The Broken Shore Page #5

Oh, look, I don't think

I can be much help to you.

- I'm pretty much a stranger here.

- You were here last week, though.

Oh, briefly. My stepfather,

we weren't very close.

More interested in art. We met in town.

We're selling some property.

How old were you when your mother died?

Young.

- And your brother?

- Jamie, he drowned in '93, Tasmania.

So you're the sole heir to this estate?

Oh, I don't know. Got no idea.

I don't think my stepfather

really thought about death.

It was something for the common people.

This picture's interesting.

- Why would they slash that?

- Good taste?

That's the old kids' camp.

Part of the land development.

- It's up for sale, isn't it?

- Yeah. Yeah, I believe so.

- Is that what you were here for?

- Hmm. Yeah.

- So there's an interest in the estate?

- Hmm. Yeah.

S'pose that's what it looked like

before it burnt down.

Yeah, sort of.

Anyway, the fire was March 12, '83.

- That's a good memory.

- Oh, no, no, no, no.

No, I've got a very bad memory.

No, it was the...

It was the night my mother died.

She fell down those stairs.

That's Charles's

pottery workshop.

I take it that's not

your father's work?

Ah, no. He used to run classes

occasionally for children.

Are we finished?

What's that?

No idea.

Rejects. You right?

- Why the bodyguard, Erica?

- Comes with the job.

Really? I had no idea being

a Labor Party lawyer was so fraught.

You don't know politics.

Get you to give that back to John

for me.

Hey.

- What are you like at jigsaw puzzles?

- I hate them.

- Ah.

- What is this?

Oh, you're going to

put it back together for me.

- No.

- Yeah.

Why?

I thought we could reintroduce

arts and crafts back into the force.

No?

I'm lousy at jigsaws.

Well, you start with the base pieces.

81's kind of blue.

79's kind of green and flecky.

Work your way up from there.

Afternoon's work.

There you go. Want a nice

almond bickie to go with that?

Oh, no, thanks, Liam. I'm right.

Right, well, there goes my profit

for the winter.

Eight weeks a year

this place comes to life.

The rest of the year it's pensioners,

the unemployed and the unemployable.

You're forgetting the halt and the lame.

There is always us.

Two virile, single young men, marooned

on an island of old women in sandals.

How did we end up here?

What the hell brought you back?

- I'm recuperating.

- Liam?

Would you mind if I put one of these up?

And this petition?

Yeah, sure.

Might galvanise the five people

who see it into a political frenzy.

- Joe.

- Helen.

- Got a permit for that?

- Oh, here we go.

You are going to try and prevent us

from having a peaceful march?

Am I? Why would I do that?

Well, it figures that anyone

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