Dirty Fracking Business (10 page)

The Barclay Restaurant was surrounded by five acres of rolling lawns, beautiful rose gardens, native trees, paths and fountains. It was opulent but purposely understated and the cuisine was to die for.

The car park was nearly full when Steve arrived. Norris Scott-Tempy’s glistening old Rolls Silver Cloud stood out like a sore thumb. It hadn’t been expensive but he loved driving it, knowing that it attracted a lot of attention.

The maître d cast a frosty eye over Steve, obviously not approving of his designer jeans and custom-fitted light blue shirt. ‘Do you have a reservation, Sir?’

‘I’m with the Scott-Tempys.’

Without looking at his booking sheet, the maître d nodded and a young waiter materialised. ‘Please show this gentleman to Mr Scott-Tempy’s table.’ As Steve followed the waiter up the stairs, his stomach was churning and he wondered how he was going to get through the night without losing his girlfriend or his temper, or both. He was determined to choose the most expensive courses on the menu, just to upset Scott-Tempy. The room was packed with diners, with the Scott-Tempys seated right in the middle. Bettina greeted him with a warm smile and he bent down to kiss her on the cheek, wondering what she had ever seen in Norris. He brushed his lips over Bianca’s and gave her a gentle cuddle, saying, ‘You look beautiful,’ before extending his hand to Norris, knowing that the older man would try and crush it.

Scott-Tempy was wearing a three-piece, navy blue suit with a silver fob watch hanging from the vest and a blue-and-red diagonally striped Paisley Grammar tie. ‘Steven, are they the best clothes you could find?’

Bianca started to protest but Steve held his left hand up as if to say,
don’t worry about it,
and then squeezed her father’s sweaty hand tightly and watched him flinch in pain, before releasing it. ‘I’m sorry, I always seem to disappoint you, Mr Scott-Tempy.’

‘Daddy, I told Steve it was smart casual.’ Bianca pouted.

‘I was joking,’ her father lied, ‘and Steve, you don’t disappoint me. I thought your editorial about CEGL was excellent, but then you came out with that rubbish about stolen land rights. I’m not sure that journalism is your forte but chartered accountants are in great demand and you should think yourself lucky that you’re still young enough to resume your former career.’

‘I have no intention of ever returning to accounting and I didn’t realise you were an expert on journalism.’

‘I’m not,’ Scott-Tempy replied, his bifocals slipping down his bulbous nose, ‘but how many of your articles have been syndicated by either of the national publishers?’

He was like a fat toad with beady, black eyes, a few strands of oily patted-down hair, massive jowls, a huge neck and a stomach that was at war with the vest that was meant to be containing it.

‘None,’ Steve replied, biting his tongue hard.

‘I rest my case. Surely the national newspapers would’ve published at least one of your articles if your writing was any good.’

Steve was about to ask the slum lord how many exclusive properties he owned on Park Avenue when Bettina said, ‘The waitress has been to our table twice. Can we please order, Norris?’

‘We know what we’re having. We went over the menu before you arrived,’ Bianca said, placing her hand on Steve’s, while he opened the menu with his other. His eyes ran down the prices. ‘I’ll have the Alaskan king crab cocktail entrée and the black lip abalone steak meuniere.’ He grinned at the waitress as he ordered. A few minutes later the wine waiter appeared and as Steve reached over to take the menu from him, Scott-Tempy’s hand shot out and snatched it.

‘You do understand that CEGL and the other, smaller companies are good for the valley?’ Scott-Tempy said.

‘How is that?’

‘They provide a cheap and plentiful source of energy that’s very beneficial to the state, particularly to the working classes.’ Scott-Tempy sniffed dismissively at the words ‘working classes’. ‘And don’t forget the employment they’re providing in our towns.’

‘That’s funny; I thought CEGL was building a plant on Kravis Island so it could ship LNG to India and China.’

‘Yes, that too. Very beneficial for the state and national economies, don’t you think?’

‘I don’t know. Would you dig up your own backyard to help your neighbours ten thousand kilometres away?’

‘That’s a stupid analogy.’

Blood rushed to Steve’s face and he was about to let fly, when he felt Bianca’s hand on his arm. ‘Honey, are we going to talk about gas companies all night?’

‘Sorry. Have you adjusted from climbing mountains to selling houses yet?’

