Chapter 12

Bill’s place was a large Queenslander with verandahs all the way around. Tattered prayer flags hung out the front. The garden was tropical, overgrown but not messy. Harry pushed through the front gate. An aged Buddha statue peered through the foliage. He saw a ship’s bell by the open front door but didn’t have a chance to ring it. Bill lumbered across the threshold, big grin on his face, as though he’d been waiting for Harry to arrive.

‘Harry Hendrick!’ he said.

Bill was in his sixties, with a full head of grey hair, a wide-brimmed straw hat clamped down over it. He was stocky but not fat. He walked with a slight limp, one foot turned inwards, but it didn’t seem to slow him down. A couple of weeks earlier, before the urge to take up running had struck, Harry would have had trouble keeping up with him.

They shook hands. Bill turned to lock up. ‘Let’s go see this tower then,’ he said.

They walked to the end of Bill’s street, sun beating down on them, then up towards the water tower, past Harry’s car. Since he’d been leaving it in the street, the battery had stayed charged. He didn’t know whether it was something to do with the angle – maybe it did something to the fluid levels in the battery or caused a wire to lean a certain way – and he didn’t really care. It worked.

The tower loomed above them. If they were good climbers they could have scaled the rock wall at the top of Harry’s street, then another ten metres of steep, grassy land, and they would have been standing underneath it. But they weren’t, so they turned left, walking parallel to the rock wall. An old tree leant over the road, its roots intertwined with the stones. It looked as if one more big storm would send it crashing across the road and into the house below.

‘How are you settling in?’ Bill asked.

‘Yeah, not too bad,’ Harry said. ‘You know what it’s like. Getting used to new noises.’

He decided not to mention getting used to the phantom tattooist. He felt there’d been enough sharing already today.

‘Yeah. I know what you mean.’

They walked through a small park dominated by a massive old fig tree. There were benches in the shade, offering views out to the city below. As they crossed the grass, Harry felt the first puffs of a breeze, cooling the sweat on his shirt.

‘How about yourself? Have you lived in this area long?’

Bill nodded. Because of the hat, Harry had to stoop to see his face. ‘My whole life,’ Bill replied. ‘Well, not here. I grew up in Ashgrove. Lived out at The Gap for a while, after the war. But the past ten years, I’ve been here.’

He gestured behind them, the way they’d come.

‘It’s great for the grandkids.’

Bill led Harry up the hill, into a winding street that reminded Harry of the narrow alleyways in Athens, behind the Parthenon. The only things missing were stray cats and white paint.

‘My whole life, the water tower has been there. If I had a dollar for every time I’d seen that water tower, I’d be able to buy that place,’ Bill said.

He gestured then at an old Queenslander, imprisoned by temporary fencing. The place was deserted, windows smashed, graffiti marking its heritage pink walls. On the verandah sat a bathtub, also peppered with graffiti tags.

‘Jesus. What’s the deal?’

‘Swenson,’ Bill said. He almost spat the word. ‘He wants to buy up the top of this hill. He’s got that place, he’s got the water tower.’

They rounded the corner, and the tower came back into view. Bulky concrete stilts ten- to fifteen-metres high. Peeling paint. Water stains. The taggers had also made their mark here, although how they’d done it Harry couldn’t see. Mobile-phone towers stuck out at the top. Probably the most valuable thing about the entire structure.

The monolith was surrounded with more temporary fencing and a faded security sign: TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

‘That mob went out of business two years ago,’ Bill said, gesturing at the logo on the sign.

The sections of fencing had been pushed and pulled until there were big gaps between them.

‘Back in the ’30s, this area was called “the dress circle of Paddington,” ’ Bill said. ‘And this marvellous piece of technology allowed the locals to have their own supply of running water.’

They stood, sweating, staring at the structure. The whole situation was absurd. The tower was built for rich people. People who could enjoy the views and the breezes while the plebs sweated it out in the valleys below. And now Bill – who clearly had a bit of money behind him – was trying to stop the place being redeveloped for other rich people. Harry had seen this pattern play out time and time again. Well-off ‘Not in My Back Yard’ activists pushing developments into poorer areas where people didn’t know better or just didn’t have the resources to stand up to the developers.

