THE BIG SUGAR ELECTION

By

MARK BARKLEY

Copyright © 1990, 2007

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of the copyright owner. 

Contents

Part I (Getting Upset) 

Part II (Getting Even)

Epilogue 

All characters and situations portrayed within this book are entirely fictional

and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

PART I

12.10 pm Thursday, February 12th, 2026

“Christ! That wasn’t there before. I’m sure.”

James McLaren buried his head in his hands as the KEEP LEFT sign buckled under the front bull-bar. Without missing a beat, Colin Bell spun the wheel of the land cruiser, disentangling his twisted trophy and kept talking as if he’d swatted a fly.

“We can’t be too far off his trail. I’d hate to think we lost him.”

“Not after that trip.”

James pushed his dark hair back as he thought of their cross-country trek across Callard Park. As he made a mental note of all of Colin’s “trophies”, sick welled in his throat. And he wondered if the Chief would see the joke in all this.

“Eleven bushes and shrubs, six flower beds, four fence posts to the emu enclosure: replace. One bird: provide stress therapy. Three eucalypts: cosmetic tree surgery. Three picnicking pensioners: reimburse for mashed food items, crushed thermos and heart attack medication.”

He shook his head. He’d never seen an old man use that finger gesture. It was creative to say the least.

“Kerb and channeling: reconcrete. Two KEEP LEFT signs: replace.”

All for the pursuit of a lousy stray Alsatian.

“Could we just pull over? I’ll get my bearings.”

Colin’s wide white smile beamed beneath the brim of his battered akubra.

“I can see your hamburger trying to poke its head back up. I told you to eat light.”

James opened the glove box and removed a street directory.

“There’s the lookout. See if I can spot him there.”

He opened the door and stepped out but found no support in his legs. To his surprise, he staggered and fell flat on his backside.

“You right?”, Colin beamed out the cabin. He held up an apple for James to survey in all its half-eaten glory.

“Yeah I know.” Picking himself up, James stretched his lanky frame and brushed down the grass wet patches from his trousers. “Eat light.”

Steeling himself against the side of the dog van, he viewed its lone occupant. A border-collie lay shaking with front paws over both eyes. One paw lifted to view James with a whimper and he could feel his fellow traveller’s pain.

“Sorry mate. This is where I leave.”  

Since being appointed as the senior environmental health officer in charge of animal control, James often wondered in what way he had offended the Chief. Especially when it was insisted that on certain occasions, he was to accompany the officers on their rounds.

After gaining his composure, James began to walk to the highest point of Callard Park, terraced off into a lookout from where one could get a good vantage of the city of Callard.

A statue of its founder, Terence Callard, looked out from atop a pedestal over the fastest growing city in Australia.

It had achieved this in only a relatively short time, having grown from a collective of towns known as the Callard Shire. This shire was formed in the carve up when North Queensland seceded from South; its southern border forming a portion of the new state line; its northern border lying a few hundred kilometres south of Townsville, Australia’s newest state capital. 

“Any sign?” shouted Colin, leaving the van’s cabin to inspect the wreckage he caused.

From the lookout, James surveyed the distant mountains that bounded the city on all sides. With the distant lush greens and yellows of tropical vegetation and the closer bustling reds and oranges of the city, it seemed more like a huge salad bowl in the noon day sun.

Or more appropriately, not a salad bowl, it could be more likened to a teacup.

It was a teacup for the storms it brewed.

Being February and summer in the tropics, cyclones were prevalent. They formed in the Coral Sea, whipping themselves into a frenzy and moved towards the mainland. By the time they’d crossed the coastline usually anywhere from Cooktown to Mackay, their movement inland would cause them to weaken into a heavy blanket of rain cover. 

Callard City, being inland and bounded by mountains, rarely felt the destructive wind gusts of the cyclones but frequently had to deal with the damaging floods that ensued.

Rivers and streams would swell and roads and bridges would often become awash, cutting off road routes and stranding traffic.

From the lookout, James turned his gaze to the city centre for the second reason Callard was likened to a teacup; for its china.

Or more precisely, Little China.

From where he stood, he could see the two white ceramic lions guarding the entrance to Crescent Street, recently designated a mall and the official centre of Callard’s Chinatown.

The city had people from every land and a rich mix of language and custom. Most arrived with Callard’s industrial boom which required an influx of laboratory technicians and with them the doctors, the solicitors and assorted professionals.     

James loved the city. Crescent Street with its red facade restaurants bustled with colour and crackers at New Year. He relished its eclectic and electric tastes, smells and accents.         

“What ‘re you doing up there?”

Colin neatly placed the KEEP LEFT sign by the van, as fussy as a flower arranger with the buckled metal tubing.

James ignored him and cast his eyes past the sprawl of suburbia. He looked to the distant green field for the third and most important reason why Callard was a teacup.

For its sugar.

In North Queensland, no industry has been so fraught with ups and downs, heartache and bankruptcy, pain and eventually triumph, as the sugar industry.

And its resuscitation was largely due to the breath of the man whose statue stood beside him. Terence Callard saw the future of the sugar industry in the production of alcohol as a biofuel.

It was through his tireless effort rallying government support and his all-in brawls with cane-growers that put the pulse back into the industry. He made cane-based alcohol the country’s life-blood.

After only a decade of production, Australia had become one of the largest world producers, second only to Brazil.

And this is where it all began.

Callard was “The Big Sugar”.

Ask anyone down south that you were going north, they’d say “Oh you’re going to The Big Sugar. Lucky you.”

From where he stood, he could see the distant stacks of the four mills which Terence Callard, an avid car nut, had named the Daimler, the Mercedes, the Stag and the Jaguar mills.

And the statue of the industry’s founding father pointed out over thousands of hectares of lush green cane fields.

James smirked at the irony which was obvious to everyone but statue builders and civic leaders. What an unbelievably cruel gesture for someone who died a crippled diabetic.

“Talk to me, Jim!” Colin cried from below.

Turning from the view, James returned to the vehicle.

“I think he’s given us the slip.”

“Shit!” Colin whacked the bonnet with his akubra. “We were so close.”

“Was it the one or not. The one that’s worrying the kids.”

“I’m sure of it”, Colin blew hard and put his hands to his hips. “I’m sure.”

“It’s no problem if..”

“I know what I saw.”

Colin’s tone left James thinking twice about burring up the big man. He already had a pretty good go at attempting to kill him without trying. He didn’t want to give him a motive to finish the job.

“OK”.

“Look, jump in. I’ll take you back to the office.”

“The office?” Feeling his sphincter tweak, James baulked as Colin jumped back in. “Look you go.”

“What?”

“You go. One of the blokes are picking me up.”

He pulled out his mobile and started fiddling with the dial keys.

“Who?”

“Just .. You go.”

Colin looked back and a watermelon smile flashed across his face. He reached into a bag nearby and pulled out another apple which he tossed through the window to James. As he caught it, he surveyed the fruit and pulled off three dog hairs.           

“Beautiful”.

“No worries”, Colin rubbed his muscular paunch, “Hope things settle.”

He started the engine and moved from the kerb giving a short blast of the horn. James grinned and gave a little wave.

A hundred metres on, he could still see his suntanned features in the side rear vision mirror. He gave another reassuring lift of the hand.

With his teeth on high beam, Colin returned the gesture, jumped the gutter, turned the corner and was gone.  

With the vehicle out of sight, James waited a few seconds.

He looked left and right and took a deep breath to steel his nerves, pocketed his mobile and began the four kilometre hike through the park and city streets to the office.

12.25 pm

Having shaken his pursuing menace, the Alsatian waited in the undergrowth near the park road. Lifting his head clear of the leaves, he pin-pricked his ears. With his dark brown eyes set in his thick black fur, he carefully surveyed his surrounds.

Once satisfied that the coast was clear, he bounded from the cover and started an easy lope homeward, only stopping to sniff and wet the occasional tree on the journey.

His sleek muscular limbs moved easily. His wet black muzzle pointed and sought out the shortest route home.    

Home to the Alsatian was in a normal suburban street called Leggett Street and the closer he came to it, the more he felt assured of safety and less exposed to these yellow land-cruisers that always wanted to chase him.

The house he drew to was a grey fibro shack set on short concrete stumps. The stormwater downpiping, disconnected at the roof, dripped water onto the muddy black puddled yard covered in mounds of muck and dog dung.

As he entered through the wide open gates, he found his master, as usual, shovelling mud in the back yard. It was a mystery but it always seemed like he was digging up holes and filling them up again.

In the rear yard his two mates were snarling and wrestling with one another in the mud in front of the kennels.

King and Khan were almost identical tan black-backed bad-tempered Alsatians who were quick to snap and quick to snarl. They feared no living thing except the man with the shovel and the large sullen black beast making its way through the front yard.

They stiffened and quietened and rolled over in front of their kennels, with tongues lolling with obsequious fervour.       

The man with the shovel turned his head towards the approaching beast.

“Where‘ve you been, Percy?”

The black Alsatian growled and snapped and was given a sharp whack across the head with the shovel. He made a craven retreat to his kennel and a thought ran through the dog’s mind.

“Why couldn’t I have a tougher name like King or Khan?”

King and Khan quivered by their kennels. They knew that if either of them broke into a snicker or a smile, they would be reduced to a throatless mass of red fur.

Percy left no doubt in his peers’ minds that his name was short for “Percy-Cution”.

Alex Pauley looked at his dogs and went back shovelling his mud. Every time he looked at them, he heard a cash register “Ching!” in his head. They were going to be his ticket out of this slop.

Once his business takes off of siring guard dogs for the rich and wealthy, he’d be able to say goodbye to this muck-hole and quit burying their manure he was constantly standing in.

Resting a while, he leaned on his shovel and dreamed.

He was going to be a success like the rest of his brothers.

That wasn’t just because he was the youngest of a very large family. It was because he was regarded by his elders and siblings as the one who was least likely to succeed at anything he put his mind to.

“The one regarded least likely to succeed,” he thought to himself.

“Boy, my sisters could talk. They all became dole-bludging dope-hazed earth mothers. Queens of a tree-house in the scrub of northern New South Wales. Yeah, they succeeded! Every year dropping a baby like a feral vegetable.” 

But it was his brothers who all became very successful that he put the gauge to.

He smiled a toothless grin and continued to rest his short thin frame on his shovel. Filth stained his blue singlet and tattooed arms. Sweat fogged his steel framed spectacles and glistened off the earring in his left lobe.

“There’s nothing going to stop me now,” he thought.

Although he was starting to get a few drive-bys from some annoying Council vans regarding alleged complaints relating to his dogs.

Still, they’re only “alleged” complaints and “alleged” is always a word he stresses when he conveys the messages to his father, the mayor, Arthur Pauley and his brother Milton, the self-made millionaire and local councillor, whenever they enquire about his progress.

Alex smiled again and went back to shovelling more mud.

1.35 pm    

In the centre of the central business district, there stood the concrete, timber and glass Taj Mahal of the City Council offices.

Set amidst sunken gardens with ornate fountains, it rose in three levels to dominate the landscaping and surrounds.

Under the burning sun of early afternoon, James walked through the staff car parking area to the main entrance. His short-sleeve business shirt was drenched in sweat and his throat was parched.

Once through the wide doors, he paused in the foyer as he’d done on many an occasion, admiring the high set ceiling which gave an air of palatial grandeur. The upper levels opened out into the foyer area, their balconies tressed with ferns and manicured garden boxes.

Within the building, the main complement of the Council’s workers, its officers and clerical staff, were housed on the first two levels. From where James stood, the three compartments of administration fanned out before him and in James’s simple way of looking at things, their list of duties were as follows.

To his far left was housed the Financial Services Department, accoutred to the task of gathering money off people, through Council rates and general registration fees.

The central compartment before him held the Engineering Services Department, entrusted with the administering of public works such as water supply, sewerage and traffic management in the city.

To his far right was the section to which James belonged, the Community Services Department or as it was more commonly known in the city, the Health Department. Its duties comprised of, in James’s view, anything and everything that didn’t fit in with the latter two categories.

It was primarily given the task of upholding community hygiene and James’s role as one of its environmental health officers was to go forth into the city and make it a healthier place to live in. He and his colleagues audited its restaurants and hostels to name but a few to ensure cleanliness was observed. Other duties, on the broader level, involved environmental protection such as oil spill prevention and the control of rat and mosquito infestation. And on the more local level such residential problems as dog complaints and noise issues which often cause neighbours to erupt into fisticuffs.

In the centre of the foyer stood a stylised display of fibreglass sugarcane stalks wrapped around a picture of a pair of very overexcited male and female models beckoning you inwards.

“Welcome To Callard City”, read the caption, “Get A Taste For The Big Sugar”.    

A smaller sign underneath, printed on A3 paper, caught his eye.  “Council Elections Are Only 38 Days Away. Are You Enrolled?”

James read the message and lifted his gaze to the upper levels of the foyer before him. These levels contained the offices of the mayor and the eleven councillors of the city elected by the citizens for a three year term.

On these levels were also the committee rooms and Council chambers where the democratic process of local government took place.

The councillors, who formed committees concerning finances, health and public works, would sit down and meet the senior officers of each department and other officials who were better connected than James at getting a window desk. They would discuss various proposals, consider recommendations and make decisions on how the city should be run. These decisions were then ratified in a full Council meeting and the proposals would be brought into effect.

Or so was the theory.

In thirty-eight days time, the people of Callard would go to the polls to elect a new Council.

“Thirty-eight days,” he lifted his eye to the ceiling. “Give me strength.”    

He turned and walked through a side doorway to his office and made his way to his desk. 

“Hey hey”, came a voice from behind, “It’s James ‘Cross Country Rally’ McLaren. Hey champion, better make yourself scarce.”

Ignoring the comment, James slumped into his chair and brought up his computer screen. He could feel the breath on the back of his neck as he tapped away at the report for his morning safari.

“Did you get any vision? Y’ know. Something we can send to Funniest Home Videos.”

James kept typing, eyes fixed on the screen.

“You’re ignoring me, aren’t you?”

Gerry Gees had the warm welcome of an airborne mosquito and that unenviable capacity of stating the bleeding obvious. He generally meant well, but wouldn’t just come up and talk to you, so much as attach himself like some stray dog-yard off-cut caught in the cracks of your sandals.

He was short and stout, in his mid-twenties and had a happy fat face, but it was widely known that many a person would dearly have loved to part those fat cheeks with a fist.

“How many years ‘ve you been with us? Six years?”, he continued. “It was nice knowing you.”

Without looking up, James tapped away.

The stale coffee breath was now in his ear, “The Chief’s not going to like this.”

“James!” an imperious voice boomed across the office. It sent people scurrying back to their desks, killing all idle chat.

“You’ll be sorry,” sang Gerry, hurrying back to his desk.

James’s fingers sweated as he typed the final full-stop and hit print.

Keeping his head down, he could feel the presence of the Chief Environmental Health Officer bearing down on him in calm and deliberate steps toward his desk.

He looked up to see a huge man in his mid-forties. He stood six foot four and was well proportioned with muscles conditioned by youthful years of boxing championships.

John Hennessy was bred from Irish stock; his hair was red and his eyes were blue and creased kindly at their corners from years of laughter and carousing. His complexion was fair and, if one could be glib and say the tropics are full of cancer above the Tropic of Capricorn, his forearms were scarred from the removal of skin growths.

“James.”

He leaned over, placing his huge knuckles on the desk.

“About an hour ago, I received a call from a lady who lives near Callard Park. She’s found an emu in her vegetable patch.”

“Oh .. Oh, that’s good.” James breathed a sigh of relief and slumped back in his chair.

“That’s good?” The Chief’s tone was steel.

“How was it, John?”

“Very hungry as I understand it.”

“No no.. Is it OK? When we lost sight of it . Around the bull-bar. I thought .. I thought the worst.” 

Two pieces of paper were handed  to James by someone passing by the printer and he passed them to his boss’s outstretched paw.   

As the Chief read, his perplexed look grew more intense. He slowly shook his head from side to side. As he flipped to the second page, his face grew redder and he began to walk slowly back to his office, pausing only momentarily to address Gerry.

“Gerry, have you seen Kevin or Vince?”

Gerry jumped to his feet as if spring-loaded.

“No, Chief! I believe they called in sick.”

The Chief looked at him in silence and then kept walking, still shaking his head.

3.10 pm

To the people who lived in Leggett Street, Alison Wells was crazy. Although no-one would openly come out and say that, most would tactfully refer to her as “a few sandwiches short of a picnic”.

Her house in the street, apart from being slightly unkempt in appearance, had a very distinguishing feature; its windows were painted white from the inside.

Every Thursday, she would step out of her house at ten minutes past three and slam her door closed behind her. The slamming of the door followed a careful ritual she would undertake which would include five times checking if the back door was closed, six times checking that all the windows were closed and seven times checking that the stove was turned off.

This particular afternoon, she stood for a while on her doorstep; a wizened woman in her eighties having a mournful chat with herself. She adjusted the long sleeves of her shirt and pulled her wide-brimmed straw hat tightly over her ears.

Suddenly becoming annoyed at something that she said, she set off in a flurry of movement down her garden path, gripping tightly to an old shopping bag.

She turned at the gate post and set off down the road to the corner store, stopping only to have a meaningful chat with certain trees.

3.20 pm

“McLaren!”

James looked up from his computer screen at a man once described as “the bespectacled Buddha in the sweat-filled force field”.

“My office,” he added.

“Sure, George.”

James had very little time for George Butts but treated him with guarded deference. He knew that this man could make life very difficult if he was ever crossed.

George Butts was Assistant to the Chief, a position he obtained through years of extensive lobbying and patient report writing to certain councillors. They found him to be a ready yes-man and extremely useful when it came to getting favours done. But the respect he was held in throughout his Department was best illustrated by his nickname; Bumworm.

James walked behind him, watching his short squat frame waddle, as if trying to keep a coin between the cheeks of his backside.

He paused to address two of James’s female colleagues.

“You two. What’re doing tomorrow morning?”

“I’ve got a food poisoning complaint,” stated one.

“And I’ve got to follow-up on a bad restaurant that I ..”

“Cancel them,” cut in George leaving them both gaping.

“Both of you. I have this complaint here from Councillor Tapp. There’s a very bad smell in his area. Check it out and report back to me. No later than eleven. Understood.”

He placed the complaint form on the desk in front of them, leaving a small pool of sweat behind, then continued on his way to his office with James in pursuit.

“Miss Kershaw?”

