by Ray Smithies
‘Caravan park, did you say?’
‘Yes, Harrison’s Caravan Park to be precise,’ confirmed the informant.
‘Thank you for this lead. We’ll pursue this Mr Harrison a little further,’ stated Ivan. He ended the call and proceeded to enlighten his four coconspirators.
‘Excellent, Ivan. We may have our man - and outside the realms of Scorpio. How ironic!’ declared Indigo.
‘So how do we confront this Tom Harrison?’ queried the irrepressible Dave.
Indigo simply glared at his lackey’s line of questioning and then professed how he believed the matter should be handled.
‘Somehow we need to get to this guy, but the caravan park doesn’t sit comfortably with me. Too many inquisitive people coming and going. No, if we are to successfully lure our Mr Harrison, it’ll need to be done in a more constructive way. Something less conspicuous is required.’
‘Then we need to establish what his movements are over the next couple of days,’ Larry suggested.
‘Precisely! Grab a phone book and I’ll phone him now,’ ordered Indigo.
The number was located and Indigo dialled the caravan park. The sound of a male voice answered the call.
‘Mr Harrison, is it?’
‘Speaking, can I help you?’
‘Yes, my name is Fred Hanley and I wish to make an enquiry about a possible booking,’ commenced Indigo.
‘Certainly. When do you plan visiting and how many people, Mr Hanley?’
‘There’ll be four of us. My wife and myself and our two children.’
‘And the date?’
‘Within the next two weeks and possibly for three nights,’ responded Indigo.
‘Yes, we have a number of sites that would accommodate your family, Mr Hanley.’
‘Good. I’ll be in your area over the next two days and it would be appreciated if I could call in and perhaps select a van.’
‘Yes, that can be arranged.’
‘What are your movements, Mr Harrison, so I could see you personally?’
‘This afternoon would be difficult since I have an appointment with my accountant and a number of other matters to attend to. This evening, providing it’s before eight-thirty, would be fine.’
‘And tomorrow if I can’t make it?’
‘Any time during the day would be okay, except for tomorrow night due to a community meeting I must attend at O’Riley’s Inn.’
‘Thank you, Mr Harrison. You’ve been most helpful. I will most likely see you tomorrow afternoon.’
Indigo hung up and beamed like a child that had just been handed a lollipop. His next plan of attack had fallen nicely into place with the aid of a short and deceiving phone call. ‘So there you have it. How easy is that, my friends?’
‘Where do you propose to meet Harrison?’ queried Martin, slightly puzzled with his boss’s newfound burst of enthusiasm.
‘The community meeting seems perfect,’ declared Indigo.
‘Why the meeting?’ questioned Ivan.
‘I daresay it’ll be isolated from the prying public.’
‘Then we need to find out what time this meeting is supposed to start,’ suggested Martin.
‘Understandably. Where’s that book again and I’ll phone O’Riley’s,’ requested Indigo.
A chirpy voice responded. ‘O’Riley’s Inn, Kathy speaking.’
‘Good afternoon,’ Indigo said. ‘I’m enquiring about the community meeting scheduled for tomorrow evening. Could you please advise what time this is due to commence and the anticipated duration?’
‘One moment please and I’ll check,’ she replied.
Following a short pause the receptionist came back. ‘Sorry to have you wait. There’s been a change of plan. The meeting has been relocated to the RSL Club in Kelvin Street, due to a hotel convention being held here tomorrow night. It appears your meeting is set to start at eight pm and run for approximately two hours.’
‘Thank you for your help,’ Indigo said.
~ * ~
Y
esterday’s Covert Road atrocity had shaken the very foundations of Pedley. Shock, grief and anger typified the emotions of the township, but above all an air of nervousness seemed to be most prevalent. Due to the media’s intention to lay blame from the onset, it quickly became apparent that responsibility was the work of the drug underworld. This very insinuation had prompted uneasiness amongst the local community, and the general consensus was that there was more bloodshed to follow.
Emily had been deeply affected, and I understood this given the realisation that two of her acquaintances had fallen victim to yesterday’s brutal act. It was difficult to comprehend such violence, when innocent lives were involved through no knowledge or understanding of underworld retribution. This evil demonstration was nothing short of terrorism and a situation where the police had to quickly intervene to reinstate some confidence back into society.
Not surprisingly, Harrison’s Caravan Park reflected a mood of doom and gloom, with most tenants deciding to check out and not wait around for the inevitable. In the confines of the front office, Emily answered the persistent and ill-timed sound of an incoming call.
‘Hi Emily, it’s Stephen Buchanan here. Could I have a word with Tom if he’s available?’
‘Yes, of course. Just a moment Stephen.’ She covered the phone and said, ‘Tom, it’s Stephen Buchanan.’
