City on Fire

By Larry Votava

Journalist Ewen Langtree’s random viewing of a family photograph sets off a chain of events that uncover a conspiracy not only involving the Australian superannuation industry but the entire Asian financial system as well.

Set in the aftermath of a second global financial crisis, in Perth, a city sweltering within a heatwave, Ewen’s search for the truth plunges him towards imprisonment and financial ruin. Desperate to fend off both, his salvation rests on finding the answer to one question—is Francis Hogmyre, Australia’s richest stock trader, just another cog within the global financial machine, or does he belong to a New World Order?

A story based on friendship and fear, City on Fire starts as a slow-burning conspiracy theory that heats up halfway through and races towards a believable surprise ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Larry Votava
• Release date: Feb 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005642518

Larry Votava

Larry Votava is an Australian author who lives in Ocean Grove, a Victorian coastal town.His second novel, City on Fire, stems from living in Perth, Western Australia, for twenty-two years. Perth, the most isolated capital city in the world, and one of the wealthiest per capita. And with wealth comes corruption, something the author has seen firsthand. Although a work of fiction, the possibility of certain events in the book actually happening does exist.His first novel, the Mahogany Ship, although fiction, has some truth to it — the legend of the Mahogany Ship does exist, fishermen having sighted the boat high and dry on a beach near Port Fairy Victoria in 1836. There were numerous sightings in the years afterward, but eventually, the shipwreck disappeared into the sand or myth. The author, as a child, holidayed with his family for fourteen years at the caravan park at Port Fairy — hence the campground setting. Some of the kids' exploits in the novel are based on fact. As a whole though, the novel is a work of fiction.At the moment, the author is working on his third novel, The Nullarbor, a journey into the broken heart of Australia's outback wilderness; a journey the author has taken many times throughout his thirty-year career in mineral exploration.As always, the author's love of the ocean manages to sneak its way into each novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Perth

Thirty-four years ago.

The Thai driver stared through his windscreen at the closed double gates centimetres from the car’s grille.

The wrought iron inched back. He nudged the Mazda forward. Eventually able to squeeze the car through, he accelerated along the cobblestone driveway. At the sandstone mansion’s front terrace, he braked, jumped out, sprinted across the marble tiles, flung open the door and ran for the stairs.

For the driver, arriving a few minutes late for any job wouldn’t normally raise a concern, except when dealing with the Peppermint Grove clients. From the first day when they’d handed him an instruction sheet and a backpack stuffed with hundreds, he’d guessed correctly that both the clients and the job were twisted; so twisted that his primary focus became his resolve: he’d dropped himself into this mess, he’d pull himself out. This was simply another contract—see it through. Two months down, one month to go. Stick to the routine, three times a week.

At the top of the stairs, he turned left, opened a hallway wardrobe, changed into a Thai army uniform, walked to a closed door halfway along the corridor and waited silently.

No matter how many times he saw it, the naked light globe above the door looked odd among the antiques and oil paintings. When it flashed, he would need to act. While he watched for that signal, his concentration kept drifting to the room beyond the door, to the cries from the four-year-old boy pleading in Thai. Although he understood the torment inflicted on the same boy each session never involved sex—the child was always clothed—and the soft twitch strokes never bruised or injured the kid’s skin, it did little to quell his disgust or his concern whenever he thought about the mirrors. They covered every wall in that room, and their reflections, the way they diminished into the distance, seemed to push the kid’s psychological suffering way beyond the physical.

In his haste to arrive on time, he’d worked up a sweat. He sniffed each armpit. Even though he wore a clean army shirt he stank and that clashed with the instructions concerning smell: shower before arriving, wear no aftershave, do not smoke, use no deodorant or perfumed soap.

He sniffed the air. Neutral as frozen food.

He checked his general’s uniform for lint, tried to centre his peak cap by feeling the visor’s gold embroidery—

The light flashed.

For the twenty-fifth time, he flung open the door, rushed in and rescued the child from the three, fully dressed Thai businessmen.

Chapter 2

Perth

Present-day.

Ewen walked into the kitchenette. Morning, B. Watcha got?

Without taking her gaze off the jug, Bernadette rolled her wrist and handed over a group photo.

