by Judy Nunn
Spud stood and, taking her by the shoulders, he raised her gently to her feet. 'Mary-Jane wouldn't have suffered. Her neck was broken. It would have snapped just like that, she wouldn't have felt a thing. You know it's true, don't you, Ruby?'
'Yes,' she said, 'I know it's true.'
He held her close, stroking the still jet-black hair as silent tears streamed down her face. He was relieved, but not entirely absolved of his guilt the way he might have hoped. He felt like a bit of a phoney.
Over the ensuing days, however, Spud quickly shrugged off all remaining vestige of guilt. He conveniently forgot that, without any help from him, Ruby had come up with her own theory. He was pleased with himself. How clever he'd been. Ruby Chan knew precisely how her daughter had died without ever being told the truth.
The filly nuzzled his shoulder, but he kept his hands behind his back, refusing to produce the pieces of carrot she was after. She snuffled down his arm, nostrils aquiver, lips seeking. He was wearing a T-shirt and her velvety softness caressed his bare skin. She started edging around behind him. He turned on the spot, continuing to face her, so she tried the other side. The filly wasn't stupid. He teased her this way and that for a minute or so until she'd had enough. She raised her head, pawed the ground and whinnied. She wasn't going to play any more.
Spud laughed and presented her with a fistful of carrot pieces. When she'd gobbled them out of his open palm, she spoke again. A further whinny, which said 'Now the other hand', and the exercise was repeated.
He loved the filly. She was his favourite. A two-year-old chestnut, her name was Killarney Miss, a tribute to his Irish ancestry which had pleased his father no end, and she was destined to be next season's winner.
Killarney Miss followed him as he walked towards the fence, and when he'd seated himself on the railings she nuzzled him again. She was no longer seeking a reward, she knew the carrots were gone, this was a genuine nuzzle of affection.
Spud scratched the white blaze of the filly's forehead the way she liked him to and gazed across the valley to the distant rolling hills. Behind him, the stud farm and stables and training track were a hive of activity, but this was his favourite spot, where he'd sit surveying the pasture land of his domain feeling like a king.
And he was a king, he thought, or he would be soon. Spud Farrell, king of the entrepreneurs. All of this was just the start. The seventies would be his decade – there was no looking back now that he was legitimate. He'd have to relinquish his bookmaker's licence soon, which was a pity, but it was too risky trying to play both sides. And the gambling syndicate – well, he'd hold on to that for a while, but he'd hand the reins over to his junior partner and keep his name out of play. The brothels, the Sun Majestic and the two new ones he and Ruby had bought in Fremantle, could never be traced to him. As for the rest, it was all strictly legit. The stud farm, which was his pride and joy, the offices in Dalkeith which he'd recently extended, the city flat in the Esplanade, which he now owned having bought Pembo out, and Farrell Motors, which had become a real money-spinner.
Anthony Wilson's business scheme had proved an unmitigated disaster. As Spud had privately predicted to Ian Pemberton, Perth was not ready for vintage cars, at least not on the grand scale of Anthony's dreams, and after he'd bought up Anthony's share of the showrooms – for a song, as he'd also predicted – he'd turned the business into a highly profitable Holden car franchise. He'd kept the Itala, however, purchasing it from the original owner, and it sat on constant show proudly bearing its banner From Paris to Peking to Perth. Spud considered the vehicle a symbol of prestige, and well worth the hefty sum he'd paid.
The mare was bored now. She was young and needed some action. She frisked off, prancing, tossing her head, enjoying her freedom and the movement of her body. Just as she enjoyed each morning's gruelling work-out. Killarney Miss didn't like to stay still for long.
Spud convinced himself, as he always did, that she was showing off just for him. That was the only thing missing, he thought as he watched her admiringly. He wanted someone to show off to himself. He wanted a woman. Not a wife, or a partner – he had no wish to share his bur-geoning fortune – but he wanted a woman to admire him, to see him as the king of commerce he truly was. He'd been fantasising about a mistress for some time now. She'd be a woman of great beauty so that others would envy him – a symbol of his success – and he'd look after her well. She'd have to be Asian, of course; Ruby had thoroughly spoiled him in that regard.
Spud's early sexual experiences had left him with a lifelong passion for the Oriental. Western women, in his opinion, did not hold the same appeal. He'd briefly considered Lolita, the Chinese-Malay who was his favourite of the girls at the Sun Majestic, but had decided it would be unwise to elevate her to the status of mistress. Her sexual prowess was extraordinary, and she more than qualified in the beauty stakes, but she was too well known as a hooker amongst Perth's corporate and political hierarchy.
He jumped down from the railings. Time to stop day-dreaming, there was business to attend to. He'd find his Asian beauty soon enough, but he must be selective. He mustn't rush things just because he felt the desire to show off.
