I slept. I woke and the letter had not left me. It was there on the table of my heart. I read it over and over. It said, Get in first, for your dignity’s sake. Get in first and divorce her.
So it no longer worried me to ring home and endure Emma’s judging of me, her snide disapproval, her ire. Intervention-order threats? I have my USB drives for an offensive.
I wanted to tell her this: her boyfriend might be going to jail for his wrongdoing. Me, I’ll be going to jail for doing good.
‘He is not my boyfriend,’ she said, when I called.
‘Whatever.’
‘He’s not flawless but he is not you.’
‘This phone call is to ask you to be a responsible mother at least. Take time off from soliciting a new man in your life and sit down with our son and explain my situation. Warn I’ll be going to jail. But going to jail as a hero, not as a criminal.’
I made sure to hang up before her scepticism started. My closing line was ‘Have a nice life.’
She probably thought that last line was sarcasm. But I’d been far too long the grovelling husband. All bluff and bullshit, a man who’d worm his way back to her arms. She’d be shocked to receive my lawyer’s letter, I said to me. Let her go cry on Gordon Grace’s shoulder. I’d be a household name by the time that happened. She could weep, ‘That hero used to be my husband.’
*
It was a slow-crime day but the news list had substance—a bashing in Ringwood. An ATM ram raid where the villains’ car stalled. I used an old headline like a written guffaw: A Bungler’s Guide to Botched Burglaries.
A ram raid is not a burglary as such, but who cares when there’s levity in the headline.
I splashed with Ryan Scullen and his brothel chronicle. I ran an index on the spill page with sex-term definitions—
Breath-play…smothered till orgasm.
Suspension…strung up by ropes.
I left out the blood fetishes and brown showers: the yuck stuff.
Mai Tran called in sick, which I presumed wasn’t sickness. More my softening-up tactics via The Cat and Katie. Let her spend the day looking for new jobs, I didn’t mind.
The Cat and Katie were out. You’d expect that, doing their chores for my story. It gave a chance for the lesser learners to get yarns somewhere prominent, not shoved down the list to obscurity: an arts bureaucrat on a charge of drug dealing; a pet groomer caught snow-dropping—pinching undies from clotheslines.
I worked on When the Bough Breaks between edits but was not at my best because of sleepiness. An all-nighter blands the next day’s sentences. You need eight hours in bed to re-sparkle them. I made an appointment with Cobblestone Family Law Group. They had a reputation: expensive but fierce. I asked for a female lawyer. A female enemy needs a female ally. An insight into their thinking instead of my blunt-axe ploys. I felt failed and dirty as I have done with stories. But like stories you get on with being dirty. There is no alternative. Nature red in tooth and claw, remember. There is no transgression you cannot forgive yourself for.
By the time I arrived at my shop-top home I was a man slow-tongued as if from drink.
Ollie rang. ‘You’re going to prison?’
His mother, to her credit, had reinforced in a good cause.
‘You’re going to be famous? Like seriously famous, a hero and stuff?’
His veneration so swept me into a reverie I could not deny him having a martyr for a father. I more than played along. No small responsibility, I said, taking on the law. But idealists must be strong. Their family must be resilient, stand side by side with them regardless of consequences.
‘Son, let me explain this to you. This woman who was sick and did a terrible thing to her baby, she should not be punished all her life. Put yourself in her position. You’d want forgiveness.’
He was umming and ahhing in an empathetic effort but sounded dimwitted more than enlightened.
‘Let me put it another way. If someone said to your mum, “Emma, you can never see Ollie ever again,” what would you think of that?’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘It’s just an example.’
‘Mum’s done nothing wrong.’
‘Of course not. But just imagine she had and the law stepped in and said she couldn’t.’
‘They can do that?’
‘In some cases. That’s what I’m standing up against. Like we stood up to your school.’
‘That was cool.’
‘That was very cool. And I’m very cool now on behalf of this young mother, this Kelli woman. But the Kelli case is on a bigger scale than your school. That’s where jail comes in.’