I responded reluctantly, putting down the tools I had intended to use on a carpentry job. What in the hell would Buchanan be wanting at this time of day? Probably something that could wait.
Following pleasantries, Buchanan came straight to the point. ‘Tom, there’s been a change in plans regarding our meeting tonight. Some bloody hotel convention has forced us to transfer our meeting to the RSL Club.’
‘They could’ve given us a bit of warning.’
‘My thoughts exactly.’
‘Still an eight o’clock start?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘No problem. I guess a replacement venue won’t make any difference. I’ll see you this evening, Stephen.’
‘Okay, until then,’ concluded Buchanan.
Following the phone call I pondered for a moment on this evening’s meeting. In light of the Covert Road tragedy, I wasn’t exactly in the right frame of mind to debate issues surrounding the community’s welfare. The damn thing should have been postponed until the following week. Reaching for a copy of the agenda in my office, I glanced at the subjects set down for discussion and groaned at the mere thought of Ben Johnson arguing over a couple of the intended issues. This now had all the ingredients for a longer than normal meeting. Perhaps the committee would have the good sense to deny the publican a dogmatic and lengthy forum.
Pedley Community Monthly Meeting - 8.00pm 24 August
Chairperson - Tom Harrison
Agenda:
Introduction of new member, Ashley Collins
Improvements to foreshore parks and gardens
Flint’s supermarket chain - impact on local business
Proposed road improvement for Sunset Lookout
Subdivision of land east end of Williams Street
New Heresford Country Club proposal
New business
Committee Members:
Stephen Buchanan - Finance
Sergeant Darren Burke - Law
Martha Kellett - Education & Charity
Tom Harrison - Hospitality
Ben Johnson - Business
Richard Smyth - Council
Helen O’Neill - Ratepayers
Ashley Collins - Media
I could envisage Johnson putting forward a strong case for the subdivision, given he had a financial stake in this sizable piece of real estate. To my way of thinking it bordered on the unethical and was a blatant abuse of position. I for one would be objecting to this unnecessary need for a further housing complex. I also anticipated that yesterday’s drama would be on the agenda tonight.
Although Ben Johnson w
as aggressive by nature, his regular attempt to dominate proceedings was often met with considerable resistance. Generally his perceptions were only supported by Stephen Buchanan, a feeble and assenting role which often infuriated me. By comparison Richard Smyth held a senior position within council and was not one to be easy persuaded. I often thought his presence was the committee’s saving grace, given his hard-line approach and unbiased opinion.
Equally unperturbed and headstrong in their belief to do the right thing were Darren Burke and Martha Kellett. Both members represented notable aspects of the community and were not ones to be influenced by Johnson’s vindictive ways. Above all, they would fight hammer and tong to ensure their portfolios would prevail and subsequently adopt an impartial point of view when addressing any non-related issue. Excluding Ashley Collins, whose input was yet to be measured, the one remaining person was Helen O’Neil representing the ratepayers of the community. Whilst a less demanding responsibility, it did, however, raise matters of conflicting interest which drew objection from the near to retirement and often unyielding Smyth. He argued that her proposals were often unrealistic and too costly to support. As a result Helen generally relinquished the fight to succeed, but all in all my fellow committee members reflected a collection of people whose objectives and solutions provided the region with some positive mixture.
Emily interrupted my thoughts. ‘What did Stephen want?’
‘Just to tell me the meeting tonight has been transferred to the RSL.’
‘Same time, Tom?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, eight o’clock, but it makes no difference.’
‘Should’ve been postponed after what happened in town yesterday,’ stated Emily in a forceful tone.
‘Agreed and I’m not in the mood for all this bloody community talk tonight,’ I replied.
~ * ~
Following a journey of the hour hand around the clock, the time had arrived to make the short trip to Kelvin Street’s RSL. It was a mild night by winter standards and as I stepped from my car I could detect a hint of approaching rain. The overcast sky will keep the frost and bitter icy winds at bay, I thought. Having parked my car to the rear of the club, I could see that most of the committee members had already arrived. I was hopeful everyone would have the good sense to make this a quick meeting. In chairing this forum I sensed my chances were at least half reasonable.
Following pleasantries I took my seat at the top of the table. Only Ben Johnson and his antagonising tongue were conspicuous by their absence. Looking around and assessing each individual, I groaned inwardly at seeing Stephen Buchanan’s accumulation of paperwork before him. The guy appeared set for a lengthy session. At the opposite extreme Darren Burke sat directly to my left and could see his own reflection on the highly polished oak. Ashley Collins waited and appeared preoccupied in thought, still wearing that silly grin which had now become his trademark. Richard Smyth was catching up on some accumulated text messages, while Helen and Martha were in deep conversation regarding yesterday’s tragedy.
