A Fool's Spark

By Anthony Fielding

The novel examines parallel love affairs, one inside gaol where life is lived among power groups dedicated to advancing the dark side of human nature, the other in straight society where life is lived inside the boundaries of ethical orthodoxy. The two stories intersect; both couples confront danger, even death; each love story poses a threat to the survival of the other; both, in a sense, prevail, for in this contingent environment there can be no necessary winner.

“I loved the depth, complexity and individuality of the characters – they lived and breathed for me and the back stories were so adroitly handled that at no point was I left with any uncertainties or loose ends. The story was woven and written skilfully and could be read on any number of different levels, as all the best stories should be... I did feel though that this was a tale that would linger long in the mind and that was because of the well-drawn personalities.” Marilyn Messik Author, Copywriter, Editorial Consultant

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291983258

Book preview

A Fool's Spark

A FOOL’S SPARK

Two love stories,

a touch of evil,

and a tilt at the absurd

by

Anthony Fielding

Finalist in the Fiction Writer of the Year Category (unpublished manuscript) of the 2007 Writers, Artists & Readers Month (WARM) National Literary Awards, Sunshine Coast Literary Association (SCLA), Queensland.

Copyright

Copyright © Anthony Fielding 2014

eBook Design by Rossendale Books: www.rossendalebooks.co.uk

eBook ISBN:  978-1-291-98325-8

All rights reserved, Copyright under Berne Copyright Convention and Pan American Convention. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author. The author’s moral Rights have been asserted.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organisations, events or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover design and illustration

by Margaret Fielding

Dedication

For Margaret

BOOK  ONE

At any street corner the feeling of absurdity

can strike any man in the face.

Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus

1. A carelessly sculpted woman

Beth Maguire is hopeless in the morning. Alarm clocks, wake-up calls, you name it, all fail except on the rarest of occasions. They fail today. She awakes briefly at about 5:00 a.m. until, mumbling obscenities, she wanders back inside the chaos of her dream. Three hours later, she awakes again. But the memory of her bad dream persists and so vividly that her mind slips back into its preconscious anxiety, recreating the troubling image of her father, of his head, curiously detached, the eyes alive, staring, accusing. For a while, she hovers between consciousness and sleep, less frightened now but angry with her father.  She knows it is she who is being unfair. The poor bastard was never a violent man. He hadn’t abused her as a child. God, he was (is?) a regular pussycat. Everyone said so. He hadn’t denied her toys, shelter, education: hadn’t raised his voice to her in all her twenty-six years, never beaten his ex-wife, Beth’s mother, now living in Melbourne, or Brisbane, or some-bloody-where, with her umpteenth bloody boyfriend!

Then what had he done, this perfect father of hers? Well, he’d died, that’s what. In his city office. As though she hadn’t mattered and he could just go off and have his self-indulgent cerebral haemorrhage all by himself, in private, without warning – the bastard, without even getting Angela, his irritating mother hen of a secretary, to phone her first, or leave a message at her school; God, she, Beth, could easily have left her Year 11 class to fend for themselves for five miserable sodding minutes.

Groaning, she rolls out of bed. Glancing at the time she sees it’s only five and something hours since she’d dragged herself to bed. Then nausea strikes, followed by the familiar sense of panic as she realizes that the litre of red wine she’d consumed recklessly the night before is still lousing up her brain.

She stumbles towards the bathroom. At least the headache hasn’t happened. And it is Thursday, isn’t it? And so she does have a light load at school – doesn’t she? Four periods on and four off and a half-lunch supervision. Thank God for small mercies. God, though, she’s in a foul mood! And disgusted with herself. In the bathroom, she finds just enough courage to look into the mirror. Angrily she applies her make-up wondering who in hell would want to spend time with a depressed and drunken English teacher who hates kids, hates English literature, passionately, now, this minute, forever.

‘Anyhow, what the hell,’ she growls, then flops down on the toilet seat, passes what seems like gallons of pee, remains there, groaning, head in hands, for the headache, like a bomb with a slow fuse, has struck after all. At least she hasn’t thrown up. But there is no joy in the thought and she maintains her bent over position until, gratefully, her bowels empty, and she remains sitting quite still, elbows on knees, hands cupping her chin, her mind curiously blank.  A minute later, a breakthrough – her headache begins to subside: three minutes later, under the shower, the water set cool but not cold, she washes her hair, marvelling at the depth of her stupidity the night before.

