Aramanthes' Wall

Chapter 1

Few workable cars remained in Sumalang, so few in fact that the people tended to disregard the laws made for their use. For instance, there seemed little logic in crowding to one side of the road when empty space existed on the other. Spreading their bikes and carts to the other side improved the traffic flow and this seemed a smart thing to do. Besides, they were a gentle and amicable people who could make such things work.

Sometimes a car would come. Not always, but sometimes. When one did, the rules were not reinstated. The people expected the car to become one of them, joining and moving as they did. And generally, that’s what happened.

Usually, when a car came, it didn’t demand to be treated differently. The driver might, but it did not. Sometimes the driver might act quite differently to his car. He might wave his arms and act impatiently, but not his car. It would remain part of them, moving politely as it was permitted. Like this morning with the faded red pickup. It moved as one with them, yet its driver seemed not in rhythm, as if he was somewhere else. He talked incessantly, and those passing close to his window could be excused for wondering if he was not just a little mad.

There is no greater question than why we were made. Imperfectly. Imperfectly made. Me! Imperfectly made! After all, if you’re going to make something, why make it imperfect? If you’re going to make something imperfect, why start at all? Therefore, why was I started? By what wretched explanation was I started? Get out of my way! Can’t you see I’m in trouble? Oh, Oscar! Give me the words!

‘Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens…’

Get out of my way! Please get out of my way!

‘…Brown paper packages…’

Now, none of this made any sense to anybody with the exception of the driver of the red pickup. Then again, he had the excuse of being white, and it was the nature of white men to be confusing. Now, ever alert, the riders saw that his hands suddenly slipped in the sweat of the steering wheel and he had to brake hard in compensation. Yet, this was not a cause for them to stop. They simply steered around him and joined the mob ahead. This was a necessary thing for bikes to do for the stopping and starting of pedals sucked away energy. It seemed however that he had no understanding of bikes for his yells became increasingly louder.

You’re not listening. I said I’m in trouble and now you’ve made it worse! Where are my words? Fuck it! Where did they go?

‘…Brown paper packages…’

No! Not brown paper packages. Definitely not brown paper packages! It was other things!

‘Bamboo and ginger and amaranth blossoms

Finely chopped chillies and green leaves of seaweed

Pork stuffed with lychees and red skewered-prawns

These are a few of my favourite things…’

No they’re not! They’re not my favourite things! Last night they were, but not today! Not this morning! Because this morning they’re burning my insides out!

‘Finely chopped chillies and green leaves of seaweed…’

The seaweed’s turned to shit! Inside me, it’s shit! It’s burning shit and it wants to come out!

‘Pork stuffed with lychees and red skewered-prawns…’

Did I swallow a skewer? Is that it? Is that the pain in my gut? Is the skewer trying to come out? Tell me you bastards! You know! It’s your country! It’s your fucking food! Why does it hurt? Tell me!

In spite of his calls, none turned to reply, for they didn’t understand the mixed-up mantra called from the cabin of the pickup truck. Yet, they did hear its horn, the one blown repeatedly as they pedalled and pushed their carts along the roadway. They liked this sound for it told them not to look around, for the one behind was looking after them.

Hugh knew this. He knew they praised the horn, and he knew they wouldn’t understand his mantra. He knew he couldn’t make them pedal faster and he knew he couldn’t move them from the road. He also knew he couldn’t wait. Everything told him he couldn’t wait. The garlic and fish sauce steaming from his body told him he couldn’t wait. The chili seeds burning his insides told him he couldn’t wait. And as his stomach began to convulse again, he knew definitely, he could no longer wait.

Then at once the village came to an end. He saw at the boundary of a stream that the village petered out and once more the country turned green. For a moment his frustration eased. A trestle bridge passed over the stream and he saw space ahead. The traffic was thinning in the distance and at last he thought he might race. Then the thought died with the pain of a spasm greater than all the others. This time his entire body trembled and he knew his journey was over. Panic took hold. It was as if his insides were about to surrender, to give up the thing they were straining to hold. As he crossed the bridge, he anxiously looked about. On the right were open fields and irrigation ditches, buffalo, carts and small children. To the left though there was no activity, just the water flowing quietly past the village and into the mangroves. Beyond, he could see its earthy colour spreading and dissipating in the blue of the ocean and the possibility of a haven rescued him from despair.

Salvation! Salvation in the mangroves! Oh Lord! Help me hold on! Keep me until the mangroves!

Spotting a clearance, he swerved from the road. Feet braked on bike pedals causing a momentary clot of traffic and several words of surprise, but no condemnation. After all, this was but a confused white man. Without damages to barter over, they looked about, grunted, and then remounted to resume the slow pedal forwards.

With a backward glance, Hugh confirmed he’d neither killed nor maimed and for this he was grateful. He couldn’t stop, mustn’t stop the run to the mangroves. He could feel the tyres slipping on grass and dirt and momentarily wondered if death brought a halt to bodily functions. Then he remembered he should not think. The mantra was there to blot out thinking. So why was he suddenly thinking? Did he want to lose control? No, of course he didn’t!

Grit your teeth son and think of the mantra. Think of the bloody mantra! Remember how it goes!

‘Bamboo and ginger and amaranth blossoms

Finely chopped chillies and green leaves of seaweed…’

He stopped the truck where the grass and dirt became sand and a pathway disappeared into the mangroves. Switching off the motor, his fingers fumbled to open the door and with buttocks clenched he trotted duck-like into the embrace of the trees. He didn’t choose where he finally stood. He only knew that he’d finally lost control. With a last minute grunt of anguish he thrust his trousers down and squatted.

