Lake Friction

By Ron McCarthy

Len’s new coaching assignment takes him to a lakeside community, and he overhears thieves discussing sabotage to force government action on climate change. He deals with the thieves, but this leads to payback.

He and his niece are introduced to the water sports and fishing pleasures of the lake, but murder attempts on friends soon steal his focus and provide links to the sabotage plot. He tries to discover the activists and intervene.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Oct 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664101647

Ron McCarthy

Ron played state grade soccer before a career leading to chief engineer of Australia’s top telco. His work took him to the Silk Route in Asia and to Ma Bell companies in America where his accent scored. He spoke to the Pacific Forum and played a golf match against the Fijian coup leader, Brigadier General Sitiveni Rabuka. Writing fiction is his new passion.

Book preview

ONE

I’m too hot. I’ll pull the cover down to my knees. This stretcher sags. That might be it. In all my travels, I’ve never had this much trouble getting to sleep. Why can’t I relax? Maybe I should have gone back for the hotel bed. There’s that noise again. My thoughts won’t leave me alone. I’ll roll over and adjust my pillow. That might help.

I know I’m close. That curry taste is hanging on. Those parents did a good job. There’s that click again. Am I dreaming, or is it real? Maybe the ladies have dropped something. Where’s my wallet? I can’t feel it. Did I leave it on the cupboard in my hotel room? No. That can’t be right. I used it on the way here to buy the bread. There’s that noise again.

I’ve got to switch off and get some sleep. I’ll think back to my playing days. I’ll relive some of those magic moments. I need to make a good impression tomorrow. There’s that bloody click again. That was louder. I think I’m going to enjoy coaching juniors for a few weeks. Have the ladies dropped something? No, they left ages ago. It’s coming from outside. It’s annoying. That must be what’s keeping me awake.

Len is sleeping in the club room of the Morisset United Premier League football team – trying to sleep, that is. Earlier, he helped three volunteers prepare food for tomorrow’s under-18 ‘friendly’ against the visiting Bankstown team. He decided to sleep on site to help early volunteers set up the nets, the flags, the seating, and a gazebo before the bus arrives from Sydney. It took them quite a while to make those sandwiches and scones to have tomorrow before the bus takes them home.

His mind is still busy. He’s only been here one week, with lots of new names to learn, as well as having to assess the players’ skills in both the senior team as well as the under-18s now. He’s only just arrived to coach the newly promoted Premier League team and has been asked to take the under-18s for the next three weeks while Mick, their usual coach, has been called away to the UK to see his ailing grandfather.

Len rises and puts on his sports shoes. He was already wearing his tracksuit. He leaves the club room to look around and find where those noises are coming from. The canteen section is locked up. That seems clear. That’s where they prepared the food and stored it. Then his eye is caught by a flash coming from the direction of the groundsman’s shed. That’s where the mechanical plant is kept. That doesn’t look good. No one should be there this late. Bob Cook told me he would come at daylight to do a quick mow of the playing surface. He should be home, fast asleep.

His shoulder muscles have tensed, and his body is crouched slightly as he tries to sneak up silently to the side of the shed. His eyes lock onto the eve above the wall, looking for a repeat flash of light. There’s just enough moonlight for him to see that the door is ajar and a truck has reversed a low-loader up. It could be a torchlight moving around inside the shed.

His breathing is becoming more rapid and shallow, and his stomach muscles tighten when he hears conversation. He shuffles forward, placing his ear closer as he tries to catch what they’re saying. They obviously don’t expect anyone to be around and are talking freely. No need for rush.

‘This mower looks brand new. It should do the job nicely,’ says one.

‘Do you want me to take it straight up to Mandalong?’ asks another.

‘Yeh, you’ll have to so we can use the trailer to pick up that loader for the big job,’ says the first one. ‘Tell Cutter to use the hand winch for this so we don’t wake the whole fucking neighbourhood.’

‘Why do you keep calling it that big job all the time? What’s all the mystery? What’s it all about?’

‘It’s big, all right. Don’t you worry. That mob my dad’s tied up with wants to get something done about climate change. The whole world’s gonna hear about this one. That’s all I can say. They don’t want any snooping Feds to get wind of it, so I’ve been told mum’s the word for now.’

‘Fair enough, but I thought you’d trust me to keep it quiet. Where’s the loader coming from?’

‘I think Cutter’s got it lined up from the golf course since it’s been closed up. That’s next.’

Then two men push out the new Toro ride-on mower toward the low-loader’s ramp, and one speaks to a third, who then starts unwinding the winch rope, ready to haul it up.

‘Hey! What’s going on here?’ Len shouts as he emerges from around the side.

They all freeze. They turn toward him. The one closest takes a few steps forward, trying to identify him.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ he says. ‘What are you doing here, and what’s your interest?’

‘That’s what I’m asking you. Bob Cook’s coming early to use that mower, so you guys must be out of order!’

‘I’ve never seen this bloke before. Let’s get on with it,’ says the one holding the winch rope.

‘I’m telling you to return that mower to the shed. I mean now. You guys are out of order.’

