The Trojan Dog

by Dorothy Johnston

  . . .

  I leant against the grey, cold metal folds of a statue outside the ­magistrates’ court, hoping for a glimpse of Rae on her way out. The cherry trees along the lake behind the Canberra Theatre, the ones that blossomed early, were lolly pink.

  In midsummer, this statue I was leaning against would be too hot to touch. She was long and finely curved, serene. I looked for the name of the sculptor, remembering another statue with an upright bearing, in another life it seemed, and a man with long hair and green eyes waiting underneath.

  Then Rae was there in front of me, with no time for me to compose my features into an appropriate expression. She was walking beside her lawyer, step for step, as though they’d practised this to get it right.

  ‘Hello, Sandra.’ Rae held out her hand and smiled. She seemed calm, and showed no surprise at seeing me. I took her hand, at a loss for words. Rae was acting on automatic, going through the motions. Her eyes seemed clear because her mind was somewhere else. I turned to her lawyer, feeling an irrational stab of dislike for him, as though Rae’s detachment was his fault. Before I could collect myself to say anything, he’d moved Rae on, one hand underneath her elbow.

  When I arrived back at the Jolimont Centre, I spotted Felix coming out. He wasn’t wearing his jogging gear. Maybe I could follow him. I sidled behind three girls in calf-high logging boots and tight black jeans.

  I kept Felix in sight, but stayed well behind him till he stopped at the Tie Rack in the Canberra Centre. Metre-length silk scarves were knotted at one end to resemble ties. Felix held one and examined it, while I moved in behind two women holding babies at Pixi Foto. I smiled encouragingly at their chubby cheeks and rosy fists. A large black leather umbrella was part of the photographer’s equipment. Maybe she used it for outdoor assignments when the weather was unsettled. She glanced at me, and I could see her wondering if there was any chance that I might be a customer. Then she busied herself posing the first baby on a sheepskin, arranged attractively over a pale blue lambswool blanket. A brochure underneath the umbrella advertised Bonus Pose. If you got your baby to do the right thing, you won three free photo opportunities.

  Felix was certainly taking his time to choose a tie.

  The baby squirmed on the sheepskin and began to yell. The photographer flapped a fluffy yellow duck at it, with spirit, but with hope diminishing. I was afraid the noise would make Felix turn around, but I couldn’t see a better place to wait. Opposite Pixi Foto, Australian Choice offered quilted oven holders decorated with kangaroos and wattle. The Sock Drawer sported Batman, Elvis and Garfield boxer shorts.

  At last Felix moved. I followed him about thirty metres back. Down the escalator, in the food hall, I felt more secure, in familiar territory. I’d brought Peter here sometimes in the winter, let him cover himself with bolognaise sauce and felt good because I wouldn’t have to clean the table.

  Felix chose a sandwich from the health bar. No gloopy spaghetti for him.

  I was hungry, but I didn’t dare queue up for anything myself. I squatted down behind a plastic fern and kept Felix covered for about twenty minutes. His fussy, careful way of eating infuriated me. I gave up.

  On my way out of the centre, I paused at the window of the Teddy Bear Shop, where metre-high teddy bears posed, guaranteed to terrify children with their midnight shadows. But maybe it was only Peter who was subject to those fits of terror, face to face in the night-light with his beloved daytime toys.

  The trees in Northbourne Avenue were urging themselves towards a gap, a breach in the months of winter, but I felt tired and depressed. I could sneak around after Felix for days, but where would it get me? I was no le Carré hood.

  It was Rae I should have been following, not Felix. Felix would never lead me further than a contemplation of his healthy lifestyle. I should have followed Rae, to see where she went after that careful hand-under-the-elbow barrister left her to her own devices.

  Was that why Rae always wore ivory shirts, or creamy white, I asked myself, to make this light when she walked, to carry it with her? Silently in that courtroom, between chairs and carpet the colour of used blood, Rae had proclaimed her innocence.

