DEATH'S A BEACH

Suzanne Dixon

The two men were a contrast. Fat-gutted old Wal Leichhardt, hands in the pockets of his baggy strides, fag dangling out of his mouth, the surviving strands of hair Brylcreemed across his pate while young Shane Shagg leaned into his ear, whispering. Shagg was the new look of Queensland Labor – buzz-cut, minimalist glasses, expensive suit tailored to his trim form, good-bloke smirk fixed in place like Wal's cig.

Both Genus Headkicker, thought Jay, resenting their presence at this beachside tribute to her Allie. Mourners, be blowed! Their urban spivvery was so out of place on the beach, Allie's natural element. Her campaign T-shirts, with "Life's a Beach" on the front and "Keep the Beach Alive" on the back, depicted Allie as the champion of

the Sunshine coast, that stretch of former fishing towns fast turning into suburban sprawl within easy reach of north Brisbane while still – just – retaining its casual surf-and-sun character . Who would protect it now from the snapping jaws of the real estate sharks?

Two days after Allie's death, her body had not been released, but the Sunshine Surf Club her father ran like a fiefdom was staging this ceremony to mark her passing. The midwinter sun glinted off the surf, aquamarine alternating with foam. The motley crowd– some in their usual bare feet and stubbies, others done up for the occasion in oddly assorted colours, and a few in black – were concentrated between the red and yellow flags.

Allie's favourite surfboard had been set alight and a crew of young lifesavers in their maroon swimming togs waded out waist-deep to push it out to sea. In the shallows stood ranks of Nippers, also in maroon, also with their red and yellow lifesaving caps, many weeping.

Jay's loss was made worse by her remorse at the argument she'd had had with Allie just before it happened. Having won pre-selection and going full bore for a seat in the House of Reps, Allie had been prepared to pay the cost of separation and of media intrusion in their private lives. Jay had wanted a quiet life with her newfound lover. Of course, they had both imagined they had a lifetime together to sort things out.

Anger was easier than guilt. Jay glared at Shane Shagg's wife in her nondescript suit. Although she was now the Labor candidate, Tayla Shagg stood to one side of the men. Feeling Jay's eyes on her, she turned on her smile.

That did it - that electioneering smile, already plastered over the Sunshine Coast.

Jay lost it.

"Get that shit-eating grin off your face!" screamed the Women's Studies lecturer famed for her sensitive literary and film analysis.

Cameras flashed. The ambitious local news reporter, Tiffany Lyall, elbowed her way through her rivals, in step with her cameraman, Brent. A confrontation. This could be it. Her Big Chance. First, the grisly murder of a local hero at her own campaign launch. Then human interest at the funeral, on this photogenic beach, with family, community, ex-husband and Lesbian lover. And now, Labor infighting on the verge of a crucial by-election. All on camera. Her bosses would love her.

Tiffany prayed that the new Labor candidate would head-butt the Lesbian lover. She had visions of her own face on grabs all over the country on tonight's news. As she showed her perfect teeth, she was considering her interview strategy – a family-values attack on the feminist, academic lesbian lover? Perhaps tolerance would pave the way to a job with a Sydney network. She could represent the hip face of the new, café-saturated Sunshine Coast.

Unfortunately, Tayla kept her cool. She turned her best side to the camera and bared her own bottom teeth at her critic.

"Oh, Jay, it must be dreadful for you. So sad."

"Get a grip, girlie. This is a funeral," said Wal without removing the signature fag from his mouth. He jerked his head towards the camera.

"Think of the Party," added the smarmy Shane Shagg.

"Bugger the Party!" spluttered Jay. "Allie isn't even cold and you buzzards have already replaced her with this bimbo. Some pre-selection!"

There was tut-tutting from the Party contingent. Even Allie had made enemies. One of them had killed her.

Jay was dimly aware of a t.v. camera and some microphones close to her face. She swatted at them as if they were flies.

In the distance, the rows of young Nippers and lifesavers turned to watch the older generation behaving badly.

Allie's parents closed in on Jay ahead of the media. Shoving a young radio journalist firmly aside, leathery old Bruce Staples put his arm around her in a gesture more of restraint than affection. He still blamed Jay for breaking up Allie's marriage.