There was a jaunty spring in his step as he walked back to the stables. Besides, he told himself, he'd have someone to show off to only next week. Mike was coming to Perth.
Spud couldn't wait. It had been two whole years. Who better to show off to than his best mate, Mikey? He'd bring him out to the farm the moment he arrived.
But Mike didn't contact Spud the moment he arrived. He climbed on his motorbike and headed for Shenton Park instead.
'G'day, Muz.'
'Mike!' Muzza grabbed the hand that Mike extended and hauled him into a bear-like embrace, Mike losing his balance and sprawling over the wheelchair.
He laughed as he untangled himself and stood. 'It's good to see you, Muz. Gee, you look great.'
Muzza looked more than great, he thought – he looked reborn. Clean-shaven, hair neatly cut, eyes brimming with vitality, he was the baby-faced Muzza of the old days.
'I feel great. Come in and meet Olga.'
The first thing that confronted Mike as he stepped into the open-plan lounge room was his portrait. Now framed, and hung in pride of place, it was magnificent. There were other paintings too. Gone were the agonised faces of Muzza's nightmares; the walls were now covered with works of art. But he had no time to stop and admire them, or even to make a comment, as Muzza eagerly led the way through the arch to the kitchen.
A slim, dark-haired woman was at the sink washing dishes. As they entered, she turned, drying her hands on a tea towel.
'Olga, this is Mike McAllister. Mike, this is Olga.'
Muzza's introduction sounded as if it should have been followed by a fanfare of trumpets – he'd been longing for the moment when the two most important people in his life would meet.
'Hello, Mike.' Olga smiled and offered her hand. 'Murray has told me so much about you. It is good to meet you at long last.'
She spoke with a slight accent. Her voice was attractive, and her smile softened the sharp features of an angular, intelligent face. She was a good deal older than Muzza, who was only twenty-five – Mike guessed her to be in her mid-thirties – and there was no hint of vanity in her appearance. Her hair was tied back in a severe ponytail, she wore no make-up and was minus jewellery except for a single gold chain about her neck.
'Good to meet you too, Olga.' He grinned as they shook. 'Although I must say Muzza's kept you a bit of a secret.'
'He has been waiting for you.'
She draped her arm about Muzza's shoulder and he automatically took her hand in both of his. Mike found the gesture suggestive of a very physical relationship – they looked extraordinarily happy, he thought.
'Olga's my shrink,' Muzza announced. 'All the best shrinks are Polish.'
'I am not your shrink,' she corrected him.
'Well, she used to be my shrink. She got rid of me as a patient six months ago, said
it wasn't ethical.'
'I don't suppose it would be.' Mike smiled – they were so obviously in love.
'Yeah. She said shrinks aren't allowed to treat their own husbands.'
'Their own what?'
Muzza laughed, delighted by his best friend's dumbfounded reaction.
'We were married in early November,' he said, and he looked up at his wife.
Olga leaned down to him. Their kiss was one of such tenderness that Mike wondered whether he should turn away. But he didn't, knowing that the two were sharing this moment with him. He felt privileged.
'I haven't told Spud or Pembo, or even the family yet,' Muzza said. 'Nobody knows except the Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages. Olga hasn't told anyone either.'
'Murray has been waiting for you, Mike. You are very important to him.'
Mike was moved, but he wasn't sure what to say. He was also a little bewildered. Olga had spoken so meaningfully. Why had Muzza been waiting for him? Why was he so very important? He covered his confusion by embracing her and then shaking Muzza's hand.
'Congratulations, I'm really happy for you both,' he said, which he thought sounded rather tame, but they beamed with pleasure. Then he thumped Muzza on the back. 'Well, this explains why you look so good.'
'Time for the toast. Grab us the bottle will you, love.'
Olga fetched the vintage Moët et Chandon from the refrigerator.
'We'll get stuck into the beer in a minute,' Muzza said, 'but I thought we should toast ourselves with the real stuff first.'
They sat around the table, clinking glasses to marriage and to friendship, and then Muz got down to business.
'You're here for three weeks, you said on the phone?'
'Yep, arrived yesterday, staying with Mum and Dad. You're my first port of call.'
'Good.' Muzza took his wife's hand in his and their fingers entwined. 'We're going to have a proper ceremony the week after next. Nothing churchy, neither of us is religious, but I've lined up a celebrant and we've decided on Kings Park. Will you be my best man?'
His tone was brisk and efficient, but Mike wasn't fooled. It was plain that the ceremony and his own role as best man were of great importance to Muzza. So this was what Olga had meant, he thought. This was why Muz had been waiting for him.
'Of course I will. I'd be honoured.'
'Fantastic! All set to go.' Muzza smiled excitedly at his wife. 'Tomorrow I'll drop the bombshell on the family.' Then to Mike: 'They'll be over the moon, they're mad about her. They reckon she's the best thing that ever happened to me, and they're not wrong.' He drained his glass, then pulled a face. 'Let's get stuck into the beer, Olga can finish the bottle.'
