t come here to forge a heart-to-heart friendship. Her intimate details were her business alone. I had no interest in her one-night stands. I hoped she was not attracted to me. I think she was. I think she’d brushed her hair. I was frustrated in the sex sense, certainly: Peeko was no oil painting but all people are oil paintings in the clutching and sweating of bed. I was sworn off women other than Emma. I was impotent, which makes swearing off instant and easier.

  I took out my wallet as a sign to her. Her detective time was what I’d come for. Name her price for poking around St George’s. Any scandals hushed up. ‘Finances. Sex. You know, the usual.’