‘How’d you get it?’
‘I stayed at his place last night. Adam left his laptop on when he went for a run. It was all there: the report, PDFs of each case file, everything.’
Clare couldn’t help it. She pictured his South Bank apartment. Adam going for his seven o’clock run by the river. The laptop set up by the window with the view to the gardens. But instead of her being there, waiting for the customary gourmet dinner for two to arrive at exactly eight o’clock – instead of her, there was Ronnie. Ronnie in her place, scrolling through Adam’s documents, glancing at the door, slipping in a memory stick to save the damning evidence of Pyramid’s treachery.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Clare.
‘I don’t know yet. Part of me’s over the moon and the rest of me wants to cry.’
‘What are you going to do now? Can you bear to stay with Adam a bit longer? If you dump him now he’ll guess.’
‘I suppose you’re right. It might be fun to stick around and watch the fallout.’
Tom came in, followed by an elegant Afghan hound. ‘Will you weigh Sheba, please.’
She shook her head and held up her hand for him to be quiet. ‘Can you email the information through to me?’ Clare asked Ronnie.
‘Done,’ she said. ‘It’s on its way.’
‘I owe you one, Ronnie,’ said Clare. ‘More than one, actually.’ She sank back in her chair, giddy with excitement and disbelief.
Tom regarded her curiously. ‘You okay?’ he asked. ‘Should I be jealous of this Ronnie character?’
She jumped up and slapped a kiss on him. ‘No,’ said Clare. ‘You should be thanking her instead. And don’t use the internet for a bit. I’ve got a big download due.’
That evening, Clare lay in bed, trawling through the information Ronnie had sent her. It really was too good to be true. Tom made an effort to tempt her out, even once tried to get into bed with her, but she chased him off. She only had eyes for the report – the report that laid out Pyramid’s long-term concerns about public health, pollution and potential compensation claims. Examples were given, backed up by detailed case studies. A school located in a heavily drilled area with asthma rates ten times the state average. A well site blowout that spewed methane for sixteen hours. A drunken dozer driver who accidentally released thousands of litres of chemical-laced wastewater into nearby creeks. Wells contaminated by methane and benzene. The list was endless and she knew just who to give it to.
Clare skimmed through the conclusion. Area managers will project pollution catastrophe scenarios for their regions to ensure Pyramid has sufficient insurance to cover the costs of these types of events . . . comprehensive, iron-clad confidentiality clauses will be used in settlement agreements to gag potential claimants. She lay back in bed, listening to the nighttime serenade of frogs on the dam. Her dream came back to her, the one where a black stain had fouled the prehistoric waters of the Great Artesian Basin before the vortex drained it dry. That nightmare would never come true. Not if she could help it.
Grandad poked his head around the door. ‘Not often you hit you hit the sack before me, Clare Bear. Is everything all right?’
Clare jumped out of bed and hugged him tight. ‘Everything’s better than all right,’ she said. ‘Everything’s perfect.’
The next morning Clare began calling. Gordon McCrae had been surprisingly accessible. Less than an hour of ringing around and she had the man himself on the phone.
‘I have a leaked Pyramid Energy report,’ she told him, ‘documenting a cover-up of contamination in the Darling Downs gas fields.’
‘Email me the material,’ said Gordon. ‘I’ll be in touch if there’s anything in it.’
Clare did as he asked, then sat down to wait. Gordon was a busy man. He might not look at the documents straightaway. It might take weeks for him to get back to her. Maybe she should go directly to the media. She tried to distract herself by tackling one of Grandad’s half-finished crosswords. Another word for blessing? Seven letters . . . with D as third and last letter? The phone rang just as she penciled godsend into the squares.
‘Clare Mitchell? That report you sent me . . . it makes very disturbing reading,’ said Gordon. ‘I’ll be raising it in parliament next week.’
‘Will it stop the expansion of the gas fields?’
‘There’s a very good chance,’ he said. ‘When people see this, it’ll be a brand new ball game.’
Gordon rang off. Clare sat for a while, trying to grasp the implications of what he’d told her. A very good chance, he’d said. There was also a very good chance Pyramid would trace the leaked documents back to Adam. She felt a twinge of regret, but then hardened her heart. It couldn’t be helped. Adam had made his bed . . . let him lie in it.
