Choices. Jeff Edwards

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СКАЧАТЬ a good mate today,’ he told me after a long swallow. ‘Been up the RSL for his wake. Good mates are hard to find. Don’t know what I’ll do now. My day will come soon I expect.’ He finished his speech with another mouthful from the bottle, and lapsed into silence. I suspect he would have been crying if he hadn’t been in public.

      I was about to sympathise with him when the train began to slow once more. ‘My stop,’ he said, swaying to his feet. ‘Be seeing you.’

      ‘Yeah,’ I nodded.

      As the train pulled out again I saw him at the turnstiles arguing with a station assistant. Either the old man couldn’t find his ticket or they were arguing about him having alcohol on the train. Whatever the reason, I was dragged away by the train before I could see what became of him.

      However, the old man’s appearance had saved me. His interruption had forced my mind to focus on a single subject, with the result that I could feel my sense of disorientation evaporating.

      Unlike the old man I still had my friends and my family, and I now considered what my actions would mean to them. I know that they would all be disappointed in me, mainly because I had let myself down. They had come to expect more of me.

      But there was one undeniable fact. Whatever I had done, whatever I had said, there was no going back, and I would have to stand, or fall by my actions. The cards had been dealt, choices made, and I had to force myself to look ahead from this point in time, and play the cards in my hand.

       What are they going to do? I asked myself. They’re going to try and prove that what I inferred on the stand was a total lie, and they’ll start with Liam Ryan. He’ll deny that he has anything to do with any government intelligence organisation and they’ll believe him. Or will they? Hadn’t I said that my superiors would cut me off, and wasn’t Liam going to do just that? That alone must cause them some measure of doubt. So what will their reactions be? They’ll have to prove I’m lying, and to do that they’ll need proof. They’ll follow me and listen in to my phone calls.

      I looked around the train carriage. Few seats were taken and I didn’t have a clue what an agent from the ICAC would look like. I supposed that they’d be officers seconded from the police force but that didn’t help. Coppers don’t look like anything special these days. In my youth, and nearly without exception, they had been six foot tall or more with broad shoulders, short hair, Anglo-Saxon, and male.

      These days police headquarters and the rest of the force were staffed by well-educated males and females of all shapes and sizes, and of all manner of ethnic backgrounds.

      I realised that my best chance of seeing if I was being followed was to wait until I reached my destination. One aspect of living so far out of the city was that few people would be getting off the train with me, and at this time of the day I would probably be the only one to alight at my particular station. If anyone else were to get off as well then there was a good chance that I would recognise them as neighbours or fellow commuters. Anyone else would be suspect.

      The rest of my journey was spent planning what I could do if I was being followed, and by the time the train began to slow I had made up my mind. In fact I was now secretly hoping that I was being followed in order that I could implement my plan.

      I chanced a look at my fellow passengers as I collected my box and made my way to the door. From what I could recall there only seemed to be three people in the carriage who had been there for the entire journey, and two of them were female.

      As the train pulled to a stop at Vineyard and the doors opened, I stepped out into the afternoon sunshine and paused, looking around casually as if expecting to be met by someone.

      There was a movement behind me as a young woman in jeans and t-shirt stepped out of my carriage, and made her way purpose-fully toward the exit. Further down the train another female was heading in my direction but I recognised her as a fellow commuter who I believed worked for an insurance company in the city.

      Tucking my box under my arm, I made my way slowly through the turnstiles and followed after the female in jeans. There was a late model, blue Holden parked in the drop-off zone near the station’s entrance and I watched as the woman climbed in and the car drove off. I took a mental note of the license plate as it disappeared around a corner.

      I tried to appear unconcerned as I made my way to the parking lot where my trusty old Ford utility was hiding in the shade of a large gum tree. This position in the lot was much sought after as the deep shade meant that a commuter arriving home after a long hot day would not have to climb into an oven to make their last part of their trip home. I felt a sudden pang of grief as I realised that I would not be doing this again, and wondered whose car would now inherit the prized location.

      A short distance up the road I passed a blue Holden sedan parked at the side of the road, and glancing in my rear-vision mirror was not surprised when I saw it pull out into the road behind me. They know where I live, so they won’t have any trouble following me, I thought to myself. The woman was only on the train to make sure that I didn’t make an unannounced stop along the way.

      * * *

      Land around Sydney is expensive, with suburban blocks of no size at all located close to the city selling for a fortune.

      When we married, and knowing that she would have to move to the city, Sandy, being the country girl she was, had insisted that we buy a property of reasonable size. She wanted a place where she would be able to raise a few chickens and possibly even a horse.

      To find such a property, and at a price which a mere public servant might almost have been able to afford, we were forced to look in the very far reaches of Sydney. We eventually settled on a two acre lot with a ramshackle barn and a very small, three bedroom fibro cottage that had been built in the 1950s.

      It was not a pretty property by any means, but it satisfied the yearnings of my wife and it definitely had what is known in real estate terms as ‘potential’.

      The blue Holden continued past me as I pulled into my driveway, and I parked my Ford behind the house. I knew Brook and Josh would still be at school and that Sandy would probably be in the barn, or behind it in her vegetable garden.

      As expected, I found my wife bent over a row of tomato plants busily pulling weeds, and stood for a moment to watch her swift, self-assured movements as she went about her work.

      Despite the birth of our two children she maintained her slender physique, mainly through the physically demanding work she did around the property. I am a city boy who loves the beach, and therefore I avoid my duties as the co-owner of a small holding as best I can. Sandy, on the other hand, revels in the endless chores and is never afraid of even the most strenuous of tasks, her hard, wiry body a testament to her energy.

      ‘Hi!’ I finally called.

      She stood up and turned to smile at me, and my heart broke with the news I was about to relate.

      The look on my face warned her. ‘Dan? What is it? Why are you home so early?’ she asked.

      ‘The commissioner has thrown me out. I’ve been fired, and they’re talking about possible criminal action.’

      ‘Oh Dan! What have you done?’

      I took a deep breath. ‘I was accessing the work database to help out a pal. And I might have made things even worse today.’

      ‘Worse?’ she said, СКАЧАТЬ