‘Come on. Let’s shut him up.’ He drops the winch rope and grabs the winch handle.

They move up to Len, the leader holding the torch. As they get close, the torch is flashed into Len’s face, partially blinding him, while the third man slips around behind him.

This is not a new situation for Len. He grew up in Termez, a city on the Uzbek border, a city occupied by one hundred thousand Soviet troops during their war with Afghanistan. There were many nationalities involved, many faiths, many different cultures and backgrounds – a recipe for conflict, theft, and brutality, a place where he needed to be street-smart – but he is new here at Newcastle. He wants to integrate, not alienate. Three is OK by his standards. So if he has to, he’ll hurt but not cripple.

Suddenly, the one from behind grabs Len in a bear hug to restrict his arms and movement. At the same time, the torch holder raises it to strike Len’s head, but Len is quicker. He launches forward to headbutt him savagely on the bridge of his nose, causing a spray of blood and the sound of breaking bone. His surge forward has lifted the one from behind clean off the ground. Len swings him round so his flailing feet strike the torch man squarely in the gut. Len swings his arms up to release him from his back, spins again, and then knees him in the groin. He stoops over, grabbing his punctured jewels, and Len karate-chops him. He collapses to the ground. Two down. The last man drops the winch handle and raises both arms.

‘Take these two away, and don’t try anything like this again,’ says Len. ‘If you do, I’ll let the police know I can identify you.’

Len is not sure where these guys fit in. Maybe they do have permission to borrow the mower from time to time. Maybe arrangements this time went askew. He’ll ask Bob tomorrow. They picked the wrong way to go about it anyhow. Their problem.

Len watches the winch man manage the other two into the truck, lock the loader tailgate, and then drive away. He pushes the Toro back into the shed and tries to close the door, finding that the lock has been levered off and the door won’t close properly. This confirms it was to be a theft, giving him a more satisfied feeling for how he reacted. It’s unlikely that they will return tonight, but he decides to move the camp stretcher into the shed to finish his sleep.

I’ve made some enemies here already. That’s not good. That could come back and bite me. The one who called the attack – what was he called again? Clubber or Cutter or something like that, I think. The one with the winch handle. And he didn’t even get involved in the end. He just threw in the towel. He’ll come back at me, I’m sure. I’ll have to watch out for him. It’s a pity it’s so dark. I didn’t get a real good look at him. I wonder what that talk about a big job was all about.

It’s still dark when Bob Cook wakes him up by dragging the door open to get the mower out.

TWO

Len has picked up a new coaching assignment at Morisset, a South Lake Mac Regional Centre twenty-five kilometres south of Newcastle NSW. Having successfully coached the UNSW Premier League team in Sydney to its first grand final, he has been offered the task to coach Morisset United following its new elevation into the Northern NSW Premier League. The under-18 team’s coach, Mick, has flown to Scotland for three weeks to visit his ailing grandfather, and Len has agreed to look after his team as well as the senior team for the few weeks during his absence. Yesterday, Len had been in the club’s canteen, helping a working party prepare food for the under-18 ‘friendly’ against Bankstown, due to arrive today by bus from Sydney with friends and supporters.

Len is awoken by a screech as the metal door is dragged open and Bob Cook marches in, frowning, to see Len on the stretcher.

‘What’s been going on here, Len? How come the lock’s busted and you slept out here instead of in the club room?’

‘I had some visitors trying to steal your mower.’

‘What the hell! Who were they? What happened?’

‘I didn’t ask their names or get a good description in the dark, but if they’re locals, a couple will be easy to pick up because of their injuries.’

As Len describes the incident, Bob scratches his head, wearing a mask of scepticism and confusion. Len tries to explain his background in Termez years before embarking on his football journey. Bob shakes his head and pushes the mower out.

The sky is turning from its dark grey to a wispy light, highlighting the frost on scattered moist patches of grass. Soon, morning pre-dawn light will give way to a clear blue sky, and the moisture will lift. Bob starts his work with the Toro. Len watches on to see Bob’s routine and then offers to help by emptying the wet grass cuttings after each run. He takes them to a hollow pointed out by Bob in a back section of the outer ground.

Then Jock Jakes turns up. He’s older, he’s short, and he’s a bit bow-legged, but Jock’s large wrinkled forearms indicate a life of hard work. He picks up one of the heavy nets, Len the other, and they carry them, one to each goalmouth. Len uses a stepladder to hang the nets to the crossbars. They bind them to the uprights and then stake them out.

The two ladies who helped Len and Jock with the food preparation the previous evening then arrive with their sons. The boys are given the task of erecting the pop-up gazebo and putting out the corner posts and flags. Len is impressed with the work ethic being displayed and joins Jock, who has now moved on to set up the barbecue for when more early supporters arrive. They’ll be looking for a hot breakfast.

Soon, match preparations are finished, and the adults assemble at the barbecue, where Jock is busy with tomato and eggs on the hotplate and hot water in an urn for tea and coffee. Fresh buttered bread sits on a side table, covered with a cloth. He keeps a running commentary going with those who step up for their food, waving his spatula tongs as if conducting the orchestra. There’s plenty of banter and good humour in the air.

