‘Interview concluded at 3.27 p.m.,’ he finally conceded into the small microphone. He eyed Floyd with suspicion as he got to his feet. His stare said it all, this wasn’t the end. Things weren’t as quite as bad as they had been when Floyd arrived in hand-cuffs, boxer shorts and an old t-shirt four hours earlier, but he wasn’t out of the woods yet.
‘They won’t be formally charging you at this stage,’ said Max. He was leaning so close denture paste was clearly visible. Floyd, too exhausted to move, thought for a split second that he might be French kissed. He automatically closed his eyes and puckered his lips. Then he flinched; the feel of a clammy, cold old hand. The dead fish; it was back.
For reasons of victim protection, as well as protection of the accused, all parties were made to sign an affidavit assuring anonymity. The case was listed as ongoing, and therefore not to be discussed publicly or otherwise for breach of the order. Floyd had been more than happy to sign. He didn’t bother seeking lawyer approval for that. Some things you just didn’t want out there in the public domain.
With the interview behind him, the hangover miraculously receded. Clearance to leave was granted. Floyd’s day finally felt like it might be on the turn. The lumbering detective however, had other ideas. His escort to the front door included a detour. A thin back corridor adjoined the sound proofed, rear interview rooms.
Floyd saw Glen Harkin before he was noticed himself. When he was, Glen suddenly averted his vision. The soundproofing was doing its job but Glen seemed to lower his head and cover his mouth anyway. The lawyer said something into Glen’s ear. They both stopped, and stared in Floyd’s direction.
Floyd’s stomach dropped.
In the room next to Glen was Kenny Coen. Both his parents were with him; a finely manicured lawyer sat between them. Mrs Coen, visibly crying, had a tissue in her hand. Mister Coen’s eyes were moist but he was holding it together. He was a rather skinny man with large nose and thick black framed glasses. The way he leant forward to catch every word gave the strained impression of a praying mantis.
Kenny, himself, was also crying. The interrogating officer seemed to be doing what he could to keep everybody calm. The scene didn’t inspire confidence but it did provide some solidarity. If Floyd was going down, he probably wasn’t going down alone.
A few other players from the party were also noted. They were all chatting away affably. Most had left not long after the birds arrived anyway. They wouldn’t be able to provide anything useful. The look of indifference on the faces of the interrogating officers only confirmed the fact. It was only Floyd, Bullet, Kenny and Glen that were privy to the whole unabridged version. Floyd hoped to god, that’s how it’d stay.
In an act of desperation rather than genius, Floyd had given big Glen the order to show any serious competition the door when it looked like the girls might hang around. A couple of the boys put up a drunken argument. Most though, had just taken it in their stride. It was certainly no reflection of friendship; everybody knew the score. Shaunny Thomas had hung around for a while, but he jumped in the taxi and left with the girls. He’d mentioned something about an early cricket match.
The noise permeating from the final interrogation room gave Floyd real cause for alarm. Even through the sound proofing, the bellowing of a detective was unmistakable. Furniture crashed, and something bounced of the bulletproof viewing window. Floyd recoiled. As he passed the window, a very redeyed, poorly dressed, balding detective could be clearly seen threatening the man in his charge.
Bullet Bulowski was sitting back on a chair. He was leaning slightly against the glass. One leg was crossed to reveal almost the full length of a worn black cowboy boot. A trickle of blood on his left temple suggested he might have fallen at some stage. Unfazed, Bulowski was attempting to light a cigarette. There was no lawyer present and the room’s interview table had been overturned. The angry detective was hovering above him like a cobra. Spit was flying like venom as the detective yelled for all he was worth. At that moment Bulowski raised his head slightly. Not much, but just enough to catch Floyd’s eye. He smiled wryly.
Bloody Bulowski, thought Floyd. He finally broke out of the chaos into the sunshine. The warm rays felt blissful on his face as the cool salty breeze filled his nostrils. This is some shit you’ve landed us all in.
CHAPTER thirteen
Floyd’s return to the manor was far from a hero’s welcome.
Not that he was expecting the red carpet and the tika-tape, but the boys had survived the odd brush with the law before. They’d always managed to come out in front. He recognised the silver Ford Fairlane of Max the lawyer immediately.Why didn’t the old prick offer me a lift back?
Some silly bastard had decided to give his uncle his license back too. The hulking great ’61 Dodge Phoenix of Graham McGuinness, in all its rusting glory, seemed to take up half a block. There was a rough looking old guy in the passenger seat. Floyd didn’t recognise him but that was no surprise; his uncle had always run with a pretty wild crowd. Now, with the A.A. meetings, they were only getting wilder.
How he’d loved that big Dodge as a youngster; all his uncle’s tales of intergalactic travel. He now understood the stories about the girls who’d seen the stars from the back seat; black holes and The Milky Way no longer held the same appeal. It took longer for the “penny to drop” on the owner of the other vehicle parked directly out front. It was a shiny red MGB hard top.
‘Floyd McGuinness, get your sorry backside in here this instant!’ demanded Helen. Her fury was unmistakable. Floyd made his way slowly in the back door. He was listening for something to tell him she thought this was all a big joke. He didn’t hear it. Looking at the floor in disgrace, purposely taking the vigor out of his stride, he did as he was told.
On this particularly sullen Sunday in downtown Mordialloc, the McGuinness lounge room was packed. Helen looked like she had been crying. Max sat next to her and seemed a little uneasy. Floyd guessed the reason for his anguish when he recognised the owner of the red sports car.
Uncle Gus, as he liked to be called by the boys, was a childhood friend of Helen’s. He had since gone on to become a fairly prominent psychologist and could sometimes be heard consulting openly on the radio. Having always carried a torch, he appeared intermittently when Helen needed a bit of support. Try as he might though, he could never cement himself in as a permanent fixture.
Maybe Gus is back on the scene, though Floyd. God, I hope not!
Gus wasn’t a bad guy really. In fact, he’d been perfect in the early days following her separation. Gus’s problem though was that he was very heroic in very low doses. There was nothing he didn’t know, nobody he hadn’t met, and you name a place; he’d been there. He was cashed up too, which had also held great appeal at that time, and made his stories more believable.
Unfortunately though, when you better got to know the bloke you soon realised, stories were all he had. He was sitting beside Helen in his matching lemon polo shirt and deck shoes. Floyd eyed him with suspicion. He was almost as pathetic as Max.
Next to Gus was Douglas, and he was clearly enjoying himself.
‘Man of the hour, our resident rapist, the back-door bandit himself!’ Douglas proclaimed happily. ‘Somebody give this man a Bondi cigar!’
This wasn’t the first time he had laughed at Floyd’s expense, and it wouldn’t be the last. When was the idiot going to wake up to himself? He was already 18, and if he didn’t make his move soon, he never would. The die would be cast. Doug knew what he was talking about too; he’d once travelled a similar road. It was amazing the effect of a good, steady woman though. Never one to admit it publicly, but when Eliza arrived on the scene he’d never been so miserable.
Floyd was tempted to laugh at his brother’s feeble wit. After observing the concerned looks on all the other killjoys in the room however, he refrained. His best chance of coming through this, with any family support at all, was to play it straight and