Clare went to find her grandfather. He was in the loungeroom, going through stud records. ‘Grandad? I think you’d better sit down.’ She waited until he was settled in his favourite old armchair, took a place on the frayed couch beside him and launched into her news.
The story was hard to tell. She was leaving bits out, some of them on purpose, and talking too fast. Her grandfather listened in silence, occasionally tugging at his ear. ‘So,’ she concluded, ‘Gordon McCrae reckons there’s a good chance that this could stop the gas wells.’ Clare wet her lips, wound tight, awaiting his response.
A slow smile crinkled across his face. ‘I can’t believe you did this,’ he said, his voice quivering. ‘For me, for Currawong.’
Clare felt a catch in her throat. The emotion in her grandfather’s voice overwhelmed her. If she could do this, if she could save Currawong, it would be some kind of atonement. She sat on the arm of his chair and buried her face in his shoulder.
When she looked up there was a joyous twinkle in his eye. ‘I’ll not ask you how you came by this report,’ he said. ‘There are some things a grandfather shouldn’t know about his granddaughter, eh?’
She gave him a grateful smile. God, how she loved this old man.
Chapter 32
Sunday morning, first day of November. Spring sauntered towards summer, but it was still cold this early at Currawong, lying as it did in the vast shadow of the Bunya range. Early sunshine streamed in the window, bathing the room in a cool, golden glow. Clare stretched, then snuggled back beneath the blankets
Tom’s silly secret knock came at the door, and he slipped in. He wore satin boxers sporting a serpent design, and carried a plate of mangos, sliced checkerboard fashion, and a damp facecloth. He sat on her bed and they feasted on the luscious fruit in silence, exchanging glances. Juice ran down her chin. Occasionally he stroked her face and décolletage with firm sweeps of the washer, lingering on the swell of her breasts. He kissed her mouth, tasting of sweetness and sun and sin. She shivered. Jacky could burst in the door any minute. That was the only reason Clare didn’t pull Tom into her bed then and there.
In some ways, having him under the same roof was more frustrating than having him at Bonnie’s. He was always so tantalisingly close. Sunning himself half-naked on the lawn after a swim in the dam, working with Jack and Sparky in the ménage, a look of calm concentration on his rugged face, playing fetch with Red, swinging in after work in his sexy scrubs – it didn’t matter; Clare had the permanent hots for him, and he for her. But the old Currawong homestead wasn’t a big house. It didn’t have thick walls. It didn’t offer much privacy. Their rendezvous were limited to when Grandad took Jack out on morning paddock rounds or late at night, when they hoped the others were asleep.
Even then, they couldn’t be certain of uninterrupted time together. Grandad might be away for ten minutes or two hours; he was notoriously unpredictable. ‘The old bugger’s doing it on purpose,’ complained Tom once, while putting on his trousers, hopping around on one leg and swearing. Then there were the walk-ins at the surgery. Depending on how urgent the case or how pushy the client, these often ended up at the house when the surgery was closed.
So far, their close encounters had happened mainly in the
cart shed, among the hay bales, beneath the massive, gleaming harnesses hanging on the wall. They closed the high timber doors for privacy and to keep away the curious dogs. Tom’s bare body, the sight and scent and feel of it, was inextricably linked in Clare’s mind to summer gardens and the warm smell of hay and saddle leather. They had swift, silent, urgent sex in the dark. It was about as far as it could be from the slow, sensuous lovemaking that Clare craved. But even so, these hurried trysts with Tom were more exciting than anything she’d known before. Without fail they left her restless and hungry for more.
Tom’s fingers slipped the strap of her singlet from her shoulder, just as Jack rocketed in the door, followed by his shadow, Samson. The pair leaped onto the bed and Jack started his favourite tickling game. Clare took refuge beneath the covers and Tom rescued her by hoisting Jack aloft, so his wriggling fingers couldn’t reach. ‘I think she deserves a Sunday sleep-in,’ said Tom. ‘How about I take you for a ride on Sparky?’
‘My pony,’ yelled Jack. ‘My pony.’ Clare emerged from beneath the blankets and whispered, ‘Thank you.’
