Quota (29 page)

Panic crept over him as he watched her reddened eyes, the flush in her cheeks. She looked to McVean to be someone with little regard for legal bullshit and high speeches. He tried to work his way through the possibilities. She hated them, individually or collectively he couldn't tell, but he decided it was both of them for the purposes of the argument. So she wanted them convicted. And she was in tears, so she'd been overborne. It dawned on him that this girl was telling them loud and clear that they were home free.

He listened to the judge, the pompous withered old shitbag, talking to the jury, smiling drily at their nodding heads. The old bastard leaned forward on the bench, revealing the shiny scalp that stretched from one island of silver hair to the other, eyebrows pushed deep over his eyes as he muttered instructions to his lackey. And the lackey was standing, reading the bloody charges yet again, yet again. And now there was silence, as the last of the questions hung in the air, across the space between the associate's little booth, across some timberwork and carpet to the foreman, who was standing also.

McVean had already decided this was an anticlimax, had concluded that the girl's distress was enough to tell him what he needed to know. He looked down at his hands and wrung them lightly together, as though in response to the release of some imaginary shackle; and the words, when they came, were merely what they should have been.

He was a free man.

So was Murchison, but Murchison was history now and didn't even warrant a glance, let alone a handshake. He would walk out of this place and resume his life and none of these dogs and parasites would ever trouble him again.

Franz Rhodes was rushing towards him, hand extended and teeth exposed. Fucking hypocrite. This dribbling moron had practically begged him to plead up before the trial started, had only found his courage when he realised he was going double-header with Ocas and all he had to do was stay out of the way. Which was more or less what he'd done. The state would pay his fees, but real justice would've been served if the state had written out a cheque to Michael John McVean in compensation for banging him up in the pen for a year on remand, as well as paying for the shit lawyer.

He stepped out of the dock, onto the floor of the court, a security guard still loosely attached to his elbow. He turned and shrugged violently away from him and the grip was released. The room was in a swarm around him, people hugging and crying and carrying on. None of them approached him. He watched the jurors filing away into their room, and threw a wink to the crying lady as she departed. She'd get over it.

The lad, the brother, was just sitting there, as he'd done through the whole trial, leaning forward with his elbows on knees, chin on fists, staring at the opposite wall. The girlfriend was leaning protectively over his shoulder, rubbing his back and doing a bit of weeping too.
You can rub me any time, honey
.

As he watched, the Lanegan brother got up out of his seat and headed for the door.

Hang on. Old Missus Murch was up too, tailing him. This'd be good. She caught up with him just as the lad was passing Mick's position in the dock, old limpdick Alan stumbling along after her. The claw with the jewels shot out and she took Lanegan's shoulder. He spun like he'd been stabbed. She had him by the shirt in that talon of hers, right in front of McVean, and she was bringing him in close. It was a hissing kind of whisper, but McVean had no trouble at all picking it up:
Now we'd better have a chat with the welfare about those dirty little children.

The lad reeled back, ripped his shoulder away from her. One of the screws had to step between em. Fucking priceless. He'd need a very good reason to go back to that shithole of a town but watching old lady Murchison tormenting the Lanegan mob was almost reason enough.

McVean started to feel heavy inside, and it puzzled him. He was a free man, a free man. He thought he'd probably move to Geelong, look up the bikers he'd met on remand, reinvent himself. In five years he'd have colours, a crew of his own, any amount of projects to pull in the cash. Just as no one would've cared if he'd gone down for twenty-five to life, so no one would care that he'd walked. He was as good as invisible.

But the dull ache persisted. The lawyers were loading their ring binders onto trolleys—the defence ones laughing and fooling around, the prosecutor, by himself these last few days, not even making eye contact. All those folders looked very fucking smart and powerful when they were flipping them open, waving their spectacles in the air and making their big claims. Now they were just recycling. The younger one,
Mr Jardim
, well he'd got what was coming to him. Ocas was right onto that one—hanging around town, trying to change people's stories. If McVean had been home and not doing sudokus in the remand centre he would've scared the little shit out of town before he'd unpacked his bags. Sounded like he was in a world of trouble anyway. Lawyers, liars, all the same. And as for the older one, well he'd looked all along like he was about two arguments away from a coronary. Probably off having a bypass.

