by Peter Ralph
“Kurt,” Aspine yelled into the intercom, “is everything going to plan?”
“Yes, Mr A…Doug.”
“That’s better. Now that wasn’t so hard was it? Keep me in the loop today. As soon as you’ve completed the retrenchments I want a full report.”
“Don’t worry,” Kurt replied, his voice heavy with resignation. “I have teams at each site, and I’ve instructed the branch managers. It’ll be over by two o’clock.”
- 5 -
NEWS OF THE retrenchments was across all of the popular Melbourne radio stations by three o’clock, and the secretary of the Construction Employees Union expressed outrage that the union had not been consulted and the Enterprise Bargaining Agreement had been breached. Sympathetic talkback jocks took calls from angry retrenched workers and then milked their rage for all it was worth. The Victorian premier criticized the management of Mercury, and said the government would look at providing short-term assistance to the retrenched workers. The prime minister declined to comment about the company, but expressed sympathy and concern for the workers.
Aspine met Wes and his assistants in the car-park of the building where the media conference was to be held, and they took the elevator to the sixteenth floor. Aspine found the room surprisingly large, but only half a dozen chairs were occupied and only one television station was in attendance. “Why’s the room so large, Wes? How many do you expect to attend?”
“Don’t worry, only thirty or so. I just don’t like the idea of a small intimate room where these bastards can feed off each other.”
“Yeah, I understand,” Aspine said, ambling toward the front table.
“Not too casual, Douglas. Look down at your feet, and when you sit down don’t look at the pricks; drop your eyes to the table. I’ve got a few of my contacts here and they’ll feed you some easy questions,” Wes said, his face drawn in mock concern.
There was a flurry of activity at the door and they looked up to see two Channel Sixteen cameramen followed by an attractive woman wearing a smart mauve suit and oversized sunglasses. She was smaller than she appeared on television, but was well put together and her dark black hair shone.
“What’s Fiona Jeczik doing here? She presents stories about fashion, food, health and diet so why would Your Family Today have any interest in this?” Aspine muttered, under his breath.
Wes was unconcerned. “Don’t worry. She’s probably having a quiet day and looking to fill in a couple of minutes on her show tonight.”
There were close to forty in the room when Aspine stood up, introduced himself and read a prepared speech. His face was solemn as he told of his anguish and concern for those who had been retrenched. As he was sitting down, the first question came from the floor.
“Why’d you really sack 'em? To cut costs and increase profits?”
“No, no. I had no choice. Had the retrenchments not taken place, the positions of the remaining three thousand six hundred employees would have been in jeopardy,” Aspine responded, brushing a large white handkerchief under his eyes.
“Why didn’t you consult the employees or their union?”
“There wasn’t time. I had to be decisive if I was going to ensure the continuity of the company and its ongoing employees.”
“The company had over twenty million in cash at last balance date. Why don’t you just admit that you made these sackings to preserve it for your shareholders?”
“No, that’s not right. I thought about our stakeholders, our suppliers, the people who we owe money to, our customers, the community, the charities we support, and of course the employees who we’ll go forward with. Let me assure you, Mercury is a good corporate citizen.”
“So the company’s not broke then?”
“No, but that’s not to say it wouldn’t have got into trouble had this action not been taken,” Aspine said sombrely, while smiling to himself. This was far easier than he had anticipated, and he felt himself relaxing.
Fiona Jeczik’s voice was sweet and warmer than it sounded on television. “Is it true that you’ve only been with the company five days, Mr Aspine?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Do you have a company car?” She smiled.
Bitch! He knew where she was going, and he kicked Wes hard under the table.
“What’s the point of the question, Ms Jeczik?” Wes said, sharply.
She ignored him. “It’s a million dollar Ferrari isn’t it?”
A few gasps came from the other journos, and the mood of the meeting noticeably changed.
“No, it’s not,” Aspine snapped.
“What the million dollars or the Ferrari?” She smiled, her perfect white teeth contrasting with her flawless olive skin.
Aspine felt himself staring directly into the cameras and his eyes shifting from side to side. He quickly dropped them to the table.
“Does anyone else have a question?” Wes asked.
Again she ignored him. “Is it true that your salary and bonuses will exceed five million this year?”
Fucking bitch! Who’d leaked? “No!”
“Isn’t it true that you’re on a million dollar cash bonus if you can increase profits by fifty per cent?” she asked, her dark eyes twinkling.
“That’s confidential. I’m not going to answer that.”
“You just did, Mr Aspine. You just did,” she laughed. “How does it feel to have the blood of six hundred families on your hands just to increase your own wealth?” Her smile turned to a sneer of disgust.
He felt himself sweating, touching the knot of his tie, feeling his shirt cuffs, twitching; and, no matter where he looked, those fucking cameras seemed to follow his every move. He nudged Wes hard in the ribs.
“Ms Jeczik, what you just said is untrue and defamatory,” Wes blustered.
“I guess you’ll just have to sue me then. I’d love to stay and ask more questions, but I have a deadline to meet.”
