Sucked In

by Shane Maloney

  ‘He was very persuasive.’ Col Bishop stared down between his knees, studying the carpet. ‘Play it right and the body might not be found for hours, days even, he said. The head injury could easily have been down to a knock from the boat.’

  ‘What did Charlie say?’

  ‘Not much.’ He thought about it. ‘Actually, he was a lot less resistant to the idea than you might expect.’

  And so it was done. In the pre-dawn darkness, the boat was launched and the body loaded. Charlie and Barry pushed off onto the fog-shrouded lake while Bishop remained behind, lit the fire, burned the fluid-stained pillow and waited for the others to return.

  ‘Barry said they’d be back in fifteen or twenty minutes at the most,’ he said. ‘But they were gone for much longer than that. A storm blew up and rain was bucketing down. I thought they’d capsized or hit a submerged tree or something.’

  He wanted me, I could see, to understand what an ordeal this had been for him. That he, too, had shouldered his share of the terrible burden. The blank-faced window behind him was a tremulous, rain-streaked shimmer. A wintry pall suffused the small room.

  ‘It was getting light and there was still no sign of them. Then Sid Gilpin turned up. He’d driven part of the way the previous night, been breathalysed going through Seymour and the cops had confiscated his car keys. He’d had to spend the night in a motel before he could get them back.’

  ‘He was party to the planned discussions, was he?’ I said.

  Bishop shrugged. ‘I told him the story we’d concocted, that Merv had insisted on taking the other two out fishing and they were still somewhere on the lake. Then the boat turned up. They’d had trouble with the motor. Charlie was soaked to the skin and turning blue. His teeth were chattering so hard he could hardly speak. But Gilpin being there was a plus. You know, a witness from the other side. Barry said that Merv had fallen overboard and Charlie had jumped in and tried to save him. Merv had gone under and they’d lost sight of him.’

  ‘And Gilpin bought it?’

  ‘Hook, line and sinker. He tore back into the house to call the police and get a search happening, but the phone was locked. That’s the way Merv kept it when he wasn’t in residence. In case somebody broke in and used it to make free long-distance calls. The key must still have been on the ring in his pocket. Gilpin jumped in his car and tore off to the Barjarg roadhouse to raise the alarm. Barry gave them directions to where the accident had happened, misleading I assume, and they started to search.’

  Bishop turned out his hands and stared me square in the face with his baleful owl eyes. ‘So there you have it. We kept it under wraps for twenty years. Stuck with our stories when the police interviewed us again last week. As far as I know, Charlie took it to the grave with him. You’re the only other person who knows what really happened.’

  He tugged back the flap of his academic gown, glanced at his watch and looked around the visiting fellows’ office with an air of impatient captivity.

  ‘Sid Gilpin seems to have a talent for turning up,’ I said. ‘He’s done it again. The prospect of Merv’s resurrection has got him all excited. He claims to have evidence of a scam at the Municipals.’

  Bishop tilted his scarecrow neck sideways. ‘Such as?’

  ‘A pair of bankbooks,’ I said.

  ‘Jesus,’ Bishop snorted. ‘Not them again?’

  ‘Again?’ I said.

  Bishop squirmed in his seat. ‘I really should go back up and let myself be seen. My absence will have been noted.’

  I’d overplayed my hand badly in the stairwell and getting this far had been sheer good luck. ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, reaching for the door handle. ‘You’ve been very generous with your time.’

  ‘No need to get unctuous, Murray,’ he said. ‘I’ve got more at stake here than you, or the Labor Party. Just let me get this academic rigmarole out of the way.’

  We hurried along the deserted corridor, Bishop’s gown swishing as we passed the empty tutorial rooms and silent offices of the Department of Outdoor Recreation. Evidently the staff and students were outdoors somewhere, recreating in the rain.

  ‘You remember how the union dues were collected?’ he said.

  ‘The usual way, I assume. Payroll deductions.’

  ‘In most workplaces, public utilities, big municipalities and so forth, that was the case. But with some of the smaller employers, shire councils, say, it was handled by a union representative. The rep got a ten percent commission and a bonus for each new member signed up or every arrears brought back into the fold. Small beer, but a nice top-up for somebody on a base-grade wage.’

