Chapter 32

Harry sat fuming at his desk, unable to shake the anger and pessimism that had plagued him since the fight the previous night. He had gone over the argument with Jess time and time again, imagining himself speaking differently. But it always ended the same way – with her walking out. Several times he had picked up the phone to call her, only to set it down again. His feelings hadn’t changed. The only way he could see to make things better with Jess was by lying, and there were too many lies in this sorry saga already.

‘Harry?’

Harry started, looked over his shoulder. Christine was there, a copy of the paper in hand.

‘Want to check it out?’

‘Thanks.’

He took the paper from her, laid it out on the table. Another front-page lead for Christine. Page three also. Harry had managed a page-five lead, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember writing it.

‘Did I do any of this?’ he asked.

Christine sat in her chair, raised one eyebrow. ‘A little bit. How’s the scoop you’re working on?’

Harry nodded. ‘Yeah. It’s coming along.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. No, seriously. Trust me.’

‘It’s going to be Christmas soon, Harry. No-one will read it.’

Harry laughed. ‘Oh, I think they’ll read this one. It’s a doozy.’

‘Harry?’

He turned and saw Miles beckoning him from the door to his office. Harry followed him in.

‘Close the door behind you,’ Miles said.

Harry paused. But Miles wasn’t looking at him. He closed the door and sat down.

‘Christine has been keeping this paper running single-handedly.’

‘I know. I’m working on something. It’s slow.’

‘What is it?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Harry!’ It had been so long since he’d seen Miles angry that at first he didn’t recognise it.

‘You can’t tell me? You can’t tell me! How long have we worked together? I’ve stuck by you. I’ve never questioned why you’d want to work here for so long.

‘I’ve understood that sometimes we have reasons. And when you told me you were working on something big, I didn’t press you for details. I respected your professionalism.

‘But we are not the Brisbane Mail, Harry. Even the Brisbane Mail can’t fund investigative journalism. And we have a fraction of the money they have.

‘Have you seen our circulation figures? Online ad sales? It’s not pretty, Harry. I can’t have it. I won’t have it. Either you tell me what’s going on, you confide in me, give me something, or you’re gone.’

Harry sighed, tried to break it down for his boss. He kept bits back. The Rob stuff. Used the expression ‘prominent politician’ instead of referring directly to Andrew Cardinal. Told Miles about the drug operation, the Dreadnorts’ involvement, and an edited summary of what Nick Swenson had told him, as well as what the spreadsheets showed. When he was done, Miles sat there, hand on mouth, still nodding even though Harry had finished talking.

Finally, he opened his mouth. He still looked pissed off. ‘How much can you prove?’

Harry held his hands up, palms out. ‘I have documentation on the money laundering. I have people who’ll go on the record about the Dreadnorts. I’m working on another couple of angles. I still need to firm up the links with the politician.’

Miles shook his head. ‘Harry. It’s a hell of a story. But I mean it when I say we don’t have the resources for investigative journalism. Christine’s getting burned out. It’s not hard work, not for someone like her, but there’s so much of it to do.’

Harry nodded. ‘I understand. Give me until the election,’ he said. ‘It’ll come to a head by then…one way or another.’

Miles looked at Harry, adjusted his glasses. ‘Have you apologised to Redwood yet?’

‘No, but…’

‘Well, get on it. This afternoon.’

Harry went back to his desk and checked his phone. Missed call. Tom. The counsellor. He’d left a message too, which Harry deleted without listening to. Harry had a feeling that by election day, just a week and a half away now, he’d be in need of plenty of counselling. But until then, he’d have to do without.

He went to work on the ‘to do’ list that was reaching critical. He powered through the tasks, pausing occasionally for a stroll into the office kitchen to make himself a coffee.

Harry’s phone rang again. He picked it up, expecting Tom. Or maybe Jess.

‘Hello?’

‘Harry?’

It took Harry a moment to process the voice, so unexpected was the call. ‘Bec?’

‘Hi.’

Harry’s body dumped a load of adrenaline into his system. In a matter of seconds his face was flushed. His fingers and toes tingled. Palms sweaty. He was finding it hard to draw breath.

‘Hi,’ he managed. He felt dizzy. He closed his eyes, but that just made it worse.

‘I…I just wanted to see how you’re going?’