Ewen recognised Francis Hogmyre but not all of the ten Asian men and women who stood on either side of the Caucasian elder. Francis, the stock-investing powerhouse. Mr Recluse, one of the wealthiest people in Australia. Wealth. The word reminded Ewen to check his Golden Windlass shares when back at his desk. What’s with Hogmyre? Has he enough money now to form another United Nations?

The jug clicked. While pouring, two drops landed on Bernadette’s hand. Frig! She flicked her fingers. You realise a newspaper is owned by tight-arses when the broken Nespresso doesn’t get replaced.

She wiped her hand on his shirt sleeve. She had a strange effect on him, her extroverted personality so honest he found it refreshing. The stout farm girl, whose rounded face, sandy hair and rural smile perfectly matched her country and western twang…country enough for her as a teenager to land a gig in a television ad for sheep drench.

UN all right. She snatched back the picture. The ultimate bleeding heart liberal trying to fix the world’s woes.

Doing what? Everybody knew Francis Hogmyre titbits. Winding Bernadette up; a first-rate start to the day.

Jesus, what do you do at your desk all day, sleep?

Enlighten me, B.

I assumed you were. Not practising yoga these days? Just howling at the moon like the rest of us, huh. His bemused smile and lack of bite made her sigh. "Of all the other charity events he’s ever sponsored, decades ago he took disadvantaged kids in. Orphans from Asian countries. Kids who, supposedly, didn’t have a chance. Brought them back to Perth. Educated them and returned them to their birth country. Bright sparks. Most found their way into politics, law, or finance. And, might I add, are kicking goals for their countries. Hogmyre was an orphan, and you can’t knock him for helping the poor souls. But I can knock the prick for not giving interviews. No comment being his favourite comment. The guy’s a blockbuster movie but all the public ever sees is the trailer. When you’re a billionaire, you’re public property as far as I’m concerned."

She slurped her coffee. Anyway, what’ya working on?

The coup in Thailand.

That’s not work, Shrivel Dick. That’s a primary school assignment. You have to travel to Thailand to report on Thailand.

Pay for my airfares and I’ll go. No, wait. I’ll stay here and annoy you.

You’re welcome. But stay too close to me and you might actually snag a girlfriend.

Ewen couldn’t help taking the bait. I have a girlfriend, as you know.

Girlfriend. How could a good-looking blond like yourself possibly bed that sergeant of the fun police? She’s so angry her face looks like a stop sign with teeth. She handed over the photo and rolled her eyes as she strolled out. Keep it. It’ll remind you that people actually do achieve success in life.

He squeezed his chamomile tea bag and dropped it in the bin. Chamomile tea smelt like a distant swamp, so it wasn’t his first choice for a morning pick-me-up, but he’d persevered because a colleague kept insisting the herb’s calming effect would do him good.

He smiled to himself. Good on them.

His smile held as he crossed the foyer, pushed open the newsroom door and walked into the clatter of a successful tabloid. The Western Times newspaper prided itself as an independent. So independent, it nearly didn’t exist. Luckily, three elderly businessmen noticed the declining trend in e-book sales, followed Warren Buffet’s lead on newspapers and rescued the Western Times at a basement price. From there, similar to giving CPR, they watched the paper cough and splutter until it finally started breathing. More than breathing, their newspaper turned a reasonable profit.

The paper occupied the two top floors of the Hitchcliff, a five-storey renovator’s delight, a heritage-listed Federation brick and iron building muscled by skyscrapers on either side and rear-ended by a multistorey car park. The poor old Hitchcliff was always in shadow except in December when the sun cooked it for one hour each side of noon. The workroom consisted of open-plan desks and no privacy. Windows formed three walls. The southern view took in the CBD’s Adelaide Terrace, while east and west stared into skyscraper bellies. At the southern window, overlooking the Terrace, stood the editor’s glass-fronted office. No privacy there either, because even though the blinds worked the editor rarely closed them. Much to the reporters’ disgust.

Ewen sat at his desk, central to the room, opened his laptop, brought up a photo his contact had sent from Bangkok and started knocking the article together.

