Peter Corris - The Big Score

His office was something of a macho shout of defiance, but there were two or three women working there who didn’t seem to mind. One showed me into Clayton’s bunker. No preliminaries. Clayton slid a glossy magazine across the desk. The cover showed a young man in semi-combat gear with backpack, slogging up a bush track. The name of the publication was Dare to Survive.

‘Don’t bother to open it,’ Clayton said. ‘You can imagine the contents-fitness instruction, equipment, weapons, medication, plenty of advertising. Plus articles on the psychology of readiness and ways of identifying enemies. Quizzes about paramilitary and terrorist matters. A rich brew.’

I flipped it open anyway. Classy photography, plenty of detachable coupons for advertised products.

‘What’s the problem, Clay-competition?’

‘No, not the same market. The problem is that I’ve got this son. He’s into all this stuff in a big way. Now this mob,’ he tapped the magazine, ‘run a sort of camp in the bush- survival stuff, toughen-you-up crap, orienteering, paint-gun exercises, that sort of thing.’

I nodded. ‘Like Outward Bound-used to be sponsored by Phil the Greek. Probably still is.’

‘Don’t take the piss, Cliff. This is paramilitary stuff. It worries me that Gary’s getting into it. His mother tells me he’s all set to go on the next bivouac-they use the term- and she can’t talk him out of it.’

‘How old is he? Is he a big bloke like you?’

‘He’s eighteen-no-nineteen. Yeah he’s about the size I was at that age, before I put on the flab.’

‘He’s an adult. What harm can it do?’

‘There’s more to it. Shit, I wish I was allowed to smoke in my own bloody office. The Nanny state is here, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I couldn’t care less. Get to the point, Clay.’

‘I split up with Gary’s mother years ago. Harriet, a bit of a ball-breaker. Okay, I wasn’t husband material. Anyway, give her her due, she didn’t stop me seeing Gary through all the important years-school, sports teams and that. I wasn’t very reliable though. We never got close. He’s at uni now. Just, started, part time. I offered to pay upfront but he didn’t want to know. He works as a motorcycle courier- cunt of a job.’

‘Shows independence.’

‘Yeah. But Harriet took up with this Arab bloke a couple of years ago. Sirdar something or other. I think he helped push Gary in the direction we’re talking about and I’m. worried that…’

‘Dare to Survive is a cover for a Muslim terrorist training camp? Come on, Clay.’

‘I know, I know, I’m overreacting. But you know how things are just now. The least smell of anything like that can bugger the prospects of anyone associated with it. I want my boy to have a decent career, a decent life.’

‘Spotted him reading the Koran?’

‘You can laugh, but I’m serious and I’ve got a serious job for you. That’s if you want to work and not just make jokes.’

I wanted to work, and I needed to. Business had been slow and the bills still came in quickly. I’d had to take out costly levels of protective professional insurance and cover for the people I occasionally recruit as helpers. I had a bit of a tax problem and the house needed repairs. I couldn’t afford to turn down work from someone who was in a position to meet my fees. I nodded and picked up the magazine to indicate that I was paying attention.

‘I’ve done a deal with the DTS people to send a journalist along on their next camp to write about it for one of my magazines. That’s you, if you’re up for it, Cliff.’

‘Hold on. Won’t your kid know you’re spying on him?’

‘Shit, you’ve got a great way of putting things. No.’ He struggled to keep the disappointment out of his voice. ‘Gary’s bored by my business. I’ll concoct a false name for the magazine, but he wouldn’t show any interest anyway. Like I say, we’re not close but I still care about him. I hope we can get on better terms one of these days.’

‘Suppose someone notices the names-yours and his being the same-and works out what’s going on?’

Clay shook his head. ‘We weren’t married when he was born. She insisted that he took her name-Pearson. I tried to get it changed later but we were finished by then, so…’

He opened a drawer in his desk, took out a photograph and handed it to me. There was something sad about that-keeping your kid’s picture in a drawer. Gary Pearson was Clay’s son all right, the way James Packer is Kerry’s. In fact there was a resemblance-the same big, strong features, thrusting jaw, aggressive hairline. He wasn’t handsome in the same way Clay wasn’t, but he caught your attention. Looked to have the same solid neck and shoulders.

‘He’s a lump of a lad,’ I said. ‘I doubt I could keep up with him in a cross-country run.’

Clay must have been confident I’d do it. He opened another drawer and took out a set of keys and a wallet.

‘There’s a Pajero standing waiting. It’s got all the gear you’ll need-camping equipment, camera, tape recorder, clothing, medical stuff, mobile, laptop, the works. Your authorisation as a journalist is here and some cash. I’ll sign a contract and pay your retainer. This is a legitimate job, Cliff. More so than some you’ve taken on, I bet.’

I let that pass. People like to think the worst of us and I like to let them and then give them a pleasant surprise. He told me that the DTS bivouac party was to set off from a meeting point to be named in two days’ time. Six vehicles, plus mine-twenty-four survivalists, plus me.

‘To be named?’ I said.

‘They’ll advise me and I’ll advise you.’

I scooped the keys and the wallet towards me. The wallet felt comfortably filled. ‘Destination?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘Dunno. To be revealed at the time of departure. You can bet they’ve got a bush camp out there somewhere.’

‘It’s a big “out there”. Any names?’

‘Just one-Hilary St James, would you believe. He’s the editor of their magazine and the head of the organisation. Whether he’s going on safari I don’t know.’

‘Did you check on him?’

Clay smiled in the winning way he had that redeemed that almost brutal face. ‘I thought I’d leave that to you.’

Clay got someone to drive my car home while I piloted the newish, slightly travel-stained Pajero. It handled well, but still felt like driving a truck, lending a false sense of superiority. The fuel tank was full and the service sticker indicated that it had been tuned up recently.

Clay’s driver took off and I went through the gear in the 4WD. The clothes and boots and other usefuls were newish but showed a bit of wear. Obviously I was to present as someone who’d been off the tarmac in his time-partly true, but it had been a while. I took the technical bits inside and made myself familiar with them. As well as the things Clay had mentioned, there was a folder of maps covering a good part of the state, and a compass I hoped I’d never need. The gas stove and cylinder were a potential comfort, like the medical chest and, especially, the bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. Luckily, the laptop was user-friendly for me-a Mac with Word installed, so I’d be able to make a show of entering notes and impressions. The digital camera was in advance of anything I’d used but simple enough.

Clay phoned me the following day. ‘0630 hours,’ he said. ‘Muster at Wentworth Park.’

‘You sound like you wish you were going.’

‘In a way I do. Take care of yourself, Cliff, and keep an eye on my boy. First sign of anything dodgy along the lines we talked about and you pull him out.’

‘You didn’t mention that-might not be easy.’

‘Probably won’t be necessary but you’ll manage if it is. I have confidence in you. And this St James character is going apparently. Wants to meet you and he says you’ll have no trouble spotting him.’