Читать книгу Tugga's Mob - Stephen Johnson - Страница 15

Chapter 9

The view from Andrew Hackett’s tenth floor office was impressive. South Melbourne, Port Melbourne, Albert Park, Middle Park, a slice of St Kilda and a big chunk of Port Philip Bay were framed by his corporate eyrie. Most days he allowed himself a few minutes to enjoy the panorama. It was confirmation of his success. Only the smart and wealthy made it to these heights to indulge themselves with these perks.

The morning haze had evaporated, although a few low clouds drifted past from the south west. Hackett’s eyes were fixed on the horizon, but this morning they didn’t register the changing weather. He should have been revelling in the success of his early meeting with the Chief Executive about the AFL broadcasting rights. The next step, a mere formality, was to get the TV station’s board to approve the budget.

But it was not the great start to his business day that preoccupied Hackett. His mind was focused on the strange death of another member of Tugga’s Mob.

Hackett turned back to the news article that had stunned him more than the first two deaths, or perhaps it was simply accumulated shock. Gerry Daly had been killed while cycling in New Zealand in September.

Tugga, Drew – and now Gerry.

Three of Tugga’s Mob all accidentally killed within two months of each other. This was more than weird; it was creepy.

Tugga’s Mob has been obliterated. Well almost.

He read the news story one more time, hoping it might provide something more illuminating. It was dated 20 September.

Cyclist killed on Coromandel Road

Police are continuing their search for the vehicle involved in an early morning hit-and-run accident that claimed the life of a Conservation Ranger on Monday.

Gerald Daly, 54, an enthusiastic cyclist, was found in bush on a steep incline about three km south of Kuaotunu.

Police say the driver would know they had struck the cyclist. The badly damaged bike was discovered some distance from the body. Police suspect the driver might have panicked and urged them to make contact as soon as possible.

Daly lived on a lifestyle block near Whitianga and was often seen cycling the roads around Coromandel by himself. A search started on Monday when he failed to report for work. A friend saw Daly cycling towards Kuaotunu at about 6am which helped narrow the search area.

Colleagues say Daly was a respected member of the community and that he was a safety conscious rider. They say Daly started his working life in forestry but turned to conservation work after returning from Europe in 1986.

Police are urging motorists who used Highway 25 on Monday morning to contact them.

There were several more stories over the following days, but the mystery driver never came forward. The case was still open and New Zealand police were treating it as an accident.

Hackett had already made his latest grim discovery when the email from Curly had arrived with a muted ping. His adrenalin spiked. The Spotlight team was proposing a follow-up story on Tugga’s death and wanted some background information on the big fella.

Hackett didn’t trust journalists. Finely tuned instincts, and a healthy dose of paranoia helped him survive more than three decades in the corporate world. Right now, his gut told him the news bastards had inside information from the cops about Tugga’s demise – and he wanted to know. Hackett glanced briefly at the name of the journalist who sent the request for a chat. Curly Rogers didn’t ring any bells with him. He noted from the automated signature that Rogers was a producer on Spotlight, so that might explain why he couldn’t put a face to the name.

Too ugly for TV, or too old?

Hackett knew little about the structure of the news and current affairs departments; things like who wrote or reported or filmed or did what to whom at whatever time did not interest him. He did know they spent a fortune every day.

Perhaps this interaction with the staff might be doubly productive. Hackett could glean the latest information on Tugga’s death and assess the smarts of this producer. Curly’s name could be added to the next round of redundancies if he didn’t impress.

He composed a terse reply and hit send, smiling at the thought that Curly was unaware the command to ascend to the top floor had more at stake than background information.

Hackett also considered how much he should share about the deaths of Drew and Gerry. His own shock had certainly turned to curiosity.

Three accidental deaths – what are the odds?

There was also a momentary flicker of apprehension that the deaths of his three friends from a lifetime ago should concern him; he was, after all, now the only surviving male from Tugga’s Mob.

Will this producer knob think I’m just being paranoid?

Or, would Curly struggle to hide his glee that The Hatchet might be the next member of Tugga’s Mob to suffer an accident?

That was the nub of the matter: three mates, three accidental deaths, all in a few weeks. How could it be coincidental?

From Hackett’s experience, journalists were always willing to latch onto a conspiracy. They could milk the story for days, or weeks, until it ran out of steam with readers or viewers. They then quietly let them slide and moved on to the next drama that might sell newspapers or TV shows. Although some people loved their 15 minutes of fame, Hackett’s ego didn’t require that sort of stroking and, professionally, his corporate image could do without any potential dirt that might stick from Tugga’s exit.

Hackett’s next meeting was 45 minutes away, and he had no idea when Curly would find his way to the corporate suites, so he decided it was time to track down the other surviving member of Tugga’s Mob – Helen Franks.

Casting his mind back to the end of the tour again, Hackett realised he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Helen. He didn’t recall her being part of the space cake buffet on the final evening in Amsterdam. And there weren’t any memories of Helen around the camp site during the final pack up. Mind you, that wasn’t a surprise given his near catatonic state from the cannabis binge.