****

Ten minutes later she gulps down her second cup of coffee. Pausing, she glances at the image of herself in the kitchen window, pours the last dregs of plunger coffee into her cup and sits down. Her heart is pumping at a good rate. At least she’s beginning to feel approximately alert. She drains the coffee then phones the school, explaining that she’s running late but not to worry since she has the first two periods free.

Half an hour later, driving west in her five year old Celica – a graduation gift from her father – she heads for the Motorway entrance at Strathfield. Beth’s second floor flat is nearly brand new, the new appliances with glittering irony reminding Beth of values she isn’t yet ready to discard. ‘Entrapment,’ she says aloud as these recurrent thoughts mock her. ‘That’s what it’s all about, downright moral entrapment.’

Beth is twenty-six, short, just two inches over five feet, plump but not yet fat. She isn’t beautiful, or pretty, but neither is she merely plain. Her face, not quite round, or oval, is first of all squarish, but then it isn’t squarish. The face defies ordinary classification; there’s a strong hint of sexual power around the mouth and so certain men, most of whom Beth finds depressingly repulsive, are attracted to the diminutive, carelessly sculpted, young woman. She has the quality some men define as personality.

Soon she’s nearing the Nepean Valley, west of Sydney, and the high school where she teaches English. Still brooding about her dead father, she takes the Northern Road exit skirting the eastern edge of the city of Penrith.

2.  A man of contradictions

Not many miles from Beth’s Strathfield apartment, Smith, soon to figure indirectly but significantly in Beth’s life, has just been released from a Sydney jail. Smith is a small-built, inconspicuous little man. His hooded, slightly vacant eyes produce a sinister cast which, even when it suits his purpose to do so, he cannot entirely conceal. On the left side of his mouth, a trace of downward twist, established during childhood, sometimes appears briefly before rapidly disappearing. When it appears Smith seems strangely less sinister, as though the twist suggests something contradictory in the way nature and experience have conspired in forming his character. Though only minutes ago he was locked up in his prison cell, he shows no hint of defiance, or any evident sign of relief or satisfaction that he’s now a free man. His dress complements his demeanour. He wears shabby, ill-fitting clothes and heavily stained running shoes. Carrying his meagre effects in a plastic shopping bag, he could easily be mistaken for a Sydney derelict. The derelict image though, is deliberately exaggerated, a means of diverting attention from the serious criminal business now permanently on Smith’s mind.

And so, his eyes downcast, his shoulders stooped, presenting a figure more likely to be pitied than feared, Smith pauses in front of the prison doors, places his bag on the footpath and slowly lights up one of his thin, hand-rolled cigarettes. For the time being, he reminds himself that patience is required. And caution. He must stick to his priorities, avoid slip-ups, stay alert. 

Though he is a good distance from his destination he has decided to walk. He still has much thinking to do before his rendezvous with English Charlie, his new patron and boss.

3. English Charlie

It’s an hour later. Now very close to English Charlie’s Kingsford residence Smith pauses to double check the hand-drawn street map prepared for him on the inside by Old Sam, the jail’s longest serving inmate. Satisfied about the accuracy of his location, he takes out a cigarette. He lights up, holding the cigarette between his lips, the smoke curling up into his eyes making him squint. The squint adds an extra toughness to his appearance, a gimmick he’d cultivated from hard experience in the exercise yard. For a while he stares towards the city then sets off again, his jacket now slung over his shoulder, his faded blue shirt damp and clinging to his shoulders. After a while he pauses again, mops his brow then draws fiercely on the last of his cigarette. As the hot smoke sears his lungs he works hard at keeping the boyish image of his lover, the murdered Kenny Wallace, out of his mind.