Thailand. He’d loved the place ever since his first visit fifteen years ago and often wished he were back there. And not just to catch up with friends or contacts. This military coup was comparable to no other, and the country had suffered through a few. Different reasons had sparked different coups, and this time Buddhist monks raged alongside the protesters. He studied the image his contact had sent. Central to a jostling Thai crowd carrying placards and bamboo sticks, stood a monk, a red cowboy scarf pulled over his mouth and nose. The reason for the monk’s anonymity: a handgun alongside his thigh. What a picture, he thought. What a nuthouse our northern neighbours are sometimes.

Thoughts of Asia turned his attention to the photo Bernadette had given him. Out of the ten Asian faces, one was Thai, but which? Their ages? Anywhere between early twenties and early forties. He recognised Zeya from Burma. And only because Fortune, the Australian bank, had collapsed. This lack of private and limited public details showed Bernadette was right: the Hogmyre family had always managed to dodge the limelight. Francis Hogmyre. How old? Roughly seventy? Rugged in a sense: thick, grey hair, strong jaw, heavy brow, no glasses, sunny eyes and confident mouth.

That confidence triggered the opposite in Ewen—the stock market had just opened and he needed to check the damage on the Tradewin’s platform. One glance at his Golden Windlass shares clamped his mind and drifted his attention to the blue tape stuck over the laptop’s camera lens. He stared blankly at it for thirty seconds.

Even after he’d turned off his computer, he still had to deal with his face reflected on the black screen and the criticism set deep inside the eyes. Criticism he shut off by folding the laptop and going for coffee.

*

When Ewen left the Silver Arms Hotel the sun sat low in the west, and although skyscrapers shadowed the CBD, the city’s cement retained the day’s heat like a crockpot.

Friday night, and even though suits and skirts had crowded into every watering hole along the Terrace—the unseasonal weather herding the city’s inhabitants towards aircon and ale—Ewen could only sink two middies with his work crew; his hot share tip had derailed his day. He’d headed home.

On his walk towards the mall, he couldn’t help noticing the smell. The city reeked like a backpackers’ dorm, the pong so human it seemed as if every drop of sweat, every drop of homeless peoples’ urine and every drop of spilt beer had scented the doorways, side alleys and bus stops, scents that thickened as the unseasonal hot spell dragged on. Perth needed rain he concluded, water to flush away what the council workers couldn’t.

Upon entering the packed Hay Street Mall, he stared up at the web of Christmas decorations. They didn’t generate any joy because he couldn’t stop inwardly berating himself about Golden Windlass.

What a bastard. Receivership. Delisted. I brought four grands worth two weeks ago at two cents. They’d jumped to three cents. At three cents, I should’ve sold and pocketed two grand. But I didn’t. I got greedy hoping they’d fly to ten cents and I’d make a killing. Idiot. I’m down ten grand for the year and it’s a bull market.

Two teenage girls exiting David Jones bumped into him. No scent, no perfume, nothing to hide; flawless. They excused themselves, laughing and swinging their designer shopping bags as they glided away. He loved their strut, or more to the point their black skirts and arses, the waves in their long blonde hair, the way they were beautifully lost in adolescence.

When the girls turned off into an arcade, his misery returned.

Golden Windlass.

On his way past the bronze Percy Button handstand sculpture, he rubbed it affectionately. Yeah, you and me both upended.

At a lunch bar, he bought the smallest bottle of water possible, guzzled half and kept legging it west up Hay Street towards home. A busker played electric guitar. Ewen enjoyed the buzz it produced. He dropped a two-dollar coin into the case. Twenty steps on his buzz faded and the crowded footpath closed in.

Near His Majesty’s Theatre, he eyed the shops across the road: Apple, Oroton, Prada. A woman, no more than thirty, sunglasses on, strutted from Gucci into the backseat of a double-parked silver limousine. Money. He slammed the empty water bottle into a rubbish bin and kept marching, told himself once again to walk away from his feelings, to distance himself before flash anger morphed into a mood. He lacked the will though; a yearning existed, a compulsion to flog along the footpath like a skinhead barging right on through.

At the Kosciusko adventure shop, he slowed to read a closing down sign painted across the street window. A closing down sale within a city of Christmas decorations. The whole town’s closing down, he mumbled.

