---

Fifty-five years of age and not much to show for it. From the outside perhaps, looking in...but not from where I'm sitting. Cranleigh House overlooking the river in Hamilton, legal practice in the City, tax off-set junkets every year for 'professional development', long standing member of the Selection Committee, State Liberal Party and a wine cellar full to overflowing - what's there for Henry Lansdowne Broadbent to complain about, you might say?  Well, I'll tell you. I'm broke...but that's not all...

 

Oh! Here she comes, jewellery glittering on her brown paper hands and shrivelled neck, 'Morning, dear.'

 

God! I can't stand much more of her regal condescension every morning she descends the open staircase. Violet, she's up and about for hours in that perfumed boudoir of hers, my wife of almost thirty years. Gorged herself again on kedgeree, shouldn't wonder, like she does most mornings. Read somewhere that English aristocracy eat nothing else at breakfast time so Magda, her maid, she serves it on a tray, seven o'clock on the dot. Never any leftovers, either. Where she puts it all in that skinny bag of bones, God only knows!

 

'Where's the post, Henry?' Imperious. No greeting, of course. I'm the unpaid servant around here. 'I've got to see Archie today with some deeds or other.'

'On the hall table. There's a big stiff envelope, next to where you left your mobile 'phone. That's what you're looking for I expect.'

 

'Get it for me then, Henry. I'm late already. And bring my mobile as well. Feel lost without it! Where I go, it goes.'

 

Then, without a backward glance she leaves, gloved hands primly on the wheel of her BMW, a scattering of gravel and she's off, scorching into town. She's an excellent driver, mores the pity, and she'll live to be a hundred.

 

Five years older than me, the Duchess - that's what everyone calls her when she's out of range. But she hears, all right, and thrives on the soubriquet.

Sometimes wonder if it's all been worth the price. Funny when you come to think of it, though. Funny peculiar, that is, not funny ha ha! Always take a good long look at the prospective mother-in-law before you take the plunge. Isn't that what they used to say? Well, I did, but not long enough, I guess! Violet's mother, Clementine, died only last year. Thin as a rake, the old girl, and at ninety-one, ready for another decade or two if she hadn't broken her neck surfboarding down at Bondi, of all things. A few years before that Violet's father had made a huge settlement on her. Deed of gift. Cunning beggar, held on just long enough to avoid Death Duty then died in his bed. And that's not all! When Clementine was hauled from the water in Bondi like a piece of stringy kelp and clearly pronounced dead by misadventure, the will was probated and the whole Crawford entail, land, houses, blue-chip all piles up in Violet's grasping claws. Not that she minds spending money on herself, of course. She's really quite lavish when it comes 'keeping her position in society', as she calls it. But I'm left to manage on diminishing returns from a failing practice. Thank God there were no children to complicate matters.

 

'Henry,' she had once said to me, 'you married me all those years ago for money in prospect. Don't interrupt, Henry. I've no intention of giving it to any dogs' home or charity. Can't think of anyone else to leave it to, anyway. So I'm telling you now, you shall have it. At least I owe you that, I suppose. But you'll have to wait for it, dear boy. You'll have to wait until I'm good and ready and we Crawfords are all long livers.' Did I mention that, by the way? We've been the double-barrelled Crawford-Broadbents now for years.

But here's the rub. You see, I need a million dollars right now...the prison walls, I can feel them now closing clammily around me.

I'm a bit of a ditherer, I know. Maybe that's why I never really made it in the law. Maybe that's why I never made it on the horses, either. Time and again I see certain winners come in with respectable odds, (and I've had some good tips in my time as well) but no, I've always got to recoup and go for outside odds. I know, I know, the story's as old as time, and you'll not be surprised to learn there's a dirty great hole in the Trust Account and getting bigger. Trouble is, I can never make up my mind on the race card or work to a proper system so I've reached the point where I pray and dream and still see only one solution...go for broke! (Who in hell invented that saying, eh?)
 
Well, today I stop dithering. I reach for the 'phone.

I'm getting nervous and wonder if he'll show up. My watch shows three o'clock as the lights of Brisbane wink from atop Mount Gravatt Lookout. But for the one ruin of a car gently bouncing on rusted springs to muted squeals of delight, the place is deserted and I shiver. Did I reveal enough on that telephone call? Enough to engage both his fear and avarice? Both powerful motivators but were they proportionate? Had I scared him off? Then, sidelights only, a car noses quietly into a bay.