George stopped in front of the Chief’s secretary who was busily typing.

“Have you found my new chair yet?”

“Not yet sir,” she replied, her eyes not leaving her typing, “I’ve been typing this report for you all afternoon.”

“Well I’d hate to be responsible for you getting RSI, Karen,” he looked down on her. “Will you look for it please? It’s grey with big armrests.”

Karen mumbled into her screen, “Yeah an’ wired for ten thousand volts.”

“Pardon?”

“When I find it, I’ll pin it down with bolts.”

“If you wouldn’t mind.” 

George showed James into his office, ”Sit.”

Picking up James’s report from his desk, he flapped it in the air.

“McLaren, what’s this? .. This here? What’s this?”

Beads of sweat stood on his balding pate.

“What am I going to do with this?”

James sat quietly as he paced his office ranting.

What budget number can I put these items to? D’ you know how much paperwork you’ve given me? Do you?”

George slumped to his seat and waited till his breathing became even.

“Is that all for now?” James started standing.

“Not quite.” George pointed him back to his chair and opened a folder.

“Whatever you are doing tonight, cancel it. You’ve been invited to dinner and you’ve graciously accepted.”

“Oh,” James offered dryly, “How good of me.” 

“You should feel privileged, McLaren. Your hosts will be none other than Councillor Milton Pauley and Mister Maxwell Horn.”

Staring blankly at the wall in front, James just waited for that wave of euphoria. 

“To what do I owe this honour.”

“Are you acquainted with the proposed Sun Temple shopping complex? The latest for Horn-Hagama Developments?”

James winced. He could feel what was coming next.

His mind wandered back to past events. Namely the previous proposal of Horn-Hagama, the Landseer Restoration and Commercial Development Plan.

The Landseer homestead was a stately Queenslander built by the pioneers in the early 1900’s in an area which had now become the city centre. The house and sprawling gardens, deemed to be of historical significance, were acquired with much controversy three years ago by Horn-Hagama for what they were pitching was “sensitive redevelopment”.

Strict planning provisos were put in place to preserve its wide open verandahs and old world charm. A new restaurant and function room were drawn for the interior, still keeping the glorious facade, and the gardens and pathways were to be preserved adjacent to new heritage-style shops and kiosks. 

That was up until that one night last year when the homestead mysteriously burnt down.

While visiting his parents in Brisbane, James watched the flames of it on the news and remembered the pain he felt in the pit of his stomach.

The vision of Max Horn on camera was heart-wrenching. All that distress seemed genuine. He claimed shock, he claimed horror, he claimed insurance and then sent in the bulldozers to level any charred remains.  

Hence the land became vacant. The ideal site for the Sun Temple, Horn-Hagama’s first shopping complex in Callard.

“I’ve seen some rough architecturals, George. But I don’t think they’ve lodged a DA.”

“In good time,” George slapped the folder shut. “They want to meet all plan processors. Nothing sinister. Just put names to faces. All quite casual. You’ll be doing all food.” 

“That’s not my area. Dave does plans now.”

“It’s not a debate. Can’t be helped. Short staffed, you know. You won’t be alone there. Trades waste, building, all the usuals.”

“And Councillor Pauley? His involvement is?”

It was probably a little impertinent to ask. It was no secret Milton Pauley spent nearly every weekend cruising the Whitsundays on Max Horn’s yacht.

“A watch dog. Wouldn’t you agree?” George stared down any defiance. “Dinner will be at seven-thirty at the Lotus Gardens. I expect you there on time.”

“D’ you want me in a tie?”

“Don’t push it.”

George gestured to the door and James made his exit.

Opening the folder in front of him, George ticked a paper then slapped it closed. Organizing the foot soldiers was so tiring. Yawning loudly, he put his hands behind his head and reclined backwards, but found no support. The chair buckled, he flapped his arms and hit his head hard on the back wall, leaving his legs ungraciously cycling in the air.

“Miss Kershaw!” he bellowed, dusting himself off. “Where is that chair?”

4.05 pm

Percy was bored. He lay in front of his kennel, biting his matted fur and licking his testicles.  

To the rear of the yard, King and Khan pawed each other with playful jabs.

It had been two weeks since he was brought to this property, the other pair arriving soon after him. He had no idea of his purpose here. Every time he would seek guidance from his master, he would be struck on the back of the head with a shovel.

To him, life was better in the country. There was plenty of space to run around and wildlife galore to hunt down. He missed the thrill of the kill; the joy of outwitting a small furry mammal and tearing it to pieces.

His hunt for food these days consisted of sneaking up on a bowl of mashed-up dog food from a can. He’d sniff it and paw it but it would always relent and let itself be eaten.

It just wasn’t the same.

He rolled over and caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. The ears pricked up and his body tensed.

Bent in stature and bow-legged in gait, a female human walked on the other side of the road, switching from hand to hand a bag full of something. She walked slowly and as she walked, she talked.

Percy grew apprehensive that she may be being guarded by someone. But after a few seconds, he noticed that she was very much alone. 

Between the fence posts of the wide open gates of Pauley’s property, he viewed her. It was like a target moving unwittingly between two allotted points.

Instincts of the hunter, that he felt he’d lost for good, reared up in him again and he was very pleased. He was on familiar ground here.

Sharply, he barked to his companions, calling them to arms. They responded with haste, rushing to sit at attention by his side. Their eyes faced forward with almost military fervour.

The sleek beast rose to his feet and called his charges to form in formation behind him. This was going to be a team effort. He was not going to suffer any dissension from his henchmen.

As far as he was concerned, a pack that preyed together, stayed together.

They moved slowly and easily, passing through the gateway with their sights firmly set on their doddering quarry.

Fully laden with groceries, Mrs Wells moved slowly but not so easily. Her thin bent frame was brittle with age and her joints ached with severe arthritis.

The skin on her arms was dried, wrinkled and marked with bruises. Sinews on her arms stood out from her struggling muscles.

She talked to herself. She talked of sad times past and sad times present. She was a spinster of many sad tales of lost love, near love, cheated love and promises never followed through and each cut a strand from her thin thread of sanity.

She talked of the weather, so hot and so humid, the weeds and the pests taking over her garden and just generally everything and anything going wrong with her life.

A guttural growl from behind her heralded the worst events to come.

She turned and saw them; the three beasts bearing down on her in a slow stalk. Letting out a shriek, she staggered backwards dropping her bag.

Percy barked and in a deft manoeuvre, King and Khan moved to block her exit. They surrounded her in a triangle, circling and pacing slowly.        

King suddenly made a quick lunge towards her but a sharp and savage retort from Percy soon put him back in his place. Their quarry was screaming now, shaking and pale-white. King realised now why he’d been sent back. He could smell it too now; the sweet smell of fear.

Percy’s intention was clear; extract as much fear as they could as one would squeeze an orange dry. And this feeling, the more their victim squirmed, he enjoyed it. It was strangely intoxicating.

By a signal from the leader, King moved in and grabbed the bottom of the shopping bag. Dragging it backwards, he emptied its contents of bread, milk and tea-bags onto the footpath.

Her screams were now starting to attract attention. Men and women were beginning to come warily out of their houses towards her.

The old lady collapsed to her knees with her hands covering her face. Khan lunged at her and tore the straw hat from her head and her hair stood out wildly.

Sensing the end was near, the big black dog moved in. He grabbed the calf of her right leg between his teeth and her panic-stricken struggling caused her flesh to tear and bleed.

She was writhing on her side, yelling and screaming. The air filled with the pungent smell of urine.

The three dogs suddenly heard people running towards them in high voice.

“Get off y’ bloody mongrels! Piss off y’ bastards!”

They drew back from the prostrate figure and bid a hasty retreat across the road to their home.

Mrs Wells sat up, gagging with tears and shaking her head. She pulled her wet dress over her knees to regain some semblance of dignity.

People were gathering around her now, asking if she was alright. She suddenly felt ashamed.

“Please leave me alone,” she said, shunning her eyes from them. “Leave me alone.”

Bending over to put her arm around her, Amy Wilson, her next door neighbour, noticed the puncture marks on her leg.

“Oh no!” she cried in horror, “Those bloody mongrels!”

Mrs Wells shrugged the embrace off with stubborn childishness. She picked up her straw hat with part of its brim torn away and put it back on her head. She pulled it down over her ears and as she did so, its brim tore further.

This started her crying again.

“Come on, Alison,” Amy put her arms around the poor old woman again. “You’re not going anywhere darlin’. You’re comin’ with me to the doctors.” 

7.20 pm

That evening, as James walked up Crescent Mall, the outside tables and chairs were quickly filling up with diners, savouring the street atmosphere. Even though it was fairly early in the evening, they wanted to get the best seats to view the buskers and street theatre the Mall was famous for.

James too was going to theatre of a different kind only he would be involved in this well staged play. As he approached the entrance of the Lotus Garden restaurant, he saw two of his fellow players, Jeff Gibson and Laurie Roach, officers in Built Environment and Trade Waste respectively.

He approached them and they exchanged smirked glances.

Jeff spat his chewing gum into a nearby bin.

“Jimmy. Y’ lookin’ well mate.”

Laurie was scratching his back on the restaurant’s wooden post and nodded to the door, “Bumworm an’ his mates are already in.”    

James took a deep breath,” Great. Let’s bring on the bullshit.”

They filed through the main entrance and were greeted by a cheerful Chinese waiter who showed them through to their table.

Grouped on one side of the table were their hosts. Milton Pauley sat in the middle discussing something with his friend Max Horn, seated on his left. Seated on Pauley’s right was George Butts; his head bobbing up and down in full agreement with anything being said.

George turned and saw the procession making its way towards them. The chest suddenly puffed out, “Here come my boys now.”

“Take a seat fellas,” Pauley stood up to shake his hand.

“Who’s drinking? George get the fellas some wine.”

As George raised his hand for the waiter, James looked the Councillor up and down and took the hand in greeting of one of Callard’s self-made millionaires.

Milton Pauley was short, paunched and thickly set in stature and looked like a man of great physical power, but there was no strength in his handshake. His grip felt like fondling a dead fish.

A smile broke across his well tanned face, flexing his manicured moustache; black like his well kept hair.

It flashed through James’s mind that this was the man who pulled off one of the most sensational real estate deals in Callard’s short history.

He quickly recalled when this man bought a large tract of rural land for a pittance nearby the Jaguar mill and through his seat on Council, pushed to rezone the land to General Industry. It was then developed into a fuel depot and upon selling the development to the Callard Fuel Authority, he pocketed a clear profit of four million dollars.

That thought was interrupted by the aromatic whiff of a plate of garlic prawns sailing past on a spitting sizzling platter.

“Good!” Max Horn tapped his chopsticks like drumsticks. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”

He was similar in build to Pauley but more muscular and more tanned. Jumping up cheerfully, he extended a paw in greeting.

“G’day”. His handshake made James wince in its vice-like grip.

Orders were taken and for over an hour, a steady supply of food streamed from the kitchen and piled on their table to be devoured feverishly. George supplied a few bottles of shiraz, which he knew his hosts were partial to, and made sure their glasses never ran empty.

Upon completion of the meal, Pauley finally sat back and addressed the table.

“Fellas. Thanks for coming. It was a good feed, yeah? An’ get some more of that into you.” He gestured George to pass a bottle on.

“This is how we like to do things. One on one, y’ know. Face to face. You got a problem, you just pick up the phone. Now we can put a face to a name. You blokes got business cards?”

The three officers looked at each other sheepishly and proffered their cards.

James had a dark feeling they were going to get their garbage bins forensically analysed.

“We know what you blokes want,” chimed in Max. “We’ve done this before. There’ll be no dramas. But I just want to say the Sun Temple’ll be the jewel in the crown. The jewel in the crown for this city. It’ll be hu-u-uge.”

“And fellas. Jobs, jobs , jobs.” chimed Pauley. “We wouldn’t want to stop that?”

“Absolutely,” they took a self-congratulatory clink of their glasses.

“But what we want to know fellas,” Pauley stared the three down. “D’ you see any problems?”

Feeling out of the loop, George piped in, “Milton, I ..”

Pauley’s raised hand rendered him silent as he kept his gaze on James and his colleagues.

James cleared his throat for the three of them, “Send us the plans. And if they’re as good as you say.. There’s no dramas.”

“Good.” The black moustache straightened over a cheesy grin. “Good .. Drink up, fellas.”       

As he spoke, the waiter placed in front of him a small plate with a piece of paper on it, weighed down by a container of tooth-picks.

Pauley eyed it like a rare cockroach. Those things existed in the world; just not at his table.

“This has been .. This has been cleared. By Alan.”

“Alan?” the waiter started stacking fruit-laden plates on his arm.

“Alan Chan?” chimed in George, his eyes bugging out in disbelief.

“Oh. Alan Chan,” the waiter balanced some spoons on a plate. “Alan Chan. Lotus Palace.” He tapped the top of the drinks menu on the table with his finger. “Here. Lotus Garden. More coffee, sir?”    

Furtively, George pulled Pauley aside to offer panic-stricken whispers, ”Councillor Pauley, everything was arranged for Lotus Palace. That’s what I said to you. Lotus Palace.”

He pulled out a pocket diary and stabbed a page to death with his finger.

“You said Lotus Garden. Yesterday, when you rang. You ..”  

Pauley waved him quiet and turned to the waiter, “Yeah mate I will have some more coffee.”

“Right away, sir.”

As the attendant disappeared, he quietly slid the plate across the table towards Max, who obviously had a similar distaste for rare cockroaches.  

He stared at the plate, looked back at his friend and pushed the plate back to its original position.

By now the attendant had reappeared, placing a coffee cup under the red-faced Councillor’s nose.

Clearing his throat, Pauley picked up the slip of paper.

“This is outrageous!” he declared, reeling back in horror. “I’m not paying this.”

“Sorry?” the poor waiter was stopped in his tracks.

“Look at this check. Look. Your spring rolls were cold. Your fried rice was dry. The prawns weren’t fresh. They were frozen. I only eat fresh prawns. And this corkage. That includes the bits floating round in the glass?”

The waiter pointed at the plates he was still clearing.

“You ate everything. Everything.”

“D’ you know who I am?”

Blank response.

“I’m Milton Pauley.”

“I’m Danny Fung. You still ate everything.”

“You,” Pauley was now wheeling on him with some heat, raising his voice enough for the whole restaurant to hear. “I’ve got influence. I can fix things that you don’t operate. Anywhere in this town. What d’ you say to that?”

The waiter responded by raising his right hand and clicking his fingers. Another waiter rushed into the kitchen and after a few seconds returned to the dining area. With the chef.

A man appeared, short but proportioned like a champion Chinese weight-lifter. His white T-shirt was stretched over bulging pectorals. His biceps flexed as he wiped his huge paws in a dish towel.

He walked towards the table and exchanged words with the waiter in Chinese.

The waiter then spoke in English.

“Bruce, he hates your food.”

“Huh?” Bruce cracked his knuckles.

Having that awe-struck feeling of looking up to a cathedral ceiling, Pauley was having trouble taking his eyes off the wall-to-wall T-shirt now blocking out some of the light.

He allowed escape a little quiet nervous flatulence.

“I .. Now, Danny let’s .. ”

“He hates your cooking.”

“I .. I don’t hate your food.”

“He ate everything. Everything.”

Bruce squatted down to get a better look at the Councillor’s wide eyes.

“You .. You’ve been on TV.”

“I .. Thank you.”       

“Did you hate the food?”

“Well, I ..”

“You have a nice face.”

That stopped Pauley’s mouth.

“Did you hate the food?” Bruce kept on.

“No.”

“Do you want to pay the bill?”

“Well ..”

“Do you want to pay now?”

“Yes, of course,” Pauley replied, pushing the plate to the man beside him. “Pay the man, George.”

“What! But ..”

Pauley turned on him with gritted teeth, “Pay the man. Pay the man.”

George made a slight groan as he reached into his wallet for a credit card.

If he didn’t know the Councillor better, he thought, one would think this was becoming a habit.

10.10 pm

A few blocks away from the Lotus Garden restaurant was a traffic light.

The licensee of a public bar, next to this particular traffic light, had strongly advised two of his patrons, both in their late twenties, to vacate the premises.

The pair obliged and staggered to the footpath outside. One saw the traffic light, lunged towards it and proceeded to drape himself around it.

“You’re not coming?”

“No!”

“Kevin, come on. All your mates’ll be there.”

“ Uh n-n-no! Correction. Your mates’ll be there. I want nothin’ to do with those clowns. Not after Nicky’s twenty-first.”

“Oh mate! We’re Italian. I’m Italian. We’re violently in love with life.”

“Your violently pissed, Vincenzo.”

Vince Tomasi took no joy in rejection. He leaned his stocky overweight frame against the pole and hung on tightly. His head with its black curly hair shook from side to side.

“Still on about Nicky’s party. What is it with her? Your girlfriend. No sense of humour.”

Kevin Fitch leaned his much taller athletic stature against the pole. He wiped his blood-shot blue eyes.

“They threw her cat into the ceiling fan.”

“It was off.”

“No it wasn’t.”

“Well, nearly off. Was the cat hurt?”

“It’s not the point.”

“Oh .. Details.”

Vince hugged his pole more passionately.

“Didn’t I make it up to her? She got the gift, didn’t she?”

“Yeah, that was thoughtful.”

Kevin was now grabbing Vince, trying to prevent his downward slide, “The Garfield jigsaw puzzle.”

“Oh Come on Kevin. Just one drink. They go back to Cairns tomorrow. Its only one night.”

Kevin knew that when Vince and his friends got together, they drank some red stuff you wouldn’t touch without protective gloves.

“Just one drink, mate.”

“Look, trust me. Today was great. But I’m not pullin’ another sickie. Not tomorrow.”

The pair had been planning this “sick” day for a few weeks. Ever since Kevin’s uncle invited them on a fishing trip off Mackay.

As a taxi came towards them, Kevin hailed it down. It stopped at the kerb just as he finally prised his friend’s loving embrace of the pole.

“Go home.”

He opened the taxi door for him and eased him into the passenger seat.

“Take this man home, mate. He’s got money on him.”

Looking at his drunken passenger, the driver turned blankly to Kevin, “Thanks a lot.”

Vince’s head rolled back and forth as he gazed out the window.

“I am really disappointed in you.”

“Yeah, life’s tough.”

Tapping the top of the taxi, Kevin stood back to let it go.

“Be there tomorrow.”

The taxi then took off, taking his best friend into the night-time traffic.