On the other hand, the thing was a Brisbane icon, and poor old Brisbane needed all the icons it could get.

‘Come on,’ Bill said. He headed for the fence, pushing two sections apart. Harry hesitated.

Bill laughed. ‘It doesn’t matter. The sign’s just there to protect Swenson. Truth be told, they’d love it if someone fell off the tower. Swenson could couple the word “dangerous” with “eyesore” in his lobbying documents.’

Harry followed Bill through the fence. The old man scouted around the long grass under the tower until he found a lengthy steel pole with a hook on the end. He hefted it and moved over to a ladder, which had been pushed up, out of arm’s reach.

‘The taggers are doing their bit for the developers as well,’ he said, grunting as he hooked the ladder and pulled it down with the scrape of steel on steel. ‘But at least they don’t leave this thing down so little kids can get up there.’

The steel groaned under Bill’s weight as he climbed the ladder, the bolts that had once secured it to the concrete pylon long-since corroded. Bill climbed up onto a small walkway that ran under the water tank’s base. He waved Harry up.

Bill led the way along the creaking walkway. At the far end was another set of steel rungs, up the side of the tank, to the top. Harry was panting by the time he reached the final climb. Partly through lack of fitness, but mostly due to his fear of heights. As he gripped the steel, on the outside of the structure, his palms were sweating and his hands were buzzing. Bill peered down at him from the top.

‘Come on!’

Harry clutched the rungs. At least these ones were still securely attached. He started climbing, focusing on the concrete in front of his face. Halfway up there was a tag and, unlike most tags, he could read this one. TRENT! He wondered who this Trent was, and why he felt the need to express himself so exuberantly in such a precarious place.

Bill helped him up onto the top. There was nothing to protect them from the sun up here, but the wind was fresher, strong enough to whip at the collar of his shirt. There was a low railing around the edge, but it didn’t look strong enough or high enough to stop anyone from falling. Just looking at it induced pins and needles in the soles of Harry’s feet, and he moved to the centre.

‘Not a fan of heights, hey?’ Bill said. He stood near the edge, hands on hips. One hand held the hat. The wind snatched at his hair.

‘Not particularly.’

‘Used to be the same, a long time ago,’ Bill said. ‘But then after the war…ah, I dunno, war just teaches you the real meaning of fear.’

Bill took pity on Harry, and came over to where he stood. Harry felt like sitting down, but he managed to resist the urge by concentrating on his notebook. It was a ridiculous way to conduct an interview, but once he was focused, he found it easier to bear. He even risked a look out beyond the barrier, between the mobile-phone towers, and while he couldn’t fully appreciate it, he had to admit that other than the lookout at Mount Coot-tha, this would have to be the best view in Brisbane. In fact, in some ways it was better. Mount Coot-tha was perched on the city’s edge, whereas here they were close enough to see the undulations of the inner-city suburbs. Jacaranda trees. People sitting out on their decks enjoying the afternoon. And the flash of sunlight off the buildings in the city.

Bill skimmed through the history of the water tower, but it was barely more than the information on the flyer, and Harry doubted he’d put much of it in the story. What was more interesting were Bill’s personal stories. Anecdotes about the structure’s place in his life. He used to come up here with his wife when they were courting. Sometimes they’d climb it, sometimes they’d just walk the narrow laneways around Paddington. He was within sight of it when he heard about the September 11 terrorist attacks in 2001, at a cafe just down the road. Someone changed the channel and they saw a replay of the passenger jet hitting the World Trade Center.

‘I walked outside, I was trying to phone my daughter and I couldn’t get a line. And I saw our tower there and, I don’t know, it grounded me,’ he said.

Harry wasn’t sure if that was how it was, or how it came to be through the retelling of the story. It didn’t matter. People wrote their own history. It was true for massive events, such as world wars and depressions, as much as the tiny, seemingly insignificant details in people’s lives. And there was nothing wrong with that.

Bill told him more about the social media campaign they’d started – his daughter’s idea. They wanted everyone to share their stories about Paddington water tower on Twitter and Facebook. The concept was that the tower was filled with memories, even if it was decades since it carried water. And, as such, destroying it would be just as wrong as if it were still a vital part of urban infrastructure. It was a vital part of cultural infrastructure. Harry had to admit, it was a good idea. People loved to share stories. When the structure was ‘full’ of stories, participants would get to vote on their favourites, and the winners would get a Save the Tower coffee mug or t-shirt.