A few minutes later he reaches the small mansion in Kingsford, the least flamboyant example of English Charlie’s several city residences. The late Federation style house stands on nearly three quarters of an acre, its high stone walls topped with a triple row of embedded nails, points upward. Mr Charlie, as he prefers to be addressed, is well known for his prudence. Unlike some of the senior members of Sydney’s underworld, he avoids all but the most essential publicity. In his legitimate activities he operates through intermediaries. In other, ‘essentially corrective activities,’ as he refers to them, except in the most extreme emergencies, he maintains an arms-length approach.  His refusal to tolerate defiance combined with his army of loyal and skilled enforcers, ensures his rank and position in the criminal world remain intact. His contacts among Sydney’s ruling élites are widespread but pursued with discretion. His activities in real estate, gambling and the illegal sex trade, for example, are, to the envy of his colleagues, carried out with the clever manipulation of people and money. Of course he is feared, for, despite his renowned good manners and his avoidance of gutter language, essentially he is ruthless and without conscience. He is especially intolerant of threats to his power. Les O’Rourke, an inmate and one time pre-eminent gang boss in the jail from which Smith has just been released, was such a threat. Now O’Rourke is dead, and a new regime installed which pays undisputed homage to English Charlie. Others with similar ambitions to O’Rourke but with a care to their survival, think again, then postpone their secret plans. Anyone who can arrange the killing of Les O’Rourke with such finesse has to be taken very seriously indeed. Yet, though Charlie is feared he is respected for the consistency of his behaviour. Self-educated, he possesses some grasp of psychology; he understands the efficacy of bread and circuses; when you work for him he is generous and kind; if he is especially pleased with you he may give you a new car, or a trip to Hawaii or Bermuda, or, if it is your known preference and you possess good manners, affability and an impeccable respect for personal hygiene, a weekend at Surfers Paradise with one of his better class of women. If you make a serious error of judgement, especially one which whether by default or design compromises Charlie’s power you had better leave town quickly, though this will provide no guarantee of your survival. Details of Charlie’s previous career in London remained obscure, but rumour has it he is unlikely to return there.

****

Smith rings the bell alongside the wrought iron gate at the entrance to English Charlie’s driveway. Fifty yards away, near the house, two current model cars are parked; a 700 series BMW – obviously the boss’ car, and a V-8 Commodore which Smith guesses is earmarked for his use.

A man appears, strolling towards Smith. Heavily built, well dressed, youngish and good-looking, maybe thirty-five or six, he moves with the loose-limbed gait of a man who works out regularly. Examining Smith’s shabby clothes and the plastic bag, the man finally calls out.

‘You want something?’

Smith does not respond. Instead, he looks beyond the man towards the house. No one else is in sight. It dawns on him that now he is out of prison he is no longer an important part of the de facto power structure English Charlie enjoys on the inside. Better be doubly cautious, he decides, watch his back, give nothing of his true feelings away to English Charlie and his cronies. So he turns towards the man now standing on the other side of the gate. Their eyes meet.  With the blandest of expressions the man speaks in an unhurried voice.

‘You got business here, matey!’

The man’s voice isn’t unfriendly. 

‘Mr Charlie’s expecting me.’

‘Oh, yeah?’

This time, there’s the slightest edge to the man’s voice.

‘I’m Smith.’

The man’s eyes widen just a little.

‘Smith? Sorry Mr Smith, didn’t know it was you.’ Without hurrying the man swings open the gate. ‘My name’s Harry,’ he says, holding his hand forward. Harry’s handshake is firm but brief. ‘Mr Charlie’s waiting for you inside.’ Smith strides forward but Harry, striding faster, reaches the house first and opens the door.

‘After you, Mr Smith,’ he says.

Smith nods to Harry and goes in.

The house is large and old. The uncovered floorboards creak underfoot. There is no furniture in the hallway and a musty smell suggests the house is used infrequently.

Passing a smoke-filled room, its door slightly ajar, Smith sees a group of men playing cards.

‘Eddie and the boys,’ explains Harry matter of factly. ‘Some of Mr Charlie’s staff.’

Continuing down the central hall, Smith is ushered into a large reception room at the rear of the house.