Ordinarily his faeces emerged in the uniform shape of a sausage. He knew this for he regularly checked as his doctor said he must, but this time was different. Beside the stream in the shadow of trees it piled without shape. In the fermenting decay of the mangroves it farted and dribbled into a hot steaming mound. While there would be no thought of a check today, he had noticed one thing. Surprisingly, the smell from his bowels was not obtrusive. It wafted for only a short time and didn’t have that lingering taste that clung to walls. However, it didn’t escape the notice of the sand flies that came in numbers to swarm and bite, forcing Hugh to run away.

Hugh ran as he’d always done, frightened and in search of a safe place. He ran to the other side of the mangroves where the sun shone and the waves lapped the shore, and only then did he pause to cry. Yet, he didn’t cry tears. Instead, his mind cried with words.

Why was I made? By whose trick was I placed upon this earth? Am I to forever be who I am? Why can’t I be different? But sometimes I am, aren’t I! Sometimes I’m lauded! But not always. Not always. Sometimes I’m like this. Running scared of shit. Running scared of shit all! Conquer it! Become tough! Breathe. Breathe calmly and slowly repeat after me: ‘Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens…’

Eventually calm returned as it always did, as he always knew it must. After all, he was who he was. The discovery had been made long ago that in fact he was two people in the one frame. The first, the person he’d been made, and the second, the person he was trying to become. Sometimes the two fought and they were forced to adapt.

Like last night. Last night he was an adaptation of his two halves. The one, to be away and at his job; the other, wanting to be liked and savouring the adulation of new friends.

Never mind the deadline. There’s plenty of time! Stay with us, they had said. Eat and drink and we’ll tell you some more. Sit with us and make your notes. The story can only get better!

Now the story floated in a haze just two hours from its deadline. The long night of writing had instead become a feast. The words and phrases had been given over to a banquet. Each glass of wine had promised to be the last. Then, too drunk to drive, the promise had been made to sleep a little before returning to the hotel.

The hotel in Birakei too far away. His hand-written notes now too far away. He, now standing on a beach too far away. A pile of shit in the mangroves. A pile of shit was all he had to show for his contract. Yet, isn’t that what he had been giving them? And hadn’t they always taken it and served it up like it wasn’t shit? Besides, no one seemed to know the difference. Finally Hugh stopped crying and began to laugh at the absurdity of his craft. His shit didn’t stink! Obviously it had no smell! He could fulfil his contracts with a load of shit and nobody noticed the smell. Then he laughed and felt strength returning.

However, he knew his shit did smell. He could feel it rough between his legs and with the thought to be cleansed, order came back into his life. He stripped to his boxers and waded to squat in the surf. Then with handfuls of sand, he scrubbed between his legs and floated clean amongst the waves.

By the time he returned to the truck the sun had dried his body and he had again commenced to sweat. He could also feel the prick of a tropical rash forming in the folds of his skin. And adding to this discomfort, the door’s sill burnt his arm. Obviously there was no refuge to be found within the cabin, so he carefully removed his jacket and laptop computer and returned to the comparative cool of the mangroves.

A check of his coat pockets revealed six drink coasters from the night before. Wine glass rings had blotted the words, and the sentences had become less structured as the night progressed, but he saw that enough sense could be had to piece the notes he’d made into something with logic and sequence.

Hugh had never failed to meet a contractual deadline. Even here, on the edge of a remote village, technology and skill would make it happen. Here, in the mangroves, he could cheat undisturbed.

Not that he always cheated.

As a young aspiring journalist he’d learnt the value of style and substance - the one, a freshness produced by taking a different perspective, and the other, a quality that came from thorough research.

His style came from an innate ability. It flowed easily almost unthinkingly like a signature practiced ten thousand times. On the other hand, substance had to be mastered the hard way. It came from research and determination, and by daily confronting his shyness.

Ultimately, success had brought popularity but also an Oliverian demand for more that, unlike Dickens’ character, didn’t cease at one extra bowl. That he could not say no to publishers’ demands was as much driven by his shyness as it was by the need to be popular, to be liked, the thing he seemed to crave the most. Finally, in the rush to satisfy all, this demand became the cancer that attacked the substance of his writing.

That had been his discovery. When time intruded, he would only tread the shallows of substance. The style remained, but not the substance. Initially, he felt shame. This was not what he wanted as it only served to increase his anxiety. At each transgression he would wait nervously for the finger to be pointed and the cries of fraud. He calmed himself by drafting excuses and a statement of regret, but no call ever came. At last his nerves turned to jelly. He wished for exposure so he could be done with his fraud. He wanted them to discover his trickery - to say enough and that his work was shit. But they never did.

Finally, he realised that he was the only one in a rushful world who seemed to put a value on substance. Style was the thing they insisted on. Style brought envy. Style sold. Heads bowed to style. Substance? Substance was everywhere. It was easily recognised and freely available. Why climb the mountain to look at the view if there’s a perfectly good view on the plain! Be a stylist. Mould and shape the substance to fit the image people expect. Don’t tax them. Don’t make them strain to see a different image. If they demand shit, then give them shit! It seemed no longer to matter. In this world, it seemed to him that it no longer mattered.

That’s why he cheated. Not all the time. Just at times like now when the deadline is more important than the story.

He found a tree nearest the beach out of the sun. Easing his body into a sitting position against the trunk, he squished the laptop firmly between belly and legs. Then he wiggled for a while until his fleshy body rested comfortably. Memories of the previous evening began to return and he commenced placing the coasters in sequence. Finally satisfied, he stood them in order in the sand. For several minutes he sat quietly looking. Then his fingers began to work the keyboard.

