NO BRIDGE, NO WAY!. Jan Murray

he grumbled. ‘And my gardening day, at that!’

      ‘Yes Gramps ... but ... that man who just went––’

      'Come along, boy! Get up!'

      Digby Junior grabbed the bag and caught up with his grandfather who was already out the door and striding down the hall in an angry huff.

      ‘Gramps. It was––'

      ‘You know what?’ said Sir Conan, taking a long draw on his cigar and blowing the smoke into Junior’s face. ‘I intend giving this Clew clown just one more week to prove he can get this project underway. If he can’t, then Ugject gives him the boot. Whatever happens, I will be retiring and appointing you Chairman at next month’s Annual General Meeting. Are you clear on that? Humph! Well, are you, son?’

      ‘But Gramps, I’m––?’

      ‘What?’ growled the surly old developer as he paused with his hand on the door to his office suite. ‘What in tarnation’s wrong with you?’

      ‘I’m studying to be a vet, remember? First Year Veterinary Science? Sydney Uni?’

      ‘So?’

      Conan Digby Junior did not bother with any further responses, although the dejected look on his face would have signaled to a more sensitive person than his grandfather that the young vet student was not happy about being handed the chairmanship of Ugject.

      He held his tongue and walked beside the old man through the doors and into the executive suite.

      ‘One week. That’s all the time he’s got,’ barked the old knight. ‘One week to prove he can do it then he’s out. And I’m about to tell him so right now! No room for losers, son. Remember that when you’re at the head of the table. No room for losers! It’s that philosophy that’s made Ugject great!’

      * * *

      Dwayne Slew, having managed to slide into the other elevator undetected by Sir Conan, had pressed number Eight. But immediately the lift had reached the eighth floor, he pressed number Thirty Three and rode the lift strait back up again.

      The elevator mirrors were smoky coloured affairs, but Slew was pleased to note that his hair still looked blonde and shiny when he examined his appearance in all three mirrors. He figured, by anyone’s reckoning, he had been blessed with extreme good looks and good looks were never a handicap in business.

      He was grinning when he stepped out into the big wide world of commercial possibilities onto the 33rd Floor and headed for the Presidential Suite.

      This Glencairn thing would mark a turning point in his life, Dwayne Slew believed.

      No one knew who had inherited the prime piece of land over on Glencairn Island. No one knew who the original occupiers of the old house had been, either. And from his investigations, the Sales Supremo gathered that the island yokels weren’t aware of this handy situation. No title deeds had ever been registered and therefore the ownership of the land and the house were up for grabs. And the local yokels would soon know that he, Dwayne B. Slew, was about to grab it!

      Passing the fire escape, Slew opened the door and tossed in the crystal glass, giggling when he heard it bounce down the cement steps.

      The sound of breaking crystal conjured up visions of the glass that would be smashing once his bulldozers moved in on the ugly old house on Lindquist Hill. It was a vision that stayed with him all the way down the hall to the door of Chairman Digby’s suite.

      ‘Dwayne, baby,’ he said as he faced the big mahogany doors just before swinging them open with both hands and announcing his presence, ‘... you are magnificentl!’

      ‘We are on track!’ he declared as he burst into the room with a flourish of hand-clapping.

      ‘What in tarnation––?’ said Sir Conan Digby, in danger of swallowing his cigar.

      ‘The project is just about shovel-ready!’ Slew said as he took his seat and opened his briefcase. ‘No problemo!

      ‘No what-o?’ Sir Conan Digby looked murderously angry.

      ‘Except for one possible irritation,’ continued Dwayne B. Slew. ‘An irritation which I will soon have totally under control. Totally. Absolutely. Under control. Yes, shovel-ready! Any day now we send in the bulldozers. And then it’s farewell, goodbye, adios to a bunch of brats who think––’

      ‘What the devil are you talking about, Clew?’ the irritable old knight barked.

      ‘Slew.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Never mind. Really not a problem at all, Sir. Just a bunch of hick kids who think they can sabotage my ... our ... development. Don’t worry. I have the matter fully in hand. Under complete control. I’ve got them thrashed before they even start. Here’s what we do going forward, okay?’

      The Sales Supremo spread his marketing plan out on the boardroom table.

      Sir Conan Digby sighed and reached for another cigar.

      Conan Digby Jnr sighed and reached for his iPod.

      SHOOTING THE PROMO

      ‘Cut!’ yells Jack. ‘Let’s start again and jeez, Zanth, can you just keep your hands in your pockets? Stop waving ‘em around everywhere. Act natural. Don’t be ... you know .... don’t be so––'

      ‘Interesting?’

      Xanthe fluttered her eyelashes and sighed. It was a theatrical gesture. She was aware she had killer eyelashes. And on a girl with fair hair, thick dark eyelashes were unusual her father reckoned. He told her she got them from her mother, an exotic creature. But her green eyes she had inherited from her Dad’s side of the family. The Irish. Although his were brown.

      ‘Yeah, try not to be so interesting. It’s dorky. Be cool,’ said Jack.

      'Cool, he says?' Xanthe raised an eyebrow and stared at her friend. 'Mr Big Time Cameraman Jack Nolan giving the orders now, hey? But what if I hadn’t thought this whole thing up? We wouldn’t even be here in the park, making this video.'

      ‘Whatever.’

      'Well, if your’re the big-time cameraman then, okay, I’m the star.'

      'Whatever. Camera’s rolling! Start walking towards me, Zanth. Slow and steady.’

      Xanthe stuck her hands in the pockets of her cargo pants and smiled with attitude. 'Everyone says I look like a guerrilla in these baggy old cargos and black shirt. And, by the way, that’s not a gor-illa... like at Taronga Zoo. Gue-rrillas don’t live in zoos. They live up in the mountains and fight the bad guys down in the cities.' She paused for a moment then shrugged. 'I guess that’s kind of what we’re doing, anyway, when you think about it.'

      'Stick to the script, please, Zanth?’

      Xanthe looked down the lens. ‘Parents!’ she said as she walked to camera, hands in pockets and rolling her eyes to heaven. ‘Where on earth do they dig up these names?’ She spelled it out slowly, ‘X.A.N.T.H.E. That’s what mine named me. But in case you’re going by the spelling, forget it! It’s not like it’s ‘Ex-anth’ or anything. The Ex is like actually a Zed. Duh! And the little ‘e’ at the end actually comes out like a double ee! So, to get to the point, my name is Xanthe, pronounced ‘Zanthy’. Hello. I’m Xanthe Madonna O’Rourke. Welcome to Glencairn Island.’

      ‘Cut!’ said Jacko.

      ‘Show us, Jacko.’ Xanthe leant over his shoulder and looked at the tiny screen on her father’s camera. ‘Ummm. Not bad.’ She tossed her hair back over her shoulders and walked off to catch up with her water bottle, pleased with her performance and ignoring the look Jack was giving her.

      ‘Stop your day-dreaming