Fallout Page 5

  ‘I was thinking we could start with a week,’ said Ihaka. ‘That might be as much as I need. If not, it would roll into the next week. And so on.’

  ‘You mean two weeks might become three? And three might become four? And so on?’

  ‘That kind of thing.’

  ‘And when do you propose to commence this indefinite disappearing act?’

  ‘Pretty soon. Soon as possible really. Say tomorrow.’

  Charlton’s eyebrows arched. He changed position again, transferring his chin to his other hand. ‘I see. Well, I think all I need to know now is why? What’s up?’

  ‘Personal stuff.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ Charlton nodded, pursing his lips. ‘Would that be the favourite uncle in intensive care after being gored by a bull, the favourite nephew kidnapped by pirates in the South China Sea, or the family home being eaten by termites?’

  Ihaka stiffened. Charlton’s sarcasm was like a precise poker thrust into a dying fire that causes the embers to flare back into life. ‘Take your pick.’

  Charlton sat up straight, drumming his fingers on the desk. ‘OK. As you know, sergeant, we’re flat out right now, so indefinite leave as of tomorrow is a non-starter. I suggest you come back in a week’s time with a more specific proposal, and we can revisit it.’

  ‘Is that a no?’

  Charlton shook his head. ‘It’s a not this week, and not on those terms.’

  Ihaka stood up. ‘No point in having power if you can’t abuse it, eh?’

  ‘Sergeant, I’m aware that you pride yourself on not learning from experience, but don’t start World War Three just because you didn’t get what you want when you wanted it. I’m trying to be reasonable here. If I was in your shoes, I’d be thinking that was an encouraging sign and responding in kind.’

  ‘Fair enough. Next week then: same time, same place, different outcome.’

  Curiously, Ihaka’s relationship with Detective Sergeant Ron Firkitt, Charlton’s hulking right-hand man, the doer of his dirty work, the Igor to Charlton’s Doctor Frankenstein (as many at Auckland Central put it behind their backs), had progressed beyond an uneasy truce. Curiously, because their antipathy had been so sincere, it made Ihaka and Charlton seem like the cowboys in Brokeback Mountain. They had actually come to blows. Or rather a blow; a blow delivered without warning but with considerable force and precision that was the trigger for Ihaka’s exile, and which Firkitt had sworn to avenge.

  While Firkitt was liable to turn a blowtorch of scorn on anyone who suggested that he’d mellowed, the consensus was growing. No one in their right mind would choose him for a desert-island companion, but he was certainly less confrontational than he used to be.

  The credit for this transformation — some called it a miracle — belonged to Firkitt’s GP. The previous summer the doctor had pointed out that he’d been dispensing the same advice — quit smoking, lay off the junk food, drink less, sleep more, exercise regularly — for fifteen years and getting the same response: Firkitt would act surprised, as if he hadn’t seen that coming, and promise to take it on board, then just carry on doing all the bad stuff and steering clear of the good stuff. His GP had no intention of participating in this exercise in futility for another fifteen years, not that it was likely to come to that. If Firkitt was ignoring his advice because he thought it was bullshit, he should find himself another GP; if he couldn’t or wouldn’t change his ways, he should stop wasting money on doctor’s fees.

  The GP was aware that when Firkitt’s ex-wife had issued a not dissimilar ultimatum a decade or so earlier, his response was to help her pack. He was therefore astonished when Firkitt declared he’d got the message. He’d have a blow-out that night and when he woke up the next day feeling like shit, he’d finally be ready to go on a health kick.

  No one believed that, of his own free will, Firkitt could go without a cigarette for more than a few hours, let alone give them up altogether. But he’d gone cold turkey, hadn’t taken a drag since the aftermath of the showdown with his GP. He’d also given up hard liquor and embraced healthy eating and regular exercise, even joining the ‘homo harriers club’, as he’d previously referred to the jogging group that set off from Auckland Central every lunchtime.

  The event that cemented the rapprochement had taken place a fortnight earlier. At 8.30 pm Ihaka was tidying his desk — i.e. sweeping food wrappers, paper cups and documents he wouldn’t get around to reading into the wastepaper basket — when Firkitt appeared. He would appreciate Ihaka’s advice on something, he said, but it would mean going for a bit of a drive.

