Dead Point

33

Outside, the day was at an end, rain had fallen, now a misty yellow light was on the world. The cobblestoned gutter outside my office was painterly, each cobble glistening like the top of a fresh loaf of bread, a top painted with egg and milk.

I set off for home. On the radio, Linda was talking to a man who called himself a life coach.

And what qualifies you to tell other people how to run their lives?

Life coach: My training. I have a life coach qualification.

Linda, the amused voice, not insulting, somewhere between curious and dangerous: Is that from the university of life? School of hard knocks?

Life coach, serious: No, from Life Coach College, it’s an accredited institution.

It occurred to me that I needed this man’s services or this qualification. And, perhaps, I needed Linda.

No. Well, perhaps. But only on my terms. What would they be? I had no idea, could not think of a single term.

Supper. I could think about supper, the limited range of suppers available. Not so much a range as an item.

I ate pasta and walked around preparing to go to bed early, seek refuge in my bed, take the decision to activate the answering machine and turn the volume down to nought. Incommunicado.

Even to Linda.

And to Lyall.

Perhaps Lyall would ring me one day and say that there had been a misunderstanding, that Brad had not actually been celibate for all those years and could we take up where we left off?

My shrinking sensible bit said I should not stay awake waiting for this to happen.

The transcript of Mr Justice Loder’s trial — I hadn’t read it.

I could put on warm and waterproof clothing, leave the apartment and go down to the car, look for the folder, which might be in the office. Or.

I rang Drew at home. ‘Are you in a position to talk?’ I asked.

‘I find myself able to talk in most positions. Is there one I should know about?’

‘There’s a trial going on before Colin Loder, cocaine smuggling.’

‘Ah, the ski jackets debacle.’

‘Know about it?’

‘As a practitioner of the law, I make a point of knowing about such things. As it happens, I was recently privileged to hear the views of my learned friend Dick Pratchett QC on the subject. Over lunch.’

That was where the Rosa business had begun.

‘I remember. Give me the story in as few words as possible.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘it goes like this. The Feds’ve got a dog who calls himself Aaron Ross, apparently well known in drug circles. He told them he was asked by someone called Frank Leavis, a mystery man, noone’s ever heard of him, to supply six kilos of cocaine. The Feds became dizzy with excitement when they heard this.’

‘I get the drift already.’

‘Yes, dulled though you are by sniffing wood glue. Anyway, Ross rounded up Brian Arthur McCallum, a dickhead, and a lad called John Stavros Ionides, an even bigger dunce. I say this as someone who represented him when he was known as John Stephens. Mystery man Leavis hands over a large sum in US and Aussie currency, and the boys take off for South Africa.’

‘South Africa? Since when?’

‘Apparently it’s like Bangkok, Karachi and Beirut all in one. With Russians added. United drugs of the world. But you can bet your last pack of Fitzroy Football Club fundraising condoms that it wasn’t McCallum and Johnny Stephens’ idea. Couldn’t find the place on the map.’

‘The Feds’ idea?’

‘Or someone else’s. So off they go with their bag of money, customs instructed not to touch them. In due course, and I have to say this really surprises everyone who knows them, they actually come back with the coke. They’re wearing it in matching ski jackets.’

‘You can ski in South Africa?’

‘Of course not. But would that occur to these dolts? Again, customs usher them through. McCallum rings from the airport. Ross rings mystery man Frank Leavis. Well, he rings a number and leaves a message. In Tullamarine, off Mickleham Road, by arrangement, McCallum and Johnny Stephens meet Mr Ross to hand over. Change of plan, Ross tells them. The client wants you to deliver the stuff to him personally.’

‘Feds want to stitch it up tight.’

‘Exactly. So Brian and Johnny and Ross and four hundred hyper-excited Feds all end up in the freezing cold at a service station in fucking Brimbank in the middle of the night. But the mystery man is one step ahead of these dunderheads and never shows up.’

I remembered what Colin Loder had said:

I don’t think it would be unjudicial of me to describe the operation as a massive cock-up.

‘Anyway,’ said Drew, ‘he didn’t miss much. The boofheads are found to be carrying less than two kilos and apparently the marching powder is of a quality that doesn’t produce quite as much of the wit, confidence and feelings of general wellbeing as the punters expect.’

‘So what the prosecution’s got are two blokes approached to buy drugs by a police informer who says he was acting on behalf of a mystery man.’

‘Yup. And the only person the drugs were delivered to is the informer. Needless to say, the judge will have the Appeal Court much on his mind. Pratchett QC is of the opinion Colin Loder will kick the thing into the street next week.’

‘The Feds wouldn’t be buying their dog a big bone.’

‘Only themselves to blame. My mate Terry says the word is McCallum, dumb though he is, knows more than he’s saying.’

‘Meaning?’

‘He may know something about Leavis, the mystery man.’

‘Something the dog doesn’t know?’

‘Possibly. Brian might have been just smart enough to find out who the real client was. Someone the Feds apparently suspect but can’t do anything about.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Your fund of knowledge obviates the need to buy newspapers or watch television. Not to mention read the learned journals.’

‘Honoured to be of service. What’s your interest?’

‘Purely professional. Highly professional. On that subject, how is the high-achieving personally trained one?’

‘Ravishing. A weekend has been proposed. Windswept beaches, just the cries of the seabirds.’

‘As they impale themselves on used syringes.’

With a soothing mug of the warm brown fluid to hand, I went to bed with my novel. But I couldn’t concentrate, eyes on the page, mind on Marco and Alan Bergh and the judge. If Brian McCallum knew who put up the money for the drug deal, someone would want to be very sure he didn’t go down and then decide to bargain with the Feds. And that someone would have made sure Brian knew he had nothing to fear, knew that he was going to walk.

I gave up on the book, doused the light, and lay awake for a long time, soft rain on the old iron roof, liquid whispers in the downpipes, all around the hoot and squeal and wail of the animal city. Oddly comforting sounds tonight.