BIRAKEI. Sun. – Orange shadows filter through the famous palms of Lumlok beach. Their fronds begin to settle in the tiring wind and they seem to sigh as if pleased that their day is over. Only the metronomic lapping of the surf remains as a reminder of life and movement. The sand cools and turns a bright pink in the dusk. Then, on cue, another’s day commences. A thousand crabs begin emerging along the shoreline. For a moment they stand together. Then, to the unheard blast of a starter’s gun, they begin to move in line as their nightly scavenging commences.

Elsewhere, other scavengers are on the move. These ones stand quietly in the forest, their eyes on the cyclo-drivers heading home. When the last is gone and darkness has taken the road, they emerge just like the crabs.

Yet, these are not crustaceans. These are men. These are the tar bandits.

They begin their night by cutting away at the edge of the road. Choosing a length thirty centimetres wide, they work quickly and quietly. With the flat blade of their machetes they lift the tar made soft by the fierce tropical sun. Then they expertly cut it into squares and place it into bamboo baskets strapped to their backs.

Suddenly, a single spotlight pierces the darkness as two policemen search the roadway. Work temporarily halts as the bandits melt back into the forest. Once again they stand quietly and watch. They know they will not be discovered for the police are sympathetic. Their light briefly touches upon the freshly broken roadway but they do not stop. Soon they are gone and the bandits re-emerge to complete their work. When their baskets are full, they silently tread the familiar path back to the village.

When daylight emerges they will use the road base to construct flooring for several new huts. These will house a new group of refugees who have lately chosen to escape the squalor of Birakei and return to the countryside. And they are not alone. Once, the promise of work and prosperity had enticed them and they had left the land in their hundreds. Now they straggle back in small groups, their plans for prosperity in tatters.

They are a broken people and the community closes in around them without thought of chastisement. They are made to feel welcome as they fit back into the life of the village. Soon they will return to the fields left only with thoughts of a better life once promised.

The island of Sumalang, a paradise at the edge of the Arafura Sea, once boasted that it was the happiest island in the archipelago. However, that innocence died long ago. The serenity that once underlined the perfection of this place is gone. It has been replaced by suspicion and fear as one after another, promises have been broken and lofty visions left foundering in a swamp of inefficiency and corruption.

On the canvas of Oceania, Sumalang was once painted in vibrant blues, yellows, reds and greens. But today the artist only sees the sombre colours of grey and brown. The island that was to rival Bali, Tahiti and Fiji as a tourist Mecca has disappeared, blown away like Krakatoa in one loud bang.

The picture-perfect postcard town of Birakei has paled. Its central business district, once a quaint mix of seventeenth century homes and shops, is no more. Today, it is a series of vacant lots made ready for hotels that haven’t materialised. These lots are now home to the very people who came to work and build. A shantytown standing where prosperity was once promised. Some still sit in hope and that is a quality of the human condition. But is it a realistic hope, for only an optimist might see a future for the island.

Yet, something does shine amongst the greys and browns on the artist’s pallet. A small dollop of gold is swept up by the brush and added to the canvas. A ray of light shines forth from the clouds to strike the trees, and colours slowly begin to appear on the landscape.

Ian McAuliffe is a tall suntanned man with freckles on his cheeks and early wisps of grey showing in his ginger hair. ‘Mr Macca’ as he is popularly known, is one of a small group of entrepreneurs from the northern Australian state of Queensland. These adventure-loving people moved to Sumalang and established small business enterprises here when the Island once had a future. They meet regularly at the Drovers Club to chat about home, their families and the future.

I must say that when Sumalang looked like going down the gurgler our first reaction was to get out. Ian recounts over dinner at the Drovers’ Club restaurant. But when we thought it through, it seemed to us that we’d be taking the future with us. Others were getting out, closing their businesses, and we could see the despair on the faces of the locals. This was their home and they had nowhere to escape. So we decided to stay. We pooled our money and set about buying up the businesses that were closing. We restructured and we kept people employed.

But don’t think we’re making millions! chipped in Frank Martin, one of the co-directors of Sumalang Enterprises. We may be the biggest private employer on the island but nobody in their right mind would invest in a business that just breaks even. It’s like we’re running a bloody charity! But we all sleep well at night and if we help to keep the bloody island afloat then, one day they might dedicate a statue or something to us. It’s a good place to live and the people are terrific and I wouldn’t swap what I’m doing for quids.

‘Richard’ Phat Loung heads the island’s main labour hire organisation. He praises what Mr Macca and his friends are doing for Sumalang. When the businesses started to close it was troubled times for my people. They would come to me and say what are we to do - and I had no answer. Then one day Mr Macca walked through my door and said he wanted to hire one hundred people. We all turned to look at this madman …

Hugh worked for two hours, only stopping to suck warm water from a bottle. When finally he finished typing, he re-read his words just to be sure. A human-interest story is what they had contracted for and he had obliged. In this article there were no scandals and no officials called to account. Accordingly, none would question and none would sue. And for once, his insurer would be pleased. For a moment his finger hovered above the ‘send’ icon. Then, with no further thought, he pressed once.

Freed at last, the article left Hugh’s guardianship. Floating high into the sky, it abruptly turned south and raced along an invisible cable. It crossed the sea, a time zone and the Tropic of Capricorn. Then it stopped at the desk of a man waiting patiently. A ping from his computer told of its arrival and he began to read quickly and carefully without pause until he reached the concluding paragraph.

…But what the future holds for Sumalang is not clear. Yet, if people like Ian MacAulliff and his friends have anything to do with it, there may be some cause for hope. In the meantime, one thing is assured. Tonight the tar bandits will once again be out in force picking away at the road, the promised highway to the future. Picking away until one day there may be nothing left.