‘It’s like I never left, except we’re so much busier and house prices are going through the roof.’

‘Why’s that?’ Steve sipped his chardonnay, while wondering how she would respond.
Would she be honest enough to say it was because of the gas companies buying up the better houses in the towns for their executives and middle management and the lesser ones for their site workers?

‘I guess we’re going through a growth spurt,’ she responded, refusing to take the bait.

He was about to pursue her further when the waitress served their entr
é
es: Half-a-dozen oysters Kilpatrick for Bianca, soup for her parents, and a tiny crab cocktail for him which was going to set Scott-Tempy back fifty-five bucks.

‘Bon appetit,’ he said, grinning at the older man, who slurped his soup so loudly that he drew glances from those seated at the adjoining tables.

‘Mum, have you been spending much time at the hospital lately?’ Bianca asked, before Steve could return to quizzing her about real estate.

Bettina was a volunteer at the Paisley Memorial, helping the sick kids. She was kind, bubbly and still an attractive woman, with long, brunette hair and large, laughing brown eyes. ‘Yes, I’ve been bathing some of the children and reading to them. It’s strange, there have been so many coming in with large red welts on their bodies and the poor little things can’t stop scratching. Some of them can’t hold their food down, and they suffer terrible diarrhoea attacks and nose-bleeds. One poor little girl, Kristy Conrad, has shown no improvement in nearly three weeks, which is very unusual. Most of the kids get better in about ten days and are back home within two weeks.’

Under the disapproving eye of Scott-Tempy, Steve reached over and picked up the wine bottle, asking if anyone would like a top up, before pouring a generous glass for himself. He was upset about what he had just heard and took a large gulp of wine. ‘What’s causing it?’

‘No-one knows, but the children are being admitted on the referrals of dermatologists and some GPs.’

‘Have any of the referrals come from oncologists or cancer specialists?’

Bettina looked surprised. ‘I don’t think so. Why do you ask?’

‘Little Charlie Paxton had some of the symptoms that you described.’

‘Oh no! You do … don’t think that …?’

‘He’s scare-mongering about the gas wells again,’ her husband interrupted. ‘The doctors at Paisley Memorial would know exactly what the boy died from and it’s obvious the kids you’re looking after are fortunately in no danger of suffering the same fate. The kid’s demented father blamed CEGL for his death but there wasn’t a skerrick of evidence to support his opinion. He’s just a bitter man looking for someone to blame.’

God, you must hate Charles Paxton for blocking your admission to the exclusive Fisher Valley Country Club,
Steve thought. Paxton was President of the club and it was rumoured that he had used his casting vote on two occasions to deny Scott-Tempy membership.

‘You’re right; they know Charlie died from cancer of the kidneys and liver but they have no idea how or why it attacked him and many of his symptoms were the same as those that Bettina just described.’

Scott-Tempy wasn’t used to being challenged or contradicted and he didn’t like it. ‘So you’re not only a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist but an oncologist as well? So, let me repeat what I just said. Charles Paxton has no evidence that his son’s cancers resulted from anything that CEGL or the other gas companies did. The fool even blew up one of their gas wells?’

‘I didn’t know that. When was he charged?’

‘Don’t get smart with me.’

There was an uneasy silence at the table, which was broken by the waitress bringing their meals. Steak for Scott-Tempy, barramundi for Bettina and her daughter, and for Steve, at a cost of $125, abalone, which he’d never before laid eyes on, let alone tasted. Steve handed the empty wine bottle to the waitress and asked her to bring another. Bianca hated it when he drank too much and he could feel her eyes on him.

‘Are you two doing anything at the weekend?’ Bettina asked, anxious to get the conversation going again.

‘I’m taking Steve to look at some houses,’ Bianca replied.

Scott-Tempy coughed loudly and his hand went to his throat.

‘No, Daddy. It’s not what you think.’ Bianca laughed. ‘Steve wants to move out of his apartment and we have some good houses on the books. We’re not …’

‘Thank God for that. It’s not that we don’t like you, Steve, but you’re running a two-bit newspaper and, well, how can I put this? Neither you nor the paper seem to have much of a future. It would be different if you were a partner of an accounting firm or financial controller of a large company.’

Wow,
Steve thought,
this is the ultimate insult; the slum lord actually thinks I’m not good enough to be a member of his family.
He glanced over at Bianca, but she wouldn’t make eye contact and he wondered whether she had known what her father was going to say. Probably not, and now she was embarrassed.

