It was Christmas in October-everybody was getting what he or she wanted. Tobin had set up a production crew for his raid; he had cameramen and reporters, an explosives expert and a medical team all ready to go into action. He orchestrated the whole thing and he got maximum coverage for removing the threat to the hero of the hour, Peter January.
Tobin appeared on the front page of the tabloids looking menacing and effective in his TRF gear. Charles Galloway came into the public eye as a dangerous sociopath, a man obsessed with his own obscurity and with a hatred of the opinion-makers. Tobin destroyed the last note and Trudi received a broad hint that the emergence of the earlier notes from Galloway would mean trouble for January. There was no point in resisting: Madga Galloway was ‘slain’ by her husband as a last desperate act. Some gelignite, detonators and various guns were artistically photographed.
Galloway was a childhood immigrant from Northern Ireland, a fact not lost on a sensation-hungry media. The case was closed on Alison Marshall, ‘the politically sophisticated 16 year old who had died as a result of Galloway’s twisted terrorism’.
‘What shit!’ Mike Borg said. He crumpled the paper and shoved it in a bin. We were at the airport two days after the raid and I still hadn’t heard from Helen. I shook hands with Borg and told him I’d like to work with him again if he came back to Australia.
‘Might hold you to that,’ he said. ‘I gather you don’t always work for these crap holes, like January and Creighton Kirby?’
I shook my head. ‘First and last time.’
I drove back to Glebe with the last pieces of the case falling into place in my mind before I would start to file and forget them. Tobin had thrown a smokescreen over the way his identification of the terrorist Galloway had been arrived at. Karen Weiner had not been mentioned; January had got her away into safe-keeping. I saw January briefly the day after the raid.
‘Karen understands that I never laid a finger on the woman,’ he said. He wore only a gauze pad taped to his forehead now. He had an interesting bruise and I fancied a few more grey hairs. ‘She understands that it was all a blind.’
‘I thought she might,’ I said. ‘What did she say about Galloway?’
He shrugged. ‘Not much. He wasn’t very rough. Had his wife terrified 24 hours a day. A nutter.’
‘What now for you and Karen?’
He smiled, ‘I don’t know, maybe we can come to some arrangement with Weiner. Like you’ve got with Michael Broadway. Works doesn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘You handled it well, Cliff, very well. I’ll have to go back to America again and…’
‘America! You’re going back for more?’
‘What’s the difference? Look what happened here.’
‘It’s organised there, you know that. Here it’s… more individual. It’s not built in.’
January shrugged. ‘Just as dangerous from my point of view. What I’m asking is whether you want a steady job?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m going to vote independent for the rest of my life.’
Trudi voted independent too. She quit her job with January and said she was going to write a book.
‘What about?’ I asked. We were leaning against the Falcon parked outside my house. Trudi had walked Gunther from Lilyfield and was going to walk him back. I patted Gunther’s sleek head and he smelled cat on my hand and growled.
‘Men,’ Trudi said. ‘What’re you going to do about Helen? I can tell from your face that you haven’t heard from her.’
‘Looks like you’ve got the qualifications to write about men. No, I haven’t heard.’
She handed me an envelope. ‘From Peter to you. From some slush fund or other. See you, Cliff. We have to finish that ping pong game.’ She kissed my cheek and tugged at Gunther’s lead.
‘Aren’t you going to give me some advice? About Helen?’
Her back was to me. She raised her arm and wiggled her fingers, like Liza Minnelli at the end of Cabaret.
Inside the envelope was a six figure cheque and a note from January. It read: ‘Thanks anyway. Love to Helen.’
The next morning I made arrangements with my neighbour Harry Soames to feed the cat. Harry doesn’t like me but he likes cats. I put a message on the answering machine and I locked the house. It was a fine, warm day and I was noticing things I’d been looking through, like the banana tree leaning over the fence from Soames’ place. It had several bunches of bananas on it which Soames had wrapped in plastic. I liked that.
I banked the cheque, drew money out and filled the Falcon with petrol, water, oil and air at a Shell station.
‘Great day, mate,’ the attendant said. ‘Where you headed?’
‘North,’ I said. ‘Kempsey.’