Feet apart, Charlie stands in the centre of the room. Portly, fifty-fiveish, he’s dressed casually in a lightweight wool jacket and tailored slacks. It seemed natural that he should be the most dominant feature in the room which, unlike the Spartan fittings elsewhere in the house, is comfortably furnished with lounge chairs, bar, TV and hi-fi, a wall of bookcases filled with hard backs, several leather bound sets. The windows are curtained with heavy drapes. No outside light penetrates the room. A thick Berber carpet cushions the sound of shoes on the floor. The air in the room is warm, smells of fine tobacco.

Stepping forward, Charlie holds out his hand.

‘Smithy,’ he says in a voice that is carefully modulated, the tone neither hard nor soft, its accent distantly London East End. A smile plays around his lips. They are thin lips, oddly out of place against the round face, the slightly puffy cheeks. The eyes though match the lips. Smith knows those eyes. They remind him of O’Rourke’s eyes.

‘So, here you are, Smithy. It’s very good to see you.’

‘Good to see you, Mr Charlie.’

Charlie guides Smith to a large comfortable chair.

‘Cigar?’

‘No thanks,’ says Smith taking a cigarette from his tobacco tin, then leaning back against the chair as Harry moves forward, brandishing a lighter.

‘Something to drink? Coffee, tea, something cold?’

‘Black coffee’s good.’

Charlie nods to Harry.

‘About your family store, Smithy, ‘smiles Charlie. ‘All taken care of. The money from the sale is in the bank. A nice return on your, uh, late father’s investment.’

Smith does not immediately reply. To distract himself, he sips coffee. The mention of his father is disturbing. About the sale of the Croydon Park store, he feels nothing. The proceeds? The four hundred grand? Nothing. A sense of nothingness. About Charlie? That’s a different matter. Now the business inside jail is finished, the shoe is on the other foot: now, Smith needs Charlie far more than Charlie needs him.

‘I appreciate what you did for me while I was inside, Mr Charlie,’ Smith says.

Charlie’s smile remains undisturbed

‘And I, you, Smithy,’ he says. ‘Now, let’s be sure we’re both clear about your requirements.’

‘I’ll need at least two weeks,’ says Smith, ‘maybe three.’

‘Not a problem,’ replies Charlie, expansively, blowing smoke. ‘I expected something of that order. Ah, yes. Two to three weeks should be sufficient also for my, ahem, needs. And then we can all relax, eh? And you, my friend, can get on with your life. Make some serious money?’

Smith feels his anger rising. Be cool, he warns himself.

‘Yes, Mr Charlie,’ he smiles, then, playing along with what he is absolutely certain is Charlie’s carefully orchestrated charade, he glances down at his clothes. ‘And, I’ll -’

Charlie raises his hand, palm outwards.

‘Everything’s taken care of, Smithy. The very least I can do. Clothes, car, your downtown apartment.’

Charlie gestures and Harry steps forward.

‘Your car and apartment keys, Smithy,’ says Charlie.

Smith takes the keys.

‘Thanks’.

‘No less than you deserve, Smithy. I’m sure you can’t wait to get back into a…shall we say, a civilised lifestyle.’

‘That’s right, Mr Charlie.’

Charlie draws on his cigar. Gradually his smile transforms into a harder, businesslike expression. .

‘Now, about joining my team. I’m sure you’ll settle in easily. If you have any questions, Harry is always available,’ he says, carefully ashing his cigar. Then, standing, he walks over to the bookcase, withdraws a volume, slowly flicks through its pages. ‘For your permanent staff, you’ve got Bernie Gawlor and Jersey Kerrigan,’ he says, his eyes now examining the chosen page. ‘Gawlor’s bright enough. Reliable, even tempered. And knows his place in the firm. He’ll help you settle into your management role. He is getting a little old for the job and could be…how shall I put it…perhaps a touch less indulgent with the girls. But he’s worked for me for fifteen years, and he knows all the ropes.’ Charlie traces a line of text with his forefinger, then looks up. Smith sees the eyes, realizes again they remind him of O’Rourke’s eyes, that night when.... ‘Kerrigan?’ went on Charlie, ‘Well, I’m sure you know the type. Unhappily not the brightest of my people. I wouldn’t have hired him except that his brother Max, in Melbourne, does favours for me now and again, and though Max is, well, of no serious threat to my business activities, it is important to maintain as much harmony as we can among our competitors.’ Charlie pauses, draws gently on his cigar. His eyes move until he’s looking steadily at Smith. ‘Kerrigan’s problem is twofold, Smithy. He has a short fuse and he doesn’t always respect the girls.’ Charlie smiles. ‘Anyhow, someone who’s handled O’Rourke won’t be bothered by Jersey Kerrigan. In any case, as I mentioned, you can call on Harry if you need extra assistance. Right, Harry,’ he adds, still smiling at Smith.