‘No worries,’ said Tom. He gave her a quick kiss and shepherded the little boy and his dog from the room.
That old adage about it taking a village to raise a child made perfect sense to Clare now. You needed other people to share the load: Grandad, Tom, Bronwyn and Danny, even Samson. They preserved her sanity, and Jack needed extended family and friends around as much as she did. Each person showed the child a different way of being in the world. How did she ever think she could have managed him all by herself in Brisbane, just her and the Happy Elves? It seemed so stupid to her now. She yawned, snuggled back down onto her pillow and closed her eyes. Life was good.
Later, over breakfast, Clare watched Grandad. He seemed years younger. The furrows had fallen from his face and been replaced with smile lines. Gordon McCrae and that leaked report was all he could talk about.
‘I’m mighty grateful to you, love. Mighty grateful,’ he said for the umpteenth time. Simple words for so heartfelt a sentiment. ‘You’ve given me a whole new lease of life.’ He piled an extra helping of bacon on his hot, buttered toast.
‘Happy to help,’ she said, feeling a warm glow of pride. She gave her grandfather’s bony shoulders a big bear hug, then stood him at arm’s length to examine his face. ‘Have you been smoking?’ The faint, acrid smell of cigarettes clung to his clothes.
‘Won’t lie to you, love. Sid gave me a packet of Drum. Just been having the odd one every now and then, I swear.’
‘The odd one is one too many,’ said Clare. ‘After all the effort you said you put into giving up. Maybe that’s why you’re getting those headaches.’
‘Funny thing is,’ said Grandad, ‘the fags seem to help.’
‘Don’t give me excuses,’ she said, unable to stay stern. ‘You’re old enough to know better.’
‘That I am, love,’ he said, with a chuckle. ‘Where’s Jacky?’
‘He’s having a lesson on Sparky.’
Grandad scowled. ‘Well, tell Tom to get the lad back here,’ he said. ‘I’m handling Bessie’s new foal today. It’ll be a real treat for the boy.’
‘Sorry,’ she said firmly. ‘Jack’s got a play date with Danny. I’m really looking forward to spending the morning with him.’ She shook her head. ‘Between you and Tom, I barely get a look-in with that boy.’ Her grandfather looked so put out, she gave him a kiss.
‘That’s enough of that lovey-dovey stuff.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Clare. ‘You lap it up.’
He put his gnarled old hand over hers, where it rested on his shoulder. ‘That I do, love’ – a smile breaking through his frown – ‘That I do.’
Out the window, a sparkling early summer day beckoned, fairy floss clouds floating in a sea-blue sky. Clare finished packing her bag and went out the screen door, just as the hall phone rang. Should she leave it? No, Grandad only heard the phone half the time these days. An important mare was coming to stud today. It might be the owners asking for directions. When on earth was Grandad going to get hearing aids? She ran back in. Grandad sat oblivious, lost in the latest Heavy Horse World magazine, just arrived from the UK.
But when Clare answered the phone, she wished she hadn’t. ‘Kim?’ A dart of fear pricked her happy mood. ‘How are you?’
‘We need to talk.’
Clare had never known good news to follow such a phrase. She braced herself.
‘I’ve been approached by a solicitor representing Taylor Brown. She’s suing for custody of Jack.’
It didn’t make any sense. ‘But he’s on a twelve-month guardianship order.’
‘She’s challenging it.’
‘On what basis?’
‘On the basis that her circumstances have changed and that the child will no longer be at risk in her care.’
Clare didn’t trust herself to speak. If a single word came out of her mouth, she was bound to break the golden rule: don’t show how much you care.
‘There’s another thing, Clare, another basis upon which she’s challenging the order . . .’
‘What?’ asked Clare. Kim hung silent on the phone. ‘Tell me.’ She’d almost shouted that time.
‘Taylor is challenging your own fitness to care for Jack.’
‘Based on what?’ She could hear the anger in her voice, but there was no stemming the rising tide of outrage.
‘She’s alleging neglect and inadequate supervision. Taylor’s lawyer . . .’ The sound of rustling papers. ‘Sarah Chapman her name is. A most unpleasant woman.’