Along the street’s gentle incline, towards what he affectionately called the bogan end of the street, he stepped into the newsagency, greeted Chen the owner and paid for a slikpik and a birthday card. Inner-city living; at least he wasn’t far from home.

On the Mitchell Freeway overpass, he peered over the handrail and paused for a moment. Cars disappeared beneath his feet, their road noise sucked into silence, one after the other, four lanes of continuous mayhem, muted. The bushfire plume still dominated the South Perth skyline. Although most Perth residents now ignored the fire—it raged one hundred kilometres away, moving west towards the sea—Ewen still watched on in fascination. The grey plume’s ability to block out blue sky and dwarf any South Perth high-rise, tree or tower reminded him of the Himalayas—too big and too beautiful to be true. He gazed back from where he’d walked, to the tallest skyscrapers, the setting sun gilding their crowns. Beyond the CBD, the Darling Ranges dominated the eastern horizon, a blue-green smudge in the hot evening light, the Blob advancing towards the city.

In West Perth, he turned left and crossed the road into his street, Government Avenue, noting how the closer he walked to the parkland across from his apartment, the louder global warming sounded—cicadas singing into the night. He knew European tourists found the insects a novelty, but now they’d become novel for Aussies—on the increasingly hot nights in a few brightly lit suburbs the shrill echoed as constant as tinnitus. The cicada species responsible for the noise, the males’ mating call, was most probably Cyclochila australasiae, commonly known as the green grocer. He knew this technical jargon because he’d done his research and concurred with the scientific community; it is one of the loudest fucking insects in the world.

Jacarandas lined both footpaths, their seasonal purple flowers long gone, burnt by the heat. Grasstrees, like crowned bollards, grew along the median strip. His side of Government Avenue housed modern office complexes and medium rise apartments, and only three old buildings similar to his remained. Opposite, the grassy park sloped up to the heritage-listed Hale House, an impressive red brick building built in 1925 as a school manor. It now housed the premier and cabinet room, the electoral education centre and the Western Australian constitutional centre.

As always, before Ewen opened his street-front gate, he turned to the three flag poles in the park. Each pole flew one flag: the Australian, the West Australian and the Indigenous Australian.

He saluted them all.

He pushed on his gate and felt it pull away from its hinge. As ritual demanded, he lifted it back onto the lock to close it. He eyed his front door, took two steps towards it, and bowled an imaginary full toss across the tiny paved courtyard. The share market. Hit for bloody six.

At least his unit remained profitable.

During Australia’s greatest mining boom, his small, West Perth Victorian residence housed a gold exploration company. After the boom crashed, real estate investors organised a full inside reno for the aged building, splitting it into two apartments while still retaining the heritage façade. Luck staying on the building’s side found the refurbishment completed before the bank moved in and the residence became another foreclosure statistic of the Chinese credit crunch, GFC2. At that time in Perth’s history, Ewen boasted spare cash and work, the apartment’s price was manageable and the bank wanted to offload. Time to grow up—he’d pounced.

A black, longhaired burmilla shot out the opened doorway. Ewen waited, holding the door ajar as the cat patrolled the courtyard. A car horn blared. The animal froze, eyes peeling. The warm, heavy air added bass to a passing vehicle exhaust. Ewen stepped from under the porch eave and stared at a ten-storey apartment block that dominated his neighbourhood. Air conditioners hummed like drones. He clicked his fingers. Moggsie.

Quick as a kitten, the cat arrowed inside towards the fridge; undoubtedly an inner-city cat.

Ewen switched on the reverse cycle and showered off his sweat. As soon as he slotted himself into the white leather couch, Moggsie jumped on his lap and took control. The animal’s purrs vibrated through his hand. Ewen clicked the wall TV’s remote. News 24. He churned through the channels, and did a complete lap back to 24. The Thai coup headlined. The Royal Thai Army, having dissolved parliament and declared martial law, had banned all political activities, suppressed protesters and censored media. Some politicians were missing, presumably under house arrest. For a country that had experienced nineteen coups in the last eighty-odd years, it appeared stock standard except for the gun-toting monk. Monks periodically performed protective ceremonies for demonstrators, thus their involvement in the protest. They themselves demonstrated sometimes, but mostly in non-violent ways. He asked himself, why the gun? Just too surreal. The news anchor went on to describe the Thailand Stock Exchange’s dramatic free fall. At least he didn’t have any shares there.