 

For an Indian he is much bigger than I expect.

 

'Doctor Singh? Thank you for coming.'

 

We are both outside under the stars, distrusting confined spaces.

 

'Who are you?' Bluntly he asks in a refined, Kamahl baritone.

 

'You don't know me, Doctor Singh, and that's the way I want to keep it for the moment. I practise law. And we don't have much time because I suggest we both leave here separately well before sun-up.'

 

'From the little you said on the telephone, this sounds ominously like blackmail, sir. What's to stop me going straight to the police?'

 

'You won't, Doctor Singh. I know a lot about you and that includes the drug scam you had going before you dumped on that hospital pharmacologist who's now serving time. I knew her legal defence counsel.'

 

'You can't prove anything against me on that score,' the Indian says trying to put a smirk into his voice.

 

'And I haven't even mentioned your medical qualifications, have I? You must be finding life a bit hard after you were struck off...and still practising on the quiet, I hear.' I can almost hear him swallow hard. 'Dr Singh, the Police would have been here with you if you'd really thought I was up to blackmail - though, come to think of it, you wouldn't really want the Police nosing around, now would you?' I smile encouragingly in the dark. 'I didn't come here for your money, Dr Singh. Quite the reverse. The best of all arrangements are 'win/win', aren't they? And that's exactly what's in it for you - money. Quite a lot of money actually.'

 

'How much money are we talking about and why me?'

 

I like that, the money first.

 

'One million dollars.' I pause. 'And why you? - because you have certain skills and access to drugs that I need for my purpose. Does that answer you question?'

 

'Not quite. For that kind of money it's got to be criminal?'

 

'Yes, you could say that.'

 

Think I've lost him. No. Back and forth he wanders across the car-park, deep in thought and I wait.

 

'Well?' I say, somewhere between alarm and suspicion.

 

'I need time to decide. I take it my services, whatever they are, will buy your silence?'

 

'Of course.'

 

'What do you want me to do exactly?'

 

'That comes later, Dr Singh. As of now, I need a commitment. Understand? Are you interested?'

 

'Two million dollars paid into a Swiss account.' Good try! Expected that!

 

'Fifty thousand in used notes in your hand a week from now. A million into your numbered account the day I arrive in Switzerland. Take it or leave it.'

 

The Indian sticks out a slender hand in the dark.

 

'Look! It's getting light. Time to go. Full details at our next meeting. OK?'

 

'Seven days exactly then, same time. Three o'clock?

 

'Yes, three o'clock sharp at Slaughter Falls. Has a certain ring to it, wouldn't you say?'

 

As silently as he came, Dr Singh moves off the Summit, the lights of his car blinking through the trees.

 

Don't think I've missed anything out, though it might be better in longhand. More convincing, maybe.

 

I'm getting a bit nervous now but I suppose it's a good thing in an enterprise like this. Only three days to go before the final crunch meeting with Singh. Fifty thousand should be a nice little foot warmer, eh! Ten bundles all in used fifties - though, tightly packed into that holdall, doesn't look all that impressive. Still, if he does get cold feet, I can play my trump card. He never guessed I was wired up on the Lookout.

 

Yes, OK, I'm smiling to myself. Things are falling nicely into place. Violet and me, we're both now enrolled in his practice and, you won't believe this, she never thought to revoke my Power of Attorney given under her hand all those years ago.

 

Things were a bit brighter then. So, I've successfully skimmed nearly all her stock holdings and the proceeds are now nicely tucked away in Zurich. There's an irony here, if you like ironies. Not a penny from her in her miserable life, but in death... whoopee! Careful now! Mustn't get carried away...not yet!

 

Oh! most important. Got to remember to tell Singh. He's got to make sure her mobile goes into the box with her. Just the kind of thing could cause complications if her final instructions are not carried out to the letter. One of her many fixations, that is - a lifeline in case of rescue. Huh! Fat chance! I'll make sure of that.

'You will be family friend and physician in charge of arrangements, Dr Singh,' I said at our second meeting. 'There are no living relatives to contend with and no religious rites. Burial of both bodies the following day, no later, in the family mausoleum.'

 

'I do not like this, Mr Broadbent. This is a very risky enterprise for me. If I'm to think of this seriously you must make it worth my while. I know you will be able to afford it.'