‘I’m sorry you think that way, but at least what I do is honest.’

‘I hope that’s not a snide inference about my business, young man. I pay my taxes, provide good-quality accommodation and contribute to reducing unemployment. Anyway, I’m branching out into a totally new field that has enormous potential for expansion, and that’s why we’re celebrating tonight.’

The alcohol was starting to affect Steve and he was unable to conceal a dopey, cynical grin. The quality accommodation was a number of dirty, second-rate dives and Scott-Tempy’s contribution to reducing unemployment was giving jobs to four goons who collected his rent, made pay-day loans for him at exorbitant rates of interest and coerced others at auctions not to bid against him. Steve was dying to call him Norrie because he knew it would drive him mad, but he hadn’t imbibed enough.

‘So, Mr Scott-Tempy, what is this grand new venture we’re celebrating?’ Steve swept his arm clumsily over the table.

‘I’m going into the gas business,’ he gloated. ‘I bought the Morrisey dairy farm and did a deal with CEGL for them to sink eight gas wells on it. I’m getting rent plus royalties for the wells. However, the real beauty of the deal is that I get to convert the farm house and sheds into permanent, motel-style accommodation for CEGL to house their employees as they expand in the area.’

‘Bu … but how?’ Steve slurred. ‘The Morrisey’s property is going to a mortgagee’s auc … auction. Jeez, your firm’s handling it, Bianca.’

‘I’m as surprised as you are,’ she said flatly.

‘Bianca knew nothing about it. I convinced old Morrisey that he’d get a better deal with me than with the bank. I treated him real well,’ Scott-Tempy crowed.

‘You hadn’t done the deal with CEGL before you bought the property, though.’ Steve groaned, knowing he almost certainly had.

They were interrupted by the waitress offering the dessert menu, but Scott-Tempy waved her away.

‘That’s confidential.’ However, his body language made it clear that he and CEGL had well and truly stitched Morrisey up. ‘Let’s toast my success with a port.’

A few minutes earlier, Steve had been feeling tipsy, but he quickly regained his mental faculties.

‘You did the deal with CEGL first and then went and screwed poor Morrisey when he was down and out. Bastard,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘What did you say?’ Bianca asked angrily.

Ignoring her, Steve glared at the smirking toad. ‘You know the value of the properties close to the Morrisey farm will fall significantly when word of this gets out. God, how could you do it?’

‘Why would I be concerned? It’s how business is done. Everything I’ve done is legal. I don’t know who owns the adjoining properties but, even if I did, it wouldn’t change anything. I’m sure when they do a deal they don’t worry about how it’s going to impact on me. Anyhow, what are you on about? You’re always saying in that rag of yours that the valley can’t stand in the way of progress.’

Steve now regretted what he had said but he had only supported the extraction of coal seam gas where landowners and those on surrounding properties were adequately compensated, and the mere fact that Norris Scott-Tempy was involved removed any possibility of that.

‘You apologise to Daddy for what you said.’

‘What did he say, Darling?’

‘Norrie, let me tell you,’ Steve said, standing up and glaring, ‘I said …’

‘What’d you call me?’

‘I said you were a low-life scumbag who makes his money by renting out bug-infested rooms to the poor and by making pay-day loans to the suckers who can’t live from week to week, Norrie. That’s what I said, Norrie. Did you get that, Norrie?’

‘Stop it, Steven.’ Bianca glared. ‘What’s got into you? Apologise!’

‘Good night, Bettina. Good night, Bianca. I’d normally thank you for dinner, Norrie, but we both know Ian Morrisey paid for it, so I’ll pass,’ Steve said, heading for the stairs.

He stood outside, wrestling with himself, undecided if he should risk driving or take the safer option of walking. He had earlier hoped that Bianca would drive him home, but knew he had blown any chance of that. The restaurant doors swung open and he felt a solid push in the middle of his back. He jerked around with his right fist cocked only to see Bianca, dark eyes flashing, mouth contorted and her exquisite breasts heaving with anger.

‘You ungrateful bastard. How dare you insult my father.’

He had never seen her looking more beautiful. Lust and the alcohol made him think about falling to his knees and begging forgiveness in the hope that they might go back to his apartment for make-up sex, but then his sense returned.