  Under normal circumstances Ihaka would have pointed out that it was getting late, he’d had a long day, he was buggered and surely to Christ it could wait till tomorrow. In all likelihood he would have commenced this spiel, and flagged where it was heading, by telling the other party, ‘You must be fucking joking.’ But Firkitt was making an effort: asking for advice didn’t come easily to him. And, up till that moment, Ihaka had assumed the word ‘appreciate’ wasn’t in his vocabulary.

  So he’d followed Firkitt over the Harbour Bridge out to Glenfield where they pulled up outside a darkened building in the main shopping centre. A sign identified it as ‘Fergie’s Gym: Home of Boxing on the North Shore’. Firkitt had a key. He opened up and they went inside.

  ‘What’s the story?’ said Ihaka.

  ‘You’ll see,’ said Firkitt.

  Firkitt locked the door behind them and switched on lights. He led Ihaka down a corridor, through the reception area and into the gym proper which consisted of a weights room and a large space with a raised ring in the centre. The extractor fans had been turned off and a miasma of body odour hung in the air like mould.

  They walked around the ring into a changing room. Firkitt opened a locker, took out a plastic shopping bag and tossed it to Ihaka. It contained shorts, sports shoes, a T-shirt and a mouthguard.

  ‘They should fit, more or less,’ said Firkitt.

  ‘What, so you’re a fucking charity now?’ said Ihaka.

  ‘I told you I was going to get you back,’ said Firkitt. ‘Tonight’s the night: you and me in the ring, Marquis of Queensberry rules. A fair fight, which is more than you fucking deserve.’

  Ihaka laughed. ‘You seriously want us to get in that ring and carry on like a couple of silly old fucks in the Fight for Life?’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ said Firkitt, ‘but yes, you bet I’m serious. Get changed, fatty, we’re on in five.’

  Ihaka stood there looking at his kit, hearing Firkitt getting changed on the other side of a bank of lockers. He had half a mind just to walk away, until he remembered that Firkitt had locked them in. What the fuck? He had always known that one day there would be some sort of reckoning. He’d assumed it would be an ambush, as opposed to formal hand-to-hand combat, but it was Firkitt’s call. If he wanted to slug it out, so be it.

  Ihaka emerged from the dressing room shivering from the chill and feeling slightly ridiculous. Firkitt was already in the ring, putting on boxing gloves. There was a pair of gloves on the canvas in the opposite corner.

  Ihaka climbed up to the ring and manoeuvred himself through the ropes. ‘We can’t go on meeting like this,’ he said.

  ‘Get your gloves on,’ said Firkitt. ‘I haven’t got all night.’ He watched Ihaka fiddle with the gloves’ Velcro tabs. ‘I know your idea of a fair fight is king-hitting a bloke when he’s having a slash —.’

  ‘Yeah, well, racial abuse brings out the worst in me.’

  Firkitt nodded. ‘I’m not proud of that. But you should be bloody ashamed of pissing on me.’

  ‘Just for the record,’ said Ihaka, ‘I didn’t actually piss on you. I pissed in the trough and it just happened to flow your way.’

  ‘I’m going to enjoy wiping that fucking smirk off your face,’ growled Firkitt. ‘The way I see it, the abuse and the pissing cancel each other ou
t, which leaves the elbow in the chops. So we’re going toe to toe, I’m going to give you a good old tickle-up, then we’ll be all square.’

  ‘You didn’t think of this on the way to work,’ said Ihaka. ‘You’ve been planning it for a while. In fact, I’ll bet you’ve been training for it.’

  Firkitt grinned wolfishly. ‘I wondered how long it would take you to work that out. Yeah, I’ve been training here for the last few months. The guy who runs the joint used to train fighters. You might say he’s taken an interest in my little project. You might also say I’m quietly confident of giving a good account of myself. You right there, mate? You’re looking a bit dubious. OK, these are the rules: a three-minute round, a minute’s break, then it’s non-stop till we’ve had enough. Or till one of us has had more than enough, and the other bloke takes pity on him.’

