by Derek Hansen
‘You’re forgetting he killed a woman,’ said Ramon.
‘He claims it was an accident.’
‘He had a history of violence.’
‘According to his wife.’
‘No. According to the judge, Lucio, according to the judge. Everything Neil has said about this man tells me he is violent: selfish, egotistical and violent. And my knowledge of domestic violence cases, limited though it is, also tells me that the perpetrators rarely accept their guilt. It is a well-known characteristic that they consider themselves the victim. Of course this man Grant would protest his innocence. He is just conforming to type.’
‘I disagree,’ said Lucio. ‘What do you think, Milos?’
‘I’m sorry, Lucio, I agree with Ramon. I think Grant is a violent man and after more than financial compensation, although that may well be part of it. As for Linda’s testimony being the reason he was sent to gaol and the accusation that she stole his company, that is only Grant’s perspective on events, the perspective of someone who considers himself the victim.’
‘Well, Neil, are you going to tell us who is right?’
‘You’ll have plenty of opportunity to work that out for yourselves. But tell me, Lucio, you prefaced your remarks by saying Linda is the type of woman you’d like to take to bed. Given your suspicions about her, do you still feel the same?’
‘I admit I would think twice about it.’
‘Yes, but would you let her into your bed?’
‘Of course! What kind of a man do you think I am?’
The friends were relieved when a smile spread across Neil’s face.
Chapter Sixteen
If Grant had ever thought he could pick up where he’d left off six years earlier, reality soon proved otherwise. He struggled to win work. Some producers and creative teams wouldn’t even consider him because of his past, while others invited him to quote out of morbid curiosity. They were more interested in his time inside gaol than in his ideas and had no intention of using him. He did one job, an uninspiring thirty-second spot given to him by a writer who thought he owed Grant from the old days, but the truth was, he was getting nowhere. For six years he’d thought of nothing but exacting revenge; instead, he found himself constrained by his obligations to his parole officer and the necessity to rebuild his life. His bitterness grew with each passing day and each missed opportunity, particularly when he lost out to Film Gate, his old company, now owned and run by his ex-wife.
His latest loss had hurt most. He’d worked hard on the writer, who he’d quickly figured out was the decision-maker, and had been sure he’d done enough to win the job. He’d been devastated to learn otherwise. Grant was in The Escape, kicking on from a long boozy lunch with old mates in the industry and bemoaning the passing of the good old days, when he spotted the writer and his art director mate wandering up to the bar for a drink. He couldn’t let things be and got up from his table to intercept them.
The Escape was one of the advertising and film production watering holes. More sorrows had been drowned there than successes celebrated. He was aware that he’d had too much to drink and that he was in danger of letting the booze do the talking, but the creative team represented everything that was wrong with the business. He resented their cockiness, their assumption of infallibility and their hyped-up opinion of their meagre talents. But mostly he resented the fact that they had the power to make or break him.
‘So why didn’t we get the job?’ he demanded.
The writer and art director exchanged looks, which only irritated Grant more. They were just kids, barely half his age, and didn’t know shit from shine. But they were also his clients, at least potential clients, and he needed them more than they needed him. An editor, one of Grant’s drinking mates, saw the impending confrontation and called out to him.
‘Give it a miss, mate. It’s your shout.’
Grant ignored him. All his training and experience told him to move on, to laugh off the confrontation and shout the creative team a drink in exchange for a promise to keep him in mind next time they had a commercial to shoot. Instead he stepped between them and the bar so they couldn’t avoid him.
‘You haven’t answered my question.’ Grant’s voice sounded thick and ugly even to his own ears.
‘You win some, lose some,’ said the writer. He was as tall and as solidly built as Grant and not intimidated.
‘You win some, lose some,’ mimicked Grant. ‘Thanks for the scoop, but that still doesn’t answer the question. You know how much effort I put into the quote. I made sure it was right on the money.’
‘If it was just down to money you would’ve got the job,’ said the writer. ‘We gave it to Film Gate because they came up with better ideas for the execution.’
Grant drew a deep breath but the red film was descending. Film Gate. Once again his ex-wife was turning the screws. He wondered if the two upstarts in front of him even realised he’d founded Film Gate and made it the hottest shop in town before they were out of short pants.
‘Better ideas, eh?’ Grant knew he’d gone too far but was powerless to stop. He’d survived gaol, been locked up with hard men who’d smash his face in over a baked-bean sandwich, seen men stabbed to death with the sharpened handle of a toilet brush and watched men get kicked to a pulp just for using the phone out of turn. Now he was supposed to lie down and cop it sweet while two jumped-up, baby-faced twats with peach fuzz on their faces shat all over him. He was dimly aware of his friends calling to him but it was too late. Someone had to pay for his humiliation. Someone had to pay for the fact that he was getting nowhere. And someone had to pay for the fact that, somewhere, his ex-wife was laughing at him. He moved in closer to the writer till their eyes were just centimetres apart.
‘And, of course, you’d be the judge of that.’