‘Jail for how long?’
‘I don’t know. Could be a few days. It could be a long while. I have to make the judge very angry. The longer in jail the better for me because I’ll be more acclaimed.’
‘Famous.’
‘Famous. And you will be too.’
‘Me?’
‘Oh yes. There’ll be TV cameras. No question about that. I’d like to think you’d come to court to support me. You’d be the son of a public figure. You can say that to your schoolmates—“My father’s important.”’
‘Sweet.’
‘And I’ll need you to be man of the house. Make sure that Gordon scumbag doesn’t try to take over. Tries to sleep in my bed. Touch my hibiscus. Tell him to piss off if he tries to order you around. And you mow my lawn. Take on more responsibility. Will you do that?’
He promised he would.
I showered. I put on my dressing gown, sat in the kitchen and jotted a plan for pry in my absence.
Katie would be the best option for manager. Grammatical standards would slide but I’d expect visits by her for my advice. I’d create a new column: Callum’s Updates from Jail. I’d use Katie for dictating when she visited.
When Pockets returned from his marital-repair mission I would expect him to cower as the law shook its gavel. He could always surprise and try to join me in jail. Most likely he’d shun his wordsmith as a rogue influence, a pariah. Depends on the glamour I’d garnered and the kudos.
Don’t think I was neglectful of Kelli’s dilemma. The O’Boughs had put faith in me knowing the risks that I might fail. Whatever my motives, they did have my sympathy: professional sympathy. Compared to the real thing, it does not run deep.
There was coffee fur on my teeth. I brushed them.
‘Take the toothbrush to court,’ I joked to me.
It wasn’t all joke. A jailbird needs hygiene.
32
What was Mai Tran doing at her desk next morning? I expected her to keep ringing in sick while she looked for new employment. Perhaps she had a letter of resignation to hand me. Yet there she was, sneezing with genuine illness, dabbing her nostrils with Kleenex and sipping a hot drink of ginger. She stood up and apologised for her car-crash behaviour.
‘I know I have to develop a stronger stomach, Words. I know you’re disappointed in me. That crash was my first experience with death. I’ll get harder, I promise.’
The skin gutter under her nose was wet. Shreds of tissue in each hand. I admired the apology but doubted her promise was binding. A strong stomach is not a product you can go out and buy.
‘I don’t know, Mai. I’m sure you’re sincere but you have to ask, “Am I right for this business?”’
She didn’t say she was.
‘Is that a no from you? You have to say to yourself, “Am I a natural at this?”’
‘I wasn’t a natural at tax. I wanted a job with excitement. There must be a course I can take for developing…a stomach.’
‘Fair enough. You give it a try. See how you progress. Take yourself to crime scenes. Ask to see an autopsy. They sometimes allow that. Ring the coroner, ring the coppers.’
She beamed thank you, she’d do that; she’d ring around now.
I enjoyed the benevolence of giving a second chance.
Mai returned to her desk and Katie stood up from hers. She looked at me
and her shoulders lifted and sank. She’s nervous, I thought. She’s plucking up courage. She gave a jerk of her head for The Cat to join her. They walked to my office with grim, thin-lipped faces. They each carried envelopes. They handed them to me.
‘What’s this?’ I asked. I tore Katie’s open.
‘Our letters of resignation,’ she said. ‘We’re both moving on.’
‘What? Why? Where?’
‘We’ve been poached by streetmouth. We’d like to leave pretty well now, if that’s fine with you.’
‘That is not fine with me. What the fuck’s streetmouth?’
‘A news channel on YouTube. It’s more money for us, plus possible shares.’
‘I know these ruses—you want me to up your pay. I’ll think about it. Now back to work.’
‘We’re serious, Words. We’re leaving.’
The Cat took a step backward. Katie didn’t, even when I threw the envelopes at their feet.
