‘Ah, Clementine, you’ve brought your resumé—excellent,’ said Gerard, taking a self-satisfied bite from his salad roll and swishing the crumbs off his desk.
Clem could smell the ham and realised she hadn’t eaten lunch yet. She sat down in the chair opposite his desk, facing the geese, her back erect, shoulders relaxed. Body language was everything in a negotiation.
‘No, I haven’t, Gerard. Actually, I think it’s time for a different discussion.’ Through the vast expanse of windows to her right she could see rolling green paddocks, dairy cattle, heads down in the knee-deep grass, and the midday sun bathing everything in a crisp freshness.
‘Oh really?’ he said, leaning back into his big leather chair, still chewing.
‘I know what Cranfield did,’ she said, watching for his reaction. Surprise. A flicker of annoyance? No, more than that—dismay.
He stopped chewing momentarily. ‘I have no idea what you’re referring to, Jones,’ he mumbled through the bread.
‘The theft, Gerard. It wasn’t Clancy and you know it. In fact you conspired with the perpetrator.’ She kept her tone bland, her voice steady, matter-of-fact, as if she were reading from a report.
He sat up straighter, put his roll down on the desk and swallowed the last mouthful, dabbing his face with a napkin.
‘Look, Jones,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been open with you, so open that I showed you the file—you saw the images yourself. Not to mention that Clancy confessed.’
‘Yes, I’ve been wondering about that. How exactly did Clancy confess? Did you have him sign a stat dec? Perhaps I could see it?’
‘It’s part of a confidential deed, Jones—I can’t disclose any of the detail.’
‘Oh, a deed!’ she exclaimed. ‘So you sacked him, then made him sign a deed prohibiting him from saying anything about it? I wouldn’t have thought a legitimate termination would have required anything of that nature.’
‘You know, you speak so well for a former legal clerk, Jones. I really can’t wait to read your fascinating CV,’ he said, his hands flat on the desk in front of him.
The prick didn’t get it. So arrogant. She swallowed hard, lined him up for the next blow.
‘I know about Bernadette and Clancy too.’
His face went white, one hand tightening into a fist. The stakes were officially raised.
‘I beg your pardon?’ His voice squeaked. He cleared his throat. ‘You seem to have come by some serious misinformation, Jones. I’m curious who you’ve been speaking to. If Clancy is spreading any—’
‘Let’s not play games, Gerard. I’m in possession of information confirming that the accusations against Clancy were false, and I could provide it to the police if I wish.’ A lie. She could never risk Torrens’ parole. ‘I could also send an email to the press and end Bernadette’s stellar career with CTS. I suggest you listen to my offer with a little humility.’
‘Offer? You think you can get money out of me?’ He looked shell-shocked, blinking, lips open.
‘Actually, money would be good, now you mention it. Hold that thought while I outline what I have in mind.’
She leaned one elbow on the arm of the chair, a picture of calm, but underneath all systems were on high alert as she strived to maintain her advantage.
‘You know I value my privacy, Gerard, in the same way as you do, I’m sure, especially at this delicate time—I mean, Bernadette needs to be without blemish if she’s to secure this promotion. And I’m not the only one around here who hopes she gets it, either. I think it would be great for Katinga. So, with that in mind, I’m prepared to do a deal with you.’
His face was a confused mix of relief and discomfort.
‘It’s very simple,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep quiet about Bernadette’s, ah…indiscretion, and about the false accusations against Clancy, in return for which you’ll agree to respect my privacy and refrain from asking questions about my past.’ She knew he would readily agree to this—she had no way of ensuring that he keep his side of the deal, so it was no skin off his nose. But it was just the first step in the negotiation: ease him in, persuade him into thinking that their interests aligned, that she was, like him, primarily concerned with protecting herself, rather than taking Clancy’s side against him.
Gerard searched her face, seeking out hidden traps. He launched forth with typical bluster. ‘Well, Jones, let me make this clear: I consider the allegations you’ve made today to be preposterous, but neither do I have any need to know what secrets you may be protecting from your past. For that reason, and as a mark of my respect for you as a coach, I might be prepared to accommodate your request.’
He was good, she thought, at pretending—making it sound like this was merely a favour he was prepared to grant, a request he would entertain out of the goodness of his heart.
‘I’m glad you can see the mutual—’
‘But I’m afraid I can’t see an arrangement between the two of us as being worthwhile if Clancy is out there spreading lies,’ he interjected. ‘I mean, if he has some sort of bee in his bonnet about Bernadette’—Outrageous, she thought. Don’t react, don’t react—‘how do you propose to ensure he doesn’t make any allegations public?’
‘You seem to be doing a reasonable job of keeping Clancy quiet already,’ she said, purposely not mentioning his hired thugs. Clancy had been ordered to keep quiet, so she wanted Gerard to think she’d found out everything independently of Clancy. If Gerard suspected that Clancy had told her anything about the men who’d threatened him, he might order more violence against him.
He carefully picked up his napkin from his lap, placed it on the desk as if it belonged in that precise location. ‘I assure you, Jones, I’m not doing anything at all. Clancy left here three weeks ago and I haven’t seen him since.’ She had an image of Pontius Pilate washing his hands of responsibility, leaving cigarette burns and such matters to the chief priests. But this was exactly what she’d wanted—Gerard initiating a component of the deal, something that she would duly concede to, giving him that winning feeling.
‘Fair point,’ she said. ‘And given I’m not here to play games, I’m prepared to ensure Clancy remains silent about these matters, provided you, and all of your associates, stay away from him.’ That was as close as she would hazard in referring to his brutal thugs.
She could see Gerard was mulling it over, sizing up her ability to hold up her side of the bargain, this component vitally important to him.