Geelong had its appeal, but he felt pretty sure he'd head back to Dauphin. Unfinished business. He'd never work for the fucking Murchisons again, not that they'd have him anyway.

The gig with the Murchisons had started off promisingly. But it depended on dealing with others, and McVean was naturally a sole trader. Inevitably, working with Skip Murchison became a headache. Illusions of grandeur, a thousand shit business ideas and no focus. McVean had kept his head down, tried to keep an eye on recruits like the Lanegans, gradually turning into a drill sergeant for the fuckwit golden boy of the Murchison clan. Now that the whole shitstorm over Mags was done and dusted, his business was his own again.

He walked through the security checkpoint outside the court, collecting the small plastic bag that contained his wallet, keys and phone, and burst through the heavy doors into the sunshine. Two reporters scuttled jabbering towards him. He lurched in their direction, grinning wildly, and they retreated tripping, tangled with their big woolly microphone.

A train seemed a good idea at this point. Head west, head for Dauphin and then work it out. He turned towards Southern Cross station, down the hill on Lonsdale Street, smiling at the plane trees that filtered the light down to him. The world was a glorious place, and he was at its centre. The blue feeling was gone.

No. The brother. He needed to think about the brother. All he'd had to do was stick to his police statement and everything would've been sweet, but he'd tried to be a hero. Aided and abetted no doubt by Mr Jardim, who he was sure would have a first name and an address. Anyway, plenty of time for all that.

But more irritating, much more annoying, was the matter of the barrel. The special consignment, the high point of Mags Lanegan's idiocy. Now it was gone. Because Skip thought he could strong-arm Lanegan into some sort of pea-brained joint venture. Because Skip didn't appreciate the difference between a willing partner and a captive mule. Because Mags had, predictably enough, brought Little Brother along. And because Little Brother had had the brains to tip the damn thing overboard when he smelled a rat and realised they were being ambushed. That barrel was still out there somewhere, bobbing its way to the fucking Galapagos Islands or something, and somebody needed to reimburse Michael John McVean for his labours.

Never mind. All in good time.

He paid for his ticket and queued next door for the canteen. A young girl served him; sixteen, maybe seventeen. He took in the apron tied around the black leggings and T-shirt. He took in the heavy eye makeup. She dusted her hands on the front of the apron as she greeted him and he took that in too.

‘You right there?' she asked brightly. She was pressing her hips against the counter as she leaned forward. Pressing them.

‘Just a sausage roll thanks. And sauce.'

She took the flaky sausage roll from the bain marie with a pair of tongs and slid it into a paper bag. Then she took up a squeeze-bottle and urged the sauce into the bag.
Oh yeah
, he said to himself, watching the small freckled hand pump the plastic. Pressing his own hips on the other side of the counter.

‘How's your day going?' she asked absently as she flipped the bag over to tie it off.

‘Terrific, thanks love.' He watched her closely, her nervous smile as she took his money and rang the till. The bag was warm in his hand and he suddenly wanted to share.

‘I did it, you know.'

She slowed, creased her brows slightly like she was listening now.

‘You did what?' she ventured, reluctant.

He shrugged casually, tore a corner off the sausage roll and stuffed it in his mouth.

‘Doesn't matter. Have a good one, eh?'

He tossed out his second wink of the day and sauntered down the ramp to the platforms.

CHARLIE SLUMPED BEHIND his desk and let out a long sigh. The robes on the chair beside him still carried the warmth of his body, the wig was still damp with his sweat and smelled of wet dog. He unscrewed the lid from a metal hiking bottle he kept beside the computer and took a long drink of water. Next he collected the pile of new law reports that had arrived in the in-tray and tossed them on the carpet. On a large sheet of notepaper he wrote the words
Return to OPP
. He stuck the note on the top folder on the silver trolley, and pushed it towards the door.

