‘A woman! That’s what you need. Put it this way, you’ve been at war with yourself too long, now you need a peace! A piece of the action.’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘Don’t get all innocent on me. You’ve just had two weeks to dust off your … your heat seeking missile and put it to good use but you’re still faffing around in no man’s land.’
‘And that’s from someone who bombs a different erogenous zone every night.’
‘Malicious rumour,’ Mackelroy replied smugly. ‘Anyway, if you don’t put your scud to good use soon it’s going to fall off its launching pad. From boredom! So I’m going to arrange a little something to … turbocharge things a bit. I’m going to see what I can dig up for you. How’s that?’
‘Hell, James, I’m not a bloody dog.’
Mackelroy chuckled. ‘Oh, come on, I’m sure you’ve got a bit of the old dog left in you. You’re not that old!’
Kant felt a flutter in his stomach. Is that excited anticipation? ‘I never thought I was that old.’ Kant retorted. He thought for a moment. ‘I suppose it couldn’t do any harm, but I don’t want one of your … you know, leftovers.’
‘What do you take me for?’
‘I don’t want to answer that without my lawyer present.’
‘Besides, I can’t have my main man moping around like a frustrated adolescent. Leave it with me, Monsieur Kant,’ Mackelroy replied in a surprisingly chirpy French imitation. ‘I’m certain we can unearth somesing testy vith ze dirt screpped off.’
‘No cadavers! I want the flesh on, and lots of it.’ Kant shook his head. ‘I don’t believe I’m actually engaging in this conversation.’
But the two men began to snicker like a couple of prepubes cent choir boys at the broken window to the girls’ changing room. The front desk intercom buzzed.
‘What is it, Janine?’ Kant snapped, embarrassed by his silliness, as if she’d heard them.
‘Sorry, Muster Kant, but there’s a man here at the disk to see you. John Sturges. He says he was told to come here by V’nce. He has a tin o’clock appointment to see you.’
‘You should have informed me earlier. Get him a coffee. Tell him I’ll see him in ten minutes. I’m in an important meeting with the director at the moment, so no more interruptions please.’
Kant didn’t wait for her reply. He turned back to Mackelroy. ‘And you can lose the smirk.’
Mackelroy didn’t.
‘And this is between you and me, right? Right!’
‘Sure. I’ll arrange a little soirée soon, a get together with a couple of friends. Not too soon though. We need to be on top of things here before the start of filming next week!’
Kant suddenly felt the grip of anxiety in his stomach that was normally reserved for the dentist’s waiting room. ‘I don’t know about this, James.’
‘Oh, don’t start. Look, relax, I promise I won’t let you come to any harm. Now can we get on with the minor situation of the fourth BK fucking S series?’
Kant suddenly felt the reality of his life hit him like a medicine ball to the solar plexus. He breathed out heavily. He’d been holding his breath again.
*
While Kant was on his holiday Vince MacLean had come across John Sturges, a prospective contestant for the show, booking him in for a preliminary interview. He had observed the grey haired, unkempt man wearing an old greatcoat a size too big for him, with his right hand fixed deeply in the pocket, as if his fingers were gripped around the neck of a bottle of cheap sherry. There was nothing too remarkable about that, except that the man was attending an exhibition opening of contemporary furniture and large abstract oil paintings in an exclusive gallery in Salamanca Place.
From his high octane existence as a foreign correspondent MacLean had found solace in the quiet of art galleries, and surprisingly to him, an admiration of abstract paintings in particular.
The scruffy man was clearly out of place amongst the loudly effervescent company, fashionable outfits and glistening jewellery. And yet he sustained an intense scrutiny of the exhibits, oblivious to the cerebral and artsy persiflage and sequin crackle of wealth around him, avoiding all eye contact as he moved about the exhibits. MacLean waded through the stifling, perfumed air towards the man, whose concentration had fixed on four square metres of wildly intertwining streaks of mauves and blues. MacLean sipped his Pinot and reflected on the painting for a moment.
‘You like abstract painting?’ MacLean spoke cautiously, still studying the work as he stood side on to the man, who nodded.
‘Me friend’s over there,’ the man, in a low, gentle voice replied obliquely, his friend’s company apparently of far greater significance than the $25,000 painting ‘Flight of the Dryads’ on the wall before him.
MacLean looked in the direction of the man’s gaze. The friend was younger, more dishevelled, intellectually impaired, standing alone in camouflage by a pillar, and self contained in a naïve sensibility. His fingers on one hand were playing with the tips of the fingers and on the other as if he was working out the answer to a complex mathematical problem, or checking that all his appendages were intact.
‘We come to galleries sometimes. Do you know Sebastian?’
MacLean peered over again. ‘No, pretty sure I don’t, pal.’
‘What’s your job?’
MacLean was momentarily thrown by the sudden change in tack and openness of the question. ‘Oh, er … I’ve been a journalist but I’m … ’
‘You wanna write about my story?’
‘Your story? Oh, er … well … ’
‘I bin in and out of State care … you know, real bad ’n’ that … ’n prison too … ’
The man’s stress of the word care sent a shiver down Vince’s spine; he sensed deep trauma. He’d seen it, felt it too many times. Images of obliterated villages, orphaned children and the smell of charred human flesh had impressed themselves into his psyche.
‘I’m not reporting at the moment. But, you know there is something else you might be interested in.’ But this wasn’t the right time or place. ‘Look, I’d like to listen to you; how about we make a time and have a yarn?’
‘I’m not queer or nothin’.’
‘Sir, I’m sure you’re not. Not that I’d give a toss if you were.’
‘I better get Sebastian; like ’e gets a bit jumpy if I leaves ’im on ’is own for too long.’
‘Sure. Do you have a phone number?’
MacLean wrote the mobile number and address on the back of his catalogue.
‘I’m Vince, by the way. What shall I call you?’
‘Oh … er … John. Yeah, John.’ He repeated it, as if, prior to the asking, having a name had been of no great importance for him.
As John turned and began meandering through the crowd, Sebastian lifted his hand surreptitiously and wiggled his fingers towards his friend, smiling brightly. The guileless face completely happy, waiting for his friend to reach him before following him to the entrance.
Later in the week MacLean drove into the heart of Bridge water, to his journalist’s eye a disregarded suburb, except possibly by the police Vince thought, as he drove through its streets. It felt even more isolated than the grimy northern disintegration of light industry