  We reached the lifts and I pushed the button. ‘What’s this got to do with the bankbooks?’

  ‘Those training programs you and I ran, they were very educational,’ he said. ‘While you were back at base, filling ring binders with diagrams and photocopying course materials, I was doing more than raising industrial education standards among the toiling masses. I was doing a bit of digging.’

  The lift arrived, empty, and we stepped in. Bishop firmed his university-monogrammed tie and donned his velvet sombrero. I hit the button for the top floor. The doors slid shut and the lift began its ascent.

  ‘I’d picked up some whispers that Sid Gilpin was extorting kickbacks out of some of the collection agents, threatening to give the job to someone else if they didn’t pay up. He created the impression he was acting on Merv’s behalf. But that didn’t ring true to me. For all his faults, dipping into the till wasn’t Merv’s style. Charlie agreed.’

  The lift doors opened. We’d been gone for a good half-hour and the crowd was thinning. A blue-edged gown, one of the big chiefs, spotted Bishop. ‘Ah, there you are!’ he declared. ‘We’ve been wondering where you got to.’

  Bishop cocked his scraggly beard in the direction of the balcony, indicating I should await him there. ‘I’ve been hiding from the paparazzi,’ he declared jovially, allowing himself to be led away.

  It was well past three and a hasty Tim Tam was the closest I’d come to lunch. I was hungry enough to fang the furry dice off a Ford Falcon. I fronted the buffet table, but the best I could scrape up were a couple of quarters of picked-over tuna and mayonnaise sandwich. I took the fishy cardboard and a styrofoam cup of tea onto the balcony. The rain was back down to a fine drizzle and I savoured my repast with my back against the wall, sheltered by the overhanging eaves.

  A string of flat-topped boats chugged up the river and parked in front of the casino. Entertainment stages, I wondered? Fireworks launch platforms? Premier Geoffries’ royal barge on a practice run? I thought about Lanie, wiped the fish oil off my fingers and got out my phone to check my messages.

  No joy. But while I had the phone out, I rang Fliteplan. As instructed, Margot had gone home. I’d call her there later, see if she was okay. It had been a busy and relentlessly informative morning. I wondered what I’d got myself into.

  After a while, the drizzle stopped and people came out onto the balcony to look at the view or smoke cigarettes. I had one myself, just to be sociable. The crowd had drifted away and the caterers had started to pack up when Colin Bishop appeared, now minus the bonnet and frock.

  ‘Where were we?’ he said, leaning on the balustrade beside me.

  ‘Cutlett and Gilpin,’ I reminded him. ‘Corruption and bankbooks.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he nodded. ‘Poor old Merv. Behind that gruff exterior he was a deeply lonely man, you know. His war service had cost him his youth and his long-term health. Politics alienated him from his family—hard-line Catholics, the Cutletts, rabidly right wing. His wife divorced him and he bullied his daughter into a life of domestic begrudgery as his housekeeper. He couldn’t relate to women at all.’

  You don’t know the half of it, I thought.

  ‘The union was his entire life, but men like Charlie Talbot were trying to steal it from under him. Technocratic types spouting jargon about rationalisation, consensus and the social wage. Gilpin was just a bottom-tie
r organiser, an exgarbo, but he read Merv like a book. He got alongside him, pandered to him, drank with him, made all the right noises. Played Tonto to Merv’s Lone Ranger. Gave him loyalty and got trust in return. Not to mention a meal ticket.’

  Col had obviously become quite reflective since his pro vice-chancellorship, but while this psychologising was all very interesting, it wasn’t exactly germane. And the cold wind blowing up the river was threatening to freeze my nuts off.

  ‘The bankbooks,’ I prompted.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Bishop swerved back to the point. ‘Charlie didn’t believe that Merv was corrupt, but he knew a trump card when he was dealt one. He got me to put together a full dossier on Gilpin’s little fiddle. Names, amounts, statutory declarations, the irrefutable works. Then, at the height of Merv’s intransigence on the amalgamation issue, Charlie showed it to him. Quietly, in confidence, and out of deep concern for his reputation.’

  In the past five minutes, I’d learned more about the Federated Union of Municipal Employees than I’d picked up in all the months I’d worked there.