'Olga is going to the clinic,' she said, rising from the table. It was her day off, but she intended to leave them alone, at least for a few hours. 'You two have a lot to catch up on. Goodbye for the moment, Mike.' She gave him a peck on the cheek. 'I shall leave you with my toy boy.'
Mike found the term oddly amusing from a woman like Olga.
She ruffled her husband's hair. 'Goodbye, my darling.' Then, slinging a voluminous leather handbag over her shoulder, she walked out the door.
Muzza gazed thoughtfully after her. 'She never says that in the company of others.'
'Never says what?'
'She never calls me her toy boy – it's our private joke. She wants me to talk about her. Well, about us ... you know ...'
Mike's expression was blank. Had he missed something?
Muzza grinned. 'That's the problem with having a wife who's a shrink. She's very, very clever and always one step ahead.' He whirled his wheelchair about and headed for the fridge. 'Grab us a couple of glasses, will you?'
When they were settled with their beers, Muzza started to talk, just as Olga had hoped he would. She'd not openly broached the subject herself. She rarely did when she perceived a problem, choosing instead to hint at a way her husband might find the solution for himself. She'd hoped that he would speak intimately with his best friend. Murray needed to talk to a man, she'd thought. And that man was plainly Mike McAllister.
'Spud and Pembo don't understand Olga and me,' Muzza said. 'Six months ago, when we first started going out together, they really got on my nerves. They didn't say anything, of course, but I could sense it, and I wanted to thump their bloody lights out.' A flash of the old Muzza madness appeared in his eyes. 'Olga told me I was over-reacting. She said they were good friends and they were glad to see me happy. She was right, of course.' He relaxed and gave a nonchalant shrug. 'I mean, hell, it's natural for blokes to wonder what a cripple like me gets up to in bed with a woman, isn't it?'
The remark was made without bitterness, a simple statement of fact, but Mike felt uneasy. He hoped Muz didn't include him in those who 'wondered' and he certainly had no desire for detail.
'I don't give a shit what Spud and Pembo think now,' Muzza continued, 'at least, not about me. But it sometimes bugs me that they see Olga as weird.' He laughed. 'Well, they would anyway, wouldn't they? She's hardly their type. They both find intelligent women daunting, have you noticed that? Spud and Pembo can't see beyond the obviously sexual.'
There was a definite touch of sarcasm, he was having a dig at his mates' expense, but the good humour was back as he skolled the remains of his beer and leaned confidentially across the table. 'What they don't realise, Mike, is that Olga is as sexy as all get out.'
Mike was more than uneasy now, he was distinctly embarrassed. He wanted to change the subject, but didn't know how.
'Oh, don't get me wrong,' Muzza continued, oblivious to his friend's discomfort, 'there's been no miracle. I'm not functional, I never will be. But there are other ways to satisfy a woman, particularly a woman as sensual as Olga.' He grinned, and there was an element of insanity in his joy.
Mike decided that it had gone far enough. 'Muz, you don't need to tell me this –'
'But I do! Don't you see? For Christ's sake, man, don't go coy on me! I need to tell just one person on earth, and you're it! I make her happy, Mike! I satisfy her! Do you know what that means?' He thumped his fist on the table in a wild gesture of triumph. 'It makes me feel like a man again! That's what it means!'
Mike felt foolish. How stupid, how shallow he'd been not to have realised the importance of Murray Hatfield's sexual relationship.
'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I'm really sorry, Muz. I should have understood ...'
But Muzza wasn't the least bit offended. 'Of course you shouldn't, mate. Why should you?' He grinned to put Mike at his ease. 'Hell, face it, how could you? Sex is simple for Casanova McAllister. I'm talking about something more complicated.'
The grin faded as he leaned forward once more, in deadly earnest. 'Olga's changed my life, Mike. I'm over-whelmed when she shares herself with me the way she does. She looks in my eyes and gives herself to me, and I'm lost. Nothing else matters, not even my impotency.'
If only Muzza knew the truth, Mike thought. Sex wasn't simple at all for Casanova McAllister. Casanova McAllister didn't look into the transported face of the woman he loved. Casanova McAllister kept his eyes tightly shut to avoid a dead girl.
'I envy you, Muz,' he said. 'I truly envy you.' He did.
Muzza laughed. He didn't believe Mike for a minute, but it felt so good to have confided in the one man he could trust. 'And so you should, mate,' he said as he poured them both another beer. 'And so you should!' He raised his glass in a toast. 'Thanks for listening, Mike.' Then he downed half his beer and dumped the glass on the table. 'Rightio, we've finished with the sex stuff. Now tell me about the Pilbara.'