Ashley Blundell sat back from the screen. The Sumalang article had been written with Hugh Wilson’s customary flair. Two successive readings failed to find error in either spelling or grammar and he felt comfortable clicking the ‘print’ icon. Instantly, sheet after sheet began chugging into the tray, and while he waited, he took the time to smile at his wife. Pamela sat on the corner of his desk, the sun running silver around the four sides of the frame.

To some, the portrait of the Blundell family seemed to dominate the office and certainly, it divided opinion. You could tell this was so by the snippets of conversation sometimes heard in the corridor.

The bloke’s vain!

I think it’s nice that he’s proud of his family.

Yes, but his wife in a bikini?

So, what should it be? Strained faces stuffed into suits and skirts?

Better that than what he’s got! The bikini, the kids in lifesaver caps and him in his Speedos?

Yeah, but they’re all good looking.

That might be. But I still feel intimidated when I go into his office and see a picture of him almost naked!

Not me. I just feel horny!

Sometimes Ashley would hear these whispers but he didn’t understand them. And that was his secret - that he couldn’t understand.

Now, nobody knew he didn’t understand for that was well concealed. Nature did that sometimes. She concealed her mistakes. In this case she’d failed to give her creation the weapons needed for defence. Forgotten had been the clubs of cynicism and sarcasm; the arrows of deceit and treachery; and the spears of contempt and loathing.

Ashley possessed none of these things and as he grew, it was with a simple and innocent soul. When nature saw this she was concerned for she knew the predators would come. So, in compensation, she took his soul and wrapped it so none might see its weakness.

Her camouflage was the image of the perfect man. Dispossessed of natural emotions, Ashley’s defence against others was his amazing good looks. He’d been moulded in the ‘tall, dark and handsome’ beloved of cinema. Both stature and voice had been crafted to dominate the space about him and he had been endowed with an amazing smile. His scent was made distracting to confuse and allure both women and men; and whenever his smile flashed, it had the effect of disengaging any latent hostility. Thus by his presence, by the act of being, by a wink, a nod or a smile, he was able to walk unchallenged through life.

Ashley gave what was asked of him, no more and no less. Yet when he gave, his smallest action seemed of the highest achievement. This simply because it was done by Ashley. It seemed that just the fact of being Ashley brought praise. And because of what he was, he had no need to compete.

Thus did his journey through life avoid the natural competitiveness with others. Things just happened for him while others were left to battle. Usually he watched their confrontations from the sidelines, noting with curiosity the frequent use of clubs, arrows and spears. He didn’t understand why they fought but he learnt early never to engage, to skirt the battles and to withdraw when confronted. He was like the Switzerland of the twentieth century - never committing and always neutral. He was Ashley - a friend to all and enemy to none. Yet, Nature’s experiment had a flaw.

Ashley had nothing with which to ignite passion. When the boy turned to man, nothing happened. He saw beauty, but he had no lust. Other men desired, yet he did not. Women pursued him but still he stayed cold, and he began to wonder at this difference. He seemed not to be drawn to the things he saw other men doing. The touching, the holding and kissing held no wonder for him. Gradually, solitude became his friend. Solitude was always there for him, for it didn’t prowl the bars, didn’t flirt and didn’t demand.

Then, quite by accident, he discovered the match that could light his passion. And it was with this passion that he finally seduced, loved and married. In the frame upon his desk was the picture of what passion had brought him. But to Mother Nature it was much more. Here was the trophy displaying her cunning. Here could be seen the triumph of her skill. A simple soul made to seem perfect by the clever trick of beauty.

But Ashley didn’t know about Nature’s plan. He was just the way he was and life was the same. It all just happened without a plan and without any pain. And he thought that this must be the same for everybody. Even the woman in the office across from his. Abruptly he stopped his daydreaming. The printing had ended and he realised she’d be waiting. He bundled the printing together and fixed it with a staple. Then he took a round rubber stamp saying ‘Senior Editor’ and affixed it to the first page. Lastly, he initialled beneath the stamp and rose from his desk.

There had never seemed the need for privacy on the executive floor. It was a simple layout - a conference room filled half the space and two glassed offices occupied the remainder. And with one looking in on the other, there was never a need to knock. Just a simple glance sufficed to say when either was busy and privacy was easily respected. Strangely however, the simple logic of this arrangement had always proved difficult for Ashley to master. It seemed in this matter that he could never be sure of the nature of privacy and what its variations might be. Thus it was that he never presumed to enter uninvited. Yet their informality barred him from actually announcing his presence. And from this grew one of Ashley’s several idiosyncrasies. Whenever he wished to see his managing editor, he would walk quietly to the doorway, stand within its frame and simply wait.

In the beginning Nicci was startled by his quiet arrivals. He would give neither a word nor a cough to announce his presence and this became annoying. Once she proposed he whistle as he approached but it seemed not to work. And short of tying a bell about his neck, she could never be sure just where he was. In the end she’d decided to turn it into a game. She began by positioning her desk with its back to the doorway. She explained to Ashley that it enabled her to concentrate on the work upon her desk to the exclusion of things happening around her.

Ashley understood her reasoning but he was concerned at being outside the span of her sight. Each time it seemed he stood longer waiting. And while he thought about this, a simple solution presented. It seemed that by simply staring at her back he could touch her - or at least that’s what he imagined. Just by staring he could eventually make her head straighten and she’d look around.

Thus began the real game between the two. Although only Nicci truly played for her opponent was quite unaware of a contest. He simply waited and stared, confident that she’d do as she always did.

Nicci had sometimes thought to have a timer. In this way she could measure how long Ashley stood. However she knew this couldn’t actually work for the simple reason that she could never be sure when he actually arrived. It was simply a sense, like now, that he was behind her.