‘In the end it comes down to the best response,’ said the writer. ‘Yours was thorough but predictable. We wanted something edgier. Now, if you don’t mind, I want to order a drink.’
There it was, the suggestion that he was past it, a has-been. It was the final straw. Grant’s fists clenched, but just as he was about to start swinging he felt someone grab his arms. It was Cameron. Grant had no idea where he’d come from and in that instant his anger was swallowed by guilt.
‘Hi,’ said Cameron to the creative team. ‘I heard we came a close second. What are you drinking?’ He subtly let go of Grant’s arms.
‘Vodka tonic,’ said the writer.
‘Same,’ said the art director.
Cameron passed the order on to the barman and turned to Grant with a wry smile. ‘Now what the fuck’s all this about?’ He took a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and offered it around. ‘For the last four weeks Grant’s been a scratched record about how much he liked working with you guys and how much he liked the spot. Christ Almighty.’ He handed the creative team their drinks. ‘Grant doesn’t give compliments very often but he reckons you guys are among the few who still have the brains to come up with original ideas. You don’t get higher praise than that.’ He passed a beer to Grant. ‘I thought you guys were best mates.’
The writer just shrugged.
‘Grant?’ said Cameron.
‘I was out of line. It’s a great script and I was really looking forward to doing it. Sorry, guys. No hard feelings?’
‘No worries,’ said the writer. He took Grant’s hand.
‘No worries,’ said the art director.
No worries, thought Grant. He kept the smile on his face but he knew, come morning, he’d have to face another of Cameron’s lectures, another galling dressing-down from his one-time employee and trainee. The worst part was, he knew he deserved it. Sometimes life outside was more humiliating than it had been inside.
‘Don’t say anything,’ said Grant as he walked into Cameron’s office. He’d decided to go in early and face the music rather than await the summons. ‘I know how stupid I was, how unprofessional, et cetera, et cetera. You can save your breath.’ H
e helped himself to a coffee from Cameron’s machine.
‘We’re quoting on two other jobs from the same agency,’ said Cameron. ‘Did you know that? I reckon we’re a sure thing with one and a bloody good chance with the other. How do you think we’d go if you’d planted one on that deadshit’s face?’
Grant’s shoulders slumped.
‘I didn’t know.’
‘We need at least one of those jobs. The business needs at least one of those jobs. Have you any idea how hard I’ve had to work just to get our foot in the door?’
‘Guess it’s lucky you came in when you did.’ Grant sat down heavily in the chair opposite Cameron.
‘Luck had nothing to do with it. One of your drinking mates rang me.’
Grant thought back hard to the night before. He remembered looking over towards his table when the editor had called out to him and occasionally glancing in their direction. He didn’t recall anyone getting up to use the phone. His blood turned cold.
‘You’ve got someone watching me?’
‘Let’s just say it was one of my mates, not one of yours, who rang me.’
‘Fuck you, Cameron!’
‘We have a strike rate of one in four. That’s all jobs, not just good jobs. We’re taking pissant jobs just to pay the rent. Your strike rate is one in eight — no, make that one in nine.’
‘What do you want me to do? Rack my cue? Go somewhere else?’
‘No. What I want is for you to get rid of the chip on your shoulder and try to get used to the idea that the world doesn’t owe you a living and the industry doesn’t give a shit what you once were. Times have changed and you have to change with them or you won’t make it. It won’t be a question of me pissing you off, because the industry will do that for me. What have you got on?’
‘A re-stripe. We’re putting down a new voice-over.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I’m taking my reel in to FMH. They’ve asked me to go third quote on a job. They’re pretty straight. If I do the right thing by them they’ll give me a job down the track.’
‘Good.’ Cameron picked up a manila folder and tossed it to Grant. ‘I want you to have a go at this.’
‘What is it?’
‘A series of three commercials for Garuda. Three sixties with thirty-second cut-downs. The thirties will get most of the air time so make sure you get a good handle on them. They’ll be used in Australia and internationally.’
‘You’re giving them to me?’
‘I recommended you to the agency. I sold them on your ability to handle big jobs and some of the guys have been around long enough to remember your old stuff. I told them I’d also put Marty on the job as second director.’
‘I don’t need a second director.’
‘There are special effects and Marty’s way ahead of you on what video can do. He came out of video clips, for Christ’s sake, and where video’s concerned he’s the flavour of the month. I reckon it’ll do him good to work with you, and you can learn a bit from him. You can choose your own producer so long as it isn’t me. I haven’t got the time to get on planes.’
‘Planes?’
‘You’ll have to go up to Indonesia to shoot some sequences. You can travel, can’t you?’
‘I’ll have to clear it with my parole officer but I’m sure it’ll be okay.’
‘Then it’s settled.’
‘Why are you doing this, Cameron? I fucked up last night. Fucked up big-time. This job’s not going to give any change out of a million dollars.’
‘More like a million and a half. Why? I’ll tell you why. Because big, complex jobs are what you used to do, what you built your reputation on. They’re your specialty and exactly the sort of contemporary big-budget spots you need on your reel. You’re the best man for the job and the business desperately needs it. I need it and you need it. It’s piss-or-get-off-the-potty time, Grant. I won’t settle for another close second, understand? Understand what I’m saying?’
