by Phyllis King
‘Though I’m not sure it will work’ she continued dreamily, ignoring Mr Halfhead.
‘Go on, spit it out.’
‘Couldn’t we put fluoro paint on the biscuits?’ Miss Smart suggested.
‘Fluoro what?’ said a confused Mr Halfhead.
‘Fluoro paint.’ Miss Smart informed Mr Halfhead. ‘It glows in the dark. If we spread it on the biscuits and the suspect takes the bait, we’ll find out whether it’s young Johnny Green or not.’
‘What colour does it glow?’ enquired Mrs Kraykamp.
‘Green, it glows green.’ answered Miss Smart.
‘You’re a genius!’ shouted Mr Halfhead to a triumphant Miss Smart. ‘Let’s catch Green with green!’
From there, the teachers decided that, just before home time they would take the whole school into the library to watch a movie. They would turn off the lights when it started, and seize whoever had luminous green hands. After all this had been determined, the teachers all left the room.
The day dragged on, Johnny Green being troublesome as usual. But that didn’t annoy Mrs Kraykamp, no. She had plans for Johnny. Yes, watch out Johnny!
Recess came and lunch followed. Afternoon came and all the children and teachers of Dingle Park Primary filed into the library and waited for the movie to start.
‘Someone took the bait’ whispered Mr Halfhead to Miss Smart. ‘This is going to be fun.’
Miss Smart smiled, but something was nagging at the back of her mind. She tried to concentrate on the upcoming event and failed. What would happen if she was wrong about the fluoro paint? What would happen if it didn’t work? Miss Smart tried to convince herself that she was Felicity Smart who was never wrong!
In front of the children the TV screen flickered into life. Whispers passed through the lips of the children as they read the title of the movie they were about to be watching.
The lights dimmed and then went out completely. The teachers sat on the end of their seats, craning their necks to get a closer look at the hands of the students huddled in front of the television. Mrs Kraykamp was the first to spot a pair of glowing green hands.
Signalling to the teacher in charge of the TV, Mrs Kraykamp made her way towards the crowd of children, who were now complaining that the program had been switched off. She walked through the crowd to a figure trying desperately to hide a pair of green luminous hands. They were, however, unsuccessful in this attempt.
‘Silence!’ Mrs Kraykamp’s call echoed around the library. Everyone fell silent at once.
‘Over the past few weeks,’ Mrs Kraykamp continued, ‘someone stole the key to the staffroom and has been stealing our expensive double choc Tim Tams.’
A gasp ran through the crowd. With a well-timed pause, Mrs Kraykamp said ‘And this only happens on Tuesdays and Thursdays when all the teachers are busy.’
Another wave of shock reverberated throughout the students.
‘Finally we came to a conclusion that since we could not catch this culprit in the act, we decided to spread fluoro paint on the Tim Tams.’
All the children swapped puzzled glances.
‘If you’re wondering what fluoro paint is,’ explained Mrs Kraykamp, to many of the students relief, ‘it’s a type of nontoxic paint that glows green in the dark. Anyway on Wednesday evening we spread this paint on the Tim Tams and just before lunch today, Johnny Green, the culprit took the bait!’
And with this, Judy Kraykamp signalled to Mr Brushy to turn on the lights, which he did. But the sight that Mrs Kraykamp and all of the other teachers saw left them shocked. The person that stood before them was not Johnny Green, but the quiet mouse, Amy Johnson!
‘A-A-Amy?’ stammered Mrs Kraykamp, lost for words. ‘It was you! You stole the biscuits. B-B-But why?’
To this Amy replied with a mischievous look: ‘Because I could!’
<
Smoke
Aoife Clifford
Having a career in the Australian Labor Party is a bit like the phases of the moon - mostly you are either waxing or waning. You also have to be a lunatic, but that’s neither here nor there.
Just starting my job, I was in my new moon phase. Roland ‘Stainless’ Gesink was at full moon. He was a legend in party circles. Vaughn Arnold, on the other hand, was more like a supernova but then he had never really fitted the party mould. He had arrived, shone brightly and then spectacularly self-combusted, leaving a black hole in his wake.
I was on maternity leave with my six-month-old baby when I received a phone call from Jim McCafferty, partner at the criminal law firm where I worked. A mate of his needed a hand with some ‘research’, just a week or so, was I interested?
Yes, I was. Maternity leave was not what I had expected and I was going stir crazy. I loved my daughter but I was missing the adult world. Tom was able to take unpaid parental leave from his accountancy firm. And they say that the global financial crisis has no upside.
The only inkling I had about what would be involved was when Jim asked me if I was still a member. Jim was old-school Labor. He lived by the motto ‘never plead guilty, never vote Liberal’. It probably sounds better in Latin.
I answered in the affirmative. I had been signed up at university by an ambitious young hack named Duncan Kellar, for some elaborate branch stacking manoeuvre I could never work out. Call me sentimental, I had continued to pay for my own membership.
