NO BRIDGE, NO WAY!. Jan Murray
a deep frown crease her forehead as her eyes came to rest on the stranger sitting opposite. She could not say why, but the man gave her goose bumps. She turned to her friends and put a finger to her lips.
‘Zip it, for now, you lot, okay?’ she said, nodding in the stranger’s direction.
Angel shot a quick glance at her sister and both rolled their eyes. There was a feeling among the Fabs that Xanthe went around imagining problems just so she could get stirred up about things, just so she could be the one to boss them around. And because she was like that, the twins knew Xanthe’s ideas sometimes landed them in trouble. They looked at each other again and rolled their eyes a second time.
The look that had just passed between the sisters did not escape Xanthe. She scowled at them.
‘Look here,’ She shot another furtive glance across at the stranger and put her hand over her mouth, ‘We’re going to have to rush this thing through, right? Okay? There’s no time to lose. Beautiful Glencairn Island,the one we talked about doing last term? Our introduction to the island.
The wombats and pythons. Our king parrots. The rock art. How we love it, here. Get it made and get it on Youtube. We’ll get people talking.
Then we follow up with a proper movie for Kids Channel. That one will be about the bridge and the resort and how destructive they would be on Glencairn.
That’s what I mean by dynamite! The geckos, for instance. What would a bridge do to them?! Think about it!’
‘Geckos needs friends,’ said Jack, looking back at the island.
‘Hey!’ Xanthe was excited. ‘Jacko! That’s what we’ll call our movie! Perfect!’
‘Whatever.’ He knew that before the day was out, the title would be Xanthe’s idea.
‘But first, we have to get the Beautiful Glencairnvideo made, and a special web site. As a kind of promo, don’t we?’ said Honey. ‘You reckon we can do it this weekend, Zanth?’
‘We have to, don’t we?’
‘She’s right,’ said Jack. ‘I reckon we’ve gotta get them both done. And quick.’ He looked around the cabin, at the number of kids and the few adults aboard who had their faces stuck in the Star’s story. ‘Before the thing gets out of hand!’
Xanthe looked to the outer deck, to where the Star’s reporter was interviewing another smiling parent. ‘Real quick, I reckon, Jacko!’
Zoran shook his head. ‘Look at ‘em. We’re not gonna change this lot’s mind about anything? What’s a couple of dumb videos gonna do?’
‘We’ll show how much this place means to the birds and tiny creatures. Show how a bridge and a resort would ruin everything,’ said Honey.
‘Uh, uh. They’re dorks, this lot. They won’t care.’
‘So, you’re saying we just do nothing. God, Zoran, you’re such a––!’
‘Pessimist.’ It was Angel finishing her twin’s call, as she so often did.
Xanthe, meanwhile, stared out to the bay, the corners of her mouth beginning to twist into a knowing smile. ‘We will, y’know. We’ll fight them, alright. The wreckers. And we’ll win.’
The stranger stared at Xanthe from behind his reflective sunnies. His lips were also curling, but not in to a smile. He adjusted his gold cufflinks and turned his gaze back out the window to the island and then across the bay to the mainland.
‘Who’s the dude?’ Jack whispered to Zoran.
THE MAN FROM UGJECT
The conniving Dwayne B. Slew, the Sales Supremo of Ugject Developments, should be in his small office on the 8th Floor. This Saturday morning, however, he is sneaking around in his boss's lavish executive suite on the 33rd Floor of the CBD tower.
It was the 24-year-old's favourite place to be, these days. It was where he came to dream his big dreams. And to plot.
Before his 25th birthday, he planned to be the boss.
It was his destiny, Slew believed with all his heart. He would be President of Ugject Developments.
Like all men of vision, Dwayne Slew intended to seize control of the company. And it would all be due to this Glencairn Island project, his own baby, which made it so much sweeter.
His commissions on the sale of the resort condos alone would be worth tens of thousands of dollars and then there would be the bargaining power the deal would give him within the company. Ugject’s Board members would be eating out of his hand. He would be on the cover of BRW. The youngest property magnate in the land.
‘Power! Yippee!’ yelled the Sales Supremo as he spun himself around in his boss’s chair.
Nothing was going to stand in his way. Certainly not a bunch of dumb island yokels who thought they owned the place. He checked his watch, an expensive Rolex. It was almost 7.30am. It was time for the executive meeting he had called for this morning.
A ‘power breakfast’ was the way he had positioned it on his memo to his boss; a new concept and one he would be introducing the minute he was in charge of Ugject.
Up and making money while your competitors are still in bed.
He checked the wall clock and headed for the door. He had to make it back down to his own work station.
But why not help himself to a drink first? He glanced across at the executive cocktail cabinet. Why not? Just one long delicious tomato juice spritzer to pump up his metabolism.
He reached for the crystal glass and tumbled in a handful of ice and two thin lemon slices. Amazing. Who came in here and prepared these things, he wondered, already looking forward to giving directions to whoever it was once he was in the top job. He opened the tomato juice, poured it then squirted soda water at it.
A stick of fresh celery sat in the bar fridge. He popped it in and stirred.
Meanwhile, as the juice slid down Slew’s throat, an elevator further down the hall was about to open.
* * *
Sir Conan Digby, AO was a belly-squat man of advanced years. His passion for big Cuban cigars was no doubt to blame for his poor health––the breathing problem that robbed him of oxygen and made every breath a challenge.
Lady Digby, when she was alive, had urged her husband to give up the cigars, retire from Ugject Developments and, in his old age, cultivate his prize camellias.
But then along came his young Sales Supremo and put this spanner in the works, this ridiculous development project. Sir Conan felt he should still be in bed rather than fronting up to a meeting at this ungodly hour on a Saturday morning to meet a young man he did not like. And with his heir apparent in tow.
‘Not that I think you are in the least bit suited to running this empire, you blithering nincompoop,’ Sir Conan barked at his grandson.
Digby Junior was a pale young man with fly-away hair and round spectacles who, at present, was down on all fours trying to gather up spilled documents at his grandfather’s feet and shoving them back in a battered old case. It was a hard, brown cardboard thing with push-down metal locks that Sir Conan Digby had been using since he was a young brickie’s labourer sixty years ago.
Although the old man actually adored his heir, he also despaired of him as his successor and this morning the elderly grandparent felt too irritated by having to get out of bed to come to this meeting to think kindly of anyone, not even his grandson.
Digby Junior, still down on his hands and knees scrounging around for dropped things, suddenly noticed a pair of shiny black shoes whiz by the open elevator.
‘Gramps? That man––’
‘Oh,