  It was a genuine heavyweight match-up, but Firkitt had a height and reach advantage. He looked ominously lean and well-conditioned, and had devised a format that maximised his fitness advantage. I could be in the shit here, thought Ihaka. He can have the first round; he’s entitled to that. Then I’ll have to think of something. Very fucking quickly.

  ‘Ready?’ said Firkitt. There was an egg-timer on the floor in his corner. He pressed it with his foot, hammering his gloves together. ‘Ding dong, come out fighting. Or not. It makes no fucking difference to me.’

  Firkitt crabbed across the ring on surprisingly light feet. Before Ihaka got his guard up, his head was snapped back by a stiff straight left. He covered up; Firkitt dug a left hook into his side and a heavy right into his midriff, then stepped back to observe the reaction.

  In their strategising sessions, the ex-boxing trainer had drummed in two messages: first, fatties tend to run out of puff pretty quickly; second, they hate copping it in the bread-basket. Firkitt had actually reached the point of not being entirely sure which he was looking forward to more: beating the shit out of Ihaka, or never again having to listen to the trainer recite Smokin’ Joe Frazier’s mantra: ‘Kill the body and the head will die.’

  But Firkitt was already rethinking his strategy. He’d expected that when he went to the body, his gloves would sink into soft, sucking flesh and Ihaka would bleat as if he was giving birth. Neither of those things had happened. In fact, it looked like the prick actually didn’t mind getting smacked in the guts that much. Either he wasn’t as fat as he looked, or his fat had unusual properties, because those body shots had pretty much bounced off. Firkitt decided to go for the head, which was what he’d really wanted to do all along.

  Ihaka’s strategy was to stay out of hospital; his tactic was to exert himself as little as possible. He stood in the middle of the ring, gloves in front of his face in the peek-a-boo guard, elbows tucked in, watching Firkitt circle. If Firkitt wanted to get in close and deal to him downstairs, that would bring his head into range. But since that early flurry, Firkitt had stayed outside, using his reach, moving clockwise then counter-clockwise to switch the angle of attack, peppering Ihaka with left jabs and right crosses. He blocked a lot of them with his gloves or arms, but too many still got through.

  As the egg-timer went off, Firkitt whacked Ihaka with a hard overhand right. As he headed to his corner, he gave Ihaka a wink and asked, ‘Having fun yet?’

  Ihaka flopped over the ropes, sucking in air. His head was full of harsh noise, a chorus of complaint from every joint and organ. His arms felt like anchors. His face throbbed with pain. He felt moderately beaten up.

  All he’d managed by way of counter-attack was a few ineffectual flaps, more airy gestures than punches. Fuck this for a joke, he thought. If I can’t put a stop to it, I’ll be a lump of raw meat by the time the cunt’s finished with me.

  After what seemed like ten seconds, Firkitt called out, ‘Here I come, ready or not. Remember, it’s last man standing.’ He sounded positively jolly, like a Father Christmas at a children’s party.

  Ihaka took a couple of plodding sideways steps and leaned back heavily against the ropes, peering at Firkitt between his raised gloves.

  ‘The old rope-a-dope, eh?’ said Firkitt. He let fly with a flurry of punches, most of which Ihaka blocked. ‘Won’t work, pal. I hit the heavy bag or the speed ball most nights, spar three times a week. I can do this all fucking night.’

  As Firkitt stepped forward to throw more leather, Ihaka pressed back even further against the ropes, then catapulted forward. A straight left crunched into his mouthguard; he felt blood pop from a crushed lip. Then he had a grip on Firkitt’s biceps. He hoisted him off his feet, swung him around and threw him against the ropes. As Firkitt rebounded off the ropes, Ihaka planted his feet and speared a ramrod right into the centre of his face.

  Firkitt lurched like an off-balance roller skater. His arms windmilled, his legs gave way and he slid down the ropes. Before he could get back up, Ihaka was on top of him, a knee on his chest, left hand on his throat, right fist drawn back and cocked, ready to drive his head into the canvas.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this shit,’ said Ihaka. ‘The way I see it, we’re all square, so we can call it quits right here. You want to keep going, fine, but the Marquis of Queensberry can go fuck himself. It’s anything goes, including knocking a man’s block off when he’s down.’