12.10 am Friday, February 13th   

Feeling his bad dreams return like unwelcome shadows, James tossed and turned in his bed that night.

The waves of regret, that he thought he’d come to master, came crashing and collapsing around him again.

He lay on his back and gasped for breath as his thoughts took their course. They flowed though his mind as if his head was submerged face-up in a shallow stream.

And they were always the same.

There was a river of lights. Blue, red and white. They were blurred and would stream along and bleed into one another. In their midst were images.

Divers with face masks, black wet-suits and air tanks. They dived within the river. There was urgency in their mood as they submerged themselves into the lights. And they were gone.

A brief flashing red light. A white stretcher. And it was gone.

Blue and red and white lights.

A searchlight pierced the black of night, cutting a beam into dark water. It was balanced on the rail of a bridge. And then it was gone.

Blue and red and white lights.

The blue and the white slowly drained and the stream turned red. Waves moved backwards and forwards on the liquid. A drop would fall to its surface and concentric circles moved outwards.

In the liquid was a slip of paper, floating back and forth like a leaf falling in the air.

An image slowly appeared on the paper like a developing photograph, moving backwards and forwards in a tray of liquid made red by the light of a photographic dark room.

A face appeared. A face of a young girl smiling with a front tooth missing. Her dress was white and her curly blonde hair was partially covered by a crinkled white veil.

Her face grew larger. It had rosy plump cheeks and glowed angelically. Her eyes were wide and bright with the innocence of youth.

But something was happening. There was something wrong.

The skin began to pale and stretch back and forth. Her eyeballs rolled backwards, turning deathly white and her mouth opened in a soundless scream.

Suddenly her skin was alive, seething and writhing.

Her eyes disintegrated, leaving dark sockets. The flesh was torn from her skull. The face fell back into the red liquid and vanished.

He gasped as a shock of pain cut deeply into his brain like an ice-pick. His back arched wildly and he screamed to the ceiling. His dreams held him prison.

Deeply, he clawed to his sheets. It wasn’t finished yet.

There were faces. Dark faces moved around him. They lunged towards him with the focus of a fish-eyed lens. They laughed and they spat at him.

He rolled in terror under their mocking and taunting. A piece of timber fell across his face and he awoke with a start.

Gagging breathlessly, he gripped his sheets wet with bed sweat. Wheezing and coughing, he put his hands to his face and pushed back his drenched hair.

“Why me?” His thoughts were infected with remorse and inveterate bitterness.

Staggering into the bathroom, he stood aghast at the mirror looking at the face before him.

The dark eyes stared wildly, set deep in the gaunt face. The hair stood on end, damp and unruly, receding sharply back from the forehead. Gingerly, he felt the scar above his left eyebrow.

“What a mess!” He immersed himself again into the acid of his thoughts. “Why is it? When you’re faced with two courses of action. You always choose the wrong one. Always.”

His thumb ground strongly into his brow.     

“You had the choice of girls. You chose Marie. She was happy on your arm when you won the college cricket trophy. We strutted when we were winners. Seeing me starry-eyed, talking love forever and all that shit. Where was she when the stone came through the window?”

His ex-wife left three years ago to live in Perth and he didn’t care if he would never see her again. For someone who had great pride in himself, he hated imperfection and it piqued him to realise it was within himself. How could he have been fooled into caring for a woman like that? The anger was directed more at himself than at her. How could he have weakened?

“And on the night.” He drew back into his internecine war. “How many ways home did you have? Why did you choose that way? You can’t change that.”

He opened the bathroom cabinet and reached for a canister of valerian capsules. Cupping water running into his hand, he quaffed a few and the mirror reappeared. 

His dark brown eyes stared back at him, entranced now without emotion or dimension of feeling.

Black Friday had begun early for him.

It was going to be a long night.

8.30 am

The mood was bright and cheery in the Health Department office.

It was true it was Friday the thirteenth, but it was still Friday and the weekend was just around the corner.

One person in particular, slumped at his desk, was not sharing the general exuberance of the office. For Vincent Tomasi, this Friday was very black indeed.     

Kevin Fitch walked down the aisle separating the various desks, carrying a glass of fizzing alka-seltzer.

Placing the glass on the desk next to his friend, he reached into his own shirt pocket to take out a pair of sunglasses. He carefully grabbed the curly hair on the back of Vince’s scalp, lifted his head to place the sunglasses on the end of his nose and slowly pushed his head back onto the desk.

“Thanks.” His voice was hoarse in empathy with his brain cells, crying for mercy.

He leaned his head back and clamped hands to the sides of his head.

“Oh man. I had this bad dream. I dreamed I was getting off a train. At a station after a long trip. I think it was Italy. An’ I lost my tickets. Gone. Nowhere.”

“Is that all?”

“Because I lost my tickets, they weren’t going to give me my luggage. An’ then I woke up.”

“Yeah, well that’d do it,” Kevin offered intently.

“ I just hope I can get back in that dream. I’ve gotta get my luggage.” 

It was at that moment, Gerry Gees saw the pair and decided to join in. He stood behind Vince, for a better position at stating the obvious.

“Had a bit too much to drink last night?”

Without flinching or looking up, Vince croaked back.

“Gerry, piss off. Or I will pierce your ears.”

“That’s a bit savage. The Chief was asking about you yesterday.”

Vince and Kevin looked at one another with grave concern.

Kevin turned to Gerry, “What did you tell him?”

Gerry smiled smugly and went off to annoy someone else.

8.30 am

Amy Wilson woke up that morning, very worried about her neighbour.

The previous evening, a doctor applied disinfectant and bandages to the wound on Mrs Wells’s leg. When most of the blood had been cleaned away from the bruised skin, it appeared that the wound was smaller than originally anticipated.

However, it was not the physical damage done to her that drew Amy’s concern.

Mrs Wells was emotionally shaken and extremely distraught by the ordeal. Amy had to console her many times that evening, in the car and at the doctor’s surgery, as several times she broke down into tears.

She suggested to her that she would have been more than welcome to stay at their house that evening, but the old woman politely declined, opting to lock herself into her own little fortress.

After Mrs Wells slammed the front door behind her that evening, Amy stood on the footpath, listening to all the barrel bolts and chain-locks clank into place.

That morning, she peered over the side fence into Mrs Wells’s property to see if there was any movement, but there was nothing. She walked next door, went up the path and tapped lightly on the front door.

After a few seconds of silence, she tapped again.

She thought to herself, “Perhaps she’s still asleep. I’ll try later.”

As she turned to walk away, a hoarse feeble voice was heard. The old woman’s face must have been pressed hard up against the back of the door.

“Go .. away .. please.”

Amy faced the closed front door.

“Alison! Are you alright?”

No response.

“Alison!”

Once again, there was silence.

She waited a few more seconds and rushed home to tell her husband. They discussed calling an ambulance, but decided against it.

They decided that the first thing to do, as the doctor had suggested the previous evening, was to contact the Health Department about the dog attack.

Quickly she reached for the telephone.

8.45 am

Vince was sitting in his chair when Karen Kershaw, the Chief’s secretary, approached his desk from behind.

In her hand was a folder with a letter attached that she’d just typed. As she passed by Vince’s desk, she dropped it into his “IN” tray but with such considerable thrust that the force sent the tray sliding over the edge, spilling its contents all over the floor.

She kept on walking, without so much as checking her speed, leaving Vince sitting there, wide-eyed, wide-mouthed and infuriated.

“Oi,” he called out but she kept on walking.

“Oi! You!”

This time she stopped and turned around, looking mildly irritated.

To all the red-blooded males who worked there, Karen was probably the most attractive woman in the Council. She was blue-eyed, slender, golden-haired and in her early twenties.

But what made eligible bachelors think twice about approaching her, was that she was also cursed with a fierce temper.

Grown men had been known to throw away letters that she had just typed up, rather than take typing errors back for her to correct.

Vince, unlike most men of the department, did not find her attractive but rather, for reasons best known to himself, took an instant dislike to her; which she sensed and reacted to.

He stood up and pointed to his tray on the floor. 

“Are you tryin’ to break a land-speed record?”

Picking up the paperwork strewn around his desk, he opened the file she had just delivered.

“An’ look at this. The date on this letter. What’s your story?”

“What’s my story?” Karen advanced on him. “Have you seen the pile of typing? We’re up to our ears.”

Vince slapped the letter, “This is fifteen days.”

“Did you say it was urgent?”

“Everything I do is urgent.”

“And if you wrote in something that resembled English,”

She pulled out of the file Vince’s hand-written letter. It contained passages crossed out and arrows going everywhere marking changes, all in his indecipherable scrawl.

She held it up for all to see.

“This .. I’d expect to see on a kindergarten wall,” she said sarcastically. “But, judging by who wrote it. Why am I not surprised?”

Blood rushed to Vince’s face. He made a slight advancement towards her but all movement was halted by a loud and dominant greeting.

“Mr Fitch! Mr Tomasi! How are you?”

“Oh shit,” quivered Vince, suddenly feeling a turning in his gut.

Karen scampered back to her desk, avoiding the oncoming path of the red-haired giant who was now bearing down on Kevin and Vince.

“Feeling better?” The Chief’s tone left no doubt that he was extremely unimpressed.

The pair knew instinctively that it would be very foolish to think up a good story, explaining their absence of the previous day. The Chief had that rare quality of being able to talk to you very quietly and politely, and leave you, in no uncertain terms, feeling that he’d just reached inside of you, ripped your heart out and eaten it.  

“You both look a little sun-tanned,” he enquired, towering over his charges.

“Uh .. Yes, Chief.” They averted their eyes and mumbled to the carpet.

“It’s good to get some sun. When you’re a bit off-colour.”

He turned to them each in turn but they kept their eyes low.

“Look at me please,” he said, quietly and firmly. They riveted their red faces to his steel blue gaze. “Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, Chief,” they chimed.    

“Good. Enough said.”

The Chief passed a slip of paper to Vince.

“I’ve got a job for both of you. Do you know Lindisfarne Lodge?”

“That’s a boarding house for the poor and homeless out woop-woop somewhere, isn’t it?” Kevin scratched his head, “Arthur Pauley owns that.”

“In fact the Mayor owns the full twenty hectares of cane field it’s sitting on.”

Indicating the slip of paper, “This complaint has been passed to us from the Mayor’s office. About the condition of the place. It says the yard is littered, the premises are filthy and there’s a dog fouling the yard. But just be careful with this one. Give me all the details so I can report back.”

“What’s up, Chief?” asked Vince.

“There’s something not right about this. Just be careful.”

Kevin chipped in cheerfully, “Chief, it’s us. There’ll be no problems. Trust me.”

“Kevin.” The Chief put his large right hand on Kevin’s shoulder. “Leave your joke book behind on this one. And Vince?”

He turned to Vince and eyed the black stubble on his lip and chin.

“There’s an electric shaver in my top drawer. Tidy yourself up please.”

“Sure thing, Chief,” Vince replied and started to walk away.

“And Vince?” The Chief’s voice became quietly concerned. “When you return the shaver, could we have another little talk?”

It had been a topic of slight amusement to some people, but the Chief often worried a little about the level of Vince’s drinking. Whenever he invited Vince for a “little talk”, they knew it meant he’d be getting a mild admonishment verging on a temperance lecture. In his own words, the Chief didn’t mind what anyone did in their spare time, as long as it didn’t affect their work performance. Vince would often counter, that for him drinking was not the problem; stopping was the problem.

The Chief watched Vince walk away and turned to Kevin, shaking his head.

“The finest two minds that low wages can buy.”

8.45 am

The telephone rang and a hand reached for the receiver.

“James, can you take this?”

“Sure .. James McLaren, can I help you?”

“Can you help me please? My name is Amy Wilson. I’d like to report a nasty dog attack.”

“Sure Mrs Wilson.” He pulled a pen and pad to him. “Could I have some details please?”

“My next door neighbour. Mrs Wells. Mrs Alison Wells. I’m very worried about her. The poor dear. She’s not the full quid, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I understand.”

As Amy Wilson recounted the events of the past evening, an argument was raging a few feet away between Karen Kershaw and Vince Tomasi. He pressed the receiver closer to his ear.

“If you come out here, I’ll show you exactly where the dogs are,” said Amy.

“That’d be the best idea. Is Mrs Wells there with you?”

“She’s locked herself up in her house. The poor thing. She has very strange ways, if you know what I mean.”

James looked at his wrist watch.

“Give me about half an hour. Maybe you and I could have a chat with her?”

“I think that would probably be the best. And your name again, please?”

“McLaren. James McLaren.”

He was now staring at his desk calendar. The bold print “Friday 13” loomed back at him and filled his gaze.

9.00 am

“John. Have you got a minute?”

George Butts hovered nervously at the front door of the Chief’s office.

The Chief sat behind his large desk signing letters and without looking up from his writing, responded with forced enthusiasm.

“Of course, George.”

It was probably not the best chemistry for effective management, but the Chief often found it difficult to hide the contempt he held for his Assistant. He saw George as a very weak-willed and obsequious promotion-seeker, with ambitions more pronounced than ability. He viewed George’s steady rise to seniority, which occurred largely through the recommendations of certain members of Council, as an ominous sign of things to come; sensing that the knives were already being sharpened for his own back.

The Chief managed to keep a working relationship with him largely by barring him from serious decision-making and confining him to handle most of the administrative paperwork.

“About my proposal. The flashing neon arrow,” said George, rubbing his sweaty palms. “To direct people to the lawn cemetery at night. Did you manage to discuss it with Health Committee on Wednesday?”

“I certainly did,” replied the Chief with a nod as he kept on writing.

“Really,” George reacted with restrained eagerness. “You mentioned my recommendation. That the shape of a crucifix be incorporated in the arrow?”

“Yes, I did”, the Chief responded dryly.

“And?”

“We were going to give an award.”

“Really?” George’s eyes lit up with unabashed excitement. He sprang into the room and stood jittering with glee.

“Yes.” The Chief put his pen down and looked at his Assistant impassively. “We were going to give an award to Councillor Bob Steele for the most creative use of the word “dropkick”.”

He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

“Up until that meeting, I’d never heard it used in that context.”

Quietly, he revelled in his Assistant’s red faced discomfort.

“And Councillor Fahour hoped Christians weren’t the only ones who could die. But she didn’t want to discourage you.”

The Chief returned to signing letters.

“George, I told you last week that I was going to Adelaide next week, didn’t I? For the waste management conference.”

“Yes, you did.” George beamed. The thought of being in control for a few days thrilled him, but he fidgeted uneasily.

“John,” he said, feeling agitated. “That chair you’re sitting in. It may have been delivered to your office by mistake.”

“No, there’s no mistake,” responded the Chief unemotionally. “The chair was delivered to your office but, you see ..” He looked up from his paperwork, “I took it.”

“You what?”

“It’s like this,” continued the Chief in a conciliatory lilt. “I’m an old-fashioned guy. And a great believer in hierarchy, y’ know. The boss should have the biggest car and the boss should have the biggest office and desk. So when I saw the delivery man taking the chair to your office, I saw it was better than mine. So I told him to put it here. I mean ..” He waved his hands in a placatory gesture, “You understand, don’t you? Think of staff morale.”

At that moment, Vince appeared at the doorway, returning the electric shaver he had borrowed.

Seeing the shaver, George turned onto Vince, “Hey, where’d you get that?”

Vince replied innocently, “I’m just returning it to the Chief.”

“Oh .. Well I had one just like it. Hey!”

He grabbed Vince’s hand holding the item and turned it over.

“It’s got my initials on it!” He pointed to an engraved G.B. on the handle.

Vince paused and exchanged a collusive glance with the Chief.

“I thought this was yours, Chief. Y’ know, from that presentation from the Angora Society.” He showed the shaver in even movements to George, “You can’t go at a goat with wide blades. Mate, you need something electric. But those guys were great. Strange humour though.” Holding the G.B. up to George,  “Goat Busting.”

Without expression, they both looked at George who was in a quandary. His sweaty face and beady eyes darted back and forth from the Chief to Vince.

“Well ..” He stumbled, flustered and tongue-tied, “D’ you mind if I borrow it?”

“Why of course you can.” The Chief stood up and came around the desk to his Assistant and placed his hand on his shoulder. He took the shaver from Vince’s hand.

“Vince, can’t you look after my stuff? This is filthy.” He quietly scolded Vince and handed the shaver to George.

“If you could just give it a little clean before you return it, George. I’d really appreciate that.”

George took it and looking slightly flushed and dismayed, waddled out of the office.

The Chief looked at Vince for a second, then moved to his desk and opened the drawer. He took out a jar of jelly beans, removed the lid and offered its contents to Vince.

“Just leave the red ones.”

9.00 am

On his way to his appointment in Leggett Street, James chose to drive via the road abounded by the wooded green of Callard Park. After wiping his brow, he took a quick glance at his watch.

It was nine o’clock and, much to his dismay, the air was already heavy and oppressive.

The road wound before him through fields of gums with their peeled white bark and branches like stark fingers stretched skyward. Tall dark hoop pines arrowed the sky which was partly patchwork with blue, but mainly filled with clouds; some white, some grey and rain-laden.

A sudden sight to his right in the distance caught his attention. It took focus and it shocked him.

He quickly pulled his car to the side of the road and brought its engine to a halt.

A sickening turn went through his stomach as he gazed up the hill to his right. Leaving his vehicle, he walked up the hill and stood before the object of his disgust.

It was an Anzac memorial statue; striped with red spray paint  and standing amid vases, smashed and strewn by vandals.

The statue was that of a soldier astride a horse. The head of the horseman was severed and lay shattered on the grass beside the statue. Unintelligible slogans were scrawled on the base.

James pulled out his mobile to call through the find to the city park’s management.

He took in the images, not knowing that they were later to come back and haunt him.

9.05 am

The telephone rang and a hand fumbled for the receiver.

“Kevin .. Front counter, please.”

“OK.”

Kevin rubbed his forehead gingerly as his head still throbbed a little after the previous evening.

He walked from his desk and as he turned at the doorway leading to the enquiries counter, he viewed the face of a man jittering as if on the verge of a fit.

“There you are. You take your time, don’t you? I’m a busy man.” He waved a piece of paper in front of him. “What’s this?”

His eyes were blue and blood-shot and stood out wildly as if spring-loaded. And the normally pasty and pale expression was blood-red as was his balding pate.

“Mr Smith, are you OK?” Kevin approached him and spoke calmly, “I can get you some water?”