‘Produce or piss off,’ said Grant. ‘I guess that’s fair enough.’ He looked down at the folder in his hands. ‘Thanks for keeping the faith.’
He rose and strode to his office, dropped the folder on his desk and sat staring at it. Produce or piss off. Reclaim the high ground or tumble into the abyss. There were no more ropes to steady him if he stumbled or nets to catch him if he fell. His career hung in the balance, but Cameron had been dead right in saying this was exactly the kind of job he was good at. This was the kind of job he’d made his name on and built his business on. Built his business. He savoured the bitterness and anger long enough to harden his resolve. He picked up the folder and opened it.
‘No worries,’ he said to confirm his feelings. ‘No whucking furries.’
He pressed the Play button on his tape deck. Louis Armstrong sang, ‘What a Wonderful World’.
Chapter Seventeen
Billy’s opal bought back almost half the number of sheep that they’d sold, even after his father had surprised the bank with a few placatory pounds and cleared their credit at the general store. The beasts they bought were in a sorry state and the price they paid for them reflected it. Their neighbours thought they were mad. Over the next few days the boys helped their father dole out the last of their feed while their sisters sulked and their mother fretted. More than any of them, she’d opposed the purchase of the sheep. As far as she was concerned, the opal had been a godsend, offering sustenance and hope, providing the means to ease their plight and carry them through till the rains came. It broke her heart to think that what might have been was wasting away and dying out in the paddocks. She blamed her husband for his weakness in taking advice from a twelve-year-old boy but mostly she blamed Neil for interfering. Such matters were not for children. What distressed her even more was her husband’s gradual acceptance that listening to Neil had been a mistake. She sensed his shame.
Then, late one afternoon, she heard the black cockatoos and, biting her bottom lip unless she again dared to hope, watched them settle way out on the old ironbark. She noticed Braden had been drawn out of the work shed by their call and stood staring up at the sky. The clouds had been building all day, but they’d done that off and on for months, promising rain but failing to deliver. The sky looked the same as it had on so many previous occasions, grey and sullen, lacking the green tinge of an impending storm. But the cockies, which had been absent for so long, were insistent in their protestations that rain would come. The family went to bed that night cautiously optimistic but privately suspecting that the black cockatoos had got it wrong. At around three in the morning the pitter-patter on their iron roof announced that the cockies had delivered. The rains came in a perfect soaking drizzle that hung around for ten days, putting life back into the soil, vindicating the risk they’d taken and making a hero of Neil.
That was the funny thing. Billy had found the opal which had made their gamble possible, but it was Neil who bathed in glory. The family fortunes were on the rise again, just like the weeds breaking through the parched soil as the land awakened. The native grasses followed close behind, sprouting with vigour and volume, eager to compete. Showers followed the initial deluge at perfect intervals, as though God had decided graziers deserved a reward for their endurance. Braden claimed he could hear the wool growing on the sheeps’ backs. Neil was given credit for all of it.
With Japan and Europe both greedy for wool, the promise of fat wool cheques and surplus cash was in the air. Banks offered to extend overdrafts and stores had no problem extending credit. Payday was coming at last and everyone manoeuvred for a share. Neil and his mother clashed again when he spoke out against extending their loan, arguing that they already owed the bank more than they could afford and that their existing debts were a millstone that prevented them ever getting ahead. He did the sums that proved his argument. His mother pointed to the girls’ threadbare clothes, the sheets she could spit peas through and the bald patches on the towels but knew her pleas were wasted. Neil was the hero an
d had runs on the board. He could do no wrong.
Braden borrowed just enough money to pay the shearers, while the boys and their sisters skipped school to do the work they normally paid jackaroos to do. Their mother cooked the shearers’ meals and reined in her impatience. The hard work, the making do and the deprivation had pushed her to the end of her tether. But all her trials were forgotten when the wool cheque arrived.
Braden took the family down to Dubbo and gave his wife and daughters freedom to shop. Thriftiness was ingrained in them so he hadn’t the slightest concern that they’d waste money on trifles and luxuries. As far as the Dwyer womenfolk were concerned, necessities were luxuries. When the boys weren’t watching movies, Braden knew he could find them in the main street with their noses pressed up against the shop windows taking their first look at television. Having a movie show in their lounge room was an almost unimaginable luxury, and they wondered if the day would ever come when they’d have a television set of their own.
When they got home, Braden sat down with Neil to draw up a budget. He’d convinced himself that Neil had a nose for the land and decided to start preparing him for the day when he’d take over the running of the spread. He paid off all the interest owed to the bank and a little of the principal, forgetting that this had been Neil’s original suggestion. He settled his debts with suppliers and set aside a portion to replace and repair machinery, gates and fences. When they’d finished their sums there was hardly any money left, certainly not enough to make any noticeable change to the family’s circumstances, but enough to see them through winter, when they could sell some lambs for meat, and for Braden to show a little magnanimity towards his two sons.
