The Outing, page 26
“Thanks. Thanks a lot.” Robert's outstretched arm nudged the pencil holder.
They both watched it wobble, before righting itself.
“I'll see you tomorrow?” He smiled apologetically.
Her words followed him out, “Try not to worry, we'll sort something.”
On the walk home he looked up to a sky which felt like a different coloured blue and blinked away what he told himself was exhaust dust. He'd call Lauren too, he decided, and tell her he was looking for a job.
***
His momentum was frustrated by a lack of response from both Pete and Lauren, but looking out over the river, watching its progress to Moreton Bay he had a sense of moving somewhere too. He promised himself something cold and a relax before the sun switched off. Maybe even now. He half lifted an arm and sniffed. Perhaps after freshening up.
Coming back to the kitchen he noticed the red flashing message light from the hall.
Pete. He pushed replay twice, 'Hi, call back if you want. Tonight would be OK. Not the pub. Too crowded there and noisy. No hurry eh? Let's catch up soon. Dinner or something. Thanks for calling.' Was he trying to not say something? It sounded like he didn't want to say anything on the phone. Was someone listening? Regardless, it was saying yes, I'll see you. But he must know that I know how and who got me arrested.
He mulled over his reply, “Hi mate. Great to hear back. Won’t be tonight. Special night with my girlfriend. Going to that new place in Chinatown for a feed. The upmarket one. Maybe another time. See ya.” Hopefully Pete would decode the message and find him alone and in the noisiest cheapest and definitely down-market place.
*
Relief washed over him when Pete and Jimbo peered into the shabby cramped restaurant. He'd been getting looks from the owner stationed at the cash register near the door. It wasn't the type of place you took a leisurely meal. Two recent neighbours had already come and gone and the beer he'd been nursing was warm and stale. He wasn't game to ask for a water.
“Bit bloody cloak and dagger eh?” Pete's face was drawn, he looked at Robert in the eye and then turned aside before looking back, “I didn't have much choice, you know.”
Robert followed Jimbo's gaze, looking at the doorway checking, “Like any of us do? Come on, let's order. I've been getting looks. We'll talk later.”
As soon as they picked up the menus, the owner's son appeared and wrote down the English numbers in Chinese characters and disappeared.
“I have to ask,” Pete’s gaze wavered. “That night, it isn't what they say, is it?”
Robert's face soured, “Are you for real?”
“Sorry,” Pete’s eyes drooped. Tired and trapped.
Jimbo was looking past Robert's shoulder at a faded framed poster.
“I'm going to get straight to the point,” Robert said. “Blue told me Nichols and Andrews make regularly scheduled visits to see you. That you've got some kind of arrangement with them. And, the only other people who knew I was there that night, were Tank and Blue and they didn't say anything. Are you narcs or snitches or something?”
They both looked at him and said nothing so he continued, “The name Peter inadvertently came up at the inquest. Any ideas?”
Pete's eyes stayed on the red plastic tablecloth nailed into the sides of the table.
“This whole thing with Nichols is a shitfight,” said Jimbo. “Well and truly.”
“How about you tell me about it.”
“It was a plant,” Jimbo said, not waiting for Pete. “Pete never even touched weed, let alone anything else. Neither of us did. He was at a march. Got wacked around the head with a baton and thrown into the back of a paddy-wagon. And surprise, surprise, when he's being processed, you know, ‘empty your pockets, sir’, there's a joint. Like- Really? Who'd be so stupid. So of course, next thing there's a search warrant and under the mattress they find a plastic bag of white stuff. Could've been baby powder, you know, talc, for all we knew.”
“Why you then?” Robert said, “Just curious.”
“Buggered if I know,” Pete said. “Dumb luck? Most likely it's because when you're gay you can't make waves.”
“Turns out the police have special powers and it can all disappear,” Jimbo did a magician's wave of the hand with his chopsticks. “Including the original arrest for the heinous crime of walking down the street with a sign saying ‘make me legal’. But not yet. There's conditions. You gotta do something for me. We’ll give you the product. You sell it. If you don't you'll go to jail.”
“I said yes,” said Pete. “Sorriest day of my life.”
“Bastards,” Jimbo's lip curled.
Their food arriving gave everyone a pause.
“Can you bring another round of beers?” Jimbo smiled at the waiter.
“So,” said Robert, “they supply you with drugs they've taken off other people and you have to sell them.”
They nodded, “We get a cut. A small one,” said Pete.
“And when you said you thought you had an out, when we talked about Johnny, that's what you meant. You thought if you told them you knew it was them, they'd simply let you go. Let you out of the arrangement?”
“Fuckin' second sorriest day of my life,” Pete said.
When the beers arrived, Pete told Robert that he'd organised a meeting with Nichols and after having his arm almost twisted off his body and several whacks into his mid-section they'd demanded a name. “I didn't tell them,” Pete shook his head. “And then he started with this idea that it was me who'd been running away. That they'd all seen me. They'd been watching me because they knew I was selling drugs, and that I'd gone to get the money Johnny owed me. He hadn't paid up since his rich sugar daddy disappeared. And when he didn't come good, I beat the crap out of him. And then when he didn't get up, I threw him in the river. They said they'd followed me and watched me when I planted his wallet and jacket on the bridge.”