Bernie Smith was a local food proprietor who ran a donut shop in Callard called the “Crusty-O”. In work circles, he preferred to be affectionately known as the “Prince of Donuts”. But Kevin, who had the unenviable task of inspecting his shop, could have suggested some more colourful nicknames.

“Don’t get smart with me!” Bernie snapped. “What’s this?” he repeated, flapping the piece of paper before him.

Kevin arrested the letter from its shaking hand.

“I don’t know why you’re getting so upset. This is only a list of five small items.”

The thing that Kevin couldn’t understand, was that apart from the five minor items he found, the “Crusty-O” kitchen was excellent. The trouble lay with its proprietor, the English-born Mr Smith, who, though only short in size, had an arrogance and mouth which far outweighed his stature.

To take a point to the extreme, if you told him something was black and quite evidently black, he would argue and argue with you that it was white. He could not be told, he could not be advised and he could not be made to admit that he was in any way wrong.

So, as Kevin was finding out, to suggest to him that five things were defective with his kitchen was tantamount to a declaration of war.

“You barge into my shop. Without so much as the decency of arranging an appointment. You sneak around like a thief in the night. You harass my staff like a storm-trooper. And then I get this,” slapping the letter. “Accusing my shop of being a doss-house.”

Kevin gazed warily into the vibrating blue eyeballs.

“Look, calm down, Mr Smith. Let’s look at this.” He picked the letter up and shared it for them both to read.

“Five items. Three minor cleaning, see. Clean under a chest freezer. Clean the flexible gas connections to a stove. Wipe down an exhaust canopy. Hardly life threatening. And here. Two minor structurals. Replace some laminate strips to a shelf and replace rubber door seals to an upright fridge. Who’s accusing you of a doss-house?”

“You are.”

“What? It’s standard maintenance. Go claim it on tax.”

“You sneak around. Sneak around. Wait till I’m gone. Then pounce on my staff and harass them.”

“Harass?” Kevin could feel his head really throbbing. “Your staff ‘re some of the politest people I’ve met. They’re in the hospitality industry. You should join it some day.”

Bernie was almost blue with a choking fit.

“Don’t you talk that way to me. I run a good business. I run a good business and you send me this!”

He slammed his open palm on top of the letter resting on the counter top. The noise reverberated around the reception area.

“Bureaucrat!”

Kevin could only see a mouth now.

“Under-worked and overpaid.”

His head was throbbing. And there was a mouth.

“You call my shop a doss-house!”

The mouth was spitting. There was spit and bad teeth.

“You don’t pick on the shambles of a bakery up the road.”

The wet lips were huge now.

“No, it’s plain to see. It’s a rule for one and not for the other. You mark my words.”

The throbbing was exploding.

“It’s as plain as the nose on my face!”

And he exploded. Kevin slammed his open palm down on the letter between them.

“You know what’s plain around here?” Kevin snapped back. “You know what’s plain? You are a dickhead!”

Bernie recoiled, shocked into breathlessness. His mouth and eyes open like a stunned groper.

Pointing at him, Kevin continued to let his mouth bypass his brain.

“Mate, I rest easy at night, y’ know. Knowing that I’ll be here until I retire, until I resign or until I’m sacked. But you’ll be a dickhead for the rest of your life.”

The words hit Bernie like a body-blow. Quickly, he regained what was for him, his normal red complexion of rage.

“I’ll have you.” He began walking away. “You’re finished.”

Kevin watched him go and looked around him. During the whole incident, there were about five people in his vicinity and they were now all scowling at him.

Feeling embarrassed, he walked back into the main office area.

“You didn’t handle that well,” he thought. “You’ve opened your mouth to change feet .. Again.” 

9.20 am

Standing in front of the white door of Alison Wells’s house, James tapped lightly and tried to peer through the stained white window adjacent to the doorway.

Amy Wilson stood with her arms folded a few steps behind, watching patiently. Two minutes of door knocking had passed with no response.

“Are you sure she’s in there?” James peered as best he could through the window.

“Oh, she’s in there all right.” Amy tapped her fingers on her elbow. “She’s a stubborn old coot.”

“Is that right?” James said, half to himself and half into the window in front of him. “Are you stubborn, Mrs Wells?”

No response.

He was almost ready to give up when he heard a gentle scratching on the other side of the door. The rattle and clatter of locks and chains followed.

The door opened slightly, still held secure by a single chain. After a few seconds, an eyeball appeared, blinking suspiciously on to the outside world.

“Who ‘re you?” demanded the old woman.

James smiled reassuringly.

“My name’s James McLaren. I’m from the Health Department. Mrs Wells, I’d just like to have a talk with you, if I may?”

“About what?” she replied tersely.

“About what happened last night,” he said.

Alison blinked and remained silent.

With the most disarming smile he could conjure, James continued, “I only just want to have a chat. Please.”

She paused momentarily, still peering and blinking her eyeball.

The door closed quickly and the last chain was unfastened. Slowly it reopened and she stood and beckoned James to enter.

Once through the door, he turned and looked around the dimly lit hallway. The musty air smelt as if it hadn’t been displaced in years.

Amy Wilson made a move to enter as well, but was greeted by a stern frown and a door suddenly slamming in her face.

She stood dumbfounded.

“Well of all the .. That’s gratitude for you.”

9.20 am

For a man who was normally buoyant, optimistic and full of confidence, Kevin sat at his desk looking very worried.

His fears were to be confirmed as he saw the awesome frame of the Chief striding towards him.

He stopped in front of Kevin’s desk, bent over and spoke quietly and firmly, “Kevin. I’m hearing this story. Something about Bernie Smith’s head. That’s not true, is it?”

Kevin blushed with embarrassment and choked for a suitable answer.

“Well ..”

“No, I didn’t think it was,” continued the Chief, sensing the discomfort of his charge.

He knew that Kevin would never intentionally lie to him and, by the same token, he knew that Kevin would never intentionally tell him the truth.

The truth to Kevin was a pineapple; he would grasp it by its spikes and machete it into a form that was sweet and easy to swallow. Just one look at Kevin’s face and the Chief knew he didn’t want to hear what he had to say.

“Just remember though,” said the Chief, with endearing firmness. “The Prince of Donuts may have modelled his product on his mouth. But he’s also the campaign manager for Lance Tapp. Anything that rocks the boat, could make it difficult,” he pointed to himself, “for us all. If you get the drift.”

“Yes, I get the drift,” replied Kevin sheepishly.

“Good. Now why aren’t you and Vince gone?”

He viewed his wrist watch, “I’ve got to be upstairs for Council all morning. I’ll be back by lunch.”

Kevin grabbed some folders as the Chief strode away.

“Let me know exactly what you find. And Kevin. Just watch out on this one.”   

As he bent his head between his legs to pick out a carry bag under the desk, Kevin suddenly sensed someone’s presence shadow over him, casting a sudorific aura.

“Could I see you for a second?” George Butts stated tersely and set off waddling down the aisle.

Kevin stood and followed him, and instead of heading for the Assistant’s office, he found they were veering towards the Chief’s office.

They entered and there standing at the far end of the office was Bernie Smith, his bald head glowing like a large red egg. George closed the door behind him.

“That’s him.” Bernie jumped to his feet.

Seated next to him was the tall lanky figure of Councillor Lance Tapp,  reclining elegantly back in his chair with his hands crossed in his lap.

He stared at Kevin reproachfully, his head still, as if not to disturb his luxuriant black curly hair.

George proceeded to move behind the Chief’s desk and sat down.

“Sit down, Mr Fitch,” he directed, pointing to a chair in front, central to their scornful glare.

As Kevin nervously took his seat, George adjusted his glasses and folded his hands on the desk top.

“I have reason to believe that you have caused Mr Smith here, a grave injustice. Wouldn’t you see it along those lines, Councillor Tapp?”

He glanced in earnest at the seated figure. Lance Tapp remained silent, staring stonily at Kevin.

Bernie took advantage of this respite and threw his hands into the air with theatrical vigour.

“I will not be spoken to like that! I am a citizen and a rate-payer and a business man of high regard. My premises are impeccable. I will not be harassed by this man!”

George turned sternly to Kevin and added primly, “Well? What‘ve you got to say to that?”  

Tapp swung his chair around, fingers crossed in his lap, as if indulging in a fireside chat.

“Mr Fitch, do you know who this man is?” He indicated in the direction of Bernie.

Nervously staring at the Councillor and his campaign manager in turn, Kevin sat there silently.

“I think you were asked a question?” said George. He stared at Kevin grimly, his hands folded on the desk.

It was at that moment, the office door burst open.

Standing there, filling the door space, was six foot four of red-faced Irish, boiling in controlled rage.

Panic-stricken, George sprang up from his chair and his hand flicked a jar of pencils on the desk, sending them flying to the floor.

Kevin turned to the Chief. He had never seen him so furious before. His teeth were bared, his eyes were wild and from where he sat a few paces away, he could swear he heard blood pulse through his ears.

“What’s going on, George?” he addressed his shaking Assistant quietly.

“Well .. Well I ..” George stood with his hands fidgeting uncontrollably at his sides.

The Chief drew breath, expanding his chest, bringing stress to his shirt’s upper buttons. He stood aside from the doorway and with a motion of his head, indicated to George to leave the office. George obliged by scampering out with great haste.

He turned to Kevin and repeated the motion and Kevin quickly followed.

The Chief closed the door after him and turned to stare fiercely at Lance and Bernie; the latter looking noticeably timid, decided to sit down next to his friend.          

“Gentlemen.” The Chief spoke quietly and intensely. He moved to stand behind his desk. “I can understand how you must feel. But there ‘re ways of going about things.”

He leaned on his desk top, pressing down his knuckles till they turned white.

“But while I’m in charge here, there‘ll be no witch-hunting. If there are any butts to be kicked, I will kick them. But I will not condone brow-beating. I will not condone terror tactics. And I will not have my office turned into a kangaroo court. Do I make myself clear?”

Lance Tapp gathered his courage and pointed a firm finger at the Chief. 

“Now look here ..”

The Chief raised his hand to silence him and continued.

“Mr Tapp, if Mr Smith wishes to lodge a complaint, he may do so. But he must address me.”

With an agitated movement, Bernie stood up. His complexion was much paler and his head shone like the plastic pate of a circus clown.

“He called me a dickhead.”

The Chief stared at him sternly. “Did you provoke him?”    

Bernie’s lip jutted out, “Well .. That’s beside the point. He called me a dickhead.”

The Chief stared at him a few seconds longer and then moved around the desk. He walked to his door and opened it. Three people, who had their ears pressed against the door, scurried away casually.

He looked out into the main working area.

“Karen, could you come here please?”

Turning back into his office, he smiled coldly at Bernie.

“Thank you, Mr Smith. I will look further into the matter for you. And Mr Tapp, “ he looked at Lance, “There is a full Council meeting upstairs that is waiting for you. Your secretary advised me that you were here.”

Karen Kershaw appeared at the doorway and the Chief turned to her, “Could you please show Mr Smith the way out?”

He then turned to Lance, “Mr Tapp, I assume you know your way around.”

The pair filed past the Chief and Lance looked at him indignantly, as if to say that he was not going to forget this incident in a hurry.

After they had left, the Chief leaned out the doorway and called out.

“George?”

A few seconds later, his Assistant stumbled in.

Look .. I can explain ..”

The Chief lifted his hand and silenced him with a stony glance. He pointed to the objects strewn on the floor.

“Pencils, please.”

As the Chief left the office, George went down on bended knees to clean up the mess.

9.35 am

Within the dim light and the stale air of the lounge room, James was made to feel welcome. He had noticed a complete turnaround in Mrs Wells’s attitude since his arrival, changing from hostile to very apologetic and defensive.

Her lounge room was immaculately clean, yet she kept apologising to him for it being so untidy. She insisted on making him a cup of tea and after seeing that he was comfortable on the best sofa in the room, she went to work in her kitchen.

The windows of the lounge were different to those of the rest of the house, as they were only painted on the lower panes. The upper glass was clear, allowing light to pass and be muted by the thin fabric of the curtains.

James let his eyes stray around the room and noticed a photo on the wall opposite him. He stood up and moved to view it closer.

It was a photo of Mrs Wells in her younger days, possibly her mid-twenties. She was dressed in a scout’s uniform and flanked on either side by a group of boys in similar attire. She held a wide beaming smile, in contrast to her troops who looked very grim and sullen.

He smiled and thought to himself that she must have been quite a lady in her time. He imagined her at the head of a long line of scouts, hiking through the forest. She’d be bending her knees under the weight of her back-pack, filling her lungs with fresh air and singing rousing tunes. Always eyes-forward and happy and leading her troops, who’d be kicking and punching one another and firing sling-shots off into the bush.

His mental rambling was interrupted by the reality of the present. She hobbled through the doorway, heavy-laden with a tray of biscuits. Her frame once strong and agile, now frail and bow-legged; her laughing face now a tired and sere leer.

“Let me help you with that, Mrs Wells.”

Rushing over, he took the tray from her hands and placed it down on a centre table.

“I .. I’m sorry I don’t have more.”

“Oh no. This is very generous.”

She bent over the table to serve the tea and he noticed her bandaged right leg.

“That looks like a nasty wound. I’d like to get a photo of that if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, there’s no problem there, really.” She offered him his tea. “I don’t know why people are making so much fuss.”

She sat down and James followed suit in the sofa opposite her.

“You shouldn’t say that. Something like that shouldn’t happen to anyone. And what’s to say that a young child could be the next one. No, this is very serious.”

He placed his tea on the table and drew out a notepad and pen.

“If you could tell me as much as you can about the incident, Mrs Wells, I would appreciate it.”

To the best of her ability, Alison Wells relayed the events of the previous afternoon. As she spoke of the actual attack, she began to choke with emotion.

“Mr McLaren, I .. I don’t know what to do. I can’t leave the house.” Her voice was shaking, “I can’t leave the house.”

He leaned forward trying to offer some comfort.

“Now, don’t worry. I’ll do my best to help you.”

She looked at him with tired and sad eyes.

“Would you? I .. I know you must be very busy. You must have more important things to do.”

James almost felt moved to tears.

“I’ll do my best.”

9.40 am

After his little incident in the Chief’s office, Kevin felt the wisest thing he could possibly do was make himself scarce around his work-place. He grabbed Vince and headed out to find his car. 

As they drove past a shopping centre on the outskirts of town, Vince, sitting in the passenger seat, pointed to a snack bar in the complex.

“Listen, could we stop in there for a minute? I just have to do a follow-up.”

Kevin dutifully obliged, guiding the vehicle into a car-space in the complex.

“Want me to join you?” Kevin enquired.

“No. I’ll do this one on my own,” Vince replied and reached into the back seat to remove a folder from his brief-case.

Kevin sensed his friend bracing himself for a possible argument. “Are y’ goin’ to put the boot in?”

“We’ll see.” Vince alighted from the vehicle and walked to the snack bar.

“Fran’s Snacks” was a small takeaway premises doing a modest trade with local workers and shoppers passing by. It was located in an area of higher profile fast food restaurants so it often found itself struggling hard to survive.

The proprietress, Francesca Curillo, was wiping down her tables and chairs on the cement walkway at the front of her premises, as Vince approached her.

She was short and squat with plump facial features and black hair drawn severely into a bun at the rear of her head. She wore a black dress draped prudently well below the knees, which Vince thought to be extremely impractical in the hot summer.

Mrs Curillo viewed Vince’s arrival, without the slightest sign of hospitality.

“Mrs Curillo,” Vince’s voice was tempered with an official tone. “How ‘re you today?”

“Don’t ask,” she shouted back, lifting clenched fingers before her in a gesture of emphasis. “You wouldn’t want to know.”

Vince reeled back slightly. It was good to get the conversation off on the right foot.

She waved Vince to have full run of her shop, to which he reluctantly obliged. With Mrs Curillo close on his heel, he walked into the kitchen and with one glance, knew that none of the cleaning work, he had asked to be done two days ago, had been carried out.

He bent down to look under the fryers and saw the dried grease, built up over a few weeks, still lying on the floor. Grease was also smeared in trails down the stainless-steel backing on the wall behind and hung like stalactites off the gas connections under the stoves.

He moved to look around the upright refrigerator and saw dirt still lying around the base. Bending down, he put his hands in a cluster of black spots on the floor, releasing the pungent smell of crushed ants.

“Mrs Curillo, this is disgusting.”

“What do you mean?” she shouted, her clenched fingers waving before her in protest. “You should have seen this place before I took it over. Where were you then? It was a peeg-sty. For days I spent cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. So don’t you talk to me about .. dees-gusting!”

Vince opened the refrigerator door and saw pools of dripped blood still laying where he saw them the previous day. The fridge was a relic; the area around the element was completely iced over and looked more like the wall of an igloo. He moved some of the contents around inside and found a jar which he looked at and couldn’t work out if it contained something white growing in something green or vice versa.

He recoiled in horror.

“What .. What ‘re you growing in this fridge?” Vince kept looking inside at the contents, waiting for something to move.

“Is this a science project?”

“What do you mean? What’s wrong?” Mrs Curillo reached into the refrigerator and put her hand on a thawed piece of steak on a dish. “Everything’s cold! What’s wrong?”

Vince looked on in stunned amazement.

“I .. I don’t believe you just did that!”

He pulled her hand out of the refrigerator and closed the door.

“What did I tell you, Mrs Curillo? Cross-contamination. What did I tell you?”

She moved away to wash her hands in the sink.

“Eh! You tell me one thing. The one before you tells me another.” She wiped her hands on her dress front and raised her clenched fingers to him again. You know what you people are? You’re inconsistent. Incon-sees-tent!”

“Alright,” Vince raised his voice and assumed a similar pointing stance to his opponent.

“You know what you are? You’re a public menace. You’ve got more filthy habits than a nun’s laundry!”

“Don’t you talk like that!” She waved her finger, rebuking his blasphemy. “It’s a good thing I won’t have to worry about you people for much longer. Some people have been looking at wanting to buy my shop.”

“Someone’s going to buy this?” Vince looked around the kitchen and added in an undertone. “Hope they left their guide dogs at the door.”

“I heard that!”

“Well look at these benches.” He ran his hand along the chipped laminate of the bench edge.

“All this needs to be repaired. That has to be pointed out to the purchaser. And look at your walls. They’re all scorched and marked. They need to be repainted.”

He looked upwards to the ceiling. “And look at all those marks up there. That all needs a good paint job. That has to be pointed out. I mean, there’s a lot of work here to ..”

