Straight Jacket. Adrian Deans
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lawyer I am, and his dedication to Gulliman Cross was at least a hundred times greater. But for all his dedication and his technical expertise (especially with venture financing), it was impossible for me to respect a man whose head in profile resembled the map of Scotland — angular back of the skull north of Aberdeen, upward sweep of his carroty forelock to the Hebrides, buck teeth and weak chin recalling the Mull of Kintyre, and the stooped, thin neck of northern England. He was fourth generation Australian, but I had secretly nicknamed him Jock and had anonymously encouraged the use of the name among the junior lawyers and support staff.
‘Oh well … if you haven’t heard, I’d better let Feargol tell you himself.’
Prick.
He was delighting in power knowledge now and flaunting it. Well fuck you Don, I’ve read Foucault too.
He grinned from the doorway then vanished as the phone rang.
‘Morgen Tanjenz …’
‘Morgen … it’s Feargol. I need to talk to you. Now, if you don’t mind.’
‘No worries, Feargol, I’ll be right round.’
I left the sanctuary of my office and crossed the open plan area to the large suite at the corner of the building. Feargol Lukic (or Faecal Leakage as I called him) was in his late fifties and the last of the blokesy lawyers who grew up in the piss-swilling rugby days of the 60s and 70s, got rich in the 80s, and respectable in the 90s. The son of Irish/Polish immigrants, he’d sucked up Aussie culture like a displaced sponge and the combination of his large athletic frame, his penchant for piss and his good-blokes-round-the-barbie sense of humour made him more ‘Australian’ than Paul Hogan walking his pet goanna.
Anyway, I couldn’t help but notice the expectant silence as I made my way over to Feargol’s rooms. They were watching me. Whatever it was that was happening they all knew about it — something which affected me, but Affridge was obviously pleased. A ghastly premonition began to form. It was nothing to do with my various scams and fuck-ups — it was ten times worse.
Feargol’s secretary, Lynn, with whom I usually enjoyed a mild flirt, was not in the mood. She gave me a somewhat grimmer version of the lips-and-eyebrows look that Mandy had given me and I paused at Feargol’s doorway, testing the breeze.
‘Morgen! Siddown.’
As I said, Feargol was a strapping athletic bugger, and that morning he was positively glowing with rude health. He’s one of those blokes who get to thirty and stay there forever — face unlined, hair turning discreetly from blond to sandy silver, pink and fit and utterly immortal.
‘What’s up, Feargol? The place is like a morgue.’
Feargol laughed — a deep booming that always made me picture his testicles, like a couple of rockmelons in a hessian sack — and I relaxed just slightly. He didn’t have the shits at least.
‘A morgue! Well … not just yet, I hope.’
‘What do you mean?’
And for half an instant there was the smallest crack in his larger-than-life façade.
‘I’ve been getting these pains … in my back. I was just putting it down to old age, but I finally mentioned it to my doctor the other day and she made me go off for these tests. Anyhow … it seems I’ve got two choices to make.’
Feargol leaned back into his padded grey leather and addressed the ceiling.
‘The first choice is whether to fight this bloody cancer … which is a pain in the arse … or whether just to live life to the full for as long as I’ve got left.’
Aah, cancer. Thank Christ for that. The ghastly premonition vanished.
‘You don’t look too upset, Morgen!’
‘Oh … sorry, Feargol. I’m just a bit stunned.’
‘Yeah … so was I. Anyhow, I’ve gone for Option B … live life to the full. I’m resigning pretty much immediately an’ takin’ Julie off round the world for as long as it takes. Which leads me to the second choice …’
Oh fuck, no. The premonition was back.
‘I have to appoint my successor. Obviously the only two candidates are you and Affridge. I’ve chosen Affridge.’
‘Jock? You’re kidding!’
Feargol sighed and slumped in his seat, suddenly looking sick.
‘It was a bloody tough decision, Morgen … tougher than the first. Affridge is a bit of an arsehole, I know, but he really gives a shit. The department is his life! We all know that technically he’s the best lawyer in the building. He puts in the hours … and quite frankly, he’s billed a lot more business than you in the last couple of years. It wouldn’t be right to ignore his claim.’
‘Well, he claims to be carrying this department … in spite of your leadership. Probably a good idea to give him enough rope … to show he really is up to the job.’
In fact, I was annoyed with myself for revealing my feelings so quickly. Feargol rubbed his chin and considered.
‘You don’t think he is?’
I hesitated, as though unwilling to speak a painful truth, but then I told him what I really thought. ‘Feargol, he’s a prick! He might be a reasonable lawyer but the department needs a leader … like you. Jock couldn’t lead a Labrador to a bucket of rancid bull’s balls!’
Feargol grinned, back to the overgrown schoolboy.
‘Why do you call him Jock?’
‘Don’t know … I thought everyone called him Jock.’
Feargol just chuckled and started going through his morning correspondence, which meant the interview was over.
Fuck it! So that’s what Mandy was trying to tell me with her raised purple eyebrows — bloody Jock was the new head of Compliance!
2 Panties in the Gutter
Whenever I get the shits at work, I take off early and go for a run. In fact, I hate running, but the plodding, meditative grind enables me to work out my frustrations physically and gets my creative juices flowing. I normally go to the oval near my home in West Lindfield — the dark heart of bourgeois suburbia — but that afternoon, for some reason, I made my way unconsciously further north to Kenley Park — a place I hadn’t been for years — and my guts filled with adolescent butterflies when I realised where I was.
The car park was obscured from the road, which made it a popular trysting place for office infidels, and sure enough, as I rolled into the car park, there were two late model cars parked close together with both drivers engaged in the larger. At the other end of the car park was a pig-magnet — a battered, unregistered and obviously derelict bomb covered with red dust and old stickers. You didn’t have to go any closer to know the inside would reek of dead smoke and bong water, the floors and seats covered with empty bottles, broken CD cases, hamburger wrappers and fag butts. The two tatt-covered mullets that lounged against the sides stared at me with malevolent anticipation — was I a dick or a dealer?
I parked midway between the office lovers and the small-time crims and gazed out over the green expanse of Kenley Park, surrounded on three sides by bushland — one of the many fingers of forest which still groped into the guts of Sydney and led ultimately back to god-knows-where.
It was strange that I’d wound up here.
This was a special place for me — part of the mythology of my childhood. Everything, from the flowering gums and fresh mown grass to the erect penises and phone numbers on the toilet doors, evoked a maelstrom of images and sensations which was too lush, too rich, to focus upon. I felt a small exhilaration as though I was taking a risk somehow, or stirring up some ancient danger.
Still seated in the car, I struggled out