Matt Eaton - Blank

“In the worst instances they’re like wild animals, lacking restraint of any kind. The Army had decided they needed to go in a cage. But the longer they stay in that cage the wilder they become – and they outnumber us six to one.”

“Where are you taking me?”

Luckman realised he hadn’t actually explained his intention to the pilot. “Um, listen Eddie, I…”

“The Brigadier said no, Stone. He said…”

“I know what he said. I don’t care. Just take me home, will you? I’m sorry, but I’ll deal with the Brigadier later.”

Mel raised an eyebrow.

“You’re coming back to my place.”

It was only a five-minute flight from Amberley to Pullenvale. The chopper tracked loosely along the Brisbane River before continuing northwards over the suburbs on what was once the city’s western fringe. Luckman had bought two hectares of land in Pullenvale back when it was relatively cheap. Dotted between avocado trees were maybe a dozen tents in two rows behind an old weatherboard house. A tall cyclone mesh fence had been half completed around the boundary of the property.

“Looks more like a folk festival than a home. And what’s with that fence?”

He raised his eyebrows and nodded without offering further explanation. The chopper descended between the tents and a construction site at the far end of the block. Near the construction zone, Mel spotted what looked like a cage.

As they touched down Luckman flung the chopper door open and leapt out then helped Mel to the ground. “Five minutes,” he mouthed to Bell, holding up five fingers. The pilot nodded.

He led her past the tents towards the back stairs of the house. A soldier emerged and acknowledged her grimly. She nodded curtly then looked away. There were a few civilians out near the rear fence perimeter. They seemed to be digging a garden. One of them waved, and she waved back.

As they reached the foot of the stairs, she stopped him. “Why are they here?”

“We’re running a localised search and rescue operation. Looking for people, or food, or anything that could be useful in the near future. Come on, let’s get you settled in,” he urged, starting to climb the stairs.

She spotted a self-contained apartment underneath the house. Through the kitchen window she could see it was a mess. She was relieved to find Luckman’s place was quite the opposite. The house itself was old and charming; she could smell the age in the timber as they crossed the threshold of the back door. But the interior had undergone elaborate renovation. The lounge room was a large open space, painted brilliant white. A beam of dusky sunlight cut across the polished wooden floor in the direction of an old kitchen table. And nothing was out of place. Nearby striped linen ottomans looked comfortable and instantly inviting. Upon the wood-panelled walls hung a number of large Aboriginal art works.

The lounge room fed directly off the large eat-in kitchen, with another small table and chairs off to one side. To the other side, the kitchen led to a separate dining room tucked neatly in a corner of the house overlooking the front garden. A door in the dining room led to the front verandah.

Luckman’s expression gave nothing away, but he could see she was impressed and realised that pleased him.

“You do all this yourself?” she wanted to know.

“Well, I had a lot of help.” He was being coy. He knew full well what she was asking him.

“Friend of mine’s an interior decorator. Or at least, he was.”

“Boyfriend?” she inquired, apparently nonplussed.

“No. Never had one of those.”

“So how many other distressed dames are tucked away here?” she goaded.

“There’s no-one else inside the house. But you’re the first woman to grace our camp.”

“Sad truth of it is all dat neatness is a product of mental illness. He suffers from a category five OCD cleaning fetish,” declared a man behind them.

Luckman laughed, turned around and playfully slapped the dishevelled man on the top of the head, quickly following that up with a warm hug punctuated by lots of powerful back slapping lest it be viewed as anything other than a strong and manly show of affection.

“Mel, this is Seamus. He’s…”

“Your long-time personal companion?” she suggested.

“He wishes,” Seamus replied.

“No,” said Luckman, still laughing, “Seamus is the lodger who doesn’t clean and as of two months ago stopped paying rent.”

“Boyo, ya can’t be worryin’ about rent at a time like this. It’s a brave new world.”

Seamus held out his arm to shake Mel’s hand. Noticing her injury, he shook her left hand instead, somewhat awkwardly.

“Any day now I’m coming down to hose out your hovel,” Luckman insisted. “Then I’m doubling the rent.”

“Double nottin’ is still nottin’. Didn’t your daddy teach you that?”

“Pleased to meet you Seamus,” said Mel.

“Mel’s going to be staying for a while,” Luckman explained.

“Another stray,” she admitted, smiling meekly.

“She’s got a nasty bit of rope burn. Can you take a look at it for me?” Luckman asked.

Seamus nodded. “Sure. But where…?”

“Debrief. Mel, you can have the room at the end of the hall. Make yourself at home, I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Tears welled in her eyes and she hugged Luckman tight like a child who didn’t want to say goodbye.

“Oh come on now, it’s not that bad,” Seamus comforted. “I’ve got whisky, and I might have a bit of Mary Jane lyin’ about somewhere. You won’t even know he’s gone.”

Seamus bandaged her hand slowly and gently while she sat at Luckman’s breakfast nook. The vantage point gave her a broad view of the lounge and Luckman’s impressive art collection.

“Is that one up there a Rover Thomas?” she asked.

“I believe so,” Seamus replied.

“It has to be worth a fortune.”

Seamus smiled. “So its previous owner thought.”

She raised an eyebrow at his implication.

“We’re fairly certain it’s a fake. Its former owner was a wealthy Greenpeace benefactor. Once she worked out the painting wasn’t worth anything like the 70 grand she paid for it, she offered it to Stone.”

“As forgeries go, it’s a pretty good one,” she said. “But wasn’t Stone insulted by her back-handed generosity?”

Seamus shook his head. “Believe it or not, this was a good deed. The woman could easily have passed it off as genuine to another art rube – turns out the provenance on a lot of Aboriginal paintings is pretty thin. Of course, the arse had begun to fall out of the Indigenous art market by then.

“People used to think anything the big auction houses sold had to be genuine. But there was a court case a few years back about forged Rover Thomas paintings. A so-called auction house expert admitted they took on a lot of Aboriginal art at face value – in other words, no checking. Everyone was making so much money it was a golden goose they didn’t want to pluck.”

“What about all these other paintings here?”

“The fake Rover whet Stone’s appetite. These other ones he bought direct from the artists themselves. They are the real deal.”

“So you’re saying Captain Luckman worked for Greenpeace?”

“We both did. We were activists up until a few weeks ago. Then the world ended and Stone re-enlisted.”

“He’s a dark horse. Um, that is, I mean…”

Seamus smiled. “Honey, you have no idea. I’ve known Stone for over a decade, but sometimes I think he’s a total stranger to me.”

“I’m usually quite good at reading people,” she said.

“He’s no open book. Full of secrets. Good man though, good man.”