Free The Butcherbird by Geoffrey Cousins Page A

is this company called Beira. We appear to pay it between thirty-five and forty million dollars a year, yet no one seems to know what it does precisely. So there’s a ton of potential for cost-cutting and I plan to get on with it.’ He paused and counted to ten in his head. ‘In the interests of shareholders.’
    It was really no more than a rock jutting out of the Mediterranean. The vegetation, such as it was, consisted of a few scrawny olive trees struggling for survival in a thin layer of wind-blown soil trapped in the rock’s crevices. There were donkeys to carry supplies from the boat up the hill to the village, chickens in the yards, depression in the air. He only ever went there once with his father. It was enough. Enough to remind him where he came from, more than enough to know he wasn’t going back. He’d searched for it in the index of his atlas but there was no Beira listed among the Bs. But Ja was proud of where he came from and grateful for where he’d landed. They were different in that way. Mac felt he’d wrestled what he had from opponents who would have turned him over in a crocodile roll given half a chance. His father saw life with a softer palette.
    He walked stiffly down the verandah steps to the lush green lawn under the poinciana trees, the only expanse of soft green anywhere in the Kimberley in the harsh dry season. When he woke, alone, in the early morning after a day of riding, his body always felt like a rusty old car that needed a grease and oil change. He loved being alone up here. It was strange, because in the city he hated to sleep or eat alone and rarely did, but he’d never brought Bonny or any other girl to Bellaranga and Edith had only come twice. It was too hot for her, too wild, too far from the bridge club. A few times a year he flew major clients or investors in for fishing and shooting but, unlike life on the Honey Bear, this was bloke’s stuff, men’s business. Huntin’, shootin’, drinkin’—but no rooting. And a great tax deduction.
    This last thought brought him back to the subject of the board meeting with an unpleasant jerk. What possessed these people, given a huge salary and the chance to make a fortune from options, to go digging in holes full of snakes? First Buckley, with all his pompous crap about corporate behaviour, and now Jack Beaumont sounding like he was preaching a sermon. He’d have to learn. There were some holes that had big snakes in them with very nasty bites. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. Let Renton Healey sort it out. He could confuse anyone in three easy lessons. He’d been promoted to CFO and given a whacking pay increase thanks to his loyalty and ability to show flexible, creative thinking on tricky issues; now was the time to bring those qualities into play.
    Louise entered quietly through the open hatch, her bare feet making no sound on the wooden steps. It was one of Jack’s flights into whimsy, this study in a loft with a narrow staircase and a trapdoor. It was a wonder he hadn’t included a pole to slide down into the bedroom.
    ‘What are you doing, lover boy? It’s three o’clock in the morning. What’s happened to the digger who sleeps under gunfire?’ She was holding his head in both hands now and he was grateful for the warmth and comfort. He nuzzled into her body. ‘This is a worry; you’ve either fallen in love with another woman, in which case tiny parts of your body will be lightly sautéed with onions and garlic, or you’re more concerned than I’ve seen you since your daughter was born breech. Which is it? Be quick lest I ready the pan.’
    Where had his ‘values’ come from, that’s what Jack could never figure out. His mother was a classic snob who revered all things English, all persons of a higher social order, as she saw them. His father’s principles were elusive. But somehow Jack had developed a black and white view of some issues that wouldn’t leave him. His behaviour might wander at the