As if a grand entrance was Johnson’s divine right, the publican finally arrived in a blaze of verbal accusations. I could just make out that he was directing his delayed excuse at some new trainee, who required extra time to be shown the ropes. He then walked across to the one remaining vacant chair, still muttering something about incompetence. Ben Johnson was a pain in the arse at the best of times.
I opened the meeting by introducing Ashley Collins as our new member, a welcome addition to the committee in view of our previously poor media representation. The reporter beamed at the mere relevance of his inclusion. Following a string of accolades from my fellow members that would have Collins gloating if allowed to continue, I decided instead to push forward with our first item for discussion.
Casting an eye on the agenda, I envisaged that an improvement to the foreshore parks and gardens was a somewhat sombre prelude to the forthcoming topics. The general consensus had been to upgrade the area, with Johnson placing emphasis on the Molly Bloom wharf. He claimed the water gateway to Pedley was an important tourist site and therefore should be given the committee’s full support. On this occasion I agreed with the publican, but I anticipated some contentious issues would soon surface, for the man thrived on a serious debate. I suspected this topic to be the calm before the storm.
With the foreshore restoration receiving the group’s stamp of approval, I was then surprised by the committee’s newfound spirit of cooperation. Declaring the supermarket and road upgrade as approved projects, I did at least expect objection to the proposed Flint building, which undoubtedly would reflect a level of impact on the Murphy establishment amongst others.
I now envisaged the mood was about to swing, given the more controversial issue of the Williams Street subdivision. I read out the proposal that encompassed a thirty-hectare land site that would potentially give rise to more than two hundred housing projects. The bone of contention was twofold. One side of the argument put forward an opportunity in creating jobs to support the economy, in addition to laying claim that a central housing estate would be seen as an asset for the growing community. From the other side, a further subdivision was totally unnecessary, given the slow occupancy response to the outer estates. Pedley was not yet large enough to support a project of this scale and that money would be better spent upgrading some existing sites.
I decided to take a vote to establish where each member’s allegiance lay. In favour were Ben Johnson, Ashley Collins, Stephen Buchanan and Richard Smyth. Opposed included Helen O’Neill, Darren Burke, Martha Kellett and myself. No one had cast an undecided vote, which emphasised the importance of the issue. We were at a stalemate with four votes apiece and I could envisage the long slugging match to follow. Any chance of finishing this meeting early had now been squashed.
Without consultation or regard for others, Johnson suddenly addressed the debate on behalf of the affirmative group. In an unnecessary and rather intimidating display, he stood up pointing his finger at the two women, believing these two members to be the more easily persuaded.
‘Your argument is weak. You have no backbone in a case against the subdivision! How can you compare some outlying feeble site with the grandeur of this estate? This will have all the sought-after facilities and is within walking distance of the CBD,’ he claimed.
‘Sit down, Ben. There’s no need to be so forceful,’ I interjected.
‘I’m only putting my point across so you can see how foolish your decision is.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion ...’ I stopped short on seeing the main entry door open.
The unannounced arrival of three men caught everyone by surprise. They stepped forth with a sense of urgency. Their mannerism suggested the conference room was the intended objective, having deliberately ignored the occupied sign. Rather startled with their sudden entry, the eight of us simply glared at these intruders, believing there must be some mistake. The entrance door was subsequently closed behind them.
The person who led the intrusion appeared to be their spokesman. He looked around forty with a head of receding brown-and-white hair that was in need of a cut. Standing at six feet, he was of average build and carried a rather sullen expression that almost bordered bitterness. I detected a small tattoo on his left wrist, but distance prevented me from identifying the image. The remaining two men suddenly stopped halfway across the room. One was of short stocky build with black cropped hair. He was probably in his mid-thirties and wore a constant frown. The other, nearing fifty, was a tall person of around six-two with a shaven head and sporting a rather unkempt bushy goatee. By comparison this man wore a poker face and stood unperturbed beside a sidewall.
I was about to ask the meaning behind this intrusion when their front man asked a rather loaded question.
‘Please remain seated. Would Tom Harrison raise his hand?’ he said.
‘What in the hell is the meaning of this!’ roared Ben Johnson.
‘Mr Harrison, I presume?’
‘Sit down! Now once again would Tom Harrison make his presence known,’ he repeated.
‘I’m Tom Harrison.’ I raised my hand. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘Good, we’ve finally getting somewhere. We need you to accompany us on a short walk.’
‘Not without telling me for what reason.’
The intruder paused. He looked at each person seated around the large oak table.
‘Before I do, Mr Harrison, would you be good enough to introduce me to your fellow members and their role on your committee.’
‘Bullshit! How dare you enter unannounced and start demanding ...’ bellowed Johnson.