Jim gave me a name and an address in West Melbourne and I fronted up the next day. Tom was at home, holding the baby and a long list of instructions, and I had left teary, clutching photos of her in case I forgot what she looked like. By the time I had caught the tram into the city, I had put the photos back in their little folder. By the time I had walked to West Melbourne, I had put the folder in my handbag and was feeling more sanguine. I was back in the real world and it was good.
The address was a three story building of concrete and Venetian blinds. The sign on the door said Tru-Skills, Industry Standards Board. Inside, I was directed upstairs by a bored receptionist who looked like she hadn’t cracked a smile since Malcolm Fraser lost his trousers.
The second floor offices, painted in various shades of post mortem grey, were as quiet as the proverbial. Only one door was open. I peered through it to see a tufty-haired man in his fifties, dressed in a cardigan, open-necked shirt and slacks, sitting with his feet up on the desk, reading the form guide.
I knocked. ‘Roland Gesink? I’m Callan Valient.’
He looked up and examined me closely. He was paunchy. Thick square glasses and overly large teeth dominated his jowly face.
‘You’re late. C’mon - we’ve got a funeral to attend.’ He got up, swapped the cardigan for a sports jacket of unprepossessing houndstooth and walked past me. Not knowing what else to do, I followed.
The recruitment of Vaughn Arnold as a star Labor candidate had been one of those ideas that sounded great at the time. Broadie boy made good, married wealthy and became richer. Helicoptered into a safe seat upon discovering his true vocation, he aspired to greatness; that is if greatness includes being Premier of ‘The Place to Be’.
Arnold quickly acquired the nickname ‘Vegas’, i.e. all sparkle and not much substance. It didn’t take long for the glitter to wear off. The current Premier snookered Arnold by appointing him Police Minister. Underworld killings and police corruption were bad enough, but the latest imbroglio was the current pay negotiations which had started to escalate into industrial action and more damaging headlines. Can you blame a guy for heading for the white light when all he can see in the mirror is a flashing blue one?
There was a veritable who’s who of the Labor and police worlds standing around in front of the church. Gesink started shooting the breeze with a ginger moustache attached to a toothpick of a man. I walked around the back of the church to ring home and see how Tom was coping. Before I got the chance, I ran into the ubiquitous Duncan Kellar, who had graduated from his Monash Uni fiefdom to be the Premier’s advisor, as he wasted no t
ime in telling me.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked distractedly. Duncan was one of those people who always looks over your shoulder to make sure he’s not missing out on talking to anyone more important, which in my case, was just about everyone else here.
‘I’m working with Roland Gesink,’ I answered. Duncan’s eyes swivelled back to me.
‘You’re here with Roland ‘Stainless’ Gesink?’ he asked incredulously.
‘Yeah,’ I answered, trying to work out what that nickname meant.
‘Oh my god, you’re a smokejumper?’ Duncan was hyperventilating.
‘Is that the new term for policy wonk?’ I asked, slightly puzzled.
Duncan recovered some of his savoir-faire as he correctly assessed the situation, ‘You have no idea who Stainless is, do you?’ Duncan already knew from our Monash days that I was a political ingenue.
I shook my head.
‘Well, you know dirt units.’
I nodded. I was naive but I wasn’t a moron. Dirt units are like mosquitos. You know they exist by seeing the result of what they do, rather than seeing them do it. Contrary to public perception, most of a dirt unit’s activity is directed within the party. The only thing worse than having your enemies succeed, is having your friends. Duncan’s own grubby fingerprints had been all over several at uni. Usually informal and temporary, they engage in the type of pranks your average ten-year-old would think childish.
‘Roland Gesink is like the opposite of a dirt unit. He’s the guy everyone goes to when things go to shit. He’s the one person all the factions trust. It’s like he’s Switzerland - neutral ground. So when it’s agreed by the ‘five families’ that there is something that is in everyone’s interest to fix, he’s the guy that does it. He jumps the smoke and puts out the fire. He defuses the bomb. When everyone else is running away at a million miles an hour, he’s the guy going in. He is the man of steel.’
It was like hearing that Superman was a paid up member. And I had thought he was some old duffer that the Party had put out to pasture.
‘Why him?’ I asked.
‘He’s unique. He has no personal ambition and puts the Party’s interests above his own. He gets the job done…but why you?’
If I had not been so flabbergasted, I might have been insulted at the derisive tone.
Duncan was off and running, ‘And why is he here? I mean Arnold dying isn’t that bad for the government.’ Sensitivity and empathy aren’t highly valued in a political operative.
‘In fact it’s good,’ he continued. ‘The Boss was always worried Vegas was plotting a coup.’
Duncan looked around and saw the Premier heading into the church, ‘Gotta go Cal - must catch up - I’ll call you.’
I couldn’t spot Gesink, so I headed inside as the funeral was about to begin.