She gave no hint of this for it’d be impolite to knowingly ignore his presence. For this reason she became busier. She moved the mouse quicker, clicking page after page, looking for the mistake, the word misspelt, the grammar not correct, or the logic flawed. In time the rays from his stare burnt hotter and hotter. They began penetrating her back, touching her spine and spreading heat between her shoulder blades. Finally she felt forced to turn and she resolved to look passive. She knew she could fake surprise at his presence, but she couldn’t block the hint of a smile forming naturally on her face.

Ashley? Hello! What’ve you got for me? The words were out innocently but she immediately detected the double entendre. She thought of several responses a man could make to take the question down a different path, but she knew this would not happen with Ashley.

One of the disappointments in her life was to have discovered the flaw in the ‘every girl’s dream’ that was Ashley Blundell. The perfect male specimen, the adornment of the ‘Weekly Queenslander,’ was ordinary with an intellect to match. He was a competent senior editor with ordinary skills, and despite the ten years difference in their ages, she knew she was better. She was better with words and she was better at analysis, solutions and decisions.

When she began to realise Ashley’s limitations, it caused her to wonder at her father’s judgement. Normally he seemed astute and intuitive. He prided himself on selecting the brightest and the best. So had he blundered with Ashley? Or was his plan so incisively complex that she was yet to work it out? Perhaps he was intended as a soft buffer for her entry into the magazine. By choosing somebody she could command with little effort, would it enable her to project an image of power and control more easily? Or was there some other reason she was yet to discover?

Whatever it was, Nicci was in no rush to know. She’d become comfortable with Ashley and in a way, she felt protective of him. Looking past his smile she sometimes thought she saw a flaw - like now. Was he just being polite or did he not see the other meaning in words? Did he detect second meanings at all - that stuff of flippancy, of light-hearted banter that punctuated the seriousness of everyday life? Ashley often gave her cause to wonder these things but he never gave her cause to reject Nature’s intent. His allure remained intact and her lust and desire were ever present.

This just came in from Hugh Wilson. He’s just in time.

How does it read?

It’s his normal style. They’ve still got the same problems up there, so nothing’s changed. He’s given the story a human interest twist and linked it back with Queensland so it fits our profile.

Any photos?

Yes he’s sent us a few to choose from, so we should be able to fill the reserved space pretty well.

Nicci moved to the layout board, pinned the ‘Troubled Times In Paradise’ story into the remaining spare quadrant and stepped back to stand beside Ashley. Okay. Four main features. Which one for the cover? She wished that for once he’d make a decision, if only so she could disagree. But each Sunday was the same.

Well tomorrow’s the 800th anniversary of the Magna Carta signing and the Premier’s been keen to play that up. There’s the latest update on the Minh Brigade, the ‘estate policing’ story and Wilson’s piece. I suppose any of them’d look good on the cover.

I’m sure they would Ashley, but if you were I and had to choose the one that’d sell the most magazines tomorrow, which’d be your choice? And remember, we’ll have to answer to my father and not least the advertisers, if circulation dips.

Tiny beads of perspiration formed at Ashley’s hairline and his smile became more concerned. He began to fidget. His pen scratched at the back of his neck and the heel of his palm rubbed the bristle on his chin. He took a step back and folded his arms while his eyes flicked thoughtfully at each of the quadrants.

Nicci had come to know each of these movements. They were the familiar signs of Ashley’s indecision and once more she shook her head. One day, she thought, I will out-wait him. One day I will not give in. But today is not that day.

OK, let’s walk our way through this.

She’d taken control and Ashley breathed more easily. The monkey was off his back. The fidgeting stopped and his smile lost its concern. Now he could become thoughtful. Right!

Nicci took her usual stance at the side of the board. The schoolteacher had arrived to take her charge through his lesson, just like last week and the week before - the same lesson taught over and over. She often likened it to a scene from ‘Groundhog Day’ and in contrast to the movie, wondered if it might never end.

Okay! Let’s take these quadrants one at a time. Firstly, the article on the Magna Carta. Undoubtedly it’s an interesting piece. But it’s a story eight hundred years old and despite the Premier’s pre-occupation with history and law, I don’t believe it’ll cause a stampede to the newsstands. So we just give it a by-line on the cover. Agreed?

She watched Ashley give his thoughtful slow nod and resisted the urge to grin.

Next, the Minh Brigade. Now this is simply a follow up story. There’s no blood this week and no good pictures. So we simply keep it bubbling along on the inside for now and shoot it to the front when something fresh comes up. Agreed?

This time it was the knowing wink he did so well. She thought to return it, but knew the sarcasm would be lost on him.

Now, this one here. It’s Wilson’s article. He writes well as we know and he’s got a name our readers look for. He’s given us the Queensland connection plus some local insight. Now is this the one?

Ashley inclined his head from side to side and pursed his lips as if to say ‘maybe.’

Finally, we have Estate Policing. Now think about this one. Those living on gated estates fork out for their own security service. But they pay taxes that pay for police. So where are the police? Why, they’re patrolling the designated crime zones where the criminals hang out! But criminals don’t pay taxes do they. So why aren’t the police patrolling the gated estates? Surely those living there have a right to their services as much as the rest of the community. Now this becomes the double jeopardy question for the politicians, doesn’t it. What’s wrong with a system that makes some people pay twice for the protection they need? It’s a good article, controversial and with no simple solution. The dailies are bound to pick it up, which suits us, and my spies tell me that it’s about to get a run in Parliament. It’s sure to give us at least one follow up cover and no shortage of letters. So maybe this is the one that’ll sell the best?

