From the Stars Above

by Peter Watt

  ‘So that is what you are up against,’ Sean concluded. ‘Thankfully there is one woman who is more than a match for her, and that is Jessica Duffy-Macintosh. Unlike Sarah, who needs to have other people do her dirty work, Jessie did her own killing during the war and was rewarded with military decorations from our government and the Yanks. Not that Jessie would resort to killing outside the field of war. I think I will inform the dear girl of your interest in seeing justice done. I am sure she will contribute to the successful outcome of your covert investigation.’

  Sean raised his glass to his lips and Brendan followed suit. His mind was spinning with revelations about the absolutely ruthless woman he was investigating. How different was the world of the rich and powerful to the petty criminals he encountered, day in, day out, on the grimy backstreets of Sydney.

  FOUR

  The men filed into the village hall, taking off their hats. Their wives were with them, dressed in long summer skirts, hats and white gloves. They were a typical cross-section of David Macintosh’s rural community. David sat on the stage beside John Glanville, watching them enter. The party had endorsed David overwhelmingly as their candidate. John would occasionally greet one or two members of the audience with a nod and smile. David was feeling nervous as this was his debut into the world of federal politics and he wanted to do well. Although he had initially been motivated to accept the nomination simply to stand in the way of the man who had ended his military career, he now felt that he could use his leadership skills to help the people of this district who had welcomed him into their fold. Politics was a way to fight a new war, this time on the front of social and economic issues for the betterment of his local community.

  ‘There’s a good crowd,’ John said, leaning towards David. ‘And I reckon you will have most of them on your side.’

  ‘I see Markham is not here yet,’ David said. ‘But the representative of our local paper is.’

  ‘I heard Markham will be here with his father,’ John said. ‘I am looking forward to his reaction when he spots you.’ John nodded as the entrance of two men at the back of the hall caused a few heads to turn.

  David stared at the younger man he had last seen in the jungles of New Guinea thirteen years earlier. Angus Markham’s veiled threat to take revenge on David’s decision to strip him of his command had not been empty. David had lost his commission after the war, thanks to Markham’s father’s political influence in Canberra. David guessed the older man beside Markham was his father. Henry Markham left his son’s side and walked up to the stage.

  ‘Ah, John, I see that you have not left politics entirely,’ Henry Markham said, ignoring David.

  ‘You are looking at the man who will take over my seat, Henry,’ John said, stepping down from the stage to shake the hand of his former political adversary.

  Markham Senior glanced up at David. ‘It is time that the good people here had a change of parties. Your protégé has no experience in politics, whilst my son has grown up with it.’

  ‘Dynasties in this business are not guaranteed.’ John released Markham’s hand. ‘I believe Angus and David have already met,’ he added with a wicked smile. ‘Is it true that Angus had a nervous breakdown in New Guinea during the war?’

  Henry Markham’s face clouded. ‘There are two sides to every story,’ he said, and stalked away.

  John returned to the stage and resumed his seat beside David. ‘Young Angus’s military record is clearly a touchy issue,’ he grinned. ‘He had better not come on as the war hero here.’

  ‘Do I question him on his record of service?’ David asked, and John frowned.

  ‘Not a good idea to slur your opponent in this business – unless absolutely necessary. We have to act like gentlemen.’

  David glanced down at the sheaf of notes trembling in his hands. The shaking he had known since combat had remained with him. He looked up and saw Gail enter the hall. Their eyes met and she smiled, giving a little wave of her hand before taking a seat at the back.

  Angus Markham walked up to the stage and, without any greetings, sat down on a chair a few feet away from John and David.

  John turned to the new arrival and said quietly, ‘Are you ready?’

  Angus gave a nod of his head, and John took centre stage, introducing both men and then calling on Angus to deliver his speech. Angus made the usual political promises of a better future. It was a long, polished speech and Angus spoke well. Polite but muted clapping followed him as he sat down and David took centre stage. He would not allow his nerves to show and he forced his trembling hands down by his sides. John had written notes for him but David crushed them into a ball in his fist.

  ‘I had written notes to read from,’ he opened his address, ‘but all I am going to say is that, unlike my opponent, I live here, drink here, work here and go fishing here. Most of you know me and know I struggle to make a living out of my macadamias, like so many others in primary production in this district. But I know that I live in the best part of the world, and if you vote for me, I will do my best to see that the government gives us a fair go. I don’t make any promises, but I will work my guts out on behalf of this community. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.’

  David returned to his seat and a short silence followed. Then suddenly the audience broke into loud clapping and even whistles of approval.

  John shook his head. ‘That was the shortest – and worst speech – I have ever heard,’ he said quietly with a smile. ‘But it bloody well worked!’

  When David glanced down at Henry Markham he could see fury in his face.

  At question time Henry Markham sprang to his feet. ‘Mr Macintosh,’ he said in an educated tone. ‘I would like to clarify a couple of things about your past for those who are here today. Is it true that you served in an international Communist brigade in the Spanish Civil War?’

  David remained seated to answer. ‘I enlisted in a brigade to fight Fascism,’ he said.