“They were going to pin it on Pete,” Jimbo said.
“We pretty much knew all this gay panic thing wasn't true,” said Pete.
Robert had been shaking his head while Pete told the story, “Nothing surprises me about them any more. But, I might have a way of getting you out of it. All of it,” he said. “But this next step is all in. From right now. I'll go for a bathroom break. You think about it,” he pushed his chair back. “You can give me your answer when I get back. Then I'll explain.”
“We're in,” they unisoned, before Robert had finished standing.
Chapter 53
The morning light was soft on this side of the building and Robert ignored his headache and overly full bladder, and pretended he could stay like this all day. He tensed his neck and shoulders and deliberately left them to soften of their own accord, into the pillow and mattress. Once relaxed, his mind wandered back onto the bridge and his walk home.
He'd stopped at the spot where Johnny was supposed to have jumped. An icy panic gripped him, even though it wasn't true. It wasn't just the shocking nature of the act, it was that those sick bastards could do this. Consign the families of the people they'd hurt or killed to the horror of forever being guilty of not seeing the signs, of not having reached out, of not having done anything to help. The callous disregard. No, the disdain.
He rolled over in bed, physically turning away from the thoughts. Anyway, there was no point to understanding them or why they did it. He didn't want to know.
'Yes, you do,' Johnny urged him, 'Come on. Pretend. Be the prosecutor.'
And he was there, seeing it like he was on a stage, playing his role in their drama before drifting back into a deep doze that started lifting as he became aware the light had moved. With it came the dawning realisation that his headache was MSG, not too much beer after all. He smiled. He was almost sure Dad used that excuse. And thoughts of Dad wound around strands of semiconscious thought.
He recalled their latest conversation when his dad told him the recollections of Joh he'd been sharing with Simon. How Terry Lewis had been the bagman for his boss, Commissioner Bischof, collecting bribes and protection money. At least till Bischof was dismissed and Lewis was banished to Charleville. Maybe being shipped off to the back of beyond wasn't a punishment after all. “I reckon,” his dad said, “it was to protect him. Out of sight out of mind. And then Joh, with his hypnotic balm of 'don't you worry about that', deflecting questions about why he, the Premier, was dashing off to Charleville. Lewis knew the ins and outs of the whole corrupt operation, so don't tell me he isn't up to the same caper now.” His dad's eyes had gone stony, “And Joh, with his pompous smirk, and 'next question'. He knows all right. That's why he put Lewis in charge. That’s why Terry Lewis is the Police Commissioner.”
Clever. Machiavellian even. But what, Robert mused, was the story behind it? It couldn't be a simple blackmail. There had to be something equally and mutually threatening about disclosure. Not only did they- do they, keep quiet, they support each other. If it was one sided, or even lopsided, it would never have gotten this far. But what?
One thing was certain. There was no way Lewis wasn't involved in this. What wasn’t clear was how much he knew about Johnny and what was happening before. And after. Robert shook his head. He knew the endless circle started with these questions, and got out of bed because regardless of whether it was beer or MSG produced didn’t matter. His headache wanted paracetamol.
*
Bored with waiting and bored with the housework he was doing while he was waiting, Robert walked to the employment office. Did arriving early count as keen?
At the head of the queue, he took the card from the pocket of his jacket and glanced at the name, Gemma Thomas. The similarity hit him with the reminder that Lauren hadn't called back yet. Or if she had, she hadn't left a message. He shifted his focus to the kids.
“You seem happier today?”
Why would she say that? “I was thinking about my kids, Emma and Thomas.”
She pointed at the chair.
Yes. Something wasn't quite right, despite the sun in her greeting.
“You may not have told me everything yesterday,” she said.
Robert's hand came up and confirmed the furrow. The other hand was tightly bunched out of sight, by his thigh. He loosened it, stopped rubbing his forehead, and took the filled-in paperwork for unemployment benefits from his pocket. There's always the car.
“Don't-” Gemma started and changed track, “It's not the end of the world.”
He hazarded a look.
“I thought I'd heard your name before, that's all,” she said. “And… it's not that easy, when you have a reputation like yours.”
“Here,” he handed her the completed forms. “I won't keep you.”
“No, please,” she sighed, taking them. “I looked into a couple of things. There's a cleaning job at QIT.”
“What?”
“The Queensland Institute of Technology? Maybe you've heard of it,” her smile was a friendly condescending. “It's not exactly world shatteringly interesting but-”
“I meant- doesn't matter.”
“And, it's walking distance, if you get the ferry across. But,” she brightened, “I have a sort-of olive branch, if you're interested. Only, it's unpaid.”
“Volunteer work?” he hoped he didn't sound too disappointed.
“You never know where it could lead though.”
He held his shrug in check, “Go on.”
“Callum O'Connor, at QCCL,” she paused to check he was with her.
“Civil Liberties?”
She nodded, “He wants someone with legal experience to work on gay rights issues, a kind of liaison person with CAMP.”
“And why me?”
“Do you want me to spell it out?”