Vince glanced towards Mrs Curillo and suddenly felt a rush of guilt and embarrassment.

She sat in a chair in the corner of her kitchen, head bent and quietly crying.

“Oh .. Sorry,” he fumbled for words and averted his eyes.

“No no no.” Mrs Curillo reached into her pocket for a tissue. “You’ve got your job to do. Go ahead. It’s just .. just so many things are happening to me.”

“Well ..” Vince fidgeted awkwardly.

“The electricity bill has come and the rent has risen and business is bad. And my son ..”

She wiped her eyes and nose and opened a kitchen drawer.

“My son, Peter, was supposed to be home last night. You know, he is riding his motorcycle from Sydney. He normally rings when he’s late. And I’ve heard nothing.”     

From her kitchen drawer, she withdrew a set of rosary beads, which she began to thread through her fingers.

“I’m so worried. He may be lying on the road somewhere.”

Vince felt a stirring in the crux of his Italian essence. He wiped his mouth and muttered dryly under his breath.

“Oh shit.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Vince shook his head.

“He’s such a good boy. He’s such a good boy! He was going to help me clean. And now? I don’t know what to do. The police tell me to stop ringing them.”

“When was the last time you rang?”

“Five minutes ago.” She lifted a tissue to her nose and loudly cleared her nasal passages.

“Oh, he’s such a good boy. But he never rings! He never thinks of me. I worry, Mr Tomasi. I worry about him. But you think he cares? No! I hope he gets home in one piece so I can kill him!”

Vince moved closer to try and calm her down, “Mrs Curillo, it’s OK. Don’t work yourself up into a frenzy.”

“What can I do? I’m just an old woman! Where can I get paint? I wish my boy was here!”

She began to weep again and grasped onto her black beads.

Clearing his dried throat, Vince stood awkwardly, “Uh .. Mrs Curillo.”

“Oh, he’s such a good boy,” she sobbed, her knuckles turning white with her grip. “And such a good worker. He could clean this place in no time.”

“Mrs Curillo,” Vince nervously wiped his mouth. “Uh .. I probably have a few tins of paint at home.”

She looked up at Vince with stunned silence, her dour features giving way to a rapturous glow.

“Oh, Mr Tomasi!” She rushed towards him as if to fervently touch his garments. “God bless you! You would do that for me?”

Her excited babble was suddenly interrupted by a loud thump and a heavy tramping of boots in the front of the store. A thickly-set leather clad figure appeared at the kitchen door, lifting a helmet from his head.

“Mama!”

“Peter!” Mrs Curillo rushed towards him. “You naughty boy!”

They hugged each other like a pair of dancing bears and exchanged warm greetings. With her arm flung around her son’s waist, she pointed to Vince.

“Peter, this is Mr Tomasi. I swear to you Peter, he has been sent by God. He has offered to clean and paint the shop.”

“Huh? No no ..” Vince’s eyes bulged in disbelief.

 Peter strode towards him and grabbed his right hand within his sweaty paw. “Oh! Oh thank you, Mr Tomasi!”

With tears welling in her eyes, Mrs Curillo moved between them. She placed an arm around each of their waists.

“This is a miracle!” she sobbed. “My Peter is safe. And now you, Mr Tomasi. I swear to you. This is a meer-acle!”  

Vince pulled away from the Curillos and made for the door. 

“I’ve got to go now.”

He stood in the kitchen doorway and as he turned, a bright flash of early morning light reflected off one of the cars in the car-park. It silhouetted him and made his outline glow.

“Peter, look!” Mrs Curillo fell to her knees. Her son looked on with amazement and followed suit.

Oblivious of what was happening, Vince moved towards them, trying to work out what the problem was.

Mrs Curillo looked up at Vince and enquired reverently, “Mr Tomasi. Please tell me when you can help us. Just name a time and we will be here.”

Vince looked at both of them cowering before him, staring up at him with cow-like eyes. He knew that if he walked out now, he would have one of them attached to each of his legs, dragging out the door.

“Well .. Well, how ‘bout tomorrow morning?” he piped up with great reluctance.

“Oh bless you!” The Curillos got to their feet and started touching his apparel. He turned to walk out, with Mrs Curillo following him right to the front entrance.

“Thank you, Mr Tomasi. God bless you!”

Sullenly, Vince returned to the car, into which he reseated himself and threw his file on the floor.     

He crossed his arms in a tantrum fashion and looked straight ahead.

Kevin gazed at his friend’s petulant display.

“Everything OK?”

No reply.

“Who was that guy? He just arrived on the bike?”

No reply.

“Boy, you must’ve really given them a hard time.”

“Kevin,” Vince turned and looked blankly at his partner, “Just shut up and drive, will you?”

10.00 am

Standing before the open gate of Alex Pauley’s property, James checked the yard for any sign of Alsatians. As much as he desired to gain access to the property, the thought of being torn to pieces by savage canines deterred him from making a hasty entrance.     

He stood for a few minutes surveying the situation, searching for any sign of life before setting foot into the property’s squelching mud. A few cautious steps found him facing the front door and he gave a few sharp raps with his knuckles on its paint-peeled surface; a procedure which he patiently repeated for five minutes, eliciting no response.

Satisfied that no-one was home, James turned and left the yard, pausing long enough to write a note requesting the occupant to contact him.

After placing the note in a battered letter-box on the front fence post, he proceeded to his car. He then flipped his mobile open and summoned an animal control officer to keep the property under surveillance.

At approximately a quarter past ten, he departed.

10.15 am

On the outskirts of Callard, where the houses were few, as far as the eye could see the landscape was green. Fields of cane flourished in the rich dark soil, undulating to the horizon like a tossed green quilt; patched sparsely with pea fields and black soil laid bare.

Homesteads on the horizon, bounded by hoop pine, gum and mango trees, looked more like lush islands under siege in a green sea. On the distant hills hung clouds; some white, some grey-bellied and some mist-like against the blue backdrop of the sky.

The road, on which Kevin and Vince drove on, had been considerably widened in the last few years, auguring the push of development to the rural fringe. Within this area, plans for another two mills were on the drawing boards, as was the blue-print for a satellite township.

And central to the area was Lindisfarne Lodge, to which the pair were fast approaching in their Council sedan.

The Lodge was a sparsely set homestead set amid a cane-field of roughly twenty hectares. The property was owned by a company known as Arizona Investments, to which it was no secret that the managing director was Mr Arthur Pauley, the Mayor of Callard City.

Three years ago, Arthur Pauley defeated the incumbent mayor in the local government elections primarily on the platform of providing homes for the homeless. Upon seizing the mayoral reins, he set about converting the Lodge, a property acquired through a family inheritance, into a boarding house for homeless pensioners and low-wage earners.

Despite the fact that it was so far out of town and that public transport serviced the area infrequently, the Lodge was remarkably popular.

This was largely due to its rural aspect, offering the occupants an ideal country lifestyle and due also to the way the premises were run. From its inception, Lindisfarne Lodge was managed by a woman by the name of Ursula Stock who, by all the accounts that Kevin and Vince listened to, was known as a strong-willed, stubborn and tyrannical dictator.

She was however to the thirty mainly elderly occupants, to whom she was chief cook and bottle washer, clothes washer, clothes drier and ironer, medical attendant, sooth-sayer and story-teller, simply known as Mother Urs.

With the Lodge in his view out at the far right hand corner of his eye, Kevin turned his vehicle into the sealed access road, slowing down to negotiate a pair of rust red tram tracks traversing his path. The road was flanked by serried ranks of head-high cane, making their passage seem more like that of Moses through a green Red Sea.

Before him the Lodge stood elevated and spacious with wide ornate verandahs. Kevin guided the vehicle and parked on the grass verge by the property’s white picket fence.

“Did you bring a camera?” he enquired.

Vince offered a bewildered look, “I thought you brought one.”

Kevin gave his partner a blank stare. “We’ll have to rely on your photographic memory. When I hit you on the back of the head, remember everything you see.”

They alighted from the car and made their way to the front gate. Upon entering the property, they walked a few steps and noticed another fence in front of them, similar to the one they’d just passed through. In fact they looked around and found they were standing in what appeared to be a fenced enclosure, with a small dog kennel in a corner behind their path.

A white canine head with a black eye patch, poked out of the doorway.

Vince squinted curiously, “Is that a Dalmatian?”

“Not with a head like that.”

It was at that moment that they realised that most of the living quarters of the kennel they were looking at, was sited underground. Clambering awkwardly out of the entrance, the dog before them stretched its limbs and assumed the proportions of a small horse.

“A Great Dane. Is that good?” Kevin enquired.

It stood shoulder-high to the pair, who were now looking at each other quite uneasily.

“Uh ..” Vince shook quietly, “We’ve got to get out of this yard.”

The black and white beast looked in their direction and took a step.

With a good deal more worry in his voice, Vince again turned to his partner.

“Uh .. We’ve got to get out of this yard .. really quickly.”

“OK. Just keep calm,” Kevin replied quietly. “Trust me. Just walk forward in slow steps.”

The pair began to move nervously towards the house. A quick glance behind saw the dog loping towards them in an easy canter.

Suddenly they found their slow deliberate steps quicken considerably and widen immensely, making short work of the distance to the fence. In an easy bound their feet took hold of the horizontal fence beam a metre off the ground and they tossed themselves unceremoniously to the grass on the other side.

Kevin dusted himself off and looked at the daunting figure of the animal; its tongue lolling happily out of its wide slobbering smile. It tried to poke its head through the gaps in the palings.

“Oh. Look.” He put his hand through and stroked its massive head. Lapping up the affection, it stood there panting contentedly. “I don’t know what you were so scared about.” 

Before Vince could answer, an authoritative female voice boomed from the top of the stairs.

“Leave that dog alone!”

Kevin withdrew his hand swiftly and looked towards the figure descending the stairs to meet them. She was a large woman, not so much obese but well-busted and muscular. Her face was round and unsmiling and her short blonde hair and blue eyes suggested a Teutonic heritage.

In a conciliatory tone, Kevin smiled and opened the conversation.

“Mrs Stock? We’ve just met your welcoming committee.”

“What makes you think you’re welcome? Who ’re you?” she replied icily.

“Kevin Fitch. This is Vince Tomasi. We’re from the Council.” 

“You have identification?”

They both retrieved their Council ID from their wallets and held them up for her to see.

She sullenly continued, “Please state your business.”

“Mrs Stock,” Vince continued, “We’re out here as a result of reports we’ve received. They relate to the condition of the premises. The reports say that the property is littered with garbage, the premises are filthy and the yard is fouled with dog manure. We just wanted to inspect the property and get your side of the story.”

“Who lodged the complaint?”

“I’m sorry,” Vince replied diplomatically. “We can’t reveal that information.”

“No. Of course not.” A sarcastic sneer ran across her face. “Very well. Follow me.”

She took them for a tour around the grounds of the premises, answering any questions fielded towards her, sternly and tersely. It became apparent that there was no substance to the complaint.

The yards were kept clean and well-mown and a search of the external sheds showed all timber and materials sited well off the ground on large bricks to preclude rat infestation. An inspection of the rainwater tank at the rear of the premises showed it had been freshly gauzed to prevent mosquito breeding. To this same end, a check via a jaunt up a ladder revealed all roof gutters were free of leaves and other obstructions.

A row of freshly hosed and disinfected garbage bins lay upside-down to drain on a concrete pad to the side of the property. Under the Lodge, the laundry facilities appeared to be well in order as well, with adequate and well-kept washing and drying facilities.

Upstairs the kitchen which serviced the boarding rooms was inspected and found to be satisfactory in cleanliness and hygiene. Fire extinguishers were recently checked and all fire exits were well-marked and unobstructed.

It was up until when the actual rooms themselves were to be inspected, that the major pitfall occurred.   

Kevin opened the door of the first room and found himself facing the edge of a shoddily installed partition, dividing the room in half. The other end of the partition ran right down the middle of the room’s only window. The room, which was originally intended to house only two occupants, now had two bunks on either side of the make-shift wall.

Sensing the question she was about to be asked, Ursula Stock spoke first.

“Don’t look at me. It wasn’t my idea. These came in in the last few months. You have to talk to the Mayor.”   

Kevin and Vince exchanged perplexed glances. Vince turned to her, “You mean, all the rooms are like this?”

“All fifteen.. Look, what’s going on here?”

All the agitation she’d been holding back for the last few minutes, finally boiled to the surface.   

“You pair are the latest in a long line of people coming here. Yesterday I caught a pair trespassing. Taking pictures of the Lodge and cane-fields and they mentioned something about a fun park. I rang the Mayor and he knew nothing of it. He’s been very good to us. And now you pair show up.”

Her face was now flushed with anger.

“I mean, you’re out here quick-smart, aren’t you? When someone complains about us. What about my complaints? We’ve had a plague of rats coming in from the cane-fields. But d’ you think I can get your rat patrol here? No! What do they do all day? Sit around and twiddle their thumbs.”

Kevin took particular exception to this remark. He was one of the senior environmental health officers in charge of rat control for Callard and ran an efficient programme. Needless to say, he remained fiercely loyal to the men who worked under him. 

“I don’t think that is particularly fair,” he stated quietly.

“Well, I have rung the Mayor on three occasions. Nothing’s been done.”

“Mrs Stock,” Kevin felt his blood pulse faster. “The only reason why the rat patrol hasn’t been here, is because their telepathy doesn’t reach this far out of town. We’ve received no phone call about your problem.”

“No, you’re wrong!,” She firmly stabbed a finger in his chest. “They don’t do their job! Simple as that. I can’t abide that from any section of the community. And slovenly? I once passed one bunch mixing their chemicals by the side of the road. Huh! Rate payers money. For poisoning the concrete.”

Kevin’s face was now red with suppressed rage.

“Listen! We’re here looking into a complaint, OK? Nothing would give us more pleasure, than to give your ..” He held his breath, searching for words. “Your .. your geriatric rabbit warren, the big swerve!”

Vince looked wistfully towards the ceiling as his partner’s mouth went into gear before engaging its brain.

“Good!” Mrs Stock held her hands on her hips. “Then maybe I’ll tell the Mayor that.”

“Fine!” He eyed Vince. “Let’s get out of here.”

They left via the front stairs, skirting the dog enclosure to walk out to the driveway.

“Badly handled,” Vince buried his hands in his pockets and looked forward. “Badly handled.”

Kevin turned to him, “Fifteen rooms with illegal work done and she had nothing to do with it? What a load of crap!”

“Why d’ you do that? These illogical outbursts.”

“Look, Vince do us a favour?” Kevin turned and pointed back to the house. “See that window up there? See it? With the partition wall running down the middle of it? You locked on to that?”

“Yeah.”

Kevin gave Vince a light slap on the back of the head and walked off.

“Remember it, will you?”

2.00 pm

A wag reporter from the Callard Herald once wrote this about Milton Pauley. “If “x” is an unknown quantity and the measure of a man’s worth is his “calibre”, then it could well be said he was a man of “x calibre”.”

If that reporter had ventured to the front of the Council offices, he would have been able to see how prophetic, if only momentarily, that statement had become.

For like Excalibur, he suddenly found himself protruding from a lake or, to be more precise, standing in an ornamental rock pool.

“You wanker, Max!”

“Well I didn’t want you to go back that far! For Christ sake, why don’t you look where you’re going?” Max Horn turned to the small film crew currently pointing their camera at the man in the pond. “Listen guys, why don’t you take five.”

As the film crew stood down, Milton stepped out of the landscape pool he’d just stumbled into.

“If you keep saying, “go back, go back, go back”. Mate, you think you’d have an idea where you’re sending me!”       

Milton jiggled his legs as if he had some goldfish stuck in his socks.

“How much more filming of this commercial does genius want?”

He nodded his head towards a pimpled youth in a peak cap holding a polystyrene cup. With his other hand, the youth was making animated hand movements to his charges denoting camera angles and wide screen shots.

“Hey genius!” Milton called to the group. “How ‘bout a coffee for those payin’ the bills?” He turned slyly to Max, “You sure these guys work cheap?”

“I’ve used some of them on our promos. They do good stuff. You’ll like the result.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to fork out an arm an’ a leg.”

The director brought over two cups as Milton continued to shake his leg.

“Shit, genius! You get me to stand in front of a waterfall. Make it look I’m in love with nature. Now it looks like I pissed m’ self. How’ re the ratepayers goin’ to elect me like this? Get us a rag will ya, so I can dry down?”

As the director left, Max leaned into Milton’s ear.

“They do good work. And their cheap. Dirt cheap. I told them the next time a Hollywood director or actor is out and on the yacht, they can come on board.”

“Yeah? Who’s coming?

Max winked and looked towards the group.

“You know business, mate. They wouldn’t be the first people who lived in hope.”

They tapped their polystyrene cups in smiles.

3.10 pm

“Kevin! Vince!”

The Chief strode to where the pair were seated at their desks.

“How’d you go?”

Kevin leaned back in his chair.

“They’ve got a few problems. There’s a bit of illegal building work.”

“What about the general condition of the place?” asked the Chief.

Vince proffered his report to the Chief, “It was spotless.”

“That’s just what I wanted to know.” The Chief read the itemized account of their inspection. “Any problems at all?”

Kevin and Vince kept their mouths shut.

“You did well, fellas,” the Chief smiled to his charges.

“You did really well. I don’t know why I was so worried in sending you,” he added with a wink.

3.55 pm

The phone rang on Kevin’s desk.

“Kevin Fitch speaking.”

“Kevin, this is Arthur Pauley, the Mayor.”

Kevin felt a rush of adrenalin.

“About this inspection you did this morning.”

“Yes, sir. A report’s been handed to our Chief.”

“Yes, I know. I have the report in front of me. But I just wanted to talk to the person who actually did the inspection. The report says the yards were clean and well-kept.”

“Yes sir, they were.”

“What I want to know is, that at the time of your inspection the yards were clean and well-kept, and I’m not disputing this. Would it be fair to say, that at some time before your inspection, the yards could’ve been littered? Could’ve been strewn with garbage? And they were cleaned up prior to your arrival?” 

“I .. I don’t think that would be fair to say.”

“Well, would it be correct to say?”

“Well .. I guess, anything is possible.”

“Yes or no,” insisted the Mayor.

“Well .. Yes .. I guess.”

“And could the same situation apply, if the inside of the place was filthy?” enquired the Mayor.

“Well ..”

“Yes or no.”

“Well .. Yes.”