  ‘A Communist brigade,’ Markham stated. ‘Is it true that you were a member of the Communist Party?’

  David glanced at the journalist sitting in the front row and could see how eager he was to score some dirt on the upstart with aspirations to compete with the professional politicians in Canberra.

  ‘I have never been a member of the Communist Party,’ David replied firmly. ‘At the time I could see the danger Fascism posed to the world and felt it was better to destroy it before it spread.’

  ‘You must realise, Mr Macintosh, that to the average person in this room your service with the Communists opposing Franco makes you guilty by association. Surely your time with them influenced your political thinking.’

  ‘Maybe I should have joined your party, Mr Markham,’ David retorted. ‘It has more in common with communism than my party.’

  David’s reply raised a few cries of ‘Hear, hear’ from the audience, and the senior politician switched to the next item in his bag of dirty tricks.

  ‘Could you explain how you were arrested in Palestine by the British administration after the war?’ he asked, and the audience fell silent.

  ‘I was arrested by an overzealous British officer who had just been responsible for shooting a young woman in the back,’ David said. ‘I tried to protect her and was arrested. I was detained in a prison in Acre before being released – without charge.’

  ‘What reason did you have to be in that situation in the first place, Mr Macintosh? It was hardly a holiday destination.’

  ‘I was in Israel to visit the land of my mother’s religion,’ David said.

  ‘So you are a Zionist,’ Markham said smugly.

  ‘No, I am a Jew by birth, but I love my bacon and eggs too much to be a practising Jew.’

  David’s answer brought a few chuckles from the audience and Markham realised that David was getting the better of him.

  ‘I would like to say something.’ Gail�
�s voice echoed from the back of the hall and heads turned. ‘Mr Macintosh fought Fascism as a young man because he had been imprisoned in Dachau concentration camp and had seen first-hand what Fascism was capable of. He confronted it in Spain as Britain and France should have done. His service to Australia in two wars has seen him decorated for bravery, and fighting in the Korean War is why he now needs to use a walking stick. Maybe your son could talk about his service to the country, Mr Markham.’

  Angus Markham paled, but his father quickly came to his rescue.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you have had an opportunity to hear from both candidates now. My son and I want to thank you for taking time out of such busy lives to be here today.’ With that, Angus left the stage and joined his father to stride out of the hall.

  The audience broke up to make their way to tables laden with scones, jugs of cream and pots of tea prepared by the local CWA, whose contribution to local rural communities was highly valued by all, leaving David and John alone on the stage.

  ‘Next time you give a speech, stick with the notes,’ John growled but not without humour. ‘Next time it won’t be in front of people you know from the district.’ He glanced down at Gail, standing with a cup of tea in hand. ‘My daughter-in-law should be your campaign manager. Or you could just do the right thing and marry her.’ John put his hat in his head and walked off the stage.

  David followed down the steps, using his cane for balance, and walked over to Gail. ‘How did you know I was in Dachau?’ he said.

  ‘You told me one night when you were drunk,’ she said. ‘I was not going to allow that arrogant man to attack someone of great worth and courage.’

  ‘Thank you for your intervention,’ David said with a smile. ‘You’re truly a wonderful woman.’

  ‘Maybe one day your eyes will open and you will see what is right in front of you,’ Gail said, briefly touching David on the cheek as Mrs Robinson, the town gossip, strode forward to have a word with the man she was going to vote for – even if he was a Jew!

  *

  The years had not been kind to the old Macintosh mansion standing above Sydney Harbour. The garden was overgrown and the climbing ivy covering the walls needed pruning. Inside was little better, the furnishings faded and the carpets worn and tatty. Most of the staff who had been employed to look after the house had been let go as the Macintosh Enterprises declined. War taxes had taken a great chunk out of profits to expand. Michael’s nanny doubled as cook, and a gardener only worked twice a week.

  Michael Macintosh pressed his clothes into the suitcase, closed it and stood back to look around his room to see if there was anything else he should pack for his trip to England. Nanny Keevers would know. He would go and ask his beloved nanny what he should take with him.

  But his mother was standing in the doorway. Michael could see that she had been drinking, although not to the point of being drunk as his father usually was.

  ‘Hello, Mother,’ he said, and Sarah Macintosh stepped into the room.

  ‘I can see that you have packed,’ she said. ‘How was your visit to Glen View?’

  Michael heard the hostility in his mother’s tone. ‘It was a bit lonely without Patrick and Terituba, but I finally got to go to the sacred hill on the property.’

  ‘Is that bitch Jessica gloating over owning our property?’ Sarah asked.

  Michael frowned. ‘No, Mother. She is always very nice to me when I stay.’

  ‘How about my brother?’ she asked.

  ‘Uncle Donald is fine,’ Michael answered, feeling uncomfortable at his mother’s bitter questions. He had grown to be very fond of his family in Queensland who had accepted him without rancour.

  Sarah took a cigarette from a silver case and lit it, blowing smoke into the confines of the room.