As she stood to leave a flurry of questions came from the journos all related to Aspine’s salary, bonus and car. The media pack smelt blood and were baying for more.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I think we’ve been more than fair, but we only booked this room for an hour. I thank you for your attendance, but we have to bring this conference to a close,” Wes said.
One of Wes’s assistants punched the elevator button to the car-park. The mood was tense and Aspine was black with rage as he muttered, “Fucking bitch, fucking bitch.” Then he turned and glared at Wes. “I was told you were the best, but you let me get me ambushed. You ever do that again, and I’ll be telling you to shove your public relations firm up where it best fits.”
“It wasn’t our fau...”
“Yes it was. You were blindsided. You never anticipated that bitch being there. You fucking goofed up.”
There was a piece of paper under his windscreen wiper. I guess I was right about the Ferrari, but not the million dollars? How much was it? Nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand? Bitch. Bitch. Bitch, he thought, tearing it into pieces. He turned his mobile on and listened to his messages. There were three from Harry Denton, which were barely decipherable and sounded like he was having a heart attack. Two were from the union’s secretary, and one from the organizer. There were three anonymous calls, probably from ex-employees, threatening to kill him. The only one he would return was from Sir Edwin, but even he could wait. His head was aching, and he felt a migraine coming on. He needed to see Charlie – desperately.
“Meet me in that wine bar off Chapel Street in thirty minutes,” he snapped, dispensing with any cordiality.
“You mean the Greville Bar?”
“Yeah, and Charlie, get a cab or walk there.”
“Sure darling. I’ll see you soon,” she murmured nervously. She knew he’d had a bad day and that she was about to hear all about it, while he drank himself senseless. She far preferred it when he just visited, had sex and went home − sometimes she even enjoyed it when he was in a buoyant mood, but that was rare. When he d
rank he became morose, evil tempered and sadistic. She showered quickly, not wanting to be late, and threw on a yellow blouse, white slacks and flat sandles that wouldn’t hurt her feet on the fifteen minute walk. The Ferrari was parked out the front of the Greville and when she entered the small intimate bar, he was sitting at one of the tables, sipping red wine while staring vacantly over the top of his glass.
She bent down and kissed him. “Hi hon.”
“What are you drinking?” he grunted, pushing his car keys over to her. “Make sure you don’t dent it or there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Mineral water,” she replied, a sense of dread coming over her.
For the next two hours he related his day over and over, his face becoming darker and darker, while he drank two bottles of red. She’d seen him like this before, when the only effect the alcohol had was to drive him into a rage. “Fucking bitch,” he growled, for the tenth time. “What do you think?”
She knew she couldn’t say anything that would make him happy or appease him. “Why don’t we go home and go to bed, Doug? It’ll make you feel better.”
“Later. I need a drink,” he said, catching the barman’s eye. “Let me have another bottle of the same.”
She excused herself to go to the toilet and every male eye in the bar ogled her. When she returned he was seething and imagined her hair was jet black, her skin dark brown, her nose more aquiline and that she was wearing deep red lipstick.
“Fucking bitch,” he shouted, and the bar went silent.
She put her hand on his arm. “Doug, Doug, it’s me.”
He shook his head and the image of Fiona Jeczik faded. “Fucking bitch.”
“Let’s go home, Doug. Come on, hon.”
A big strapping blonde-haired man, who’d been drinking at the bar, sauntered over and asked. “Are you alright, Miss? Is he annoying you? Can I do anything to help?”
Before she could answer, Aspine snarled, “Why don’t you fuck off?”
The big man ignored him. “Miss?”
“I’m fine,” she lied.
Charlie hoped that Aspine would flake on the drive to her apartment, but he sat bolt upright, muttering words that were indecipherable, other than “bitch.” She parked near the elevator and went around to the passenger side of the car to help him.
“I’m alright,” he slurred, pushing her away.
He slumped out of the elevator and stumbled down the corridor to the apartment, collapsing on the sofa and using the remote to flick on the television.
“Would you like coffee?”
“Get me a Jack Daniels.”
She waited for her coffee to brew and made a silent wish that he would be asleep when she returned to the living room. He wasn’t. Instead, he was sitting on the edge of the sofa with his eyes glued to the television, watching the late night news. She heard the word Mercury, and there was Fiona Jeczik smiling out from the screen, before the camera panned to Doug, his eyes shiftily darting from side to side.
“Doug,” Charlie said, reaching out to hand him his drink. She moved her head at the last moment and his fist clipped her shoulder before glancing off her forehead. She was dazed and staggering when he stood up and threw her on the carpet, crashing down on top of her. “Fucking bitch,” he shouted as he started tearing her clothes off. She didn’t struggle, but lay still, closed her eyes, bit her lip and prayed it would be quick. She felt his full weight slump on her and knew it was over. His breathing became heavy and he fell into a deep, drunken sleep. She lay trapped under him, tears running down her cheeks. Hours later she awoke − he was gone − all she was wearing was the yellow blouse, and she felt cold and dirty. She shuffled into the bathroom and took a near boiling shower in a futile attempt to physically and mentally cleanse herself.