Chapman. Clare felt a chill creep through her. ‘That’s absurd,’ said Clare. ‘Jack’s made astonishing progress here. You can’t possibly let him go back to Taylor.’ She caught herself in time. ‘Not yet, I mean. You can’t let him go back to Taylor, yet. It would be devastating for him.’
‘You did lose the child, Clare. And for several hours. From what I understand there was quite a search . . . dozens of locals. Police. State emergency personnel. And Jack was found almost a kilometre away.’ She let her accusations sink in. ‘It doesn’t sound so absurd to me.’
‘Anything else?’ said Clare. ‘Perhaps I’ve tortured Jack for laughs or used him for target practice.’
‘I wouldn’t joke about it,’ said Kim. Her tone had turned icy. ’As a matter of fact, there is more. Guns. Taylor said there were men with guns. Don’t you think you might have mentioned them?’ It was apparently Kim’s turn for sarcasm.
Clare racked her brain to determine what she could possibly mean. ‘There was one man,’ she said. ‘One man with one gun. A vet. He had to shoot a sick cow. It’s a farm after all.’ She was beginning to panic now. ‘And my grandfather has a rifle, but it’s kept in a locked gun cabinet. Of course it is . . . I guarantee it is.’
‘It’s alleged there are dogs too, Clare. Large, dangerous, uncontained dogs at the farm where you have Jack. Heelers and German shepherds. Not a labrador puppy in sight.’ Kim’s words were clipped and angry.
Taylor was making Currawong sound like a place right out of the Wild West. Clare felt her teeth grind together. Betrayed. Utterly betrayed. She’d taken in this young woman’s son. She’d protected him, nurtured him, healed him . . . loved him. Clare glanced desperately around her, searching the pretty, papered walls for some comfort. She tried to imagine Currawong without Jack, and the joy of her new life leaked away. She’d turned herself upside down for Taylor Brown. Sacrificed her home, her career, her whole life in Brisbane.
‘I do hope that rifle is safely stored, Clare.’ Kim’s voice had grown anxious. Not for Jack’s welfare, Clare guessed, but for her own. She took a deep breath and tried to get some sort of perspective on the situation. For all Kim’s blustering, they were in this together. If Currawong was such an unsuitable home for Jack, it was Kim who’d put him there. By covering her own back, Kim was likely to cover Clare’s as well. She needed to calm down and pump Kim for more information.
‘Clare,’ said K
im. ‘Clare?’
‘I’m here,’ she managed. Thank god Taylor or, more precisely, Taylor’s pit bull of a lawyer, didn’t know about Tom’s early equine therapy work with Jack. It wouldn’t matter that Fleur was the gentlest horse in the world. The fact of it would be enough – a four-year-old handling a horse that weighed close to a ton.
‘I’m a little surprised by your reaction,’ said Kim. ‘I expected you to be upset by the allegations, naturally . . . although I’m afraid they all seem to be true.’
Here it comes, thought Clare.
‘But I didn’t expect you’d be so anxious to hold on to the boy. I feel you’ve become too attached. Way too attached. The aim of this exercise has always been to return Jack to Taylor’s care. You know that perfectly well, Clare.’
‘Are you going to fight it?’ asked Clare, no longer trying to disguise the emotion in her voice. ‘Is the department contesting Taylor’s challenge?’
‘Yes,’ said Kim. Clare let out a great, relieved sigh. ‘We don’t believe your misconduct warrants a quality of care investigation. And we’re not yet convinced that Taylor is stable enough to resume custody. Although, Clare . . .’ Kim’s voice had hardened. ‘If Taylor stays on her current course, there’s no doubt that she’ll eventually regain the care of her son. And that is exactly as it should be.’
‘Of course.’ Clare squeezed her eyes closed until her vision swam with spots. ‘When will . . .’
‘There’s a hearing on the first of December. Jack has an appointment with a court-based psychologist on the fourteenth of November, so have the child available on that day. And, Clare . . . no more incidents, okay?’
‘No more incidents,’ agreed Clare. ‘Promise.’
Kim’s voice blurred into white noise. She couldn’t lose Jack. She just couldn’t. The mere prospect made her tremble. Thank goodness for Tom. She needed him now, needed to confide her fears – needed the shelter of his arms.
Currawong Creek Page 22