  ‘I have great hopes for you when you return from England. You will be a major catalyst in restoring the Macintosh companies to their pre-war glory,’ she said, taking a seat on the edge of Michael’s bed, the cigarette dangling in her hand.

  ‘What if I don’t want to join the family business?’ Michael questioned, looking directly at his mother. ‘What if I want to do something else?’

  Sarah glared at her son. ‘I have spent the last sixteen years rearing you, and you owe it to me to take your place in the family enterprise.

  ‘I think Nanny Keevers raised me, not you,’ Michael answered coldly.

  ‘Nanny Keevers is a paid servant,’ Sarah said. ‘She is not your flesh and blood.’

  Michael shook his head. He could not remember his mother ever hugging him or showing affection. It had always been Val Keevers who had cared for him; she had dried his tears and hugged him when he yearned for a gentle touch. He was not about to listen to anything else his mother had to say, and he stalked towards the bedroom door.

  ‘Don’t you walk away from me, young man,’ Sarah said in a raised voice. ‘No man walks away from me.’

  Michael stopped in the doorway. ‘Is that why I have never met your cousin David?’

  Sarah stood up from the bed.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘I have heard rumours that you were once very keen on him and that he walked away from you,’ Michael said. ‘Uncle Donald told me that David is a war hero, yet you told Father I was never to meet him. Why?’

  Sarah slumped back on the edge of the bed as if punched in the stomach. ‘It was I who walked away from him,’ she lied. ‘He is a stupid and arrogant man who could not see that we were destined to be together. That was years ago and now he is nothing to me.’

  Michael knew she was lying, and he almost pitied her because he could see the pain in her face. Nevertheless, he did not want to hear any more from her. He walked out of his room in search of his nanny.

  FIVE

  The men of Patrick Duffy’s platoon knew what to expect as they moved out into the hills.

  First they had to navigate the dense head-high spear grass known as lalang. Inside the long grass the humidity was extremely high, and water rationing did not help the men carrying heavy loads of weapons, backpacks and water canteens. Once spear grass was traversed, the platoon was up against the plantations of rubber trees in their neat hillside rows. If they were lucky it was ‘clean rubber’ that had been well maintained, and the canopy would provide just a little protection from the tropical sun. Next came the lush rainforest giants, and if the area had been logged the thick undergrowth would be agony to negotiate.

  Thankfully this time the men struggled up the hills under untouched canopies that provided a dim world of sickly sweet rotting vegetation underfoot and welcome shade above. There was only one drawback, and that was the enemy had a clear view of those entering their territory between the tall trees.

  Patrick was forward scout and was carrying an Owen submachine gun. The Australian-designed weapon had proven itself in two wars, and Patrick liked the feel of it. He moved cautiously with the weapon pointed forward. All communication within the platoon was by hand signal alone. He knew that Terituba’s sharp eyesight was scanning the ground for anything out of place. He was around ten paces behind Patrick.

  Patrick did not see the signs but Terituba did. A sharp hiss brought Patrick to a stop. He turned to see his platoon commander signalling for Patrick to return. Patrick did and squatted down beside his friend. Terituba pointed to barely discernible tracks in the rotting vegetation.

  ‘Three men bin come this way a short time ago. They go across our track that way,’ Terituba whispered, pointing at a right angle to the platoon’s advance.

  The platoon commander nodded and signalled for his section commanders to join him for an impromptu orders group. Once briefed, the corporals returned to their sections, which had taken up all-round defensive positions in case of attack. The platoon swung around on its new axis of advance in an arrow formation. This time Terituba took the forward scout p
osition to follow the footprints that only he seemed to see. His father Billy had taught him to track on Glen View.

  The platoon advanced with even more caution, and just before last light they were rewarded by the sight of three armed men hunkered down around a temporary campsite about fifty yards away. The men went to ground and the platoon commander quickly worked out a plan to cut off any escape. He would deploy his three sections in an L formation to avoid crossfire casualties. The light was rapidly failing and all knew they must act quickly. It would not be possible to call on the Communist terrorists to surrender, as in the dim light they had a chance to flee and escape.

  Patrick was fully aware that the weeks of fruitless patrols had now come to a point where he was going to earn his pay as a soldier on active service. He lay behind his submachine gun with the sights centred on the shadowy three men he could see moving around in the near darkness. He knew it would be a long shot for his lighter calibre weapon designed for close-quarters fighting, but the heavy SLRs of the section would easily make the distance with accuracy. His hands were sweating as he considered this might be the first time he killed a fellow human. It was not easy looking down the sights of his weapon at three men whose lives were now measured in minutes – if not seconds.

  Suddenly one of the three enemy appeared to have spotted their ambush and swung around to run. But the platoon commander gave his order to fire, and the rainforest silence was shattered by the explosive sound of small arms. Patrick fired a long burst, ignoring his training to fire in short bursts, and he could see two of the men jerk as a fusillade of bullets ripped into them. The man who had begun to run ducked behind trees, and Patrick was aware that two more of the enemy had suddenly appeared in that location. They fired off a Sten gun in the direction of Patrick’s section without causing any casualties, and then disappeared into the darkness.