  When I went back far enough, I came to a confluence of women. How important had my mother been to Rae? Would Rae and I ever be sufficiently relaxed, honest with one another, to talk about my mother? Is that what Rae wanted? And what happened when she recalled her own childhood? Did she ever do that? Were there any black-and-white still shots in her movie?

  Breaking Rules

  ‘We’re invisible,’ I said to Rae. ‘We’re definitely not here.’

  There was just enough light left for me to catch her smile. I thought how strange it was that while I’d been shy during our lunches, holding something back, then afraid of approaching her since her suspension from the department, now that she was to be tried in the Supreme Court and we were meeting in secret, I felt relaxed in her company, ready for anything.

  The twilight had something to do with it. I could feel Rae’s breath in the near dark, and was glad of the clouds that had brought an early sunset to the lake by Black Mountain Peninsula.

  We began walking slowly along a gravel path a few metres from the water’s edge. Some trees seemed to catch the wind a lot more than others, as though the wind was being deliberately selective.

  Rae’s coat blew open, and her white blouse seemed to reach out to the coming night. I had the feeling that, through some added sense, the borrowing of some nocturnal animal’s large eyes, she could see me better than I could see her.

  ‘Who did this to you?’ I said. ‘You must have some idea.’

  Rae’s voice came through air smelling of water weed.

  ‘I didn’t know anyone disliked me quite that much.’

  ‘What were you and Felix Wenborn arguing about that day in the lift?’

  ‘Felix is too young to be director of IT. He’s out of his depth.’

  ‘Who should be director?’ I asked. ‘Ivan?’

  ‘You like saying his name, don’t you?’

  There was that tickle of breath against my cheek, the smell of ­eucalyptus as we approached the first tall stand of trees.

  The last of the purple light seemed to come off the water rather than the sky. A flock of ducks passed us, a curtain shush of wings, and a darker shadow against the lake. ‘They’re up late,’ I said. I’d never taken Peter for a swim in the lake; something about the water bothered me, and now my unease seemed justified, closer to its source. When I’d pulled up in the carpark I’d noticed pelicans on the roundabout, three, maybe one more lying down. They were sharply angled, reminding me of those metal construction sets that had been replaced by Lego.

  ‘And that day?’ I persisted.

  ‘I’d forgotten about that. It was a silly thing really. A tender. I was asked to deal with a complaint about a tender. Not by Felix, of course. Jim Wilcox asked me. Apparently we’d awarded a computer software contract to a company, a local company actually, and there was a complaint about collusive tendering. Wilcox asked me to look into it.’

  ‘What was the name of the company?’

  ‘Some sort of composite name. Let me think. Compic. That was it.’

  ‘Had you heard of Compic before?’

  ‘I don’t think so. No.’

  ‘And you’d been arguing with Felix because he didn’t think you should be checking up on him?’

  ‘You could put it like that.’

  ‘Did you suspect that Felix had been playing favourites?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘After the argument?’

  ‘Well, no. I didn’t suspect anything in particular. I was just doing what Wilcox had told me to do. And then, of course, the business of the money—Felix was furious about that.’

  The wind strengthened, and I pulled my jacket tighter.

  ‘Does Access Computing have any sister outfits?’ I asked.

  ‘If you mean similar self-help organisations for women, then I’m no
t aware of any.’

  ‘What about other organisations who applied for that grant and weren’t successful?’

  Rae swung round and began walking back the way we’d come. It seemed I’d said something to offend her.

  ‘Angela Carlishaw was in retreat,’ Rae said. ‘If she was a priest in a cassock would people believe her? It’s a beautiful place apparently, a spiritual place. An old Scottish nunnery.’

  ‘You’ve talked to Angela Carlishaw yourself?’

  ‘No. I spoke to the other one, Isobel. On the phone. She told me Angela was in Scotland, on a retreat, in an old Scottish nunnery. There isn’t any phone.’

  ‘And you believed this Isobel person, whoever she is?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I? You know—’ Rae turned to stare behind her at the water. ‘Ages ago, when they were flooding the lake, I came down here to watch. Slow brown water just edging towards me. And the earth underneath it was brown too. Silky. I used to think how easy it would be.’

  ‘Don’t,’ I said. The palms of my hands began to sweat.