‘That’s the gratitude I get? I take you under my wing. I put in time teaching you. All the little tricks. Getting you honed. I fix your mistakes, your finger-and-gun moments, your fucked-up grammar. I had plans for you, Katie. You were my chosen one. You were the one I thought She’ll fill my shoes.’
‘Sorry, Words. We appreciate your mentorship. But we’ve made our decision. We’ll be there on video. Thousands or millions watching. Not hidden away tapping out sentences.’
Ryan Scullen and Mai Tran were closest to my office. I read their lips: ‘Wow’ and ‘Shit’ and ‘I’m shocked’, they were whispering.
‘Can you mind your own business out there, please?’
So this was how it felt when your star staff walked out on you. I’d done it myself and I knew the ritual. My job now as editor was not to wish them well. My right as the rejected was to send them off hatefully.
‘Your timing is brilliant. You’re letting me down. I’ve got this big story and no help from you. Ah, get out!’ I grunted. ‘Go on, out. Go to your desks, get your personal things. Leave. Do not take pry property. Do not chat to staff. Be on your way. Bugger off to this streetmouse.’
‘Streetmouth.’
‘Whatever. On your way, Katie. You’d learn more from me here than some streetmouth.’
The Cat picked up the envelopes and placed them timidly on my desk. I flicked them to the floor.
‘About our entitlements,’ he said, that guilt and fear look in his eye-olives. That habit he has of biting his nails till they hurt.
‘Admin will contact you. Go on, out.’
I followed them, made sure they didn’t take stationery or staplers. Didn’t fiddle with their computers to thieve old news lists to show their new boss. Things that I’ve done when changing employers.
‘You sure that’s your umbrella?’ I said. ‘That’s a pry umbrella.’
‘It’s not.’
‘It is.’
I stared at Katie until she returned it to the coat rack. It probably was her umbrella. I wanted revenge and petty revenge would do, even dudding her of a ten-dollar umbrella.
I walked behind them down the stairs, down the corridor till they were off the premises. I stood in the doorway with my fists on my hips, then went upstairs to the coat rack.
‘That’s disloyalty for you, everyone. They’d even steal our umbrellas.’
Only Ryan turned around and acknowledged my quip with a nodded yeah.
‘I’ll see you in my office please, Ryan. Mai, you as well. Two leaving creates two opportunities.’
I swivelled in my chair and muttered streetmouth, streetmouth. ‘You heard of it?’
‘Sure,’ said Ryan. ‘People my age watch it. It tries to be cool. Graffiti-wall backgrounds.’
‘Crap, is it?’
‘I think. Not like we do, hard crime. More like celebrity bullshit. But they’re trying to branch out. You want me to show you on my computer?’
‘No. It’s banned in this office. I do not want to see it or hear the name mentioned again.’
I gave Ryan the job I’d given to Katie.
‘Faithflock, the church is. A guy called Pastor Shaw.’
Mai got The Cat’s job—infanticide statistics.
‘I’m letting you in on the story of a lifetime. I hope you both appreciate it.’
We do, we do, they said and hurried off to impress me.
33
I was ready to sweet talk Peeko two days later. My copy was perfect and my courage was solid stone. I’d not solved the problem of who would run pry in my absence, but it wasn’t as if jail would utterly silence me. Ryan would act as messenger if needed. When the Bough Breaks would so dominate our pages I’d instruct my staff to take holidays. In fact the office would best be closed through the controversy. A Ryan or a Mai was too green to field calls from reporters. Police would walk right over them and shut pry down. I wrote a list of instructions called ‘The Arrest Plan’ for the noticeboard: Ryan’s instructions were to lock the doors and tape this missive to the front window: Direct all enquiries to Callum Smith. Wherever he be, jail or courtroom.
Peeko did not return my calls—three of them. I said sorry ten times in the messages.
‘Please, Peeko. Please help me. This is the big one. Call back.’
She didn’t, which is unprofessional. I had a ‘last supper’ with myself at the shop-top. Takeaway Thai and a cabernet. I slept poorly—my adrenaline was coursing—but I was ready for war.