From where I was sitting, I had a sideways view of Arnold’s wife. I had pictured a trophy waif, crying just enough to need to obviously dab her eyes but not enough for the makeup to run. Instead she was solid with a weather-beaten face framed by a helmet of slate coloured hair. She could have been carved from stone. Amongst the politicians with faces switched to sincere, mouthing platitudes and crying crocodile tears, she stood out. She was real. A wave of sympathy welled up. I went all misty eyed. Jesus, I hate hormones.
After the funeral, I was looking for Gesink, when ginger moustache tapped me on the shoulder.
‘Stainless had to go to the races at Flemington. He said take the rest of the day off and meet him at 10 am tomorrow.’
He handed me a note with a Toorak address on it.
I walked away and rang home. That did not lighten my mood as Tom was doing great without me. I decided I deserved a treat and went to the movies.
The next day I found my way across the Yarra. Toorak is blue ribbon Liberal territory. It was also where Vaughn Arnold had lived - in the massive mansion in front of me..
Gesink was waiting for me.
‘Have we got an appointment?’ I asked.
‘Not quite,’ Gesink replied. ‘Paying our respects.’
‘I did that yesterday...at the funeral,’ I said pointedly. He ignored me and pressed the buzzer at the front gate.
A butler ushered us into a study about the size of my inner-city terrace. As I had never actually seen a butler in the flesh before, I suppose I could be excused for staring. As far as I could tell, he butled well, establishing that we did not have an appointment, informing us that his mistress was not at home but he would attempt to contact her on our behalf while we waited. All in a slightly supercilious tone but with nary a raised eyebrow, suggesting we were nothing special. He left us to contemplate our commonness.
Gesink began to look around the study.
‘What do we do now, ransack the joint?’ I asked sarcastically.
Gesink gave me a pained look. ‘You can learn a lot about a person by just being in their environment.’
I still did not know what exactly we wanted to learn about Arnold, so I just took in the scenery. All I could tell was that money might not grow on trees, but it can certainly buy you a few. The room was wood panelled, wood floored with wooden furniture. It could have doubled as a sauna except for the tasteful pictures of sailing boats that dotted the walls.
I sat down on the Chesterfield lounge, one of the few things that was not wooden, while Gesink looked at a display cabinet. He seemed rather taken with a trophy in there. The Chesterfield was about as comfortable as it looked but only because I realised I was sitting on something metal that had half fallen down the back of the cushion. I pulled it out. It was a key ring.
Just then I heard a slight cough, as the butler returned.
‘I have spoken with Madam. She appreciates your support and requests that you leave your details with me, so that she can schedule an appointment with you at a convenient time.’
This was how they said clear off and don’t come back in Tory speak. Gesink tried to strike up a conversation with him about the Jane Tait Memorial Cup he had been looking at, but Jeeves did not have an opinion on that, so we left.
Outside the house, I decided to get down to tin tacks.
‘Look, what are we doing? What am I supposed to be doing? There’s a dead politician, a butler for God’s sake and...’ I looked down at my hand. I was still holding the key ring, ‘What the hell am I doing with this?’
Gesink grabbed it from me and looked at it carefully. At the end of the chain there was a large silver oval with a fleur de lis engraved on it.
‘Aah...now we are getting somewhere,’ he said.
‘Vaughn was a boy scout?’
Gesink snorted with derision. We got into his car.
He turned and looked at me. ‘This is a membership badge to Fleur de lis - ever heard of it?’
‘Only the one by Beethoven,’ I answered.
Gesink rolled his eyes. ‘It’s the most exclusive brothel in town. Membership only. Just like the Melbourne Club, only women are allowed in this one. Now what I am about to tell you goes no further than these four walls...’ he looked around and changed it to ‘these four doors. If it comes into the public domain, I will know that it was you and I will hunt you down myself - comprende?’
‘Yeah, you catch and kill your own. I get it.’ The nearest I had got to the Painters & Dockers was watching Underbelly, but I knew how to make wisecracks with the best of them.
Gesink scrutinised me closely. ‘Alright then. You will need to have a look at these.’ He handed me a photo folder. At first I wasn’t sure what I was seeing. By the time I worked it out, the smart arse in me got up and left. I nearly fainted.
Gesink continued, ‘It appears that the late Police Minister was what is known in the trade as a ‘gasper’.
Once again I was learning new words. However, this time I could join the dots myself, even if they were swimming before my eyes.
‘I thought it was only Tory MPs who got up to this kind of behaviour,’ I took a deep breath, ‘and maybe rock stars and
the odd actor.’
Gesink just sat there shaking his head.
‘I thought he died of a heart attack,’ I said faintly.
‘Technically, that’s so. Luckily for us, we found a very literal doctor.’
I wondered what a not so literal doctor would have written; death involving a lot of rope with just a hint of latex.
‘Now was this an unfortunate accident involving autoerotic asphyxia or was it murder?’
That really shocked me. ‘Isn’t that a question for the police?’
‘Well, yes, they are looking at it as well. But there’s an unofficial go slow on it.’