"Come on, Jay, pull yourself together," he said.

"Yeah, chill out," said Boof. Jay had forgotten about him. For such a hunk (or hulk), who had had his own five minutes of fame, Boof was strangely forgettable. He was Allie's ex-husband, a former Iron Man with an iron ego. He had seemed unmoved by Allie's desertion. To hear him talk (which he had done, for a fee, to Gossip magazine and the top-rating tv show Current Codswallop), he did not believe that Allie (or any girl) could possibly prefer another guy to him, let alone a woman. He seemed to treat the whole thing as a bit of a joke. Or was that just a front? There was nothing funny about the look he directed now at Jay.

"Don't upset yourself, dear," said Norma Staples blandly, patting Jay's arm.

Jay tried not to mind that the Staples could only express their shock in clichés. She let them edge her away from the ceremony.

But Tiffany was made of sterner stuff. She stuck her microphone in Jay's face and said, "Who do you think killed your partner?"

Norma gasped. If Tiffany had been a bloke, Bruce Staples could have decked him. Spotting the cameraman, he went after him.

"Oh, no!" said Tiffany through her enhanced, high-gloss lips. Yet another wobbly fish-eye view of an outraged subject descending on the cameraman was all very well for an exposé, but this was Coast News. You couldn't do that to the bereaved father of a local hero.

"Bugger."

She hastily checked that she had switched off her lapel mike. Then switched it on again as a hefty thirty-something policewoman inserted herself between Bruce and the camera in such a way that her navy-suited back filled the screen. The policewoman grabbed Bruce and turned him around, gently pushing him towards his wife.

"You go on to the Surf Club, Mr Staples. I'll take care of the media," she said confidently.

Tiffany descended on her to get a few words for camera. The others would keep.

"Detective Sergeant Clunes, you've made a name for yourself in Brisbane investigations. Do you think the local force are up to solving this murder?"

The answer was a foregone conclusion, but you had to go through the motions. Meredith Clunes was news. She'd been brought recently to the Sunshine coast to investigate allegations of corruption in the local force but homicide was her speciality. Her many critics in the force dismissed her as a media-tart. Tiffany's favourite food.

When she'd downed that course, she turned back to pin down Tayla, a less savoury tart.

Tayla could not have been more co-operative. She smiled and smiled again at Tiffany – and the camera. She radiated her trademark good sense. ("Just the lady to handle the Coast's business" was her uninspiring slogan).

Tiffany began gently. "This has been an eventful week for you, Mrs Shagg."

"Yes, the tragic death of a valued friend and fellow party member." Her media coach had stressed the importance of sincerity, something Tayla had not. experienced personally, but her coach has reassured her that image and perception were what mattered.

Tayla did her best.

"And in such spectacular circumstances."

Tayla gave a ladylike wince. "I don't want to dwell on that. Too sad."

"More than sad. A former Ironwoman and local celebrity stages a special lifesaving campaign launch. Very media-savvy. Proceeds to her favourite causes – the lifesavers, and the Asthma Foundation. She's been the poster-girl for both since she was in Primary School. Only she keels over in front of all the photographers while she's administering mouth-to-mouth through an AIDS-proof mask."

Tayla's eyes flickered but she said nothing.

Tiffany pushed harder for a reaction.

"Pretty horrible, wasn't it, her writhing around in front of everyone? A nasty death."

Leichhardt and his shadow moved closer, sensing danger. Shane Shagg spoke up.

"A terrible accident."

"No accident," said Tiffany provocatively. "The police are treating it as a suspicious death. I hear there was a white powder on the plastic breathing mask."

Tayla's face convulsed. Not a good look. And not so ladylike this time.

" Gross, eh? But a lucky break for you, Mrs Shagg."

"How dare…that's a very tasteless thing to say."

Tiffany pushed on.

"Don't you think the Labor Party State Secretariat is asking for trouble, foisting you on the voters?"

"Trouble?"