  ‘Rae?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ll make sure our report gets out on time. I promise.’

  . . .

  Driving home, I couldn’t help thinking how differently my mother would have reacted. Innocent or guilty, she would have shouted, run about, hired three lawyers, sacked them, hired half-a-dozen more, until she found one with the guts and spirit to give the case her best.

  I felt clumsy and disoriented. A cyclist wearing black, and with only a dim headlight, veered in front of me and I almost hit him. I was glad Peter was having dinner at Ivan’s. I wasn’t thinking clearly. The idea that Access Computing might have rivals niggled away at the back of my mind. On the whole, I decided I’d rather look up the information on their grants myself. And Felix? No wonder he was pissed off. Had Jim Wilcox, who was Felix’s FAS as well as Rae’s and mine, deliberately put Rae in the position of having to check up on Felix? And if so, why?

  Why hadn’t Rae defended herself? Instead, she’d let the press have a field day, chasing the retreating Angela, making fun of her. Could it be that Rae was protecting someone? And why should that someone be worth her own career?

  . . .

  Ivan brought Peter home hours late, red-faced and flushed with triumph. They’d found a fault in one of the machines in Video Arcade, and had been playing it for free all evening.

  ‘What happened to dinner?’ I hustled Peter through the door and glared at Ivan. ‘Don’t you know what time it is?’

  ‘Mum!’ cried Peter. ‘The guy was such a dork! He didn’t even see!’

  Peter’s skin was glassy, his forehead hot. He was asleep practically before I’d turned the light out.

  Ivan put on the saucepan for hot chocolate.

  His frown said he could see I was angry, but no harm had been done. The cold of the winter night came off him in small waves, and he looked very Russian. I knew how it would feel to run my fingers through that cold, springy hair.

  ‘There’s these parent–teacher interviews,’ I said. ‘Next week. She hasn’t said anything, but that doesn’t mean she won’t.’

  We sat at the kitchen table with our drinks between us. Ivan gave me a straight look. ‘Why don’t I come with you?’

  ‘You?’

  Ivan jutted his chin out and twisted his mouth in a parody of eager helpfulness.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re not Peter’s father.’

  ‘Full marks for that one, Sandy.’

  I’d hurt him, and I’d meant to, and there was an awful, shameful pleasure in it.

  ‘You know what that teacher’s like. She implied that Peter’s trouble in class was caused by his father going to America. And then you turn up.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not exaggerating?’ Ivan’s voice was calm now, his face closed. He’d retreated into himself. That was usually my tactic.

  ‘I might be,’ I said. ‘But it’s not worth the risk.’

  There was an edge to Peter you had to live with to understand, a thinness. He wasn’t solid the way I thought children had to be to make a go of things, to survive.

  . . .

  I woke when grey light was just beginning to stain the bottom of my curtains. I shook Ivan awake and he groaned and got up, while I lay listening for rain. Every morning that week I’d woken to the sound of it.

  ‘Hurry up,’ I whispered.

  Ivan yawned, reaching for his clothes. Then he turned to face me, his T-shirt dangling from one hand, and said, ‘So when’re you telling the Derrick?’

  Taken aback, I said, ‘I don’t know.’

  Ivan scratched the skin under his beard. ‘Write Derek a letter, or ring him up. I don’t care which.’

  I was fully awake, and shivering by then. I’d had no idea that Ivan cared whether or not Derek knew about us.

  ‘And say what?’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘If I knew what that was, I wouldn’t need to ask.’

  ‘Tell him, Sandra,’ Ivan said. ‘He might hate knowing, but at least he’ll know.’

  . . .

  As soon as I got to work that morning, I asked Deirdre if I could have a look at the grant applications. I wasn’t sure what I was hoping to find—a rival company with a grudge against Access Computing that stuck out a mile?

  Deirdre looked at me from under her flat grey fringe and asked, ‘What for?’

  ‘Well, we’re doing a section on current government assistance for the report,’ I told her, biting my tongue with the lameness of my reason. ‘I need to have a look at what kinds of groups put in applications.’