  Firkitt stared up at him for a few seconds, then lowered his head back onto the canvas. ‘When you put it like that . . .’

  Ihaka extended his right hand. They bumped gloves. He got to his feet, hauling Firkitt up with him. ‘Honour satisfied?’

  ‘I reckon so,’ said Firkitt.

  As they walked to the changing room Firkitt said, ‘You took your lumps — most guys would’ve dropped their bundle. Ever done any boxing?’

  ‘Well, since you ask,’ said Ihaka, ‘one of the cuzzies fought pro for a while. I used to mix it up with him now and again. While ago now, though.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He had just enough sense to get out before his brains turned to mush. These days he’s an assistant to an assistant manager at a Pak’nSave in South Auckland, comes in at about a hundred and forty kg. If you’re going to shoplift there, you’d want to be a fucking fast runner.’

  Five

  EDDIE BRIGHTSIDE

  A Backgrounder Prepared For Strategic Solutions Ltd

  Strictly Private and Confidential

  1. ADVISORY

  Of necessity much of what follows is unsubstantiated; some is gossip, rumour and hearsay, or extrapolation thereof. It includes material that could be regarded as defamatory, assuming Mr Brightside is still alive (there is no compelling reason to think otherwise) and inclined to pursue legal action (which, under the circumstances, seems highly unlikely). Nevertheless we recommend that this document is circulated on a strict need-to-know basis.

  2. INTRODUCTION

  The difficulties we encountered in compiling this backgrounder reflect the subject: Brightside was a chronically unreliable source of information about himself and his activities.

  From boyhood Brightside had what one source described as a ‘creative’ approach to the truth. For example, he told fellow pupils at Auckland Grammar School that he was given the second name Fletcher because he was closely related to the Fletcher family who had built their construction company into one of New Zealand’s largest conglomerates. When his friends wondered why, in that case, the Brightsides were not better off, he explained that his grandfather on his mother’s side had been the ‘black sheep’ of the Fletcher family. After being disowned (and impregnating Eddie’s grandmother), he went to Latin America to become a soldier of fortune and was never heard from again. Brightside warned his classmates not to raise the subject in the presence of his mother, Elizabeth, as she was still highly sensitive about it.

  In fact, there was no such black sheep in the Fletcher family and photographs show that Elizabeth Brightside bore a distinct resemblance to her legal father. Furthermo
re, she herself stated that she got the name from Fletcher Christian, the leader of the 1789 mutiny on the British naval vessel HMS Bounty.

  We have heard Brightside described as a ‘compulsive liar and name-dropper’, ‘consummate bullshit artist’ and ‘a Walter Mitty figure’ who had difficulty distinguishing between fantasy and reality. However, just as many sources insisted there was nothing pathological about it: in their view Brightside was a calculating operator (and self-promoter) who tailored his spiel to his audience and agenda of the moment.

  Adding to the difficulties arising from his tendency to tell different people different things is the fact that he ‘dropped off the radar’ at various times while he was overseas. The only sources of information regarding his whereabouts and activities during these hiatuses are his own, sometimes conflicting, accounts.

  Finally, the very nature of the intelligence world makes it difficult, if not impossible, to verify or disprove what Brightside led people to believe: that he was or had been involved in that world.

  3. CHILDHOOD

  Edward Fletcher Brightside was born in Auckland on May 25th 1949. His father Eric was a journalist at the Auckland Star, a gregarious individual, partial to a drink and a punt. These proclivities were far from uncommon in his profession and do not appear to have impacted on his work or family life. Elizabeth Brightside was a mother and housewife.

  When Eddie was 12, his father walked out on the family and moved to Sydney. In light of subsequent events it is tempting to speculate on the psychological impact this had on young Brightside: it may, for instance, have been the inspiration for the black-sheep grandfather yarn, and possibly the model for his own disappearance. Within months of his father’s desertion, Brightside began to reveal the propensity for telling tall tales that some later acquaintances would regard as his most marked characteristic. At the time his mother interpreted it as a coping mechanism: creating a fantasy life to compensate for his diminished reality.