“Kevin, Ursula Stock rang me this afternoon. She said that you offered the opinion, that the premises were .. a geriatric rabbit warren. Is this true?

Kevin’s throat became parched with terror.

“It .. It wasn’t an opinion,” he replied nervously.

“But did you gain that impression?”

“It was more or less said in jest.”

“Did you say that? Yes or no,” insisted the Mayor.

“Yes.”

There was a brief silence. Kevin held his breath.

The Mayor gave a brief sigh. “Good .. Thank you.”

He then hung up.

Kevin held the receiver for a few seconds longer, completely bewildered.

6.55 pm

That evening at a private function in the rooms adjacent to the Council chambers, Milton Pauley looked more like a prowling night-club patron than an informed host.

His long-sleeved white shirt was unbuttoned to his chest hair and his thighs strained the seams of his expensive black trousers.

Spending an evening entertaining dignitaries from the Solomon Islands was not his idea of a fun night out.

They were making a good-will visit to the city to talk about trade and tourism. He smiled and nodded as he mingled amongst them, but restlessly started looking around the room.

His eyes met those of Patricia Pointing, sipping a drink on the other side of the room. They winked at each other in covert understanding.

Patricia was the Mayor’s secretary whose own personal image of herself was a lot kinder than reality.

She was rakishly thin, narrow in the face and had shoulder length dark wavy hair, which she constantly tossed from side to side. It was said that for hours on end, she would be seen at her desk staring at a compact mirror, throwing back her hair and showing her mouth, fresh with lip-gloss.

She enjoyed being seen with and doing things for people of influence and indeed, as she quickly quaffed her drink and glanced at Milton Pauley, “doing things” was foremost on her mind at that moment.

With Pauley in casual pursuit, she left the function room and they both took the lift up to the Councillor’s offices.

Once inside his private office, the scene quickly changed to a frantic display of flying clothes. His shirt flew off to a distant chair and a shoe flew to another corner, as he nearly tripped on his pants around his ankles. Her dress flew up and hit the ceiling and his underpants flew to the top of a bookcase.

Hurriedly he cleared the top of his desk, wiping the pens, trays and paperwork on to the carpet.

He grabbed her and lay her on her back and he commenced to make love with her, with all the attention to sensual detail of tag team wrestling.

“Oh .. Oh,” he cried, “Ah .. What was your name again?”

9.00 am  Saturday, February 14th 

Kevin walked into the vegetarian snack bar and approached the proprietress at the counter. 

“Madam, mind if I inspect your premises?”

The proprietress looked up blankly, “As long as you don’t commando roll on the floor again.”

Kevin produced an envelope and handed it to her.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Nicky.”

Nicky’s green eyes brightened up.

“Why, thank you! That’s really nice of you.”

Nicolette Sheparton’s pretty face beamed as she accepted the proffered envelope.

Kevin watched with pleasure. She was by no means glamorous, being short and slightly plump. But by some unknown fetish best known only to Kevin, he always found himself attracted to short and plump women.

Her fingers prised the seal to find a completely empty envelope. She stared back in sullen silence. Kevin fidgeted and grabbed the envelope and turned it over to reveal “I.O.U” which he had written in very small letters on the back.

She tossed the envelope into a waste paper bin.

“Kevin, you are pathetic.”

“Oh come on!” He rushed around the counter. “I’m just a little broke, that’s all.”

“You’re always a little broke. Couldn’t you even afford a card?” she said.

“A card? I don’t want to give you something cheap.” 

“I’m at least worth a card, Kevin”

He pondered for a second and spoke quietly.

“For a man as successful as I, to give a woman he admires something as insignificant as a card, is to show that nobody else knows what I know that you do to me and nobody knows what I do.”

“Nobody knows what you do?” she repeated bewilderedly.

“And nobody asks,” he replied shrugging his shoulders, “And that’s why I’m so successful. Does that make sense?”

She stared back at him and scratched her short sandy hair.

A ringing telephone rescued her from answering his question.

“Nicky’s Vegetarian Snacks, Nicky speaking  .. No, I’m afraid you have the wrong number, sir .. Yes, I know that’s the number on the flyer .. I’m not sure. You’d be best to check the phone book .. That’s quite OK .. I hope it’s a great success for you .. Thank you.”

She hung up the phone, “He seemed quite nice.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Probably. He’s calling about the Gay Pride March in June. Someone’s sent out flyers for the event. But they put the shop’s phone number on by mistake. That’s the second call today.” 

Kevin suppressed a smirk, “You should invite them for carrot cake. You could use a more fashionable clientele.”

His comment was answered by a speared fist below the rib cage, which buckled him breathless.

“Not funny!” she snapped fiercely, gritting her teeth.

One thing Kevin admired about his girlfriend, was her single-minded stubbornness when it came to things she believed strongly in.

And just the sheer fact that she ran one of the most popular vegetarian snack bars in Callard, while her father, whom she adored, ran one of the most popular meat emporiums in the city, Kevin found himself often staring adoringly at his little firebrand conscientious objector.  

“I was only joking!” He let his big blue eyes open wide and stared deeply into her eyes.

“Would I say anything to offend you? Trust me.”

“Follow me,” she said with irritation and walked into the kitchen.

Without saying a word, she motioned Kevin to view her workbench and a heart-shaped cake freshly iced with “Happy Valentine” sitting on it.

Kevin said nothing but felt his heart rise up into his mouth. Before Nicky could unleash her tongue on him, the phone rang again and she crossed quickly to answer it.

“Nicky’s Snacks, Nicky speaking .. No, I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong number ..”

It was another caller with the incorrect flyer and she repeated the spiel she had spoken previously.

When she replaced the receiver, she swung vehemently on her boyfriend who to her surprise was nearly in tears.

“Nicky, you’re absolutely right. I’m thoughtless, I’m inconsiderate, I’m ignorant, and you are well within your right to pick up that cake and throw it in my face.”

Nicky stood, completely dumbfounded. If there was one thing she disliked about Kevin, it was that she could never have a decent argument with him.

“Oh, f’ God’s sake! Stop fawning.” She lowered her eyes, feeling slightly embarrassed.

It was typical. On many occasions they would have disagreements which she would feel fired up about and she would go home and practise in front of a mirror for hours on end, pointing and gesticulating madly, and rehearsing exactly what she was going to say to him the next day.

When the next day came, she would rush off to meet him with fists clenched and fuming. But when she confronted him, she would find that the base had shifted from underneath the argument and he would agree with everything she said.

It prompted her to hold a personal nickname for him; “deck-chair”. He always collapsed under pressure.

Kevin moved quickly to try and grab her in an affectionate embrace, but she preferred to keep him at arm’s length.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said. “ How about dinner tonight?”

“Uh huh,” she responded blankly.

“Maybe a vegetarian pizza and a nice bottle of red.”

“Uh huh.”

“Maybe .. watch a bit of TV. At my place.”          

“Uh huh.”

“And then ..” He looked amorously into her eyes. “Play cane toads.”

Nicky coldly pushed him away, “I should’ve guessed.”

“Oh, you’re no fun any more!” Kevin raised his voice in dismay. “You may as well go out with one of the guys calling the wrong number.”

Just as he spoke, the phone rang and this time Kevin walked across and picked up the receiver.

“Hello.”

A voice on the other end of the line replied.

“Hello. Is that the organizers of the Gay Pride March?”

Kevin put his hand over the receiver and addressed his girlfriend. “Hang on, Nick. I might have a date for you.”

While looking for his girlfriend’s response, Kevin lifted the receiver back to his face.

“Hello!” he crooned romantically into the mouthpiece. “Can I help you?”

Nicky picked up a stalk of celery and bit hard into it, as her face went red with rage.

Kevin winked at her as the voice continued warily on the other end of the phone.

“This is .. This is Sergeant Vic Newell from Callard Police. Just touching base about security arrangements for the march. I got your number from this flyer.”

“Vic!” Kevin blurted out, without thinking.

Vic Newell was the best man at his elder brother’s wedding. The sound of his voice took Kevin by surprise.

“That .. That’s not Kevin Fitch?” Vic replied.

“Vic, you’ve rung the wrong number!” Kevin’s voice was shaking.

“Oh .. Kevin, I didn’t know. This is .. oh wow.”

“Vic! You have rung the wrong number! You’ve rung Nicky’s shop!”

There was a stunned silence.

“Does Nicky know?” Vic asked.        

“Of course she knows! .. No no .. She doesn’t. Look, she’s standing right in front of me. I’ll put her on.”

Kevin held the receiver out to where Nicky was standing, half way across the room.

“Say something Nick!” he pleaded.

Nicky grinned back innocently, the stalk of celery held between her teeth.

“Come on now!” Kevin’s voice was more insistent. “Let’s not play games now.”

Nicky was thoroughly relishing her boyfriend’s discomfort. She maintained her silence.

He returned earnestly to his telephone conversation.

“Vic, I can explain!”

“No mate, that’s fine. Y’ know, I think some of our blokes are marching with you. But this is .. This is a bit of a shock.”

“But ..”

“But good on you. I’ll .. I’ll see you later,” Vic said and hung up.

Clinging to the receiver, Kevin glared at his girlfriend.

“You .. What’d you do that for?”

Nicky moved towards him and held out the celery for him.

“Care for some celery?” she grinned impishly. “Girlfriend?”

2.00 pm

“God, I hate Valentine’s Day,” Vince thought to himself.

He rubbed his sweaty palms, still stained with paint from the morning’s work at Mrs Curillo’s shop. Again he looked at the front door of the hairdressing salon, which he had passed by three times now in the past five minutes, trying to work up the nerve to walk in.

He rubbed his hands once more, took a deep breath and launched himself at an easy pace towards the entrance of Roberto’s Salon.

“Vince!”

Roberto Giamvetti greeted him warmly, walking up to shake his hand at the reception desk. “I didn’t know you worked on weekends.”

Vince took Roberto’s firm grip. He reminded Vince of a forever smiling Mediterranean playboy; always stylish and easy and sophisticated in manner. 

“Actually,” Vince replied in a wavering tone, trying to fight back nerves. “I wouldn’t mind a haircut. If you’re not too busy.”

“Ah, a customer,” Roberto laughed. “Give your bald patch some air. Sure, I think we can fit you in.”

“Maybe put some life back into my hair,” Vince chuckled.

“Or maybe take some life out,” Roberto said, removing a small foreign object from Vince’s black locks.

“Is ,, Is Lucrezia available?” Vince said, feeling his hands turn to sweat.

“Sure, take a seat. I’ll just get her.”

He followed Roberto into the work area to take a seat, as Roberto called out to his daughter.

Lucrezia Giamvetti appeared at the rear door and Vince felt his jaw fall and his pulse race. In his eyes, she was perfect.

She was a stunning dark-haired woman, of medium height and superbly proportioned with long slender legs and ample breasts.

“Hi, Vince,” she smiled warmly, forever the perfect hostess. “What can I do for you today?”

He looked into her beaming dark eyes and felt his legs shake. “Just a hair cut please, Lucrezia.”

“Any particular hair you want cut?” she laughed.

She sat him in front of a mirror and threw a cloth over him, tying it smartly around his neck.

They made small talk about the weather, as she conditioned his hair. Vince leaned back into the hair rinse basin, privately eyeing her up and down. She pushed her fingers in and out of his hair; in and out, in and out.

He licked his lips and crossed his legs.

After towelling his hair dry, she commenced cutting, and to Vince’s surprise, was the first to bring up the issue foremost on his mind.

“So, Vince, did you get any Valentines today? I bet a man like you would be beating the girls off with a stick,” she smiled warmly.

He felt a little embarrassed, “Well .. Not quite just yet ..”

And she flew to his rescue, “So I’ll have to get you finished pretty quickly.” She leaned over him and grinned, “They’re probably backing a truck-load of them at your door. Right at this moment.”

Vince breathed a sigh of relief and returned nervously, “How about you? Did .. Did Tony give you a Valentine?”

Tony was a fellow she’d been dating recently. In Vince’s eyes, he was a typical cover-boy for “Neanderthal Lifestyle”, complete with sports car and bling.    

“No,” she replied very candidly. “Tony and I don’t see each other any more.”

Vince felt a sudden surge of adrenalin.

Thoughts crowded his mind. The voice of impulse said, “Ask her out. Now is your chance. Seize the moment.”

Yet the more dominant voice of caution said, “No, analyse the situation. Retreat and regroup your forces.”

Compounding his dilemma was his ever-present voice of inferiority, “Isn’t she a bit too far out of your league?”

Lucrezia stirred him back to reality, holding a mirror to the back of his head. “Is that enough off the back?”

Vince viewed her work. “That’s fine thanks.”

“Right then,” She smiled and whipped the cloth from him. “We’re all finished.”

He stood up and faced her. He stood for a second, struggling to make words but decided it was more comfortable to retreat.

She continued her bright and breezy routine, as she led him to the reception desk.

“Enjoy the rest of your day, Vince. We’ll see you soon I hope.”

He paid and left, feeling annoyed that he couldn’t have handled the situation more to his advantage. Deep in thought and cursing himself, he walked out the door into the afternoon sunlight.

11.30 pm

James tossed and turned in a lather of sweat.

His mind was awash with red and collapsing inwards. He fell head-first down a series of tunnels, bifurcating and rejoining. Speeding and swerving, he hurled himself through and spilled into a clearing of a placid scene set in black and white.

He sat at a table in a restaurant, opposite his ex-wife, Marie. They looked at each other calmly and their lips moved to words he couldn’t hear.

James stood up from the table and tried to move around to her side, but his path was blocked by a chair. He tried to move around the chair and suddenly faced two chairs.

He looked at her and she shook her head calmly and said, “No.”

As suddenly as it arrived, the scene dissolved.

It was replaced by a darker scene. He was looking at the bridge.

8.30 am  Monday, February 16th

“Kevin! Vince! In my office now!”

The Chief’s bellow sent shudders through the Department.

All eyes in the office turned to the pair seated at their desks. Kevin and Vince looked at each other with bare-faced terror.

They rose to their feet and walked down the aisle to the Chief’s office. Passing Karen Kershaw’s desk, she and Vince exchanged sullen glances.

“Sit down please!” As they entered the office, the Chief directed them emphatically to the chairs. “Have either of you seen the paper today”

The Chief waved a copy of the Callard Herald in front of them.

“What the hell is this?”

He slapped it hard on the desk in front of them, making them start backwards.

The front page headline screamed in their faces, “Homeless Face Health Risk”.

They read the contents of the article incredulously.

“Acting on advice from Health Department officers, Mayor Arthur Pauley closed down the Lindisfarne Lodge for the homeless on the weekend and its director, Ursula Stock, was dismissed for alleged negligence to duty.

In a statement prepared by the Mayor’s office on Saturday evening, Mayor Pauley said he was appalled by conditions, as reported by Council’s environmental health officers who likened the premises to “a geriatric rabbit warren”.  

“Reluctant as I am to do so,” said Mayor Pauley, “realising my mandate to the community at the last election to provide homes for the homeless, Lindisfarne Lodge will be closed down and its boarders relocated to safer and healthier accommodation.”

“Preliminary negotiations have been undertaken with developers Horn-Hagama Pty Ltd, for the construction of extensive boarding houses for this purposes. Let me reiterate, under a Pauley government, no person in Callard will go homeless.”

“And to this election, I bring a fresh mandate. One thousand jobs for Callard residents, through a proposal to develop the twenty hectare site of Lindisfarne into a Japanese theme park.”

“Extensive renovations will be needed to the Lodge, ramshackle as it may be at the moment, to convert it into an Australiana exhibit on the site. Once completed, the resulting influx of tourists will provide a much needed boost to everyone in the city.”

“I would also like to take the opportunity to applaud our ever vigilant Health Department, for averting what could have been a major health crisis.”

Ursula Stock, when contacted by the Herald, was unavailable for comment.”

The Chief looked at Kevin and Vince, their stunned faces engrossed in the article.       

“OK,” said the Chief, forcing calm. “Would you mind telling me what happened?”

Kevin piped up nervously, “Well .. We inspected the place. But there was nothing wrong with it. Not like it says here. Then Mrs Stock and I .. exchanged words.”

The Chief pointed to the paper, “I noticed.”

“She had a smart mouth.” Kevin said.

The pair saw the red slowly rise in the Chief’s face. The Chief continued, quietly and firmly.

“Mrs Stock has a list of social science degrees as long as my arm. She was appointed at my recommendation. And if I were you, I would not make reference to anyone having a smart mouth. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes sir.”

“And this comment. “Geriatric rabbit warren.” I assume its one of your gems? How did the Mayor hear this?”

Kevin looked despondently to his shoes, “Well .. The Mayor rang up and ..”

The Chief slapped the desk top sharply with his open palm. His breathing was more rapid, his voice more intense.

“Terrific! Then you’re on his recorder. And did you say that? Did you actually say that? Christ, can’t you keep your mouth shut?”

After a few seconds of silence, the Chief brought his temper under control and viewed his charges with their heads bent, looking dispirited and disillusioned.

He let out a deep breath.

“Alright. Enough said. Leave this with me. I’ll have to get in contact with Ursula and find out how she’s coping with all this. If I need you for anything, I’ll let you know.”

Kevin and Vince listlessly brought themselves to their feet.

The Chief added, “In future, just be a bit more careful.”

The pair filed out of his office.

9.00 am

James was on the road early that morning. By nine o’clock he had arrived at Alex Pauley’s place, having received no response from him since his attempts the previous Friday.

This time he was in luck, for as he guided his vehicle to the kerb side, he saw the figure in the yard busy shovelling mud. He alighted from the car and walked to the open gateway.

Alex Pauley stood there amidst the wet earth, with its slugs, snails, silverfish and assorted lizards. He was his yard’s tallest occupant.

“Excuse me!” James called. “Could I see you for a second please?”

The bespectacled figure, adorned in blue singlet and jeans, looked up with some irritation at his intruder. With a sharp thrust, he stood his shovel in the mud and tread through the puddles to the gateway.

“James McLaren from the Health Department,” James flashed his ID at the approaching figure. “I’d like to talk to you about your dogs.”

Pauley wiped his hands on his jeans and looked about his empty yard in mock innocence.

“What dogs, officer?”

“Three male German shepherds from this property attacked a lady on Thursday evening,” said James.

“That can’t be right, officer,” Pauley countered innocently.

“It’s against the law to have three dogs on a property this size. Especially dangerous dogs.” James said.