‘No worries, Mr Charlie.’

Charlie’s eyes are down on his book again.

‘Beautiful things, books, Smithy. And yourself? Do you read much?’

‘Not much.’

‘You should read, Smithy. Books enrich the mind. Isn’t that right, Harry?’

‘Certainly is, Mr Charlie,’ says Harry, deadpan as usual.

Charlie’s eyes flicker briefly towards Harry then he reads from the book..

‘Erasmus,’ he says, ‘Man’s mind is so formed that it is far more susceptible to falsehood than to truth. What do you think of that, Smithy?’

‘Whoever he is, I’d say he’s dead right.’

‘Charlie’s smile plays around his lips.

‘Yes, I find it a very useful axiom.’

Charlie opens his lips into a broader smile.

‘I won’t forget what you did for me, Smithy.’

‘I did what I had to, Mr Charlie.’

‘You solved a big problem for me.’

‘You’re welcome, Mr Charlie,’ replies Smith, aware of the serious game he’s playing with this man.

‘Remember: you need anything, anything at all, just call me.’

‘I will’.

Charlie beckons and Harry steps forward holding a leather briefcase.

‘Your perquisites,’ says Charlie.

Smith opens the briefcase. Inside there’s a Smith & Wesson .45 automatic pistol and box of ammunition: also an American Express Gold Card clipped to a thick wad of hundred dollar bills.

‘Thanks.’

‘Not at all, Smithy,’ says Charlie. ‘I thought that, well, under the circumstances, perhaps it might be smart not to draw heavily on your own money for a while, you know, cause any undue attention from our friends in the constabulary while you’re attending to your, ahem, corrective affairs. Of course, in every other respect, you’ll have complete freedom of action. Oh, and if you should need more cash at any time, just mention it to Harry.’

Smith nods and takes Charlie’s held out hand. Both men catch each other’s eyes. Charlie’s palm is dry and his grip hard. For perhaps a slightly too long moment the two men’s eyes remain locked together until Charlie pulls away, saying:

‘Now you really must get out of those clothes, Smithy. Harry, show Mr Smith to the guest room.’

A few minutes later Smith sits in the driver’s seat of the Ford Falcon. Dressed in new clothes, he’s wearing a gold Rolex and Gucci sunglasses. He’s more certain than ever that he’s correctly sussed out English Charlie. With cynical pleasure he wonders what poor unsuspecting bastard is next scheduled to wear the Rolex. He turns the ignition key and the big six cylinder engine fires. A ghost of a smile covers his face as he looks towards the house. Charlie, backed by Harry and two other suited men, is standing at the front door, his hand raised in a friendly salute. Smith waves back then eases the Ford down the driveway.  Glancing at the figure of the crime boss in the rear-vision mirror, he mutters between clenched his teeth: Fuck you, English fucking Charlie: Fuck all of you.

****

Twenty minutes later Smith pulls into his allocated parking space in the basement of his city apartment building. Soon, lying in the spa bath of his eleventh floor unit, his body begins to relax. The tension in his shoulders subsides. He slides deeper in the water until foam splashes over his chin. Closing his eyes he hums a tune. His hum is barely audible, behind closed lips, inside the privacy of his skull, soothing, mantric, the way he’d started humming after Kenny’s death. More than anything the humming reminds him of Kenny. It is…was…Kenny’s favourite tune. Kenny had hummed it from the moment he’d moved into Smith’s cell. Smith has never learned the name of the tune. Anyhow, the name doesn’t matter. It is sufficient that it belonged to Kenny, remains a part of Kenny he will always possess.

4.George and Connie

Earlier