Hackett turned to Google again to launch another search, this time hoping for a better result: another living member of Tugga’s Mob apart from himself. Less than a second produced 933,000 results for Helen Franks. Once again, he ignored LinkedIn and Wikipedia as potential sources.

You were never that classy, Helen.

July 3, 1986

We’ve just experienced a couple of the most emotional yet amazing days of the tour – Gallipoli. I thought I knew the history from school and listening to dad after a couple of glasses of Tawny Port on a Sunday night, but being here and walking amongst the graves and seeing the ages of the soldiers made me cry, several times.

Many of the ANZACs were younger than me, and I’m only 25. They volunteered for king and country and honour and glory and all that stuff that sounds so silly to me now. But here they lie, buried half a world away from home, their Big OEs a few months of terror in sunbaked trenches with flies, atrocious food and unimaginable slaughter.

I can’t help asking, was it worth it? The Ataturk message at the Ari Burnu Memorial made me cry the most. It was the first time I understood that we were invaders. Of course the Turks were going to defend their homes and families as fiercely as they could. I always thought the ANZACs were on a noble mission to end the First World War. That’s what school told us, and even dad’s potted history lessons followed the same themes.

The Turks must have wondered who these crazy Colonials were charging over their hills and trying to kill them. Yet the Ataturk message is so noble and forgiving, telling foreign mothers who lost sons on these shores that they now lie in peace, side by side with Turkish sons, sharing the soil of a friendly country. I wonder if we could ever be that kind to former enemies?

That might seem a bit maudlin but we were all glad to experience such important history. We spent an afternoon visiting the various battle sites and cemeteries. Brian found a Turkish cartridge which Andreas spent hours trying to swap. I laughed at his persistence and told him to go find his own, which didn’t impress him.

I managed to walk Plugge’s Plateau where Poppa scrambled across under fire on that first day. I even saw a black snake curled up on a track, soaking up the sun. It was interesting to see it – and give it a wide berth – as we were never taught anything about those Gallipoli dangers at school.

We finished the day by following a Top Deck bus south along the coast to a small Turkish camp site. It was right on the water and basic, but beautifully located. People were saying it was hard to imagine such a lovely camp site could be that close to a battlefield. One of the Turkish managers told us the entire peninsula was a battlefield. It wasn’t just Aussies and Kiwis – there were French, Indian, British and even a contingent from Newfoundland fighting the Turks, Germans and Austrians. Our education was finally being brought up to date.

It was an amazing night, sitting under the stars drinking cold Turkish beer and sharing our lives with the locals and a few backpacking Germans and Danes. This is what I came to Europe toexperience. I learned so much today and developed a greater understanding and affection for the Turks.

There was also a hilarious story from a Top Deck driver about a previous tour. A Malaysian passenger – a chef – wasn’t interested in Gallipoli history, unlike the Kiwis and Aussies, so he stayed at the camp site while they toured around. When the passengers returned, they found the Malaysian chef had been industrious – scooping up mussels and other shellfish from the shallows and preparing a spicy dish. The passengers were happily wolfing down the seafood until someone pointed out what we had only recently learned: that the beach had seen battles during the war, and people had probably died in the sea here.

Tears rolled down the Top Deck driver’s face as he described how half the passengers dashed off to the dunes to be sick. The other half – including driver and courier – finished the shellfish feast with a bemused Malaysian chef. It was one of many funny stories that were shared on the night.

Sadly, for me, there was an ugly moment and it was caused by Tugga. For a big man he’s light on his feet and can creep up on you without warning. The toilet facilities were primitive – smelly starting blocks, as we call them – and we were going into the dunes for a pee. I had just finished when I stood up to find Tugga standing a few feet away with his trousers down, but not wanting to pee. I told him he was gross and to stay away from me. He called me a cock-teaser as I ran back to the beach gathering. He is getting seriously weird and I’ll have to be careful I don’t let him catch me like that again.

I didn’t tell the others as there is a good vibe in the group. Us Kiwi girls don’t like to create a fuss, unlike some of those Australian prima donnas!

We didn’t get much sleep that night as we were up before dawn to go back to ANZAC Cove to experience the time of the landing. It was spooky in the half-light and then everyone freaked when a firework exploded. I’m sure it was Tugga, or one of his Mob, but it was hard to tell with tourists from three buses mingling around the headstones at Ari Burnu, and they never owned up.

We spent a few more hours there exploring other famous battle sites – significant for us Kiwis and Aussies – before hitting the road for Istanbul.

Breakfast was fresh Turkish bread. This van arrived out of nowhere and I think we cleaned him out of loaves in a few minutes. Bread, jam and sugary tea – a basic breakfast, but so much yummier compared to what Poppa and his mates ever got to eat at ANZAC Cove. I think word spreads quickly along the coast when Antipodeans land at Gallipoli – again! This time the meetings are much friendlier. We’re all now looking forward to exotic Istanbul and shopping at the Grand Bazaar.

The diary-holder flicked back through several pages to the briefer entries made during the days in Greece. Such a contrast in experiences and impressions of two ancient cultures. It was what the Big OE was supposed to be all about; opening blinkered South Pacific minds to the wider world. Yet, there was always someone selfishly wanting to spoil things, to get their own way. The diary was returned to its safe place once again.