“Now wait a minute,” Pauley replied, feeling incensed. “You’re taking the word of a crazy woman?”

“I didn’t even mention the victim.” James retrieved his notebook and pen from his pocket. “Could I have your name please?”

With sarcastic candour, Pauley replied, “Pauley. Alex Pauley. That’s P.A.U.L.E.Y. As in Arthur Pauley, my father, the Mayor. As in Milton Pauley, my brother, the Councillor. And what’s your name again?”

James proffered one of his Council business cards.

“Mr Pauley, you will be required to reduce the number of dogs on your property from three to two. And the two dogs you keep will be declared “dangerous”. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“Listen!” Pauley pointed his finger into James’s chest. “My dogs can do what they bloody well want. And I’m not havin’ some pen-pushing bureaucrat tell me what to do. I’ve got special permission to breed guard dogs.”

“Permission from whom?” James asked.

“That’s none of your business!” Pauley countered. “My family stands for free enterprise.”

James responded sullenly, “You have three male dogs and you’re going to breed? This could be a world first.”

Pauley pointed towards the road.

“Piss off!”

“I’ll be back, Mr Pauley.”

Pauley turned to walk back to his shovel.

“We’ll see about that!”

James boarded his vehicle and drove away.       

9.30 am

“Mr Mayor?” 

The Chief strode towards Arthur Pauley, standing outside the mayoral suite.

The Mayor was a man, grey-haired and middle-aged yet still quite athletic and powerful in appearance.

“In a moment, John,” replied the Mayor, handing two documents to his secretary. “Miss Pointing, this speech here needs to be translated into Italian. And this speech into Japanese, please. I have a few business appointments. Some foreign dignitaries out here. I reckon they’d get such a kick when I talk to them in their mother tongue.”

Patricia Pointing dutifully accepted the papers. “I’ll get that organized right away, sir.” 

“Now John. My office please.” The pair entered the mayoral suite as The Mayor noted the newspaper in the Chief’s grip.

“This wouldn’t be about what I think it’s about, would it? Help yourself to some coffee.”

“I’m trying to keep the blood pressure down,” The Chief slapped the paper on the desk.    

“Of course.”

“Arthur did you get the CEO’s memo about contacting staff?”

“Of course.” The Mayor came round to square off face to face. “For official business I always go through you. But this was just a chat. There was nothing wrong. Take a seat, John. There’s something more important we need to talk about.”

This was the part the Chief feared. As he stayed standing, the machinations of the past few days were playing in his mind like a chess game. He had an idea of what was coming next as the Mayor pushed his rook forward all the way.

Arthur Pauley reached for a rolled map and laid it out on the desk. He stabbed at a large green patch within it.

“My proposed theme park. And now here.” He pointed to an area adjacent. “It’s come to my attention, this area is earmarked for sanitary landfill.”

“That’s correct,” acknowledged the Chief. “It comes on line at the end of next year.”

“Well, all that has to change.”

“Excuse me?”

The Mayor faced the Chief squarely, his hands on his hips and his jaw jut firmly.

“I don’t want a dump next to my park.”

There was almost an urge on the Chief’s part to grunt in sardonic amusement. He couldn’t believe this was happening, even though it was one of the scenarios played out in his mind.

But to be actually confronted with this big face and the words coming out, the reality seemed a lot less heightened than his imagining.

This split second rambling left. The rush of blood arrived. He assumed a similar stance to the Mayor.

“Mr Mayor, this sanitary landfill has been in planning now for eight years. I’m not prepared to throw all the environmental impact studies, and all the work we’ve done, out the window.”

With a steady glare the Mayor countered, “But you will, won’t you?”

The Chief’s wrath was well and truly incurred. 

“And you’ve thought this through? You’ve made plans on where we dispose our refuse in two years time? Maybe .. Make it disappear. Magically. The alternative’s a refuse transfer station. But that’ll double the rates.”

The Mayor moved closer, their jaws almost touching.

“I don’t care. I’ve stated my case.”

“You’re not thinking, Arthur. What is wrong with having a sanitary landfill next to your park? It’ll have a ten year life span, then it’ll be park land. It’ll actually enhance your place.”

With more intensity, “I don’t .. want a dump .. next to my park .. full stop.”

After a few seconds, the Chief got his breathing and his dander under control.

“We’ll have to agree to disagree on this matter. I’ll take the matter further with Health Committee.” He leaned in closer to the Mayor and added almost in a whisper. “And just so we’re clear. My staff are not to be used as a convenient lever for your own ends. You deal with my Department; you deal with me. Are we understood?”

The Mayor offered a wry smile, “Point taken.”

“Have a good day, Mr Mayor.” The Chief turned and strode hastily from the office.

Watching the retreating figure with dark interest, the Mayor thought to himself.

“That man must go.”

9.55 am

James poked his head into the Chief’s office.

Seated at his desk, the Chief looked up from his writing.

“Mate, I hope you’ve got good news. I’m having a bastard of a morning. Take a seat.”

“I’ve got a bit of a problem,” James offered uneasily.

“A problem? Then take a couch.” The Chief smiled, “What’s up?”

“I’ve got a case. A property has three dangerous dogs. I want to put it up for prosecution.”

“So, what’s the problem?” said the Chief.

“Alex Pauley owns them. Does that make a difference?”

The Chief leaned forward.

“As far as I’m concerned, it makes no difference. I’m behind you one hundred per cent. I’ll relish the backlash. Get out a notice with twenty four hours to comply. And upon failure to comply, report for prosecution.”

“I think we’ve got a solid case,” James replied.

“Since when have the magistrates ever been on our side? Just dot your “i”s and cross your “t”s. I don’t want them mopping the floor with us.”

The Chief looked at his watch and continued.

“Unfortunately, I won’t be here this afternoon. Get George to sign the notice when it’s done. I’ve got to rush for a flight soon. With this refuse management conference at the Adelaide casino.

“When will you be back?” James asked.

“Next Monday, about lunch time,” replied the Chief and then added with a wry grin. “Or when the chips finally run out.”

It would have been impossible for the Chief to comprehend the irony of what he had just said.

10.05 am

Lance Tapp walked to his office, clutching a motorcycle helmet. Because he lived reasonably close to the Council offices, he often rode his Vespa motor-scooter to work, especially in the hotter months of the year.

As he walked past the mayoral suite, Patricia Pointing called out to him.

“Councillor Tapp! Excuse me. I have some messages here for you.”     

He took the slips of paper from her hand and perused them.

The first was from Bernie Smith, requesting him to call and arrange an electoral press release.

The second was a request to call back Eileen Vickers.

“Oh my God!” cried Lance. There was a sense of urgency and panic in his voice.

Eileen Vickers was a pensioner who ran the bingo game at the Westmead Church Hall, in the middle of his electoral division. Her bingo game was such an institution and her personal following was so strong that at her whim, she could control two hundred votes. For Lance Tapp, having Mrs Vickers on his side was the difference between winning and losing the next election.

The previous member for the area, whom Lance replaced, found this out to his cost, when he requested that time limits be enforced on her bingo evenings.

“Did she say what she wanted?” he said nervously.

“Something about a bikie gang moving into her area. She asked you to call her back.”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll do that right away.”

He took the slips of paper and scurried off to his office.

11.00 am

Outside the Chief’s office, a gathering of three people were busy checking flight details and accommodation vouchers for Adelaide. They were the Chief, the ample figure of Jane Beswick who was the managing director of Callard’s refuse contractor, Beswick Solutions, and Councillor Bob Steele, the current chairman of Health Committee.

Councillor Steele was a man of slight frame who was well respected by his staff and peers. He had expressed a reluctance to go to Adelaide at first, for three weeks previously, his wife had a miscarriage, but it was largely through her insistence that he finally decided to go. It was also for this and other personal reasons that he was choosing not to contest the next election, much to the sadness of many.   

Being the first time he saw Bob Steele since the incident, George Butts saw the group and made his way up to offer his condolences.

“Oh Councillor Steele.”

George briefly acknowledged the other members of the group and took Bob aside.

“Sir, I was so sorry to hear about Jean. It really upset me. Did you get the card I sent you? And the flowers? Sir, if there is anything I can do for either Jean or yourself, just don’t hesitate to ask.”

Bob Steele folded his arms and cleared his throat with slight embarrassment.

“Her name’s Jenny.”

“Oh .. Uh,” George’s face flushed red and he gagged for breath.

The Chief stepped in to rescue him, took him aside and led him into his office.

“I’d quit while you were ahead,” he quipped.

He closed the door behind him.

“OK George. As of now, you’re in charge.”

The Chief pointed to some sheets of paper on his desk.

“I’ve made a list of some on-going business that may arise while I’m away. Make sure you read it carefully.”

He pointed to a glass cabinet in the corner.

“My library contains everything you want to know about natural disaster relief. Just break the glass in an emergency. But more importantly.” He pointed to a small refrigerator next to the book case. “If you touch my bar fridge, I’ll skin you alive. Now are there any questions?”

George grinned readily, “No.”

“All the best, George. And don’t forget my mobile’ll always be open. I’ll be back Monday lunch time.    

“Enjoy Adelaide Casino.” George offered his hand warmly.

The Chief took his Assistant’s hand firmly.

“Thanks George. Hopefully not too much.” He looked at his watch. “Got to run. I’ll see you later.”

He left the office and George watched the door close.

Happily, he sat in the big chair and reclined back slowly, throwing his legs on to the desk top and crossed them languidly.

“At last.” He thought to himself letting his eyes roam lovingly around the room. “The big office is mine.”

2.00 pm

Wearing white builder’s hard-hats, Milton Pauley and Max Horn stood at one of Max’s high-rise construction sites. They stood near the office demountable, looking towards the towering crane and pointed with interest at work under way.

Milton gesticulated to Max with hand movements his need to nurture development and employment but waved his arm in a way to say that the amenity of the area must be looked after. And he was the one to protect it.

Max nodded in approval as if every word he was hearing was manna from heaven.  

They looked at each other in agreement and shook hands warmly.

“Cut!” came a voice nearby.

Milton and Max dropped the smiles and threw the hard-hats on a table adjacent.

With his fingers running through his hair, Milton shook out the sweat within and turned to the camera crew.

“So, did y’ get my best side, genius?”  

8.45 am  Tuesday, February 17th

“Mr Gees!”

The bespectacled figure of the Assistant to the Chief waddled through the office towards Gerry Gees seated at his desk. George wore a suit and tie and strutted with an air of extreme self-importance.

“Mr Gees.” He gave Gerry a slip of paper. “This is a complaint from Councillor Lance Tapp. “Do it this morning and report back to me by this afternoon.”

Gerry read the complaint.

“Bikies? It says here, there’s a gang of bikies. Isn’t that police?”

George loomed over him. “I want you to do it. Councillor Tapp is concerned and I am concerned about these people. And the condition of their rented house. Take steps to have them evicted and sent out of the area.”   

Gerry looked up at him and his jaw dropped.

“But ..”

“Just do it!”

George stormed off and headed in James’s direction.

“Mr McLaren, my office please.”

James lifted his head from his computer screen to see the figure strutting back to the Chief’s office. He followed accordingly and entered after him and was ushered to a seat.

The Assistant to the Chief reclined back in the big chair and folded his hands together in a gesture of erudite contentment.

“James.” George proffered the document that James had drafted, awaiting a signature to be complete. “I’m concerned about this notice.”

Believing it was well on the way to Alex Pauley’s muddied dog yard, James viewed it with disbelief.

“I contacted Councillor Pauley about it this morning.” George swivelled a little to get good use of the chair. “And he is also very concerned. We feel this may be .. inappropriate.”

Completely speechless, James looked back.

Pressing his spectacles on to the bridge of his nose, George continued, “Do you have any proof that these dogs are dangerous?”

Acid rose up in James’s throat out of sheer disgust.

“We have a few witnesses saying they saw the dogs playfully tearing a person’s leg open.”

“But did they see the wound actually being inflicted?” George countered. “Could she have fallen over? By accident?”

James grappled to keep his temper in check.

“Did she accidentally fall on the dog’s teeth?”

“We have to take into account the quality of the evidence,” George said. “Look at the alleged victim. Everybody knows she’s crazy. Look, James.” He addressed him as if he were a misguided innocent. “I know how you feel.”

“You don’t know how I feel!” Red-faced and glaring, James was completely enraged. “I will tell you how I feel. There is a woman. An elderly woman. Scared shitless! Over these dogs.”   

George threw his hands into the air, “Well if you’re going to be irrational about it ..”

“Irrational?” James countered hotly. “The Chief’s also behind this. You can’t override an action he’s endorsed.”

Pressing his fingertips together, George swung the chair to offer James his profile.

“John’s probably unaware of all the details. This’s been blown out of all proportion.”  

Sighing in defeat, James shook his head.

“So that’s it then?”

“Yes. That’s it.”

George swung back to face James.

“There’ll be no further action on this case.”

Without offering another comment, James got to his feet and strode indignantly out of the office.

9.30 am

Kevin approached James sitting at his desk and pulled up a chair.

“Sounds like you’re havin’ a real prick of a morning,” Kevin said half-seriously.

James smiled back and shook his head. “Mate, tell me ‘bout it.”

“Listen, it may not be the right time to ask you, but would you be interested in a game of cricket against Finance, Sunday week? We could use a good bowler. Actually, we could use any bowler.”

“Who’ve you got?” James asked.

“Well, we have me. Throw in Vince for a bit of target practice. Gerry said he’d play.”

“Gerry?” James sounded slightly dumbfounded. “Gerry why-should-I-get-involved Gees?”

“Good old what’s-in-it-for-me.”

“This must be serious.”

“Of course, there’s a few cartons at stake, James.”

“Oh. This is serious then,” James replied.

Kevin continued, “Plus we have a few ring-ins. There’s a guy named Mick Lord, you probably don’t know. He’s pretty handy with a bat. We’re all meeting at the Racehorse tomorrow after work, if you’re interested.”

James grinned, “Count me in.”

2.10 pm

On the outskirts of Callard out of earshot from the nearest residential development, was the dog pound and the offices of the Animal Protection League.

Sitting in the lunch room with a steaming mug of coffee in front of him, James watched Colin Bell arrange some of his “trophies” in a corner he had set aside for himself.

He had a few twisted KEEP LEFT signs, some fragmented side-arm mirrors and almost a complete wrecked exhaust system of a land-rover.

Colin listened intently to James as he relayed what had happened that morning.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, Jim.” Colin offered one of his white smiles. “I’ll tell the fellows to practically sit on Pauley’s doorstep.”

He referred to the other animal control officers to whom he was senior to.

“I’d appreciate that,” said James. “I’ll keep my mobile open.”

He lifted his coffee mug to his lips and surveyed the artwork in the corner.

“Col, you’re worth your weight in gold. If only the rate-payers could see this. Who’d want to whinge about wasted money?”

With his arms folded, Colin looked at the wreckage and tilted his head to the side in quiet contemplation before taking up the chair opposite James.

“I suffer for my art, Jim.” He pushed his accident report forms across the table to his friend.

5.30 pm  Wednesday, February 18th

The private bar of the Racehorse Hotel was quiet that Wednesday afternoon. In fact the only commotion in the lounge area, was the cheerful banter at the table of Vince and James and seven of their work colleagues.

They all sat at the same table, but grouped themselves into separate conversations and drinking arrangements.

Vince and James sat at one end, recounting the day’s events. As they spoke, an athletic figure dressed in sports coat and tie appeared at the lounge entrance and looked around the room for a familiar face.

Seeing him, Vince stood up, “Hey, Mick! Over this way.”

Mick Lord smiled and moved towards the gathering.  

“Pull up a seat.” Vince turned to his colleagues, “Hey fellers, send the jug up this end of the table. Mick, this is James McLaren.”

James and Mick shook hands warmly and Vince continued, “We want you two blokes to get to know each other well. You two are our opening bats. And after you, the tail end starts.”

“Is this the team?” Mick looked quizzically down the table. “It’s just the way Kevin was talking, you had a full team of state reps and half a dozen extras.”

“You sound surprised? I don’t know why you keep believing him.” Vince filled the new-comer’s glass.

James added dryly to Vince, “That’s what the Chief said once. You call a spade a spade, I call it a shovel and Kevin calls it a front-end loader.” 

“I hear my name?” Unbeknownst to them, Kevin had already entered the lounge.

“Yeah, talking ‘bout you, not to you. It’s your shout.” Vince proffered an empty jug to the new arrival.

Kevin quipped brightly, “Well wherever two or three people are drinking beer in my name, I will be amongst them.” He took the empty jug and held it up for closer view. “You got a serious taste happening here, fat man.”   

“Don’t know what it is with me and beer. It’s either one or two or ten.” Vince held his glass of cold amber fluid up with its rich frothing head. “Temptress, why are you so cruel?”

“We better get you pair a room,” Kevin turned to Mick. “Have you met everyone yet, Mick?”

“Not yet.”

Kevin briefly introduced everyone at the table to Mick.

“Where abouts is this game anyway?” Mick asked as Kevin pulled up a chair.

“Ashton Oval. We’ve booked the field. It’s within a bottles throw of the Stratton Tavern.” 

“You play cricket. I’ll be weight-lifting,” Vince lifted his glass up and down.

“We know the bouncers there. If we go somewhere else, we have to break-in another bunch. We can pick you up on the way through, Mick?”

“Yeah Kev. But you know, I can get access to a better field. How about we play at North Callard Oval.” Mick smiled warmly around the table. “We could drink at the Carrington.”

Dead silence fell on the table.

Kevin and Vince fidgeted awkwardly and looked around the room, both at a loss for words.

James quickly drained his orange juice.

“I’ll be off. See you blokes tomorrow.” He stood up and swiftly left the lounge.

On his departure, some at the table breathed out uneasily.

“That was badly handled,” sighed Vince, shaking his head.

Completely dumbfounded and embarrassed by the obvious discomfort he’d caused, Mick looked around him.

“Was it something I said?”

Pulling his seat in closer to him, Kevin spoke quietly.

“Sorry about that, Mick. There’s just a few things you have to know about James. Three years ago, he was involved in a car accident. Out on the old Hepworth Bridge. A little girl died.”

Kevin and Vince recounted the story of ten year old Catherine Carrington, whose father Lex Carrington ran the tavern that bore his name.

Details were sketchy of the actual incident, but it happened early one rainy Friday evening as James returned from a hotel. He was travelling over the Hepworth Bridge and was about to pass Catherine on her bicycle, riding in the same direction, when she suddenly swerved across his path.

