Geoffrey Cousins - The Butcherbird

‘What a delightful office, Laurence,’ said Popsie Trudeaux as she looked around with distaste at the bland interior. No colour. Popsie liked colour, loved colour, what was life without colour? Her present attire was ample evidence of this passion and Sir Laurence recoiled from it surreptitiously. It was still early in the day, and it was upsetting an excellent breakfast.

‘And how is your new business progressing? I only hear most impressive reports.’ Sir Laurence was seated behind the exceptionally wide desk and had pushed his chair back towards the window as if to situate himself as far as possible from both the violent kaleidoscope of contrasting hues and the sizeable bosoms encased in it.

‘Thanks to you, Laurence, it’s a triumph. I’ve been showered with work by everyone. I really can’t handle it all.’

Or any of it, thought Sir Laurence grimly. It was true the work was pouring in, his sources confirmed that, but Popsie’s ability to administrate and control costs appeared to be in inverse proportion to her ability to conjure up bizarre concepts.

‘Indeed, how wonderful. I’m so glad to have been of minor assistance. And I hear you’re bidding for some of the Grand Prix work. Now that would be a major project and a tremendous coup. The chairman of the committee happens to be a personal friend of mine. Should I mention it to him or would that be indiscreet?’

Discretion was not a consideration that had weighed heavily in any previous concern of Popsie’s. It was certainly not a factor she wished to play a part in deterring Sir Laurence from mentioning her favourably to the chairman of the Grand Prix Committee. The chairman of this committee could save her life. She’d never met him, whoever he was, but he could have it all, on a plate, if he’d just give her this contract. She couldn’t believe it had come to this. It had never occurred to her you could lose money running a successful business. The money poured in one end, a veritable tropical thunderstorm of dollars thundering into the bank accounts, but then it seemed to wash away down some stormwater drain and she was left with unpaid bills and an overdraft. At first she thought her accountant must be stealing it. After all, he was also her husband’s accountant, and now that she had pretty much told Angus to fuck off-because why would a successful, creative businesswoman need a dull lawyer husband with a limp dick hanging around?-well maybe the accountant was siphoning funds off to Angus. So she’d hired another accountant and he’d said the same thing-cost control was not one of her skills. He’d also said if she didn’t hire a professional manager and win a big contract instead of just parties and weddings, she’d be begging Angus to represent her on reduced fees in a bankruptcy court.

As these thoughts were tumbling through her mind, she examined Sir Laurence in minute detail. Was he gay? He looked gay. Neat as a hotel bed, all those pink shirts and flowers in the buttonhole. He was married, but that meant nothing. How many married men’s jockey shorts had she run her hand into only to find out they were pillow biters? Besides, no one ever saw his wife. Perhaps she didn’t exist. And yet the old prune didn’t seem to have any juice running through him at all. She was sure he was asexual, just not interested. Which made it more mysterious. What did he want with her?

‘I’ll take your silence as tacit approval to have a word with Ron Strutter. No reason he shouldn’t know of the talent on offer.’

Sir Laurence removed a sheet of paper from a drawer and placed it carefully on the bare desk. The leather surface was slippery from its morning polish and the paper slid gently towards Popsie.

‘I’ve another small matter that may interest you. From time to time clients and associates ask me to find trustworthy persons to act as directors of their private companies. I serve in this capacity myself for a few friends where the companies aren’t particularly active. But I don’t have the time for too many. There’s one on foot at present with a small private concern-a subsidiary of a company in Bermuda needs a local director, largely inactive, perhaps a little share trading or banking from time to time. They don’t pay a great deal, only fifty thousand dollars per annum in this case, but it all adds to business experience and some people find a little extra cash flow helpful. I realise money isn’t a consideration for you, but I thought you might enjoy expanding your corporate knowledge base.’ Sir Laurence smiled broadly, as he thought, and gestured to the paper on the desk. ‘This is a Consent to Act form, and really signing that and a few other documents from time to time, plus a rather nice lunch once or twice a year, is all there is to it.’ He paused. ‘And, of course, the annual visit to Bermuda. If you have the time.’

Popsie thought she would have the time. She also thought ‘extra cash flow’ was a term she could come to respect quickly. She was also aware she was being set up as a stooge for someone or something. Even Sir Laurence couldn’t think she was a complete idiot. But who cared? He wasn’t a crook, he was a highly respected doyen of Australian business. If some friend of his wanted a tame director to sign a few documents for fifty grand a year, ring Popsie. That’s what she thought.

‘How kind of you to think of me, Laurence. You really are the most generous of men. I would love to learn more about corporate life. Naturally, I’d need to read all the relevant documents and so on. Company rules and-all those documents.’

Sir Laurence waved a dismissive hand. ‘Of course, dear lady, the company’s articles, balance sheet, all of that will be provided immediately.’ He waited a few moments, feigning thought. ‘Would you prefer to receive those first, or are you happy to sign this document now? Mrs Bonython could witness for you.’

The next visitor sat quietly in the waiting room for ten minutes before the phone buzzed on Mrs Bonython’s desk. Her cubicle was only partly screened from this room, containing one hard-backed chair and no reading material, but she made it a practice not to chat to Sir Laurence’s supplicants. She would be bound to say the wrong thing and, somehow, he would know she’d said it. She emerged to conduct him to the office door. ‘Sir Laurence will see you now, Mr Normile.’

It had been three years since Clinton John Normile had sat opposite this man he hated as much as any he’d ever met. No, that was wrong. He’d never hated any person before, except in the abstract. But this was a visceral, gut-wrenching emotion that caused him to recoil when he had to say the name or shake the hand. The fact that he was required, forced, to do both only added to the turmoil in his stomach and spleen, and his bowels, in the lungs that couldn’t seem to catch enough air, in the throat that wouldn’t swallow. He tried to remain still, arms folded, the unaccustomed collar and tie half-strangling his shallow breathing, eyes looking through the figure in front of him to the light beyond.

‘There’s little point in wasting time on pleasantries. You agree? Good. And how is your son?’

The Pope turned in on himself. He wasn’t in this room, there was no light blinding him behind the seated figure, he would hear no words if they were spoken, feel no pain if it was administered. He was in a very different room where he could hear too much, see too much, feel the pain of others, and especially, sickeningly, of his son. Yet, was this his son? This wasted, filthy, ragged, shivering bundle. Could this be the boy who stood erect, shining, leather straps polished, leather boots blackened, brass glinting in an afternoon sun, receiving the Winston Churchill Award as the Senior Army Cadet of New South Wales? Or the boy, man perhaps, who placed the steadying hand on his father’s arm when they stood together at a sister’s, a daughter’s, funeral?