Moggsie’s engine throttled back. Sure enough, the courtyard gate creaked open, prompting the animal to jump off Ewen’s lap, pad across the tiles to the front door and arch its back in readiness as the lock clicked and the wooden door opened a touch.

A slender foot in a black high-heeled shoe inched through the gap. A girl’s voice flirted with the cat, Hi, Moggsie. Don’t dart out. Janet slipped through the doorway, hugging an arch file to her black shirt.

Everything always black, mused Ewen. Black pants, black shoes, short black hair.

You haven’t fixed the gate yet, she quickly mentioned. What a crap day. I don’t know what’s worse; representing arseholes in court or losing their trial. Have you fed the beast?

She untangled the cat from her ankles and dropped him on Ewen’s lap. You have. Well, he’s hanging around me, hinting he wants something.

He adores you.

I reckon he adores food more.

Here. Ewen offered her an envelope. Happy birthday.

She dropped her folder on the breakfast bar. Ta. She pecked him on the cheek, took the present and opened it.

Ewen. Let me tell you, a foil, a Lotto ticket and a card doesn’t equate to love.

You enjoy a smoke.

I’m a lawyer.

You still enjoy a smoke, though.

And a slikpik?

You might win.

"The odds are roughly eight million to one. Is that what our winning relationship has grown to? An eight million to one longshot?"

While she eyed him, Ewen acknowledged that Bernadette’s comparison came close; a stop sign with teeth.

Want to go for a birthday meal? he asked.

Where? Hungry Jacks? Have you booked?

If you don’t, just say so. No need to act the bitch.

Moggsie kneaded Ewen’s shorts.

Bbbbitch!

The cat stopped.

Well, I’ll show you bitch. She grabbed the foil off the kitchen table, strutted to the door, opened it and turned back. Smoke all right. I’m off to Joan’s for one. Her eyes twigged. She strutted back to the table, snatched the Lotto ticket and steamed out the door.

The cat resumed its kneading.

You don’t look surprised, Moggsie. Only took two minutes. All too common now, hey.

Far from feeling uncomfortable, a quiet solitude settled, a contentment that floats to the surface after resignation had been reached. He cupped both hands over the animal’s spine. The cat idled its engine. Janet’s perfume dominated the room. For some strange reason, the smell reminded him of napalm in his favourite movie, Apocalypse Now.

Instead of spending another Friday night alone, he phoned his best friend, opened the front door and stepped into night air as balmy as a Bali evening.

Chapter 3

The locals had said for months that summer had come early to Perth. Mainly because it hadn’t rained for sixty days and the November nearly finished stood firm as the hottest on record. The sky had threatened showers numerous times, tropical rain clouds drifting down across the continent, skirting the state’s southern flank and piling in the east like deformed Michelin Men. But they never delivered, water never returned, and Western Australia’s sunny capital just kept getting drier. With spring nearly over so was the likelihood of rain.

The warm evenings felt comfortable though, and in the Hay Street Mall, late night shoppers waved their wallets as Christmas slowly closed in. The lively shoppers added a slight hum to the brightly lit commercial hub; a hum Ewen cut straight through on his twenty-minute march across the CBD to Lon’s apartment.

The contentment he’d experienced ten minutes ago had faded because Janet was never far from his mind, a mind that would rather stew than search for solutions. To stew always involved a rehash of the relationship. And that’s what he did, his pace increasing as memories became too close for comfort.

They were different in many ways, something he’d found attractive during the honeymoon phase. A year in though, a major similarity became apparent; anger. Janet’s was outward; his inward and contained. So contained, this inability to let fly at a specific target banked his anger to the point where what began as a minor judgement sometimes broke into an emotional flood. No highs, no lows, just a draining sensation that dragged out all the mental flotsam it could carry.