"Well, your husband copped a heap. For contesting Allie Staples' pre-selection. For pulling strings. For not living in the electorate and attacking a local legend. There was a lot of bad feeling, talk about jobs for the boys."

She'd been prepped for this one.

"The Labor Party understands the need to field good female candidates."

"It does? Your husband pulled in every favour. Even after he was thrashed in the ballot. Allie romped in. Then he brought in the big guns from Brisbane. It caused uproar in all the branches, with half the membership threatening to resign."

"Well, it's true Allie did rather better in the ballot, but that's only one element of the pre-selection process. It's not just a popularity contest. The Party needs to look at the big picture. Her work on the Council and in local groups brought in votes."

Tayla made Allie Staples sound like a sweet yokel who'd baked scones for school fêtes and would be lost in the big, bad world of federal politics. The Allie everyone knew was a far cry from this. She was virtually brought up on the beach and swimming before she could walk, to combat her infant asthma. Competitive to a fault, clocking up swimming and surfing titles, she was known – and valued – by her mid-teens for her tough, take-it-or-leave-it personal style. She was the Sunshine Coast's golden girl.

Her family's strongarm tactics in running the Nippers and the Surf Club were the perfect training ground for Labor Party factional wars. And her work on the Sunshine Council had won grudging respect even from opponents. Of course, old-style Labor men loathed her. She treated them with the same, give-as-good-as-you-get disrespect she had dished out in her teens to the dinosaur swimming coaches. When a fellow-councillor had dismissed her as "a dickless wonder", she had addressed him on every possible occasion as "cuntless". She did not belong to any faction and defied easy typing. She loved the coast, its estuaries and its wooded hinterland. Her no-nonsense eco-battles brought new converts to her Labor following, even if hard-line environmentalists (Sky Tantie came to mind) denounced her as a sell-out. At a time of Labor identity crisis, she was a gift. The sitting member's non-fatal but worrying heart attack in mid-term forced a by-election. A dead cert to win the seat, Allie was the obvious candidate to replace him. Obvious to everyone but the power-brokers in the state party, that is. After all, she was dickless and she wasn't in a faction.

Onlookers listened as Tiffany challenged Tayla's sanitised version of the famously ugly pre-selection brawl.

"Shane hung on like grim death long after it was obvious nobody here wanted him. The Secretariat tried to foist him on the local branches until they revolted. Even then, he only withdrew under protest, although the polls showed nobody in the electorate would vote for him. It would have been a humiliating defeat for Labor. But it was the public outcry about his dirty tactics and string-pulling that forced him out in the end."

Tayla had been trying unsuccessfully to talk over her interviewer throughout this unwelcome reminder. She finally got through.

"He did run a vigorous campaign."

"Vigorous! What about that flyer he put out, called 'Party roots', attacking Allie and her partner?"

"Nobody ever proved my husband had anything to do with that."

Snickers from the listening crowd.

"And now that Allie is dead you get pre-selection instead of him. How long have you been a member of the Labor Party?"

"Four years."

"Since you married him. Yes. But you've never been active in the party or in local government, have you?"

"Well, not as active as I might have wished.."

"In fact you're just kind of holding the seat for him, aren't you?"

"I regard that remark as offensive to women."

Tiffany smiled to camera and raised her eyebrows in a cute gesture.

"When are you going to move into the electorate? Or are you?"

"Well, if I'm successful, I hope to."

"But you're still on the Gold Coast electoral roll now, aren't you?"

She knew Tayla could not deny this.

"The two districts have a lot in common."

Bingo! Tiffany's eyes gleamed. That comment would have Sunshine Coast residents spitting chips. The worst thing you could say to anyone – even the crassest developer – on the Sunshine Coast was that they were turning the place into Surfers Paradise. The Gold Coast was a by-word for everything the Sunshine Coast thought it was not – vulgar, overcrowded and –worst of all- the sacred beaches spoilt by shadows cast by gimcrack high rise.

Realising her mistake, Tayla became shrill in her attempt to regain lost ground.

" I just mean that they're both beach areas, with beautiful hinterland."

"Which you want to destroy!"