  ‘Merv realised that Charlie had him by the short and curlies. Not only was he unaware of what was happening in his own office, he was at risk of having his reputation trashed in the eyes of his members. At that point, he stopped stonewalling and began to seriously negotiate the terms of his departure. What he wanted, above all, was to retain his dignity and his historic connection with the union.’

  ‘A seat on the board and an appropriate honorarium,’ I said. There was one cigarette left in my pack. That made a total of six smoked so far that day, well over my limit. We’re all dead men on furlough, I told myself. Turning my back on the breeze, I cupped my hands and lit up.

  ‘Gilpin knew there’d be no golden parachute for him,’ said Bishop. ‘So he’d bought himself some insurance, just in case Merv ever got backed into a corner. He opened accounts in Charlie and Barry’s names at the bank across the road from the Trades Hall. You remember how easy it was in those days. No ten-point checks or photo ID. A gas bill was enough for most banks. Gilpin channelled his kickback earnings through the accounts, making it look like Charlie and Barry were trousering regular pay-offs of some sort.’

  ‘Pretty smart,’ I said.

  Bishop stroked his beard and nodded. On the street below us, I could see a busker in a kilt playing the bagpipes at the underpass entrance to Flinders Street station. Fortunately, he was too far away to be heard.

  ‘Merv wasn’t going to look a gift like that in the mouth. He showed the bankbooks to Charlie and Barry. Quietly, in confidence, and out of deep concern for their reputations.’

  ‘Mexican stand-off.’

  Bishop nodded again. ‘That’s what the meeting at the Shack was supposed to be about. Cutting a deal that accommodated all parties. They’d get the dossier, we’d get the bankbooks. Merv would sign off on the amalgamation, Gilpin would get some fuck-off money. But once Merv had the bankbooks in his hand, he didn’t need Gilpin anymore. When Charlie picked him up at his office on the Friday night, he’d sent Gilpin off on some fool’s errand. The two of them left without him. But Sid must have realised that Merv was cutting him out of the loop and barrelled after them in a blue streak. If the cops hadn’t picked him up for driving over the limit, the whole thing would’ve played out very differently.’

  I knew that wasn’t the real reason Gilpin had been left behind. Charlie obviously wasn’t going to stick around and put himself in the position of having to explain why Merv was prostrate on the shagpile with his dick hanging out and a hole in the back of his head.

  ‘If Merv had the bankbooks,’ I said. ‘How did Gilpin get them back?’

  ‘He pinched them.’

  Jesus, if this got any more complex, I’d need a degree in nuclear physics to follow it. And if it got any longer, I’d catch pneumonia. I shivered and shook myself, hinting that we should move inside. Bishop continued, oblivious. Fucking fresh-air nut.

  ‘Barry took the books off Merv when he was non-compos and tossed them in his briefcase. They were just sitting there in plain view when Gilpin made his dash into the Shack to use the phone. He was only inside a few seconds, but it was long enough to take a quick shufti and grab them. We discovered what he’d done almost immediately, of course. But there was a lot going on by then, and bigger matters at stake.’

  ‘You didn’t try to get them back later?’ I said.

  ‘That would only have complicated matters. Gilpin cleaned out the accounts and made himself scarce. We wrote off the money and let sleeping dogs lie.’

  It started to drizzle. I flicked my cigarette butt in the general direction of the casino and we hurried inside. Staff were stacking the seating and dismantling the dais. We headed into a quiet corner, our voices hushed.

  ‘The sleeping dog kept the passbooks,’ I said. ‘He’s picked up that the police suspect things are a bit iffy in the manner of Merv’s death. He’s threatening to send the books their way, just to stir things up. Unless, of course, somebody makes him a better offer.’

  ‘He’s crazy,’ said Bishop. ‘Their threat value is twenty years past its use-by date.’

  ‘He’s crazy all right,’ I said. ‘Certifiable. But you and Barry illegally disposed of a body and perjured yourselves at an inquest. Not a good look for men in your current positions. And your story’s already springing leaks, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.’

  Bishop stroked his fungus and gave it some thought. ‘Does Quinlan know about this?’

  ‘He will as soon as I tell him,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t use the phone,’ said Bishop. ‘Barry was very clear on that point.’