She’d tabled the main topics many times: his brooding, his self-absorbed silence and angry outbursts. He’d once explained to her, when in glasshouses one shouldn’t… It hadn’t worked. For them, anger didn’t exist as differences of opinion. No, they manoeuvred anger like chess pieces until someone achieved checkmate, the hiatus between battles a passionless affair until that lack became the angry excuse to start pushing the first pawn again.

In a way, his insight, knowing healthy anger liked a specific target, compounded the problem; he now knew he was angry. Years before, he’d also felt anger, stewed for days, but it didn’t matter back then because no one had psychoanalysed it—he’d lived in ignorant bliss.

Mid-way through the CBD, an elderly guy on Barrack Street caught his eye and pulled him from his brooding. A dichotomy stood before him, the bloke’s neat dress—cotton shirt, walking shorts and suede shoes—pitted against confusion: the crinkled face, the fragility of balancing arms, the way he fronted a building’s blank stone wall before turning back to the street, lost eyes searching.

Ewen went to check on the guy’s wellbeing, but the pensioner drifted into a souvenir shop. He was too neatly dressed to raise any real concern and too much of an impediment to Ewen’s fermentation process.

*

Towards the river end of Adelaide Terrace, outside the Howard Suites high-rise, Ewen punched his mate’s code into the foyer’s security pad. Three years ago, Lon paid cash for his trendy apartment. Cash. At least that thought always produced some joy.

The painted outside walls smelt fresh and oily, blue and yellow, prefab, concrete slabs that slotted together like Lego and blended in with the surrounding multistorey offices. Ewen took the elevator to 4 and walked the carpeted corridor to door C.

The door opened. His childhood friend, black hair neatly gelled into a quiff, sides combed back to complete the Teddy Boy style, swept an arm into the apartment. Enter, he said. Enter.

Even in black jeans and white T-shirt the guy always looked immaculate, reflected Ewen. So neat, the tiny bottom lip scar became a feature. If you keep doing the Scar Face Colombian scene you’ll give yourself away.

Lon closed the door behind his friend. I’m safe. No one watches classic movies these days. I’d have to be a superhero before anyone took any notice.

Ceiling downlights spread throughout the open-plan softened the room. Oregon floorboards reflected a golden hue. To the right, a polished, three-metre jarrah slab, stumped by stainless steel poles, acted as the kitchen’s showpiece. A floor to ceiling street-facing window formed the southern wall. One step back from the window, a three-piece leather suite upon a red Turkish rug shaped the easy area. Next to the suite, making full use of an empty space, was a swing. It hung from the ceiling, nautical ropes suspending its wooden seat half a metre above the floorboards. Apart from a flat screen TV, only two other items adorned the walls. Oil paintings. Sidney Nolan originals. One depicted bathers; the other, an abstract head, its eyes so lifelike it felt like a third person in the room. When less is more. Opulence furnished by drugs, balls and a reputation from another time.

Ewen moved to the window and peered through the cedar blinds at the eight-storey police complex across the road. Modern architecture had constructed the cop shop’s facing wall as curves, each curved apex an office window. Lights glowed in ten random rooms, and the other unlit offices made the one-year-old complex appear derelict. A white Jap coupe approached from the street’s river end, blue LEDs from its undercarriage electrifying the bitumen beneath, the car floating on this phosphorescent light like a jellyfish caught in a current. As it cruised past the cop shop, the driver kicked it in the guts. The double-glazed windows muted the rumble from the six-inch exhaust to a light hum.

Going out? Ewen asked, turning back into the room.

Lon’s gaze dropped to his black jeans and cowboy boots. Later. Why? He checked out his friend’s tan shorts and green T-shirt. Want to join me?

No, he said shortly.

Sooo… Cynicism stretched the vowel but never the friendship, how are we feeling tonight?

Fine.

Sure. Similar to fine dining where the expense at the end is unavoidable.

Ewen stayed quiet.

Lon continued, Judging by your gloomy look, you wanna get stoned.

Correct.

Lon took a tartan shortbread tin down from the pantry cupboard and dropped himself into the three-seater. Between the couch and the window sat a burl coffee table. The table’s only ornament, a red Sherrin football, nestled into a sap cavity. Some anger management needed? Some neuro-linguistic programing?

No shrink logic, please.