Tiffany swivelled around to put her hand-mike under the chin of this new voice:

it was Sky Tantie, well-known local environmentalist. Frizzy black hair spun wildly around the small face, contorted with a zealot's fury. She was petite and dressed in flowing Indian cottons, but there was nothing gentle about Sky.

At this stage of the game, Tayla was not prepared to alienate any lobby group. The Green vote was up and substantial local voters could swing away from her if they thought she would be bringing Gold Coast values to this region. This attempt at sincerity came out as a whinge.

"That's not true. I just believe it's best for government and private enterprise to work out a common vision."

"Yeah, that's right, you feral, so shut up!"

Poor Tayla. With supporters like these, who needed enemies? She and Tiffany turned to the latest addition to this on-camera débâcle. It was Boris Popoff, resplendent in a retro Hawaiian look, a shady Sydney figure who had suddenly "discovered" the Sunshine Coast just before the boom. Truth to tell, Boris - pear-shaped, booze-raddled and in a permanent sweat - found the coast a bit hot for his taste. Over the peak Christmas holiday period, he had never ventured on the balcony of his newly-acquired beach-front pent-house ("a bargain – a fraction the cost of a Sydney dunny!") where he duchessed potential interstate buyers of the various properties he brokered. He had a junior colleague show them the beach and local features, while he lurked day and night in his darkened, air-conditioned serviced unit with its well-stocked bar-fridge. He repeated the mantra "Property values are going to go through the roof!" on all possible occasions and he had lost no time in cultivating members of the local Council to usher through (and, with any luck, to finance) his plans for a new project to "develop" the more natural parts of the Sunshine Coast which had so far escaped the attentions of his kind. Having got nowhere with Allie, he was only too happy to switch his efforts to the more receptive Tayla, a graduate of Bond University's School of Business Studies with an appreciation of the benefits the private sector had to offer.

Sky turned on him a look almost insane in its intensity. Tiffany and Tayla shuddered at its elemental malice, wondering if the rumours about Sky's witchcraft could possibly have something in them.

Even the insensitive Boris seemed shaken.

"I wouldn't be surprised if you bumped Allie off," Sky spat out.

"Now wait a minute," said Tayla. "That's defamatory."

The law held no terrors for Sky. She'd served time repeatedly for sabotaging bulldozers and occupying government buildings. She turned on Tayla.

"Or did you do it yourself, Tayla? Or get one of the Labor headkickers to do your dirty work for you?"

Tayla's grin stretched until it became positively cadaverous. "Turn that camera off, please."

Bloody likely, thought Tiffany.

Tayla wanted the last word. Abandoning any attempt to maintain her rictus, she spoke tightly to Sky.

"You'll be hearing from my solicitors."

She walked back on her sensible pumps to her husband and mentor nearby.

Boris shrugged and made for the Surf Club bar, with Sky dogging his footsteps.

"And cut!" said Tiffany gleefully. The stoic Brent obligingly removed the camera at last from his face, which turned out to be bearded. His unkempt appearance contrasted starkly with Tiffany's camera-ready perfection in her gleaming turquoise suit.

She realised Sergeant Clunes had been watching the whole thing.

Tiffany did not give up easily.

"Off the record, Sergeant, what was the poison?"

The Sergeant just smiled enigmatically and made for the Surf Club in her turn.

Tiffany took off after her. Only yoga and ambition enabled her to move so swiftly on the sand in high heels and a tight skirt that barely cleared her skimpy bottom.

-----------------------------------

The wake was a roaring success. The Surf Club bar was packed with mourners, media and hangers-on. Allie's parents retreated with a select group to a "function room" where the atmosphere was more sombre. The small room was separated from the bar by folding sound-proofed doors which, together with the ugly magenta carpet, muted the noise.

Family and friends huddled in subdued groups, sipping drinks and ignoring the curling appetisers on the long board. In a corner, Allie's Great-Aunt Gloria had stationed herself in front of a t.v. monitor, where she obsessively watched a video of Allie's last moments. The video had been confiscated by the police but somehow found its way back to the family. Not so surprising, given Bruce Staples' links with the local force and the almost regal status the Staples had in the district.

