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Chapter 29
Darwin Correctional Centre - Friday morning
Russell Fairweather
Some days, Russell Fairweather didn’t think he’d be able to take incarceration for much longer. He laid the wooden cutlery on his plastic plate and stared at the congealed egg stuck to it. His breakfast had been cold when he’d taken it from the bain marie, and he’d barely touched it. What would he give for a plate of smoked salmon and lightly poached eggs garnished with rocket on the side, seasoned with the black pepper grinder he’d ordered from a timber merchant in Tasmania a few years ago?
He closed his eyes as the more frequent rage began to build; he couldn’t afford to lose his temper again. He’d already gotten the guards’ attention in the last couple of weeks. Sitting and waiting restlessly, wanting to know if Ellie Porter had met the ghastly end she deserved, was doing his head in. The thought of her death was the only thing that kept him going. Once he knew Dean had been successful, he would settle down and endure the last years of his sentence.
Strangely, he missed Dean. He had been company—he didn’t waste any breath talking to any other inmates—and it had given Russell focus, planning her demise and going through the method with Dean repeatedly.
Russell scanned the papers every day, reading the funeral notices first. Then he read the police reports, but there had yet to be anything so far. He pushed his plate away, stood, and as he turned to the door, the guard called to him.
‘Fairweather, put your plate in the bin.’
With a tight smile, he returned to the table, picked up the sticky mess, and walked to the bin. He held it with two fingers and dropped it about a metre above the bin. It didn’t even make a satisfying clatter.
The guard looked at him as he walked past. ‘What’s up your craw lately, mate?’
Russell composed his features into a bland expression. ‘Nothing.’
The guard shrugged, and Russell walked along the corridor to the library. It was his morning to put the books back on the library selves. The “put”, the stupid librarian called it. Russell glanced at the scrawny-looking man as he walked in and looked across to the newspaper rack; the papers should be in by now.
After he’d finished reading the print newspaper each day, Russell would read the little online news. He was given access to some sites on the library computer. What they were allowed to do on the computers in the library was extremely limited. Once upon a time, Russell would sit in his breakfast room and peruse the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times, the London Times, and a variety of European papers, informing him and allowing him to keep his finger on the pulse of the financial markets around the world.
Now the best he could do was the Darwin Sun, and most of that was full of garbage. Yesterday's lead article on the second page was “Why is Snot Different Colours?” He almost gagged with disgust. What happened to responsible journalism? What happened to good reporting?
The library held two more prisoners, and they sat at the two available computer screens. Russell walked across to the racks where three copies of the daily paper always sat, and as he passed the desk, he was pleased to see the books had already been shelved. It was beneath him to touch some of the trash in this library. Cowboy novels, for God’s sake.
Russell nodded to the guard, collected a copy of the paper and walked across to a table near the window. He sat back and spread the newspaper on the table, and for a moment, he closed his eyes, imagining that he was sitting in his apartment. As he looked out at the harbour, the marble tiles would be cool beneath his feet. He could almost hear the soft classical music coming from the Sonus Faber freestanding speakers that had cost him a quarter of a million dollars.
His rage began to lick at the edges of his calm again; Russell let it build and leaned forward to open the paper. The front page was full of COVID reports and medical figures; he didn’t care about that. So far, the jail had been isolated from it. Surprisingly, the last thing he wanted to do was get sick in this hellhole. But then again, if he did get sick enough, he could be moved to a hospital, and there could be a chance of escape.
He started to think. He could find a way to get out. He had enough money to disappear, a couple of forged passports and access to a super yacht. He had contacts on the outside waiting for him. He honestly didn’t think he could survive another any more time in this place. The more he thought about it, the more the plan took hold. His rage subsided a little, but not for long.
Russell turned to the newspaper’s second page, wondering what absolute garbage would be reported today. He sat straight; raw physical pain pierced his chest as he read the headline.
‘Local Mango Farmer on International Jaunt.’
The words themselves were innocuous, but the photo of Kane and Ellie McLaren beneath the image had white rage seething through him.
While Kane and Ellie McLaren and their three children are in Mexico on a research tour for three months,award-winning international researcher, Tarni Morgan, commenced work on improving the efficiency of the successful hybrid that Kane has developed.
Kane McClaren said that Ms Morgan’s knowledge would be a considerable addition to their research program, and he and his wife, Ellie, a daughter of the original property owners, Peter (deceased) and Sandra Porter, are looking forward to hosting her on their property. Local cattleman Cy Prescott is managing the property in their absence. Local mango growers look forward to hearing about McLaren’s experience in Mexico.
He quickly scanned the paper and read the rest of the article about the trip to Mexico.
‘What the fuck?’ Here he was, waiting to read of her death in the paper.
Why hadn’t Dean got in touch with him? He gave Dean a mobile phone number in case of any problems. But typically, he imagined Dean had just taken the new identity and the new ute and pissed off.
Another mistake Russell wasn’t happy he’d made. He refused to consider that he was losing his touch. It was this stinking hellhole that made achieving anything too hard.
‘Fairweather!’ The guard Russell had in his pocket called out from the doorway. The library guy put his finger to his lips and told him to be quiet.
‘You’ve got a visitor. Get to the front now.’
Russell was intrigued. He returned the paper to the rack and followed the guard to the section where prisoners met their visitors. He sat and waited behind the glass wall in the visitors’ area, aware of the correctional officer standing behind him, listening to every word exchanged. It was the guard who was always on his back. A few minutes later, Dean sat on the opposite side of the glass and picked up the phone to speak to him.