Okay. Where’s Janet?

Off initiating world war three.

I thought she’d already pushed the button.

Ewen grabbed the football and plonked beside his friend.

Lon had to stop smiling to lick two papers together. He rolled up and handed it over. Guests first. He pointed a remote at the smoke alarm near the door and then to an extraction fan in the kitchen.

They smoked, staring at the neon police sign across the street, knowing nobody could see through the tinted windows.

Takes the edge off, said Lon.

His friend, football cradled in his lap, nodded.

They both sat in silence for a minute. A mouldy ganja scent settled over them.

You’re not saying a lot? enquired Lon.

No, I’m not. Lon had exceptional taste in dope and furniture; the leather couch Ewen had sunk into was as comfortable as the Prado’s bucket seats. I’m getting so much grief off Janet. Like, as soon as I open my mouth.

Or mine.

Ewen checked out his mate.

She’s chewed my ear a couple of times lately.

Ewen’s attention drifted back to the police station. No movement in the glowing upstairs offices.

Pray for peace, said Lon.

Most peace advocates have been assassinated. Very wise words.

True. You need a Sex Pistols quote. Speaking of sex, are you giving her a decent rogering?

That’s dropped off to nothing.

She might be gay.

Lack of sex doesn’t mean she’s gay.

I’ve seen her at the Caprice a few times.

Heaps of straights go to that hotel.

But those two traits mixed with her anger. You know how angry I used to be.

Join the club.

And I do confess it’s probably the reason I started so many teenage fist fights.

You were a cunt for a while.

Cunt? Did I fight you...no answer, huh. Well, frustrated or angry, one feeds off the other. The mental experts say, Lon finger quoted, what you feel is lacking in your life will determine your destiny. I was angry and lacking direction and a sense of self. Therefore, I did a degree in psychology to cure the world. My world in retrospect. Three long years as a mature age student to find out I’m gay. No more anger. No more Tarzan lost in the jungle."

You love telling that story.

There are similarities. You must admit.

A taxi cruised past the cop shop.

Speaking of psychology, said Ewen. Have you done any work lately?

"The firm rang yesterday. I said no. I’ve had a gut-full. Getting paid sweet FA to sit and listen to people’s miserable little lives. My last client, Jesus, I seriously wanted to lunge across the table and scream into his face, man-up. No, I’d much rather turn into a rich drug dealer and leave my psychoanalysing for my friends."

The drug road’s been travelled.

Just a few more deals to boost my super.

Ewen spun the football on his left hand, and smiled straight ahead.

Aha. The sarcastically raised eyebrow. My psychoanalytical mind tells me more is happening than a gay girlfriend. Let me brew a mint tea and draw the information from you.

In the kitchen, Lon worked his phone. Neil Young sounded through the tiny, wall-mounted Bose speakers.

The dope enriched the music.

Cars cruised the street.

Your parents listened to fabulous tunes, commented Lon, sitting back down.

Ewen sipped his tea. I feel like cream.

Lon laughed. Munchies?

Not to eat. My skin feels creamy. Like whipped cream. Strong mull.

There’s strawberries in the fridge. If I place one on your crown you might find nirvana.

Ewen pointed the football across the road. I’ve seen her before.

A trim police officer skirted round the security bollards and bounded up the front steps. Crime scene. The Bilgoman shooting.

I must say, it’s such a delight that the WA police, in their infallible wisdom, should build their major crime headquarters across the road. I mean, it’s entertaining, not to mention practical. As in, I can monitor them. I’m not sure if it will increase the apartment’s resale value. It may interest another drug dealer though.

Ewen nodded towards the road. On the footpath, a bearded street dweller pushed a sack trolley cradling a lidless forty-four. Illuminated beneath a streetlight as he trudged past HQ, the white guy, dressed in a red checked shirt and Eagle footy shorts, flipped the bird to the building and continued into shadow.

How does it descend to that?

Homeless Sid, or Janet and you?

Sid.

I don’t honestly know. Trauma since birth maybe. Or, like a lot of folks these days, the mining boom crashed, global financial crisis number two beckoned, welfare reforms became too tough and he slipped through the cracks.

