Geoffrey Cousins - The Butcherbird

‘Yes. Could strengthen our hand enormously. Financial markets don’t like it so much, but how many votes do they control? What do you think, Mac? Good for the insurance industry?’

It was coming, the cogs were turning and clicking, he just had to stall for a moment and it would be there, Mac knew it. The answers always came, it just took a few seconds longer these days.

‘Mac’s probably too polite to say it, Prime Minister, but it has always seemed unfair that some of our leading competitors, being foreign companies, do not have to comply with all the regulations we do.’ Sir Laurence turned to Mac as the novice turns to the guru.

‘Well, that’s true. I’m not one to complain. We’re happy to take on anyone. Certainly not afraid of fair competition. And happy to comply with all the regulations the government thinks are necessary to protect people. After all, that’s what we do in insurance, isn’t it. Protect people.’ They all nodded wisely. ‘But everyone should be subject to the same rules. You know, a fair go. That’s Australia.’ Mac wondered fleetingly if he had gone too far with the ‘That’s Australia’, but he’d forgotten he was talking to a politician.

‘Absolutely. We all want the old cliche, the level playing field. I like old cliches, actually. People understand them. So Mac, why don’t you get your people to put something together and send it to my chief of staff. We don’t want our honest citizens at the mercy of foreign pirates, do we?’ A wink accompanied this remark and then, immediately at its disappearance, a frown. ‘Private remark, not to be repeated. I must go and do my duty, the only opening I’ve ever done where I don’t have to make a speech. Just pull a lever or something apparently. Good to see you, Mac, Laurence. Keep up the good work.’

As he strode off into the crowd with his minders trailing, Mac and Sir Laurence watched thoughtfully, respectfully, determined to indeed keep up the good work, whatever that might be. Finally, Mac turned to his chairman. ‘Laurence, I have to thank you. You’ve absolutely excelled yourself. I’ve never seen anything like this. I don’t think anyone in Sydney has. It’ll be talked about for years. How did you do it?’

Sir Laurence was beaming, although low beam was the height of his illumination. ‘Thank you, Mac. I’m delighted you’re enjoying it, but I assure you there’s a great deal more to come. I, of course, am merely the facilitator. I’ll introduce you to the woman who organised most of it later. I think you might have met her once before.’

Sir Laurence wandered away as Mac was claimed by more admirers and there, champagne flute in hand, eyes glassed over (but not, tonight, by the champagne, more by the wonder of what she’d created), was the very woman he’d been referring to.

‘Popsie, my dear woman, what a triumph. You’ll be famous once it leaks out, as these things inevitably do, that you had a hand in organising this.’

There was no chance of it leaking out that she had ‘had a hand’ in organising the party as Popsie Trudeaux knew very well, since she’d already informed everyone that she’d talked to, which was a great number of people, some of whom had turned out to be waiters, and one of whom was obviously the Prime Minister’s security man since he was wearing an earpiece and couldn’t hear her, although she was talking very loudly into his other ear, that she was the sole driving force behind every single facet of this mind-blowing, once-in-a-lifetime event.

‘I’m just so grateful to you, Laurence, for asking me to do it. I mean, I’ve only ever done my own parties, and not one of those for a while, so you were very brave to give me the job. I knew I could blow them all away, but how did you know?’

The thin mouth curled delicately. ‘You just trust people. Pick the right person and trust them.’

‘I don’t know how I can ever repay you. It’s been such an exciting experience.’

‘Dear lady, you don’t have to repay me. And besides, I think your experience is just starting. Everyone’s going to want you and only you to do their parties after this. You could build a real business. If you want to, of course. I realise money isn’t relevant, but I can see you might enjoy the challenge.’

Popsie thought she might. She was almost certain she would. Archie Speyne had already offered her a contract for all the museum’s functions, and one of the Prime Minister’s people, not the one with the earpiece, had asked for her card. Laurence was right, they’d all want her. Oh, to be wanted, and to be paid for it.

‘I’m terribly grateful, Laurence. I promise I won’t forget it.’

‘Please, my dear, we all help one another where we can. Now I’m sure you have more surprises in store for us all, so I shall just drift away.’

And drift away he did. Popsie followed his path, wondering. Why had he taken a risk on her? He’d always been distant with her before, polite but distant. And then this solid gold gift. Who cared? She’d made it her own and now she could fuck the whole town anytime she wanted.

Maroubra peered nervously through the shrubbery at the Botanic Gardens. He didn’t like gardens, their neatness, their artificiality, their suggestion of rules, of places to walk and places not. He liked the bush, where tracks appeared because animals had found a path to water or because the ground fell evenly for padded feet. The only cut grass should be on ovals where rugby or cricket were played, where rules were necessary so crafty people could break them with a cuff to the ear or an elbow on the stomach. But no eye gouging or biting. And definitely no fingers in orifices where they didn’t belong, like that disgusting rugby league oaf had done a few years ago. Many disgusting oafs played rugby league, whereas gentlemen, like Maroubra and his son Gordie and various other men of character, only played rugby union. Somehow he felt the eyes on the back of his neck and he turned with a start to find the Pope a metre away.

‘I fucking told you none of that Mafioso crap with your fucking lowlife mates. I told you everything had to be clean, kosher. Again and again. How many fucking times do I have to tell you?’

The Pope threw a newspaper down on the park bench, but Maroubra didn’t look at it. He’d never heard the Pope swear before. He always spoke directly, definitely, and never with a vocabulary that was anything but specific and spare.

‘It wasn’t us, I swear to God. I heard it on the radio just before I got your text. None of my people were in it. No way.’

The Pope remained in attack mode. ‘Coincidences aren’t my thing. Here we are searching around for stuff on Mac Biddulph, very specific stuff that’s not in the average file drawer, here you have a brief from me to get it, then someone breaks into the Biddulph home while he’s at the party of the year and it’s not you?’ Maroubra returned the angry stare in kind. ‘Okay. I’ll accept you didn’t order it, but obviously one of your people got overzealous. Who the hell are they all, anyway?’

‘You don’t want to know. And no one got excited. I checked the lot on the way here. We’re not involved. One hundred per cent.’

The Pope searched his face, nodded slowly and held out his hand. ‘I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have doubted you, but-Christ, what does it mean?’

Maroubra shook the hand. ‘No problem, mate. When I heard it this morning, I thought the same thing- someone’s jumped the fence.’

They sat together and read through the newspaper story. On the front page was a large photo of Mac and the Prime Minister accompanied by a gushing story on the party that had run in all the editions-only this late edition had a small box on the breakin. According to the scant details, nothing appeared to have been taken.