  ‘He’s a very wise man,’ I said. ‘By the way, did the police show you a picture of a watch?’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘What’s that all about?’

  ‘Buggered if I know,’ I said.

  For want of a better idea, I decided to put in an appearance at my place of work.

  As I was walking into the vestibule, Alan Metcalfe emerged from the direction of the Legislative Assembly at the pointy end of a flying wedge of frontbenchers. Daryl Keels of the Right, Ken Crouch of the Left, deputy Peter Thorsen and a small phalanx of spear-carriers.

  Metcalfe gave me a curt, magisterial nod as they swept past. Without breaking stride, Thorsen reached into his jacket and handed me an envelope.

  ‘Good timing, Murray,’ he said, tipping me a jovial there-you-go wink. ‘That letter you wanted, re the constituent matter.’

  ‘Good on you, Peter,’ I said, pocketing his treasonous pledge as we each continued on our way.

  It was one of those moments that makes politics a sport worth playing.

  After an hour or so of dutiful paperwork at my desk in the Henhouse, I adjourned to the carpark and thence to the Safeway in Smith Street, Collingwood, which lay exactly twixt House and home.

  Out of respect for the street’s heritage status, the Victorian-era façade of the supermarket building had been retained. Its windows empty, it stood attached to the front of the strip-lit modern grocery emporium like the plywood set from a Western movie. I drove up the ramp to the rooftop carpark, then walked though the cluster of buskers and ferals sheltering in the entranceway.

  One of them stepped into my path, cold-sores on her lips and track marks on the backs of her bony hands. ‘’Scuse me, mate,’ she started up. ‘You couldn’t help me could you, ’cause I’ve lost me train ticket to Frankston and…’

  ‘Forget Frankston,’ I poured my loose change into her palm, all three dollars of it. ‘Get yourself a hit.’

  The supermarket was busy with home-bound shoppers and desperate singles cruising for a pick-up. Toilet paper, breakfast cereal, tea-bags. I browsed the condoms.

  Lanie still hadn’t called. Don’t get your boxers in a knot, I told myself. It’s only Monday. Give it time.

  The classic plain ones, I decided. Ribbed might look a bit kinky.

  In the meat section, I phoned Red to check on his whereab
outs and discuss ongoing menu issues. He was home hitting the books. Did I have any thoughts on the consequences of the French Revolution?

  ‘Too early to tell,’ I said. ‘How does spaghetti bolognese sound?’

  He made a slurping noise. I took it for a yes, loaded up on mince and joined the line at the register. All the check-out chicks were Vietnamese students and all the bag-boys were Ethiopian. While I waited in line, I tried to imagine the results if they ever had children together. Long distance runners with doctorates in chemical engineering? Very tall restaurant owners?

  ‘Proice check on gwuckermoley?’ bellowed the Oriental pearl at the register, unequivocally true-blue.

  I humped the groceries to the car, shuffled home through the drizzly rush-hour and conscripted Red into the unpacking. ‘Mothballs?’ he said, emptying the cleaners and chemicals bag.

  ‘No thanks. They give me heartburn. Let’s stick with the spag bog.’

  Spaghetti bolognese was the bedrock of Red’s culinary repertoire. He browned some mince, added a jumbo jar of tomato puree and phoned a friend while he stirred. I took the mothballs into my den of antiquity and hauled my archive boxes down off the top shelf.

  I’d got there just in time. As I levered the lid off the first cardboard carton, a startled silverfish slithered back into the haphazard pile of documents that filled the box. I reached in and removed the contents. A fine powder of insect-droppings had accumulated in the crevices at the bottom. Not a whiff remained of the naphthalene flakes I’d scattered there only three or four years earlier.

  Dropping a handful of mothballs into the box, I began replacing the pages, scanning them as I went. This was the archaeological record of my life and times, the hieroglyphs of a vanished civilisation, intelligible only to the expert eye. Why I’d saved this stuff in the first place, and why I continued to store it, was a mystery to baffle the Sphinx. Here were my initials, scratched with a stick in the sands of time. Or, in the instance to hand, scribbled in biro on the menu of the 1972 Young Labor Conference dinner.