The first traces of the coming spring were visible in the canopy of the trees outside his window.

He'd had it all planned out until Weir died, had told himself he'd come back once more after the verdict, on a quiet weekend. He'd gather up his personal belongings, leave Annie's bloody clock, the wig and robes, the books. He might've scooped the stationery into a shopping bag, because he had a fondness for stationery; it went back to Harry, pencil cases, grade three. Anyway, when he was done with that, he was going to staple a note to the notice board in the lift well:
Abandoned chambers—room 804. All items free to good home
. Hurry while stocks last. There would've been a couple of hours of restraint for the sake of appearances—let the body go cold and all that—then they'd be in there, his erstwhile neighbours, bundling books and lamps and cabling in their arms until the place was stripped.

But his resolve had weakened over the long tense days while he waited for the verdict. It felt strange without Weir. Of course Weir had never stuck around waiting for a jury to come back. His habit while awaiting verdicts was to go home, and when the tippy rang him he'd come hurtling into town in a taxi with the driver on a cash incentive to go faster.

Charlie spent the days alone, reading the papers on the internet, lounging in the armchair with a novel, sometimes just staring into space. He'd bought himself a mask, snorkel and fins online and tried holding his breath against the stopwatch function on his phone.

He took a sheet of notepaper and drew a line down the middle. At the top of the left half of the page he wrote
Stay
. On the right side, he wrote
Go
. The Clash turned up uninvited in his head. Girl, you've got to let me know.

He started filling both columns slowly as he thought. Weir appeared on both sides. Annie appeared on one. Patrick, Lefcovics, Williams, ambition, Les, the fire, stress, driving, old age, discipline, worthiness, anger, lost years, Harry. He looked at the words for a long time, looked at their positions on the page and tried to weigh them against each other. Then, in one of the columns, he wrote two final words.

Start again.

AMONG THE COURT buildings on the western side of the city, Barry Egan's ute was curling its way up through the floors of a parking lot. It had been many years since Barry had had a reason to park in the city, and the price list—visible only after he'd driven far enough in to be committed—had shocked him. But now he was enjoying the squealing of the tyres on the shiny concrete as he repeated the endless right turns that would take him to the fourth floor. He cut the bends closer and closer to the sharp edges of the concrete pillars, listening for the rhythmic jangle of the metal drain cover at the foot of each ramp.

The parking lot had been his idea as a meeting place. After his experience with Taia, he wanted to make some gesture of authority, stamp his identity somehow on all this business. He knew from TV that people doing heavy deals met in carparks. He'd carefully walked through each floor of the building earlier in the day, checking the view from the sides, checking which floors were busy, which were empty. He'd been planning the meeting for the following morning, at the same time of day as he'd done the walk-through, so that he could be confident they'd be alone. He'd figured out the rhythm: offices were busy mid-morning, parking lots were quiet.

But then the radio news told him the verdict had come in, that they'd been acquitted, and he knew he had to act immediately. So he'd rung again and said come straight away. As he listened to the calm, indifferent voice on the other end, he'd felt fortified in his decision.

On the fourth floor he parked next to the fire hose reel in the shadows of the north wall, reversed into the spot so he had a view of the whole expanse of concrete. The lift and stairwell were directly opposite his position, and any approaching car would be plainly visible for long enough that he could dart out first if he had to. Once he was satisfied that he was alone, he climbed out of the ute and whistled the dog from its slumber in the passenger footwell. Locking the cab carefully, he walked to the railing that looked out over Little Bourke Street.

From here, the activity below was a slow procession; the dirty tops of vans, the weaving cars, the heads of pedestrians forming columns like ants. But not like ants, he thought. Ants in a column stop regularly, bump against other ants in tiny acts of exchange—scent or sound or something—passing ciphers for an interdependent world. The ants below him, however, were in constant motion—if any two veered into a course that would bring them into contact, they wove away again, ensuring no two heads ever met. They were perfectly choreographed never to touch. A part of him knew he'd fit right in down there
.