 

He's even bigger than I recall from last meeting as he towers over me in the velvet night. Stars blaze above. Nocturnal life stirs. Slaughter Falls breathes quietly.

 

A faint click and my recorder produces a scratchy conversation.

 

 

I switch off the recorder.

 

Silence.

 

'That's dubbed, Dr Singh and the master's in the Bank.' I let this sink in. A plane passes high overhead drawing a faint thread of sound. 'Convinced?' Body language; stark outline against the night sky slumped in defeat. 'You have found out my name, of course. And my address, no doubt. I expected no less.'

 

Friday, seventh of July, year of Grace 2007, I tell him. I smile to myself. What better epitaph for the queen of my heart, 07.07.07. Seven, that was always her magic number. Everything is in hand, I tell him. Mortician ready, willing, handsomely paid, he will be waiting the Doctor's call. All triggered to be set in motion on the appointed day after my emergency house call to Dr Singh.

Seventh of July struggled to make its appearance, cloud and mid-winter rain like tears in judgement.

 

'Good morning, Magda. Just set it down there, I'll take it up this morning.' A warm smile doesn't do any harm. 'Oh, by the way, I'm going to be here all day so you can take the rest of the day off. OK!'

 

The Duchess sits up brightly as I knock and walk in with the loaded breakfast tray. Seven o'clock news burbles on the radio as she pounces on the tray like a predator. She shovels in the kedgeree and I'm left in wonder that she can taste anything at all.

 

Later I sit at my desk in the downstairs study, tapping away with my silver biro, unable to work, waiting. Two hours. Something should be happening...crash! ...

 

'Henry!' A strangled cry, half scream, as she clutches the banister, her mobile held out imploringly. Ramped up half an octave now, 'Henry,' she shrieks, 'doctor...quick!' Her back arches agonisingly as the flimsy nightdress rides up, reveals her emaciated rabbit-like frame. She collapses at my feet as her bodily functions erupt. Handkerchief tied over my nose, I carry her body back to the bed still convulsing, prising the mobile from her grip and placing it on the bedside table then quickly descend the stairs to my desk. I pick up the receiver.

 

'Classic arsenical symptoms,' said Dr Singh, who, good as his word, arrives in thirty minutes. He examines the body and his manner is clinical, detached, emotionless. 'Fatal Myocardial Rupture,' he writes on the Death Certificate and turns to me.

'Stay calm,' says Dr Singh now fully in charge. 'Just remember the sequence. This the number you gave me? I'm going to call the undertaker now. Have him bring them over right away. Two beautiful caskets I hope he's got for you.' Didn't know the man was capable of such gallows humour.

 

'Already took delivery. We've got to bring them up the back stairs now, from the garage. And here, you'd better take my suicide note. You found it next to my body. OK?'

 

'Yes. Leave my mobile there, right where it is next to your wife...the body. I'll need it later. Right!' he said, ticking off the points on his fingers, 'first, let's get the coffins up then I'm going downstairs to 'phone the undertaker from your study - don't want him tracing my mobile number, now do we?' Brisk, unnervingly confident, as though he does this every day of the week.

 

'Morphine sulphate. Three tablets. Take them all now then lie on the bed next to, er...your wife. Suspended animation. You'll sleep the sleep of the...no, not the just. But you'll be out cold till three on Sunday morning. I've got the spare key to the family mausoleum. When you wake, you'll feel disoriented. There's enough room just to move but give me a call on your mobile without delay. Understood? Now, I'm going downstairs to make that 'phone call.'

 

Put the mobile into her coffin first of all. Generous to the last, I am. Glad I remembered, though.

 

God! Delay! There'll be no delay come Sunday morning. I'm suddenly cold...I feel drowsy...

Panic! Didn't tell me about that. Feel suffocated even with the breathing hole. Dear God, didn't know it would be like this. I scream - dead! I can feel the satin finish just in front of my face - otherwise I feel numb. Perhaps I am dead. Deadly silence.

 

It's coming back to me. Yes, I can feel my feet, my hands now. Of course, my mobile. This is my key to life, fresh air and fortune. Singh will be waiting to set me free. The number's programmed. Battery's OK. Press. It's ringing.

What the hell is that! I can hear it ringing...ringing...Christ! It's coming from Violet's casket...