The only piece of the story not filed for my smithing was the Pastor Shaw element—he was doing a Peeko and not returning calls. What’s wrong with people! Where’s their courtesy? I sent Ryan to hound him and he came back perturbed. He said Pastor Shaw had heard a confession from Katie: the stoning I’d done to him, the payment to Alice. He had no intention of ever dealing with pry.
‘The funny thing is, Words, he knew about the O’Boughs. He said Katie’s doing the same story for streetmouth. She’s videoed him saying the very speech that you wanted.’
‘You shouldn’t joke of such things, Ryan. Not a story of this magnitude.’
The boy had no smirk on his face to suggest joking.
‘I’m not joking.’
‘Repeat what he said.’
‘She’s videoed him saying Kelli O’Bough deserves mercy.’
My gut cramped. I felt my heart stop. I thumped it back into rhythm with my palm.
‘She’s doing a nosepick? Please. No. She’s doing a nosepick.’
‘What’s a nosepick?’
‘A nosepick is a nosepick. Thieving a story from under your nose.’
Where was my phone? Where was her number?
I rang. Disconnected said the robot voice.
My heart needed another thumping.
‘No need to panic, Words,’ I said. ‘She won’t have got in with the O’Boughs like I did. She won’t have met Kelli and toured her shrine room.’
I rang the O’Bough home. Danny O’Bough answered gruff and guttural, his usual way.
‘Danny, I wanted to let you know I’m ready to publish. Just need to have your assurance you’ve spoken to no one else.’
‘Of course we haven’t. We promised you. We trust you.’
I closed my eyes, sighing and smiling.
‘Only those two kids you sent round.’
‘What two kids?’
‘The girl Katie Brooks and her boyfriend, the Greek boy. Polite kids.’
‘I never sent them round.’
‘They said you sent them to do fact checking.’
‘And you let them in?’
‘They said you sent them. They had pry business cards.’
‘You let them in?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Two days ago.’
‘They were lying.’
‘You saying they weren’t your people?’
‘They were my people. But not now. They’re with streetmouth doing a nosepick. What did you tell them? Did they interview Kelli?’
‘They interviewed h
er and they put it on film. They said you wanted a video of Kelli’s room.’
‘Shit.’
‘They’ve fucked us over, my family?’
‘They’ve fucked you over and they’ve done it to me.’
I heard him call Marie’s name. ‘Those kids we let in,’ he said. ‘They were lying to us. Yes, lying. I’m talking to the Callum person now. He never sent them. We should never have let anyone in our house.’
He started yelling at me. Swearing then banging the receiver down.
‘I should never have let you or anyone in my house.’
Bang. Bang.
‘I am very sorry.’
Bang. Bang. Poor bugger was crying. Marie was trying to quieten him.
‘They’re all low-life. Scum and filth,’ he was crying to her.
‘I’m sorry, Danny,’ I said. ‘I am truly sorry.’
‘You’re going to be. I’ll hunt you down and smash your face in.’
‘Danny, I’m sorry.’
‘I’ll fucking kill you.’
‘Don’t threaten me.’
‘I’ll kick your teeth in, you bastard.’
‘I’m trying to be civil and you’re making threats. I’m recording this phone call. I’ll get the police.’
I hadn’t recorded it but my voice recorder was right there in my satchel. I pincered it out with the ends of my fingers, pressed the button and told O’Bough to repeat what he said.
‘Come on, repeat it. You have threatened my life. I do not take kindly to menacing language.’
Marie was saying, Careful, Danny. Settle down.
He swore, fuckers and bastards. The line went dead on me.
This was a job for Peeko Mellich. No one spreads a bad name with the precision of Peeko. She can ruin your life, knows the right ears for whispers. Oh yes, Katie and The Cat deserved the Peeko treatment.
It took three more messages till she replied.
She said she could not help, nosepick or no nosepick.
Off the Record Page 21