‘Hey, I probably shouldn’t mention this. I might jinx it,’ Bill said.

Harry paused. He left the notebook down by his side. Sometimes it put people off. Sometimes, the best quotes came after the interview was over.

‘Andrew Cardinal’s people have been in touch,’ he said.

‘Oh yeah?’

‘My daughter, friend of a friend, all that kinda thing. Anyway, word is, he’s considering backing our cause.’

Harry nodded. Impressed. ‘Well, it would certainly help.’

‘He’s big on heritage, apparently. Can you keep that under your hat?’

Technically, anything said before asking for confidentiality was fair game, but there was no story until it was confirmed.

‘Sure. I’ll put it in the vault. Fred said your daughter heard something about corruption, Swenson paying people off. Is that true?’

Bill nodded warily. ‘Can I stay off the record? I just don’t want to get sued.’

Harry hesitated. At uni he learnt to avoid letting people go off the record at all costs. You never knew what they were going to say, you never knew what axe they were trying to grind. And once someone was off the record, it was much harder to get them back on it, especially if they had something really worthwhile to say. Bill blundered on without waiting for a response.

‘My daughter Shelley works in the property industry, right? She says a lot of the developers reckon Swenson is on the nose.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Look at him. Twenty-odd years ago he was a builder, right? Then he moved into development, grew his business. Fair enough. But that Cherry Grove deal? Come on. There’s no way that area should have been allowed to be cleared for housing.

‘That gave him a massive boost, right? But there was a period, after 2001, or so my daughter says, where no-one could undercut him. The blokes Shelley talks to reckon he was either paying someone to give him insider knowledge on the rival tenders, or he was getting cash from somewhere to subsidise his business.

‘Now, I can’t verify that, otherwise I’d go on the record. But sometimes there’s just too much smoke for there not to be a fire. You know?’

A strong gust of wind swayed Harry off his feet, and he reached out to grab something to steady himself. Bill took his hand.

‘Look at me,’ he said. ‘Look into my eyes.’

They were blue. Lines creasing the skin at the corners. The dizziness passed.

‘Sorry for bringing you up here,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise.’

‘That’s okay. Really. I’m glad I saw it for myself.’

***

They walked back down to the park. It was darker under the boughs now, almost menacing. But at least it was cooler. Harry turned towards his street. Bill touched him on the arm.

‘I’m heading this way, finish my walk,’ he said.

‘Wasn’t that enough for you?’

He shrugged. ‘I like to do forty-five minutes a day, if I can.’

‘Okay. Well, it was nice to meet you,’ Harry said.

He gave Bill the spiel about how he couldn’t guarantee that the story would make it to the paper, and that he’d try to let him know if it did. And that if they were going to run the story, he might try to book a photographer to come and take some photos.

‘Thanks, Harry. Here,’ he said, handing Harry a business card: ‘Save the Tower’, followed by Bill’s phone, email and street address.

‘Thanks.’

Bill was about to turn away, then hesitated. ‘Oh, I meant to say. That symbol of yours, where did you find it?’

Harry shrugged, lied. ‘Saw it on the internet.’

Bill grunted. ‘I’m surprised you saw that symbol on the internet. It’s quite arcane.’

‘Well, you know, everything’s on the internet these days.’

‘So you just happened upon it on the internet, and sketched it, and asked Fred about it?’

Harry felt his face burning. ‘Yeah, why?’

‘Magic’s trendy these days, seems like everyone wants to go to Hogwarts or fuck a vampire…’

Harry jolted at the language.

‘…but some magic is real, and some magic is really evil. I’ve only seen symbols like that once before, after the war, and I don’t want to see them again.’

‘Oh. Okay.’ Harry wondered if his hair fully covered it. Or if Bill had seen the tattoo already and was just testing him.

Bill slapped him on the arm and grinned. ‘Sorry. I’m a superstitious old prick at times.’

Harry wanted to know more, but Bill turned, striding towards Paddington.

‘See ya, Harry. Stay safe!’