Ashley’s selection dilemma had been reduced to two articles and still his head bobbed without decision. It seemed to Nicci that time had decided to pause. It was as if the silence had become a paralysis with surgery needed to put it right. Finally she decided to end the game. I’m inclined to put Estate Policing on the cover. What do you think?

Ashley began nodding vigorously. That’s the one I was inclining towards! We could run with it and if there are any dramatic changes in the next couple of hours, we can revisit the decision before lock-down tonight. Then he smiled in relief and triumph. I doubt that anything will come up, but if need be I can ring you.

The evening appointment had curtailed any thought of extending her game with Ashley. We’re due at the Premier’s at eight and Dad’s picking me up in an hour. If you have to ring, leave a message with the Premier’s private secretary. Here’s the number.

Nicci pushed a card across the glass top of her desk. The fingers that met hers were clean and manicured. They reminded her of a pianist’s hands - strong, yet elegant and cultivated. And once more she thought of her father and the plan that had brought Ashley to the Lander.

‘Maybe he wanted to place a son-in-law in the business? Let’s see. I would’ve been twelve when Ashley started. No, that’s preposterous! Not even the matrix of actions and contradictions that is my father would conceive of matchmaking his twelve-year-old daughter. I hope.’

She looked at the clock and shook all further thoughts from her head. One hour remained in which to complete the editorial and dress. That was just time enough. The Premier had a fetish for timeliness and she didn’t want to be late. With a final nod of his head Ashley had gathered the notes from the layout board and smiled his way out of her office. She was now sure he would not bother her again and commenced to type.

This is going to be an interesting week in state parliament. My spies tell me that the Opposition is about to launch an attack on the government’s urban policing policy.

Altruistic intentions aside, the cynics are suggesting that this is nothing more than an attempt by the socialists to grab back some of the middle ground from the conservatives.

‘Not so’ says the Opposition as it starts to build its platform in time for next years’ elections. ‘We’re only looking for a fairer distribution of limited policing resources and gated estates have been left out of the equation. They deserve their share.’

But outspoken government member Keith Potter says it was the Opposition’s soft line on immigrants that let the criminals into the country in the first place. ‘They’ve got no credibility on law and order and should just shut their mouths and let us get on with the job of cleaning up the bloody mess they’ve made of this state!’

The Government wants to keep its traditional allies on side and it’ll be interesting to see how they handle this. Whatever the outcome, it’s pleasing to see that the Opposition is finally moving away from their leftist policies and giving some thought to those people who built this country in the first place.

Speaking of leftists, ‘Where’s David?’ Despite many reported close encounters, the police seem no closer to capturing the Minh Brigade leader, David Ullfman.

Claimed sightings now number in the hundreds and there are few sandy-haired, thin young men in this city who haven’t been stopped and questioned at least once in the past two years.

So why are the police seemingly making a meal of this? Can it be that hard to capture and close down the operations of this urban terrorist who seems to have free rein in our state capital? Come on Commissioner! Our readers tell us they’re becoming sick and tired of the fumbles going on in the police department. Its time you brought this to a head.

Elsewhere, it seems that we’re not the only ones having problems with criminals. Hugh Wilson reports for us this week from Sumalang where their biggest problem seems to be keeping the tar on the roads. Read his report.

Finally, in our historical feature we review an event that occurred 800 years ago in medieval England. Settle back with this story and enjoy the past.

Next week we’ll be back in the bush looking at our disappearing towns and talking to those who refuse to go.

Remember to buy the Lander and stay in touch with the things that matter.

Nicci made a quick and satisfied count of the words. Her father’s rule limited the editorial to no more than five hundred words, describing anything longer as rambling.

Then she heard him. She recognised the sound made by his shuffling walk and felt his aura forcing itself ahead into the office. Soon he’d be upon her and she straightened her back for the expected playful rebuke. Most certainly, Michael Shaughnessy was not Ashley Blundell. He didn’t stand mute waiting to be noticed. And he didn’t start his sentences with polite greetings. You know how long it takes you to get ready. Don’t you think you should have started by now?

She turned slowly to where her father stood framed in the doorway. His hands were bunched in his pockets and his dinner jacket rose to bulge across his chest. As always, she ignored his criticism. Engaging with her father on an issue of his making was never a good strategy. Instead she chose her own.

Dad, I’m going to have to take you shopping. You really need to update if you’re going to be seen with me. That double-breasted look is just about dead. You know that Mummy wouldn’t have let you out the front door dressed like that. And I don’t want to be around when she starts throwing lightning bolts down at you! You really are a slob you know!

Her father spread his arms, smiled a feigned disappointment and pronounced a loud ‘whaaat?’ and just at that point she saw a flash of the spirit now only visible in old photographs.

The fact that the family had an abundance of photographs was not unplanned. Alison Shaughnessy had insisted that every birthday, every anniversary, every family event should be snapped and catalogued in order of occurrence. Then it was she who, with loving obsession, had systematically documented her family’s evolution in volumes that bowed the cupboard shelves.

Michael would count the albums and chide his wife. ‘Life is about living! Look to the future, not the past!’ Then when she died, the past became his present and the albums he thought irrelevant became his anchor and a reminder that life had been worthwhile.

Alison was clever. She’d seen and captured the spirit of her husband in its raw state. In picture after picture she’d faithfully recorded his early years as the unfashioned character - as the youthful larrikin in the red, white and mud jersey; and as the proud owner sitting in his new MGB.

Later came the onset of responsibility. The grin was the same but his brow was beginning to furrow and the photos became more sophisticated. Gone was the sloppiness. He became trim and fashionable, and he continued this way through the next thirty years of her guidance.