He braked but couldn’t avoid impact and Catherine was flung over the railing into the river below. Water police recovered the body further downstream later that evening.

The police report showed that James was in full possession of his faculties and eye-witness accounts told that nothing could have been done to prevent the accident. But this did little to squash rumours and speculation that abounded.

Kevin told Mick, “Did you notice that scar above his left eye?”

As James came forward to help the family out as best he could, offering to cover funeral costs and such, he could not bring himself to actually attend the funeral, feeling an enormous guilt for what he did.

To the town folk, he was conspicuous by his absence. Tempers were fuelled by a report in the newspaper of the incident and the photo that they used for the article. It showed the little girl in front of a church smiling innocently and angelically in a pristine white dress.

The public contempt culminated in an incident a week after the funeral. Six loyal drinkers of the Carrington Tavern decided to pay James an evening visit.

They found James at home with his wife and threw a large stone through his front window. His wife ran and hid in the bedroom and stayed there while six pairs of arms grabbed James, screaming and kicking, and dragged him into the front yard.

They kicked him senseless and one wrenched a paling loose from a fence and struck him across the face. A paling nail narrowly missed his left eye but left a deep cut on his brow.

Their faces must have been indelibly stamped on James’s memory Yet when it came to lay a complaint of the assault, he had a sudden lapse of recall. It was as if, in some perverted way, he felt he deserved what he got.

It was obvious that no-one crucified James more than James himself.

Vince added, “And as for his marriage? That was the thin end of the wedge.”

When his wife decided to pack up and leave him, saying the pressure was too much for her, James was an emotionally crippled man. His self-esteem plummeted and he was found turning up to work unshaven and dishevelled, his breath reeking of alcohol.

It was the Chief who decided to take matters into his own hands. He rounded up some fellows, including Kevin and Vince, and called on James’s place one evening. They tipped every bottle of alcoholic beverage in the house down the sink and the Chief took James aside. With one punch, he almost broke his nose and told him, in no uncertain terms, to get his act together.

It managed to have the desired effect. And ever since that incident, James regarded the Chief with almost God-like reverence.

“For James, it’s something he’s never come to grips with.” Kevin stood from his chair.

Vince sipped his beer gingerly. “So it’s just one of those subjects, y’ know. One that always remains unsaid.”   

9.30 pm

In an industrial estate near the Jaguar mill, was a premises inconspicuous for its activities but for the red light burning over its front entrance. Each evening, a steady stream of anonymous males, of various backgrounds and for various reasons, availed themselves of its services.

Ever since his marriage break-up, James also found himself drawn to its doorstep. Not just for the obvious carnal comforts but for other reasons. For it was true, the Great James McLaren, champion batsman and demon bowler of his college days and master athlete who strode many fields, needed to be held, needed to be caressed and needed to be spoken softly to.

On his visits, he usually sought the services of a woman named Sarah. On this particular evening, he lay with her and she watched him stare at the ceiling.

“The nightmares just seem to be getting worse,” he said.

“It’s been three years,” she said. “No fretting ’ll bring her back. Just let it go.”

“It’s not as easy as that.”

“It is as easy as that. It’s not as if you murdered her.”

“No, it’s not that,” James raised his arm to his forehead. “Y’ know, I can still remember her father’s face. How he shook my hand. Pretending everything was alright. And he looked me in the eye. And he didn’t say it but it was there. “You bastard, you robbed me.” And I didn’t rob him just of his daughter. And the times that had passed. It was the times to come. I robbed him of watching her go to high school. And staying up late for her to come home from a date. I robbed him of watching her smile as she cut the cake at her twenty-first. And watching her face glow as she gazed into the eyes of her groom at her wedding. So, y’ see. I’m not a murderer ..”

Tears started to form in his eyes and he choked on his words.

“.. I’m a thief.”

He covered his face with his hand. “I’m a thief.”

“Come on,” Sarah stroked his receding hair line. “Let it go. This’ll tear you up. If you let it fester like this.”

James sighed and propped himself up on his elbows. He looked around the room aimlessly and noticed a piece of electronic equipment on a shelf nearby.

“What’s that?”

Sarah followed his gaze. “That’s a video camera.”

“You’re not filming us, are you?”

“I wouldn’t be doing this if I was,” she replied. “One of our wealthy clients donated it to us. He wanted his escapades on DVD. We said yes, as long as the girls wore masks.”

“Sounds .. kinky.”

“It’s a good camera though,” she said. “It has a lens that works in next to no light. And a microphone that can pick up the slightest sound. And it can start automatically. You just set the time.”                     

James smiled at her, “You sound like you’re on a commission to sell the thing.”

She laughed in return, “Well we have lent it out to a few people we trust.”   

“Oh. That’s interesting,” said James, still looking at the camera.

Sarah bent over and gently kissed his chest.

“That’s interesting.” His eyes were still on the camera.

She moved down and kissed his belly.

“That’s interesting,” he said again.

It was at this point that he lost all interest in the camera.

11.45 pm

With his sheets soaked in bed sweat, James writhed and twisted again to his concert of dreams.

Within his mind, he looked into the distance on a wind-swept landscape. The bridge appeared and a lone girl stood on it with her hair blowing in the breeze.

And suddenly as it came, the image disappeared.

He was then in an open field with a bag of garbage in his hand and turned around and around, gripping the bottom of the bag and flinging cans and paper and plastic in to the breeze. When the bag was empty, he threw it into the breeze also and kept turning around and around.

The image vanished and the pace turned frantic.

He clawed his way through a field of cane. His legs felt like lead-weights as he ran. His breathing and heart-beat raced as he spilled into a clearing and fell on his face.

He looked up and before him standing in the distance was the headless horseman of the vandalised memorial, astride his mount.

In its left hand, it held the reins of its steed which was stamping and snorting beneath it. In its right hand was a cup of tea.

James looked on as it squirmed and fidgeted with gross annoyance, for it held the tea but had no mouth to drink it with.

And as one would normally drink tea for pleasure, there was no pleasure in tea for a headless horseman.

The complete existence of the image was an exercise in futility.

As James looked on, he wondered what the feeling was that he held. Was it sympathy or was it empathy? Had his dreams turned around to mirror his own life? Was his life useless?

The image vanished and another canvas was drawn from his dark gallery.

James rolled over and grappled his sheet in another night of restless sleep.

9.55 am  Thursday, February 19th

“Would you like another cup of tea, Mr McLaren?”

Alison Wells lifted the teapot with doddering unsteadiness and refilled James’s cup.

“You’re very kind, Mrs Wells,” James smiled in appreciation. He retrieved his cup and returned to his chair in her darkened lounge room.

“Thank you for calling around to see me,” she said.

“We’re doing all that we possibly can to try and help you.”

“I know, Mr McLaren. I appreciate all you are doing. I know you must have more important things to do.”

“Believe me,” replied James earnestly. “We’re giving this case the utmost priority.”

“I haven’t been able to get out of the house. I’m going to have to go out and do some shopping, sooner or later.”

“Please, Mrs Wells,” James leaned forward. “Allow me to get a few things for you.”

“No,” she replied politely. “Thank you for offering. But this is not your battle.”

Her reply stunned James. He thought to himself that this frail figure, this recluse, this so-called crazy woman had more courage in her little finger than he could muster in his whole body. He was moved that, in her own small world, she was not going to let anyone fight her battles.

Offering little further comment, James bade her farewell and departed from her premises, filled with renewed admiration for the old woman.

It was to be the last time he would see her. 

2.30 pm  Friday, February 20th

In the lounge bar of the Carrington Tavern, Milton and Alex Pauley occupied a whole table with sketches and drawings and sheets of paper with figures and calculations written on them.

Milton viewed what was before him as the wild scrawls of a madman or some hieroglyphics in need of a code stone.

He saw his brother with the two well-worn clichés his father always used of Alex; “not the sharpest tool in the shed” and “blood is thicker than water”. He was living proof that you can’t pick your relatives. 

Ever since Milton offered him some land he had associated with the fuel depot, Alex had latched on to his brother’s leg like an amorous poodle.

Milton was beginning to regret the offer, cursing the family Christmas gathering and all those festive beers he sank which momentarily shone the light away from himself.

Now in the midst of his campaign, where he was desperately trying to appear an electable commodity, his brother’s activities were starting to cause him grief back at the office.

In short, at this point in time, he needed his idiot brother’s dog kennel like he needed a hole in the head.     

“This is basically what it’ll look like.” Alex pointed at a rough sketch he’d drawn.

“It looks like prisoner of war camp.” Milton pointed to some raised housings in the corners of the fencing. “Huh! For a minute I thought these were gun turrets.”

“Well that’s what they are.” Alex was unamused by his brother’s remark.

“Oh.”

“It’s a secure camp.”

“Yeah but you want to invite customers,” offered Milton in his elder brotherly tone. “Not make ‘em shit themselves. Look at this. You tryin’ to stop them getting in or getting out?” 

Viewing his brother with suspicion at whether this was a trick question, Alex looked at the plan then back to Milton and then back to the plan.

“Getting in .. I guess.”

“Well what kind of message ‘re you sending? The message should be, “Break in, an’ lose your intestines. By a genuine 100% guaranteed Alex Pauley dog”  Your selling Fear, mate. But y’ don’t want to scare away the dollars.”

In a moment of epiphany, Alex stared ahead into the distance. “I’m selling Fear.” He looked to his brother, “I like that.”

With a burst of energy he scrawled it in large letters on  papers before him. “I like that.”

As they spoke, a waitress walked towards them with a complimentary tray of snacks. Seeing an enticing batch of vol-au-vents, Milton pounced on the tray.

“Darl, what’s the chances of leaving that whole thing here?”

“Of course, sir.”

He grabbed one of the treats and stuffed it whole into his mouth.

“Mm .. And don’t worry ‘bout that other business,” he added with a nod and a wink to his scribbling kin. “I think we got that sorted out.”   

“Thanks for that, Milt.”

“Yeah, the things I do.” Finger by finger, he licked them clean.

3.15 pm  Sunday, February 22nd

Alison Wells closed her door quietly behind her. She straightened her straw hat, shabbily mended since her last outing, and walked to her front gate.

Clutching her shopping bag, she looked cautiously up and down the street. A sudden twig-snap by a bird in the trees caused her head to twist sharply and her heartbeat to race.

She wheeled on her right gate post, grappling it momentarily and set out on her way.

There was no sombre monologue this time. Just panic-stricken breathing.

She kept her eyes forward and her feet moving. A minute passed, and she relaxed a little, thinking to herself that maybe the worst had passed also.

A threatening growl behind her indicated that things were very much otherwise.

Turning swiftly, she faced them. The three beasts.

They kept their distance but they’d been stalking her for some way. With teeth bared, they halted and crouched to the ground.

“Oh no,” she cried frantically. But it wasn’t to the animals. A stirring within her ribs made her grip her chest.

Instinctively, she knew it was over.

“Oh no.” She thumped her chest with frenzied punches and gaped for air wildly. The constrictions tightened and she knew it was over. 

“No, no.”  To her knees she dropped into prayer position. She wavered back and forwards.

The beasts sensed the death throes of their quarry. As chance would have it, they were the only witnesses. Silently, they turned tail and quickly walked away.

Alison Wells knelt on the lonely footpath. No more fight, no cries, no light entered her lifeless eyes. She slumped forward and breathed her last.

8.30 am  Monday, February 23rd

The office was tense.

When the news broke, everyone that knew and cared for James, kept well away from him.

Without a word, he paced the office back and forth; fired up like a caged madman, his well of rage fit to burst. 

He reached for his phone and raised Colin Bell’s mobile.

“Don’t even say a word, Jim,” came the reply. “We’ve already heard.”

“Meet me there in ten minutes,” said James.

“Make it five.”

“And Col?” James added.

“Yes.”

“Bring your rifle.”

8.50 am

James parked his car and found Colin standing beside his vehicle. A group of on-lookers were gathering on the fringe of the action, trying to blend in with the scenery.

He approached Colin, surveying the surrounds and the watching eyes. 

“They’re in there alright,” said Colin. “No-one’s home though. Place is shut up tighter than a fish’s arsehole. There should be no problems pegging ‘em off.”

James stood next to him, surveying the house across the road. From where they stood, they could see the animals laying next to the backyard kennels.

“We need to tranquillize them,” he said calmly.

Colin swung on him, his mouth gaping in awe.

“What?” He stamped the ground in disbelief. “Bullshit! Shoot the bastards.”

James continued, “We do this by the book.”

“What book? There is no book.” Colin looked back in disgust.

“Col, we’ve got no witnesses. No one saw what happened. Everyone only thinks they know.”

He then waved towards all the interested bystanders.

“And now. There’s too many witnesses. Pauley ’ll have a field day with us. No, we need to tranquillize them and take them to the pound.”

All the logical arguments in the world were not going to appease Colin’s rife emotions.

“I think you’re wrong, Jim. You know what happened and I know what happened yesterday.”

“Tranquillize them.” James wasn’t to be swayed in his decision.

Reluctantly Colin drew his rifle from the cabin of his land cruiser and loaded it with tranquillizing darts.

The pair walked to the front gateway of the yard and Colin lifted his fire-arm.

Once one was hit, the other two dogs clambered to their feet and ran around the yard. Undaunted, Colin stalked each of them down with James holding guard on the gate to prevent their escape.

Within a few seconds, the nicotine alkaloids took effect and the animals dropped in a dazed stupor. Between them, Colin and James retrieved the animals, lifting each of them in turn from the muddy yard and placing them in the rear cages of the land cruiser.

With haste, they returned to their respective vehicles and sped away.    

12.00 noon

After walking into the office, some people ran up to James and frantically gestured that he turn and leave again. He kept on walking.

“Hey!” Milton Pauley stood with George Butts outside the Chief’s office and saw James’s arrival.

“What d’ you think you’re doin’ , boy?”

Without acknowledging the call James walked to his desk and stood beside it.

Pauley marched down the aisle towards him with George closely in tow.

“I said, what the hell d’ you think you’re doing?”

George chipped in, “You’ve got some explaining to do, McLaren.”

James stood firm. “The dogs are detained. Because of the incident.”

“The incident?” Pauley raised his hands in a gesture of innocence.

“We’re making enquiries.”

“What incident? An old lady takes a heart attack on the footpath. Hey, I’m really sorry. But show me the witnesses. Who saw my brother’s dogs? It sounds like victimization, George. Is this the way you train your officers?”

“Mr Pauley.” George attached himself and puffed up like a bloated leech. “I will deal with this.”

“No witnesses, no evidence.” Pauley’s manicured lip hair curled in a sneer as he looked James up and down. “Do you do this every time?”

“That woman,” responded James defiantly, “was killed by those dogs.”

“Yeah?” Pauley scoffed. “You’re a great one to talk about killing. I know you.” He moved closer as if to share a confidence. “Have you killed any more little girls lately?”

The words hit James like a body-blow. It sucked the breath from his lungs and his legs felt weak. His whole facade of authority crumpled before him. He reached for support from his desk and sat down.

Pauley loomed over him, “You murdering bastard.”

All James could see now was the face. The face filled his whole field of vision. Like the dark faces so many years ago that stood over him. Then mocked and pummelled him.

With his head bowed, he placed thumb and finger to stem the wetness welling in his eyes.

Pauley surveyed his carcass. The demoralized and shattered shell before him and he felt very satisfied.

“Now there’ll be no more problems from you, will there?”

It was at that moment, like a whirlwind, people scattered as bearing down on the scene, came a striding six foot four figure of raging red Irish.

A clenched fist flailed before him. “Get out of my department, you bastard!”

Pauley swung around to view the Chief in full rage and was momentarily lost for words.

“Hey .. Who d’ you think you’re talking to?”

The Chief stood over Pauley and pointed threateningly at him.

“Get out now! Or I’ll bloody take you out on a stretcher!”

He grabbed the Councillor’s fore-arm and held it in a vice-like grip, causing a re-emergence of Pauley’s nervous complaint; he broke wind loudly and wetly.

The Chief maintained his grip, “Another fart like that and there’ll be nothing left of you!”

Pauley broke away from him and made for the door. He turned and pointed back to the Chief, “You’re finished!”

He stood at the doorway momentarily and repeated his decree.

“You are finished!”  

As he disappeared, George Butts ran after him.

The Chief stood next to James, “Get out. Take the rest of the day off.”

“I’m staying here,” James replied.

The Chief swung on him and unintentionally gave him the full burst of his temper.

“Don’t talk back to me. You’re not much good to me here. Not in your present state. Go home. Take a rest. Be back sharp tomorrow. That’s an order.”

“OK, OK,” James held up a hand to halt the Chief’s wrath.

“John.” He stood up and looked the Chief in the eye. “Thank you.”

“Go home,” muttered the Chief. He turned and strode back to his office, swiftly and inconspicuously wiping his eyes.

3.15 pm

Sitting in his kitchen, James drank a cup of coffee when the first knock came at the front door.

He let Vince and Gerry Gees in and they all sat down around the kitchen table.

Vince opened grimly, “It looks like it’s official. I think the Chief’s finished.”

“Shit.” James spat his disgust and lifted his hand to his forehead.

Gerry leaned forward, “There’s three calling for his sacking; Arthur Pauley, Milton Pauley and Lance Tapp. They’re not going to make a move before the election. There ’d be too many waves.”

“Imagine Bumworm as our boss?” Vince shook his head in disbelief. “And James, those dogs ‘ve been let loose.”   

A second knock came at the door.

It was Kevin. He strode in, clutching some pieces of paper and smiling brightly.

“Gentlemen. Why the long faces? Look at us here. Running scared like rabbits. We’re supposed to pull together in a crisis.”

“Thank you for your words Winston Churchill,” Vince countered sarcastically.

Kevin put his hand on Vince’s shoulder.

“Vince, trust me. D’ you know what I have here in my hand? I have here a list of the times and dates of every political engagement, every speech to be made, every press release to be issued, every convention and their arrangements. In fact, the whole “who’s who” and “what’s what” about winning the election on the twenty-first of March.”

“So?” Vince replied. “Are you going to run for Councillor?”

“No no,” Kevin was brimming with excitement. “The Chief’s future lies in the balance of a certain three people being re-elected or ..” He looked around the group grinning wildly.

“.. not being re-elected.” 

“Gentlemen.” Kevin stood with great dignity to his full height.

“Let’s not get upset,” he surveyed his colleagues.

“Let’s get even.”