‘The boys are excited for you to coach them ’til Mick gets back,’ says Mary, the older of the two mothers who helped with the food. ‘They’re a keen bunch, and they won the under-16 comp last year. Some of them want to get into our top team.’

‘We want to keep them together if we can so they don’t drift off to bigger clubs where there’s more money floating around,’ says Jock, grandfather to another of the boys. ‘You’re the maestro. You saw them for the first time last Saturday. What did you think?’

‘I was impressed. Their team spirit’s good, a credit to Mick’s work. Their general play was good too, but I picked up a couple of group skills I’d like to polish up. If parents and players agree, I’d like to run a day clinic tomorrow to get coaching started. It’d be a good way for the boys to get to know me and my methods.’

‘I think some parents could be interested to watch that,’ says Jane, the other mother who helped last night. ‘Did any of the boys catch your eye the other day?’

‘Two in particular, but I don’t want to mention names ’til I know them all better.’

In truth, both the central striker and one of the backs had really impressed him. At this stage, he saw them as exceptional raw talent but needing extra work. He wasn’t sure of their names and who belonged to who yet, but he knew with juniors, this could easily lead to complaints of favouritism. So he stayed well clear.

‘We’ve been told different stories about you, Len. One is that you played World Cup for Poland. Is that true?’ says Jock.

‘Yes, it’s true. That was some time ago though. But it’s how I came to get recruited as a marquee player and migrate to play for Canberra in the A-league. It changed my life, and I’ve been trying to get more of my family over here ever since. You’ve got a great country here, yet many of you don’t realise just how lucky you are.’

‘Poland’s where they shoot goalkeepers if the team’s losing, isn’t it?’ says Jock with a wide grin.

‘I think you’re confusing Poland with Corsica, Jock. I have heard about a football being shot at there. Funny things do happen. You’re not planning anything like that here, I hope. What about you anyway? What’s your background? Are you retired?’ Len asks.

‘I was a professional fisherman most of my working life. Then the State decided to close the lake to professionals and compensated me for all my nets and equipment. Luckily, I saved enough for super, and with the age pension now, I survive OK. And I still fish as an amateur, and I keep seafood on the table.’

Len takes an immediate liking to Jock. He’s clearly a hard worker with a sense of humour and a keen supporter of these boys. He’s well liked by one and all, that’s obvious. It’s supporters like this that create good harmony.

‘Where did you fish, what did you catch, and where did it all finish up?’ asks Len, totally ignorant on this subject as he grew up and played mainly in Central Asia and spent his spare time in the snow.

‘Well, I grew up in Dora Creek, the next stop up the line. When I started, I worked for one of the fishing families on the creek. We’d go out at all hours for the catch and then come back in as early as we could to get the catch on the train to the market in either Sydney or Newcastle, depending on prices being offered. Eventually, we had powerful winches in our boats instead of having to hand-haul, and we dragged nets in from all over the lake. The different catches were seasonal and included mainly mullet, tailor, bream, and flathead. The lake prawns were the biggest money-spinner for us when they were on. I could make as much as $600 in one night at the peak. That’s way back prices too. You’ve got to have a go fishing while you’re here. You’ve got to find time to fit it in.’

‘I’ll do my best, Jock, after I’ve settled in. I haven’t even had a chance to see the lake yet. I believe it’s pretty big.’

‘Sure is,’ says Jock. ‘The lake’s our largest coastal saltwater lake, twice as large as Sydney Harbour. But that’s not all! We’ve got good beaches on the East Coast, and the beautiful Watagan Mountains are a stone’s throw to our west. You’ve got to see the lot.’

‘I will. But look, most of the boys are here now. I’d better shuffle them into the dressing shed to get them organised. Thanks for your help earlier, Jock, but I better get going now.’

As Len turns to walk away to the dressing shed, another in the group listening to the discussion moves to grab his attention. It’s Jane Lexan, the other mother from last night.

‘Len, my son Phil keeps a tinny locked to a tree down Dora Creek. I’m sure he’d love to show you some of the lake anytime you want after school finishes,’ she says. ‘He’s a keen angler too. He goes out after bream when it gets dark. Keep it in mind. He’d be excited to be able to boast about hosting a World Cup player. It would give him bragging rights at school.’

‘Is this creek very big?’ he asks.

‘It’s about one hundred metres across where Phil keeps his tinny. And it’s about four kilometres from the two bridges to the mouth of the creek,’ she says. ‘The Dora Creek floodplain is the lake’s largest and covers a huge area, including parts of Morisset here. The creek collects water from four or more tributaries and is clean and tidal at the tinny. It’s beautiful in its own right, and a movie of it was made called A Walk Down Flood Lane.’

‘Sounds good. Thanks, Jane. I’ll keep it in mind. But I’ll need some lessons on how to fish.’

Walking away, Len reflects on the people he’s met already since arriving. Jane is by far the most attractive. Good figure. Good personality. Clearly a good organiser. He saw that last night with the food preparation. Someone said