After the funeral Michael had stopped caring and his image began to deteriorate. His clothes became shabby and he’d often forget to shave. Nicci had tried to help him, to continue the grooming that her mother had so carefully cultivated. But his sense of fashion had decided to quit and her task became that of simple maintenance.

Then one day, he gave her the keys for the MGB and said ‘you look after her now’. He gave no reason and she didn’t ask. Secretly she was thrilled but a little alarmed. The car was his pride and joy. It was more than forty years old and like him, almost a vintage. But she never imagined it was the prelude to something else.

As her father relied more and more upon her, she came to realise that it wasn’t just fashion her mother had taken charge of. He began speaking to her as an equal and it dawned upon her that this would’ve been his way with her mother - to also treat her as an equal in the business.

Later she came to realise that her father could not have made the Lander without her mother’s help. His questions told her that, as each day he consulted her. And it seemed he couldn’t move without doing so. Her mother had been half of the package, aiding him in the planning and the decisions. Nicci could see that he didn’t risk alone and he didn’t strive for success alone. His reliance did indeed tell her that if not for her mother, his dream of starting the Lander mightn’t have been realised.

Even his temper played a part. Alison was the only person who could successfully confront the man in one of his rages. Nicci had seen her mother move to stand in his face while he shouted and was amazed at her bravery. Yet her power must’ve been great for she seemed to manage him easily. Nicci learnt later that as well as control, her mother directed. She was able to take her father’s temper and point it against his enemies with devastating results.

That temper had gone with Alison’s death, but in its day it had served its purpose. As young as she was, Nicci could still remember her father’s cries of triumph and her mother’s smiles. She didn’t know what it meant when they said of her father he could make hardnosed men cry. But she knew that somehow he was special.

Thus had her parents given birth to a magazine just for their state. They had named it the ‘Weekly Queenslander’ and it quickly garnered a nickname – ‘the Lander.’ At its beginning, not many gave it a chance. But it had worked for it was a magazine whose time had come.

Some called it a jingoistic weekly that simply tapped an underground stream of bigotry and ultra-conservatism. They criticised its drawing of a perfect past and its predilection for championing those who shouldn’t be championed. They accused its readers of being conceited by their whiteness, the red, white and blue of their flag, their stars of the Southern Cross and the ‘Englishness’ of their words. And they condemned them for their so-called fear of being engulfed by turbans, couscous, mosques and curries.

But none of this had concerned Michael Shaughnessy. He published what his market wanted to read. He took target at society’s intellectuals. He used clever words and clever journalists to chip away at their liberal views. And his magazine became popular because it did this. Michael had planned it that way, for he knew what his readers wanted. They wanted society reduced to simple questions and simple answers. And they didn’t want to be bogged down in idealism.

Her father’s logic had been simple and Nicci had learnt it from an early age. He told her of the un-stated truth that in each person there was a seed of intolerance. Society said that this was a bad seed and many were in shame for what they felt inside. But equally, how could they know that their intolerance was truly bad? If each seed was planted side by side, mightn’t they grow constructively? Mightn’t they serve a useful purpose? Perhaps they could form a windbreak - a screen to protect against ill winds that blew across the land.

He had called the Lander his fertiliser for these seeds. At first, society’s leaders had been dismissive of his plan. They thought the climate wasn’t conducive to plants of this kind and for a time, they seemed to be right. But then too late, they saw that indeed the Lander was all that her father promised it would be. Intolerance had changed from a weed to a flower that was now acceptable in the garden.

The Lander proved itself to be a powerful agent. It made intolerance respectable and with that, it brought power to her father as well as the powerful to his door.

Nicci wasn’t always comfortable with what the Lander had become. Her education had made her wary of intolerance. But in the hothouse of her home, she was made to see that the end justified the means. Both parents argued that society needed to see and debate all sides of an issue and they said repeatedly to her, that’s what the Lander gives to society. It’s just a forum for the other side of reason.

Then one morning, her father had risen from his desk and beckoned her to sit in his chair. He’d placed a hand upon her shoulder and told her that she was now in charge of the Lander.

At first, his words had created both fear and excitement. It was as if she’d been put behind the wheel of a Porsche for the first time. She was made to sit, to touch the controls and she could feel the exhilaration. Then came the shock and uncertainty of driving. She saw that the slightest movement of the wheel caused an instant change in direction. She was made to decelerate, to stop and to discover. Then came the detailed instruction. She was shown how to drive within her ability and to only apply the power when it was necessary.

Her father had stood behind the desk while she practiced and her confidence had grown. Now she was the driver, experienced and competent, but unable to shake her teacher.

Tonight he once more stood behind her and she felt the customary drop in confidence. He would want to come behind her desk - to enter her space - and she turned and stood to meet him. A hug, squeeze and kiss stalled him in the doorway, but they didn’t stop his eyes from roaming.

What’s that you’re doing?

The editorial. Leave it alone. Her fingers lightly pushed at his chest as she vainly attempted to halt his march.

Mind if I take a look?

Look but don’t touch. It’ll only take me twenty minutes to shower and change. Nicci scraped loose papers into her top draw frustratingly aware that they’d be retrieved and perused. She tried to recall if there was anything there that she truly didn’t want him to see.

I remember your mother saying that. I always wanted to see the clock she was using because it was very different to mine.

Nicci threw him a smile laced with sarcasm. I’ll be as quick as I can. Go talk with Ashley. He can fill you in on tomorrow’s issue.

Michael listened to the inner door close and at the sound of water shattering against the wall. Alone, he relaxed into his old chair and began rhythmically caressing the mouse.