‘Um…fine.’

‘I ran into Christine in the city the other day.’

Now Harry did squeeze his eyes shut, wondering what Christine had told her.

‘Oh yeah?’ He glanced in her direction. But she was staring at the screen, pointedly not listening.

‘She said you’ve got some tattoos.’

‘Yeah, well, there’s no law against it.’

‘No, but I mean…wow. Bit of a change, hey?’

What? So he was now more exciting, because he had tattoos? He clamped his eyes shut and waited. Listened to her breathing. Could almost smell her perfume. He opened his eyes, grounding himself.

‘Harry, the reason I called is…I wanted you to know…I’ve met someone,’ she said.

Harry dropped into a pit. A grave. Twenty foot deep instead of the usual six. It was pitch black, but if he looked up he could see life somewhere up above him. Points of light against a night sky. He opened his mouth to speak, felt it fill with dirt.

Well, he’s definitely dead.

Hyuck, hyuck, hyuck.

‘I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you. I didn’t want you to find out from someone else. And Christine said you were going on a date…’

Harry heaved. Swallowed. Took a deep breath. He couldn’t speak. Bec filled the void.

‘His name is Paul. He works at Queensland Health, in the PR department. You’d like him, Harry…’

‘Stop. Bec. Stop. Thanks for telling me, but I don’t need to know his fucking name. Goodbye.’

Harry hung up. She was still talking when he pushed the button.

He swivelled in his seat, until he was facing Christine.

‘I’m sorry!’ she said. ‘I saw Bec in the city and…’

‘Yes, she said.’

‘I thought…I was just worried about you.’

Harry closed his eyes. All his tattoos throbbed. The sensation pulsed into his brain, latching onto the seed of a headache. Nourishing it. Making it grow.

‘I didn’t know she was seeing someone,’ Christine said.

Harry held his hand out. ‘Stop. Just…stop.’

He walked, without thought. Concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Out of the office. Down the stairs. Out of the building into a wall of hot, humid air. He thought of Chermside Shopping Centre. Endless noise. Chattering kids. Mobile phones.

He turned away from the shops, towards the main road, where lunchtime traffic crawled. Followed the cars headed towards the city. Walked. Picked up the pace. He wasn’t in a trance, he was just walking, hands thrust into his pockets, feeling the heat beat down on his head. It was the wrong thing to do, with the headache now blooming inside his skull. But he needed to hurt himself a little. Without this, he’d punch a wall. Do something stupid. Buy a gun. Make a list. Kill some people.

Stop.

Who would he kill? Heathy. Crow. For starters. With a knife. He’d tie them down and stick them with holes.

Stop.

When the floor was tacky with their blood, he’d prod their bodies with the toes of his boot. Yep, they’re definitely dead.

Fucking stop!

Andrew Cardinal. Andrew Cardinal was a tricky one. He’d have government security. Those guys were good. Sometimes they were even former SAS. It would be hard getting anywhere near Cardinal. He had said some crazy things about Afghanistan, about how Australia should invest more troops in the region. That made him even more of a target. A bomb was too risky, too unreliable. Civilians would get hurt. But a sniper rifle. A really good one. Harry had no idea what a really good sniper rifle looked like, and yet he could see one in his mind’s eye. He also had no idea where he would get one. He shook his head. Yes, he did. Maybe.

In his mind he saw Andrew Cardinal arriving at the Brisbane Cultural Centre for the Labor Party launch, a week before polling day. Harry was across the river, in one of the office buildings. He was dressed as a cleaner. He had a cleaning trolley. And inside the trolley was the gun. He wouldn’t go from the roof. No, not the roof. There would probably be security on all the roofs anywhere near the Cultural Centre, even that far away. And even if there wasn’t, there would likely be air support. A Black Hawk or two, maybe even a gunship.

But from the office building. A shaped charge to take out the window just before he fired. Cardinal would be dead before…

‘Fuck off! Rob – fuck off!’

Harry realised he’d spoken aloud. Looked around him. But there was no-one nearby. He was standing outside a used-car yard. A couple of people drifted between the shiny cars. Hot wind rattled the plastic flags. Inside an air-conditioned office, a fat salesman stood, waiting to see if there was any point venturing into the heat of the day.

‘Fuck this.’

Harry turned around, heading back to the office.