Barbara shook him hard. “Wake up, wake up, Sir Edwin’s on the phone.”
His head was thumping and it felt like someone had thrown glass in his eyes. His throat was parched, he couldn’t remember anything after leaving the wine bar and had no idea how he had got home. “What time is it?” he rasped.
“It’s just gone nine. You didn’t get home until five. Where were you all night?”
“Pass me the phone and get me a glass of water,” he grunted, trying to generate some saliva to ease his burning throat. “Good morning, Ed.”
“Douglas, you didn’t return my call.”
“I was flat out all day. I just ran out of time.”
“You should’ve made time. Harry’s called an emergency board meeting. They want to remove you. They wanted to hold it on Monday, but I said I wasn’t available and pushed it out until Friday. Harry’s as mad as hell.”
He sipped the water and felt it lubricating his throat. “Is that all?” He laughed.
“You’re not worried?”
“It’s too late. There’s nothing they can do. I guess I’ll just have to teach them a few facts of life.”
“You’re remarkably calm. They have a majority on the board and they’re going to try and sack you. I’m not sure I can save you.”
“Don’t lose any sleep over it, Ed. They’re not sacking anyone. Thanks for the call. I’ll see you on Friday.”
“I wish you’d phone when you’re going to be late. I was about to start phoning the hospitals and police stations. Is one phone call too much?” Barbara scowled.
He thought about bullshitting that he’d been out with clients, but she knew about his extra-marital affairs and, so long as he didn’t flaunt his conquests in front of her precious girlfriends, she ignored them. “No, it’s not. I’ll try and remember next time. Is Trevor home?” he asked, anxious to change the subject.
“Yes. Why?”
“I thought I’d take him out and buy that car he’s been pestering me about.”
Barbara visibly brightened. “That’d be nice. I’ll tell him. How long will you be?”
“As long as it takes to shower, have breakfast and skim-read the papers.”
“You won’t be skim-reading them. Your photo’s in The Age and Financial Review, and the commentaries aren’t very flattering. I’ll tell Trevor you’ll be ready by midday.”
The sackings were front page news and Aspine was castigated by reporters, unions, employees, social groups and the state government. Everyone was against him, but there had been heavy late buying of the company’s shares and they’d risen seven per cent on the day. He mused that the silent people with the money must have thought that he had done the right thing. The articles were no more than what he had expected, and only one reporter had raised the discrimination issue in relation to the over-fifties, and what he described as the overweight. Andrew Lawson, the secretary of the union, was reported as saying that he would meet with Mercury’s management and demand reinstatement for all. Failing this, the union would seek four weeks retrenchment pay per employee for each year worked. The hangover was wearing off and he grinned − he’d tell Lawson to fuck off and, with luck; the dopey prick would take the rest of the workforce out on strike, or do something equally stupid. There was an article hidden at the back of the Financial Review about Russell Ridgeway, CEO of ANQ Insurance, and the salary package he had negotiated, that amounted to nearly fifty million over three years. Ridgeway had done a mighty job turning the ailing insurer around, but as Aspine read the article he felt sick with envy.
“This is a terrific car, Dad. Have you tested it out yet?” Trevor asked.
“I haven’t, and I don’t intend to,” Aspine replied, dropping the gears back a cog, as he changed lanes and accelerated to pass a slower vehicle hogging the overtaking lane.
“Shit! Did you feel that? You passed him like he was standing. Can I have a drive?”
“No, you can’t. You couldn’t handle a car like this. Maybe in twenty years or so. Have you got your mind set on any particular car today?”
“Yeah, I’d like a WRX, or a good second-hand Nissan ZX.”
“They’re far too powerful. I was thinking of a Corolla, or Pulsar.”
/> “Fuck, Dad! They’re girls’ cars. The guys will heap shit on me if they see me driving that crap. How can you talk anyhow? How fast does this thing go? Three hundred and fifty clicks an hour?”
“Mind your language or you’ll get nothing. I’ve been driving for twenty-seven years and all you’ve done is take a few lessons. I’ve a good mind to buy you one of those boxy old Volvos. Now there’s a good safe car.”
“You do that and I won’t drive it. I’ll stick it out the front of the house and it can sit there,” Trevor responded, his eyes angry and defiant.
“Son, I was joking about the Volvo, but forget about the grunt cars. We’ll find a well-maintained Ford or Toyota for about ten thousand dollars, and get it mechanically checked before we buy it. How’s that sound?”
“Yeah, I guess a Ford’s okay, but I’d rather have a WRX.”
“Forget it. When you’re twenty-one and have your own money you can choose what you want, but I’m not buying you a WRX for you to go out and kill yourself. End of story. Now do you want to look at Fords or not?”
“Yeah, I suppose I’ll have to.”
The Sting phone tone echoed around the car. “Hello.”
“Mr Aspine?” A male with a distinctly Cockney accent asked.