He read and then he whispered to himself. I’ve told you my dear. Words without passion are like a kiss without tongue.

The metaphor made him smile. It was an Arelsford Gaylor original.

Its sudden recall returned Michael’s thoughts to earlier, more energetic days. The days when the Lander was first beginning to make its mark.

Ari Gaylor had been a Lander original. Ari of the old breed - fearful of no one and asking the questions that made others cringe. He was also the disappearing man. He’d be unsighted for hours. When finally he stumbled drunkenly into the office, he’d announce to all that he’d been feeding at the tap of truth. Then to disprove what they thought, he’d produce a story of skilful narrative and punching quality.

Michael slowly shook his head. What would Ari say about all this then? I know what Ari’d say. He’d say no punch in this editorial and no tongue. And he thought of his daughter. So passionate! So in love with journalism! So wanting to be her father. But tripping over her damn principles!

Whenever he saw the Lander drift to the centre, Michael would find the excuse to elbow it back to the right. Then he would endure his daughter’s lecture about interference and letting go of the apron strings. He enjoyed this game. It was a reassurance that indeed he was still alive.

He’d never imagined there might be a half-life. To him, life and death was either or, with nothing in between. But when Alison left him, he discovered the half-life. Love had brought them both alive. It had flowed between them for thirty years and they’d been transformed into a single being. When one half of this being had died, what remained had become redundant. Certainly the Lander had been part of their life. It was their creation - they’d built it together. They’d discussed and agreed each sacrifice, and each success had been equally shared. Then suddenly there was no one to share it with.

The decision to let the Lander go had been surprisingly easy. He couldn’t love it with Nicci in the same way he had with Alison. Therefore there had to be a break-up.

But still he doted. Even though his daughter now sat in his chair, he could still visit and observe and occasionally interfere. Like now. This was one of those times when the urge to interfere became particularly strong - when he needed to nudge things back to the right.

His fingers worked quickly. They blocked and deleted sentences. Then they inserted punch and they inserted tongue. The editorial remained at five hundred words, but it was no longer just the words of the Managing Editor.

Nicci emerged from the bathroom feeling clean and new. She lifted her coat from its hanger in the cupboard and folded it across her arm. Looking about, she saw that everything appeared to be in order and she felt relief. He had not ransacked the office during her absence. Of that she could tell. Boredom must have ushered him away for he now stood in Ashley’s office animated and laughing.

As she entered, both men stopped to stare and she felt pleased by their silent praise. Should I guess and say you’re talking football? Or is it just boy-talk? Well, I’m afraid it’ll have to go on hold. Daddy here has a party to go to!

Michael whispered a simple goodnight to Ashley. He was proud of his daughter’s beauty. She had Alison’s firm chin and small tilted nose, and he could do no more than smile in satisfaction as she took his arm and led him to the foyer.

The Senior Editor watched his two bosses depart arm in arm. At first he’d been confused. To him, the concept of having two bosses seemed a contradiction of orthodox management. But Michael had been persuasive. He explained that while publicly he had passed responsibility for the Lander to his daughter, privately, he’d decided to retain a link. He called it managing the spirit of the Lander and he’d do this just for a while until Nicci was completely settled.

In order for this to happen, Ashley had been asked to help. Not that he had to plot or scheme of course. Nor was he asked to spy. It was only ever questions. Simple questions from Michael that he answered truthfully because that was the only way he knew.

But just as always, he’d asked his priest for confirmation and the answer had told him he was right. Father and daughter travelled as one. That’s what his priest had said. Therefore, in unity, they are as one. There was no confusion here and indeed it was practical to have two bosses.

He watched them leave together and he smiled a final time as the lift doors closed. Then came a belated thought. She’d promised the editorial but he’d not checked to see if it was done. He quickly brought up his screen, then moved and clicked the mouse. And as her article filled the screen, he relaxed once more. Now the Lander was complete and his routine would see it onto the streets by midnight.

He stretched and adjusted the volume of the radio. While Nicci had worked in her office, it had played quietly in his. Now alone, he could hear the last call of the races without interruption.

All afternoon he’d listened, and just like every other day, he did it secretly. Not that he hid his knowledge of horses. That was well known. But none knew of the passion ignited in him by the call of the race. He was careful to hide this in case it was misunderstood. So when the race played, it’d be done quietly. His excitement would rise and he would bounce imperceptibly in his chair. His muscles would tense and his brow would sweat, and spittle-laced whispers of ‘go you beauty’ would stall in his throat. But he never let others see him. Particularly not Nicci sitting across the corridor, for it was something he couldn’t explain and didn’t want to explain. That was why he kept it a secret.

Not that he was ashamed. Ashley didn’t feel shame. But he did know that some things about him were best left unsaid. Like the barker. There was much he didn’t understand about the barker and certainly the barker wouldn’t understand his questions. All he did was run his stall. He spun the wheel and called out loudly. That’s all he did. ‘Take a chance’ he had repeated. ‘Take a chance and try your luck. Only a dollar to take a chance.’

On that summer night in the fairground years ago, Ashley had taken a chance. Not that he gambled. Not that he’d ever gambled. Gambling was a sin and he simply didn’t do it. That is, until that night. That was when the barker had told him to take a chance.

Why he succumbed had always remained an unanswered question. That night he’d simply been walking in search of a breeze, any breeze to ease the heat. He’d walked alone, lost in lethargy and sweet sugary drink, and the crowd had walked with him. He’d poked into tents and paused to watch the rides. He had his fortune told and occasionally entered the sideshows. But all the time he seemed irresistibly pulled in the direction of a voice both repetitive and insistent.

‘Take a chance’, the barker had said. ‘Take a chance and spin the wheel.