Wide cracks. Ewen’s blunt tone generated silence. He broke it. Did you ever read the analogy about the world’s wealthiest who could all fit onto a double decker bus? They owned as much wealth as the poorest half of the global population?

I read it. Lon studied his friend. Have you also noticed, it’s been so hot lately even the derros are wearing shorts?

Ewen sensed himself under observation, and realised he wasn’t anywhere near smiling.

Victims, said Lon. I can tell where your mood is taking us.

Ewen rolled his eyes round to his friend.

You are sitting on a couch next to a psychologist.

Beyond the window, HQ, with all its windows, became a comfortable anchor point for them both.

Neil played Harvest.

After the track, Lon said, You’ve hit middle age. Given up the ciggies. Sort of cut down on the piss. Taken up the inevitable yoga. But no. My guess is your mood has nothing to do with Janet, mortality, or that you smashed a few thousand on the stock market. His eyes slewed across to his friend.

Ewen kept staring out the window.

My guess is the TAB.

Ewen nodded.

Can’t shake it, can you. A millennium ago, you did a bad thing for a good cause. But, as I’ve said a hundred times, if the police charge you the judge will need to act on the bad part. You’re thirty-five years old. Do you want to spend the next ten in goal?

A teenage couple walked through the police car park, passed through the steel bollards and upped the steps into HQ.

This topic is rearing its head again and again, said Lon.

I know. And you’re right; I can’t shake it. I never used to think about it. But lately, shit, it’s starting to bend my mind.

The teller?

Exactly. Her face; the fear in it. It’s a mental picture that, instead of fading over time, is now getting clearer; even when I’m stoned.

She wasn’t harmed.

No. But elderly. Defenceless.

Elderly to a twenty-year-old might suggest forty odd.

They stared at HQ, listened to Neil.

She would’ve been fine. You’re the one stuck in the loop. Step off. Lon laughed and slapped his mate’s leg. At least you robbed the joint for a good cause. Speaking of which, my cause and clients need attending to. He opened the tartan tin, removed a knife and pressed the handle button. A blade sprang. Two GFCs. Bought the great mining boom to its knees, then to its toes, along with a huge chunk of the West Australian work force. Drugs, whether it’s to meddle with the mind or medicate the body, society is its slave. And I, dear fellow, have become its master. He reloaded the knife, lifted his jeans and tucked the blade into his boot. He winked at Ewen. Dangerous place, Northbridge, so the reborns reckon; homosexuals and drug dealers everywhere. He stood. Coming for a drink?

Nuh. Sighed more than spoken.

Some food? Give the bourbons a landing pad.

Ewen raised his eyebrows to his friend. I’m not gunna go home and get maggoted, if that’s what you’re implying.

Lon pursed his lips, and laughed. Hang here if you want. Roll yourself another number.

Ewen slowly rose and returned the football to the burl table. You’re such a hyperactive bugger.

As they reached the door, Lon turned round. I hope you don’t break up with Janet. She’s a lawyer. Meaning, the only thing that might be holding you back from apologising to the TAB teller is embarrassing the missus.

Chapter 4

When the inmates began screaming and banging on Ewen’s prison cell door, he yanked his blanket over his head and began to formulate a fight strategy. Of all the screaming voices, one stood out, a female’s, yelling his name.

He awoke, alone in bed in his apartment. Irritation trampled any relief. Wrapping himself in a sheet, he marched through the unit and yanked open the front door.

Janet swayed on her feet, knocking on air.

I’m leaving you, she slurred through Shiraz lips. I’m going to live with Joan. She snapped to attention. I’m gay.

She stumbled.

He waited.

She continued, No guilt. No letting the boyfriend down softly. She swiped her arms around for dramatic effect, or balance. A head-hunter hunts heads; they’re not interested in lopping off arms.

Sadness straightened her smile. She turned on her heels and groped her way back through the darkness.

Bullshit, he said to himself. I don’t believe this.

Chapter 5

At lunchtime the following day, Ewen rang Lon and told him the news. They decided to search for a wave.

Lon drove his red BMW sedan past Cottesloe’s Norfolk Pines, past the surf lifesaving clubhouse and pulled into the only spare bay in the Cove car