This time he didn't stop the shrug.
“Look if you're not interested.”
“I am. But you know who I am. So why? Some kind of poetic justice? A joke? Send the gay panic killer to work on gay rights?”
“I don't think you get it,” Gemma's face was serious and something else.
“Get what?”
“I don't buy it.”
“Buy what?” he leaned forward.
She sighed, “Gay people sort of know other gay people.”
He frowned, “So you're…”
Her eyebrows rose. “And you know, most of the people I know, don't believe you did it. And now I've met you, I'd guarantee it. You're just not the sort.”
“And that would be?”
“Thug,” she shrugged now. “Violent, macho, punch now, ask questions later. Why'd you say you did it?”
“No choice. It's a long story. Anyway, that's the deal I've got, and if I'm not believable as straight, I'll end up in jail.”
“Or not?”
“I'm working on it,” his brows pulled tighter together. “Is it that obvious?”
“That you're gay?” she shook her head. “But did you ever wonder why people pushed you away, growing up? Put it this way, when did you realise?”
“Should we even be having this conversation?”
“Suit yourself.”
He looked around at the line of people growing behind him, “I don't want to take up all your time.”
“Classic,” she said. And when he frowned, “Avoidance. Would it be life threatening to actually come out?”
Her face was open concern, nothing more. It was encouraging, “Right now?” he said. “It just may be. I told you. I have to be convincingly straight. They have to believe it.”
Her eyebrows did a quick well-then lift. She placed his form into a folder with a number black-inked onto a tab alongside his name and put it on her pile. Then held out her other hand, “Here. Do you want these or not?”
He reached over and took the paper slips with the position details.
“Let me know,” she said. “I need the work stuff of course. But I mean let me know what happens. If you need help or, I don't know. Let me know. OK?”
“I will. Thank you, Gemma Thomas,” his eyes softened. “I won't forget that name.”
He caught her words as he was walking away, “Bet they're cute kids.”
They are.
***
At home he put the two job cards on the coffee table and stared at his future. So what do you want to be when you grow up? Fireman, astronaut, doctor, international sports star, part time cleaner at the Queensland Institute of Technology.
The wry attempt at humour fell over. He saw himself in primary school, hands bunched at his sides, as usual, while everyone else was excitedly stabbing the air with theirs. While he'd listened to them, all he could think was 'normal'. A boy who's good at being like other boys. Who the other boys don’t pick on. In his mind he moved from the classroom to home and then to the backyard and the garden shed. What was it about the garden shed? He had no idea. He looked up. The pinpricks of light merged suddenly and fiercely bright, and he opened his eyes. The breeze lifting the living room curtain had let in the afternoon sun.
He got up and dialed the QIT Maintenance Department.
No, he didn't have commercial experience. Not that sort. But he knew what a mop and broom were, and had used them. And he could follow instructions. And he could do the paperwork and orientation today at 4.30. Yes pm. And he could start tomorrow morning, 4.30 till 9.30. So much for public transport. Is there on-site parking? Soap-bubble visions of a second-hand bicycle floated behind his eyes. The thought of him wobbling to work on one, popped them. Not a strong point. On the bright side as interviews went, he'd passed with flying colours and without even having to make an appearance.
He looked at the number on the next card. Do I really want to do this?
'C’mon. Get on with it,' Johnny insisted.
He dialed.
Yes, he could come in this afternoon and meet Mr O'Connor.
A lot less questions. Great. Not. He needed something to settle his nerves. Tea. The mum version. He laughed out loud and put on the kettle. He would have tea and talk to Lauren.
He left her another message and took the tea to the bathroom, sipped and examined his face with his hand, avoiding the mirror but catching sight of it anyway. He ran a tidying-up razor over it, dry. At least his shirt was wrinkle free. He pressed cold water onto his face and then sat on the bed ruminating about the civil liberties job, before leaving for the ferry.
It might all amount to nothing. But there's every chance no-one else will even want it. It's unpaid. What if they haven't heard about me, and then find out? Would it be a public hanging, or will I just slink off quietly back into the mud?
‘Stop it. Think. What do you know about civil liberties and gay rights?’ Johnny’s voice.
Only what you said while I half listened... too busy watching your hair fall over your eye and flicking it away. And your mouth moving. And thinking about other things.
It wasn't clear if his groan was desolation or desire.
He imagined Callum O'Connor's face when it dawned on him who was sitting there, pretending to be a serious candidate. He'd be angry about one thing at least. His wasted time.
He considered phoning up to cancel when the rebuke in his head came in Johnny's voice again, 'Or you could stop thinking about yourself. Tell'em who you are and ask what you could do to help them.'
He reached for the extension and called the house. How many times now? Still no answer. He left another message and looking for a diversion, he called Marnie.
She hadn't heard anything from Lauren. Yes they can meet up tomorrow and talk about the flat. Yes, Nikki's good. He put the receiver back. Maybe Nikki would be home and he could ask her what Johnny meant.
'You know what I fucking mean,' the voice in his head was loud and clear. 'It's time to stand up, not just pretend to. Come on. You can do this. You have to do this. You can't wimp out on me. No isn't an option.'