‘And as part of this deal,’ she continued, ‘you and your associates will stop harassing him into leaving town. He’s here for the birth of his child, otherwise the deal’s off and I’m on my way to the police and the media.’
Gerard squirmed in the big leather chair. He couldn’t give his express agreement to this without implying he had indeed been involved in harassing Clancy to leave, but he gave her a shrug, which was enough.
‘Excellent, so it’s settled then. Any questions?’
‘No, I think the arrangement is clear enough.’
She reached across, extending her hand. He did the same and they shook on it, fake smiles all around.
With nothing much left to say, she became aware again of the smell of ham wafting across the desk. She stood up, leaned across and picked up his salad roll, took a bite from the other end, placed it back on the napkin and walked out.
Clementine turned off the highway and onto Makepeace Road. Despite the rain, two dozen supporters had turned up at training to watch the team splash through their drills. They were at the school sports field, so as not to further damage the oval before the finals. But the team had been flat. Having made it into the finals, it was almost as if the job was done. And having the bye didn’t help—she almost wished they’d had to play an elimination final. She’d spent a good deal of time trying to get them to refocus, get them excited about the semi-final to come.
Gerard had been there, which had surprised her. She’d thought he might steer clear of her after their conversation at lunchtime. An element of doubt had crept in. Had he agreed too quickly? Was there something she had missed?
As she pulled up at the top of her driveway the sun had set behind the ridge, splaying great smears of pink. The little green cottage was quiet in the still evening air. Something missing. The usual frenzied welcome from Pocket. The lazy bugger—probably curled up on his mat, couldn’t be arsed to greet her.
The pebbles along the pathway crunched under her feet. She noticed the tap dripping around the garden hose near the water tank. A job for Rowan? she thought, as she selected the front door key from the ring. Key raised, she stopped. Was the door open already? She couldn’t tell in the dark. She pushed it gently, caught her breath as it swung open. She always locked it. Maybe she’d just forgotten?
She realised with a shudder how isolated she was out here.
Without opening the door further, she reached in and flipped the light switch just inside the door. The front hall lit up and she saw glass shattered on the mat. She caught her breath. Now that the light was on she could see one corner of the thick pane in the top part of the door was gone, a jagged edge framing where it had been.
Her mind moved rapidly, adrenaline pinging through her limbs. Pocket? Not a sound from him. Oh God. They could still be here. Get back in the car, ring the police. No, they would take half an hour to get here. Jim. She’d call Jim from next door.
Possibilities flashed through her head as she took out her phone: the cigarette-burn thugs, or just a drugged-up teenager with a hammer?
God, where is Pocket?
She took one step inside, holding the phone to her ear as she yelled, ‘Is anyone here? I’m calling the police now. If you’re here, take whatever it is you came for and go out the back door. I don’t want any trouble.’
She waited a second. The house was silent. The phone kept ringing. Pick up, Jim! ‘Pocket!’ she cried. Nothing.
She switched the outside porch light on and looked back out into the front yard. Just the car and the wattle trees along the fence line. If they were here, they were likely to be inside or in the backyard, where there was more cover.
She yelled again, ‘If you’re here, make your way out the back. I won’t chase you. I don’t want any trouble.’
Jim’s number rang out. Shit. She started talking to an imaginary triple-zero operator as she stepped across the threshold. ‘Police… Lot 22, Makepeace Road, Katinga…There’s been a break-in…’
Her bedroom was the first room on the right. She turned on the light switch. A mess. Clothes on the floor, hanging out of open drawers, wardrobe doors open, the bedside lamp upended and the painting above the bed ripped down the centre, its frame mangled. The doona was in a pile in the corner and the mattress half off the bed frame. Then she smelt it. Oh my God, someone has taken a dump on the sheets. She stumbled back out into the hallway. ‘Pocket!’ Still silence.
She shouted again, ‘Pocket? Come here, boy.’ Nothing. She reached the front room, flicking on the lights as she went. Bureau drawers were open, papers flung across the room, chairs overturned, and a huge dark stain on the mat under the table. Her eyes were drawn to the dining table: a tomahawk was lodged deep in the middle of it.
She called Jim’s number again, her hands trembling. ‘Pocket? Come here, boy,’ she shouted, sobbing now, stumbling through to the kitchen. Still no Pocket. Every cupboard open, drawers hanging out or upside down on the floor, utensils and pots scattered across the lino, crockery smashed into hundreds of pieces, strawberry jam oozing bright red from a broken glass jar on the bench, an upturned milk carton dripping into a slippery puddle on the floor. She picked her way across the debris. A glob of mucous stared up at her from the sink like a vile, green eye.
She grabbed a torch from the laundry. As she opened the back door she heard a whimper and rushed outside. Where had it come from?
‘Pocket?’ she called, sweeping the torch across the yard, searching for eyes, for shapes in the ring of bushes around the edge—canine or human. The whimper again. Very near, behind her.
She ducked down, shone the torch under the house. Pocket was lying about a metre in, not moving, his leg extended at a sickening angle and the fur around his face covered in blood.
The torch hit the ground with a clunk as she dropped to her belly and wriggled towards him, pushing through the cobwebs. She slipped her hands underneath his shivering body and slid him out slowly, Pocket crying in pain, tears streaming down her face. She got him into the car, ran inside for a blanket and a bottle of water. It was then that she found it—a plain envelope, propped upright on the top shelf of the fridge. She grabbed the water and ran, opening the envelope as she sprinted to the car.
This is just a bit of Fun we’ve got more much more Coming your way BITCH!!! Stay away from Clancy!!!
PS We know your Hiding something.