  ‘The police went through them all.’

  I was suddenly aware of Deirdre’s uncertainty. It mustn’t have been much fun sitting in her small office adjoining Rae’s empty one, day after day, copping endless questions and insinuations.

  ‘That big detective sergeant’s a pain, isn’t he?’ I said.

  I smiled, hoping Deirdre would smile back.

  She didn’t smile, but she stood up and moved over to the filing cabinet.

  I took the grant applications back to my office and read them over lunch, while things were quiet. I didn’t want Ivan or anybody breathing down my neck.

  There were twenty-six, but it didn’t take me long to read them. Applicants had to answer questions about the origins of their group or company, how long they’d been in business, their philosophy and their commitment to fostering computer literacy and awareness in the community. There were several retail stores claiming to provide special services to customers, and seven or eight small businesses whose sole purpose seemed to be to provide technical support. The rest were software companies. Compic, I noted, was not among them. On the face of it, Access Computing seemed a clear winner. Their application stood out like a parrot in a bedraggled flock of starlings.

  I took the applications back to Deirdre and thanked her for letting me see them.

  That afternoon, I told Ivan what Rae had said to me about being asked to handle a complaint about a tender. Ivan listened, not with one of his great scowls, but with a small frown that made his eyebrows thicker.

  The letter of complaint had been an embarrassment, he explained at last, because Felix had handled it badly. Felix had been outraged that anyone would dare to question the way he dealt with tendering procedures.

  ‘Evans had to do what Wilcox told her. IT should’ve accepted that.’

  ‘What do you know about the actual complaint?’ I asked.

  ‘I knew IT was furious, because he made sure everybody knew it.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But none of the details. Sorry.’

  Ivan dismissed my questions the way Rae might have. Or Felix himself. I didn’t invite Ivan over that night, and he said nothing about his after-work arrangements.

  . . .

  In the middle of the night, I heard the door open, Peter’s voice husky with sleep and something else.

  ‘Mum?’
r />   ‘What is it?’

  ‘Mummy?’ Peter was standing still, just inside the doorway. ‘I had a bad dream,’ he said in a small child’s voice.

  As a toddler, Peter had come hurtling to Derek and me in the night, howling and flinging himself on our bed, as if only the speed of reaching us could push the nightmare back.

  I reached up and switched on my bed-light. Still Peter didn’t move.

  I held out my arms. ‘Come and have a cuddle.’

  Peter slid into bed beside me, and I kissed the top of his head, then his forehead at the hairline, where the hair grew fluffy still.

  He snuggled up to me as he hadn’t done for ages, to whisper in my ear, ‘When’s Dad coming home?’

  ‘At Christmas.’

  ‘Why won’t Dad be here for my birthday?’

  ‘Because it’s too expensive.’

  ‘I want to stay with Dad for the school holidays.’

  A dagger of cold air passed between us. I could tell by Peter’s voice that he’d thought of this plan some time ago.

  I took him back to his room and tucked him in, Peter insisting all the while that he was old enough to go to America on his own, and Dad would take him to a cheese factory to make up for forgetting to send those pictures.

  A Hidden Microphone

  ‘Come on,’ Gail Trembath told me. ‘I’d better wire you up before we get too pissed.’

  Hardly likely, since we’d only had one glass of wine. I agreed, though the closer I came to putting my plan into action, the more my feet felt like blocks of ice.

  ‘Won’t you be missed at work?’ Gail asked.

  ‘Won’t you?’ I replied.

  ‘Twit,’ she said. ‘Reporters are meant to hunt around for stories.’

  Gail’s flat smelt of absence, the absence of a single professional only home at weekends, and not for much of them. Her living room looked like a newspaper recycling depot. Stacks that had started in the corners were steadily moving inwards, a slow-motion guerilla attack on her ­furniture and carpet.

  ‘Where do you entertain?’ I asked.

  Gail flung an arm through the bedroom door. Her bedroom looked only slightly less covered in paper than the living room. She went to fetch some sticking plaster. I thought she was taking a long time, then heard her yell, ‘Gotcha!’