Almanac Fiction: Swifty Taylor and the Dead Coach (Episode 8)

 

 

I had been called a fool many times, and maybe sometimes I did do foolish things. Was I being foolish in boarding Jack Shepherd’s barge? That would be for the future to decide. But I hadn’t been as silly as to board without watching from the shore for an hour or so beforehand. Just to make sure there were no other comings and goings. I had stood sentry by the sailing club, not far from the public toilet block. The toilet block which had taken only four years to build. It seemed that the local council was expedient only when it came to the issuing of fines.

 

Sometimes, the only mode of transportation from points A to B is a leap of faith. I crossed the transom and crept along the deck of the Mona Lisa. A hatch was open, and into the bowels of the vessel I went, as stealthily as possible. “Sit down, Swifty, and I will deal you in.” At a small table sat big Jack, this time not with a deck of cards in front of him, but a half-empty bottle of Jameson. Or half-full, depending on your disposition. Despite the bitterness of the wind above deck, there were beads of sweat forming on his bald pate. It was immediately clear to me that I was giving Shep a decent head-start in the drinking stakes. And although I was not in the least bit interested in making up ground on him, he poured me a generous measure.

 

“You’ve been nosing around, peering into my affairs, Swifty. I don’t take too kindly to people who poke about in my business.” The message wasn’t lost on me. Not only did Jack Shepherd know where all of the bodies were buried, he had put many of them there himself. “Why do you put so much money into the Pelicans?” I asked him. “I know you have plenty of dough, but what do you get out of it?” He glowered at me momentarily, and then gave me a snap-shot of his too brief football exploits. It was a career brutally cut short by a serious knee injury. “I was no John Coleman, but I wasn’t too bad. I could have played VFL if the breaks had gone my way. But, instead, I was finished at 20 years old.” His words were both morose and boastful. “I concentrated on work – and from one small garbage truck I built a big trucking business. But I reckon you know that part.”

 

 

He was on a roll now, and downed yet another shot of the good stuff. “My injuries meant I couldn’t play the game on-field, so I decided to play the game off-field. It’s amazing how much control a man can get when he is the major sponsor.” I looked into the eyes of this piper so used to calling the tune. I prodded at him. “But nothing compares to playing, does it Jack? Your club can win the premiership, but unless you are on the field you are not really a part of it.” He nodded in agreement, and then slurred: “You are no fool, Swifty. What you say is true. No matter how much cash I put into the footy club, there were no medals for me.” I glanced about the stateroom where we sat. Rather than nautical bric-a-brac, the walls were adorned with footy memorabilia. This was the den of a man whose shattered dreams had been replaced by false football idols.

 

“Was Dean May ever on this tub, Shep?” He was beginning to drift off, but I was searching for answers. “Of course he was,” Jack Shepherd muttered, “We often met here to discuss footy business.” Something was gnawing at me, like the waves that were now breaking over the gunwale above us. I decided to reach, and I raised my voice: “You wanted his premiership medallion, didn’t you?” He roused himself, eyes open wide, mouth agape but silent. Man bites dog.

 

“Just for display, Swifty. Just for display. Not for keeps.” He looked about the walls. Every framed jumper was suddenly worthless. He spat out at me: “Dean’s death was an accident. Can’t you and your girlfriend just accept that? Or, should I say, your ex-girlfriend…” Ouch. Dog bites man after all.

 

I shot him a look so dirty that it could have been infectious. But the Jameson had taken its toll. He was out to it. I left him there, as limp as a bain-marie salad. I necked the rest of the bottle and on the way out I stepped into the head to relieve myself. After, the toilet would not flush. It sounded like something was jammed in the cistern. I lifted the lid, peered in, and there, staring back at me like a rat’s gold tooth, was a medallion not much bigger than a 50 cent piece. There was an inscription on the back: ‘Pelicans, Premiers 2023. Coach: Dean May’.

 

 

I pocketed it and climbed up onto the swaying deck, my head spinning like a lazy Susan in the centre of a Chinese buffet. Despite Shep’s words to the contrary, I was still deciding whether or not I was a fool.

 

 

You can read more from Smokie HERE

 

 

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