Aunty Gloria sat watching ,over and over, as Allie appeared before a group of lifesavers and supporters, and knelt down to give mouth to mouth to a handsome young lifesaver via a small navy plastic mask. She joked and smiled with the press – jokes that no other candidate could have got away with – about the position and the need to administer first aid safely. Then the vibrant, healthy body jerked back suddenly from the

young man's head and she thrashed around, soon the object of unsuccessful first aid herself before she collapsed finally, a limp heap.

Gloria had been an Olympic swimmer in the nineteen fifties and was Allie's childhood role model. The family respected their special bond, but many were eyeing her askance now. A few approached her, saying how painful it was for the parents, but the aunt waved them away, staring intently at the screen, the remote in her left hand. Nobody had the nerve to switch the thing off.

Jay could not keep away. Drawn to it in spite of herself, she sat down beside the old lady. Without removing her eyes from the screen, Aunty Gloria grasped Jay's hand in her own right claw. Jay found the gesture comforting and became equally obsessive. The surprisingly brief scene played over and over. Jay became aware of all the people in the scene, and of the sequence of events, beginning with Allie taking the mask from a folding table where it had been sitting – for how long? Anyone could have tampered with it. Even if Allie noticed the powder, she would think it was some kind of antiseptic. She had breathed it in. And it had killed her.

Jay was not the only one drawn to the macabre screen. More family and friends drifted to the rows of folding chairs in the corner – normally used for viewing out-of-state surfing competitions – and a hush fell on them.

Tiffany had no difficulty insinuating herself into the group. Nor did Meredith Clunes, who had a talent for watching without being noticed. She looked around her now, registering how many of those present were emphatically not mourners: Merle Moran, who had hated the little chit for calling her beloved husband "cuntless"; Leichhardt and the Shaggs, who had been invited in by Allie's father, a stalwart of the local Labor branch, flattered that the party heavies had honoured his daughter's funeral with their presence; Sky, who had had screaming confrontations with Allie but, in the last analysis, was a local who had gone to school with her; Allie's ex-husband Boof, deep now in conversation with that funny Russian character from down south, who had made a big donation to the Club and reckoned they should capitalise on their prime location.

Sergeant Clunes stood in front of the screen, blocking it and breaking the spell.

"I think the time has come to say a few words."

"This is a bit gross, isn't it?" said Sky.

For once, Boris agreed with her.

"Yeah, this is a wake. Unless you're going to say something about the dead lass."

"Or about who did it."

That, surprisingly, came from Boof. Sergeant Clunes was struck, not for the first time, at how easy it was to discount Boof, who in any other case would have been the prime suspect. She returned his scowl with a bland expression.

"As a matter of fact, I am."

Tiffany gestured to the cameraman, who had quietly come to the folding door of the function room. He held the camera low, but she could see it was on.

"The substance used to poison the victim – Ms Staples – has been identified. It was a concentrated cockroach powder, commonly used in treating buildings commercially around here."

"What, Cockiekill?"

"No, a stronger version, Envirodeath'.

Sky expressed disgust. "That stuff shouldn't be allowed."

"Well, it's carefully controlled. Or meant to be. Mainly issued to registered builders. Or pest exterminators."

Allie's father nodded. He had done his time in the building trade.

"Yeah, most builders who do inspections keep up their pest qualification, too."

Boris was looking nervous. "Well, don't look at me. I'm not exactly a builder."

Shane Shagg whispered to Leichhardt, "Not a legal one, anyway."

"Anyway, that pest stuff's too strong for Sydney. It's for sub-tropical conditions."

"You seem familiar with it, Mr Popoff," said the Sergeant.

Boris grinned weakly. Tiffany glanced at the cameraman. The local station hired out its resources commercially and she and the cameraman had done an infotainment piece at a promotion in Boris's penthouse. He had dreams of being another Aussie Bob and was releasing a line of specialist cleaning and pesticide solutions tailored to appeal to the local building industry before threatened legislation regulated the sale of such over-the-top substances. Tiffany wondered if Brent recalled the proprietary cockroach killer from the promotion. Brent had filmed a table with a number of specialist products on it, designed to rid building sites of noxious weeds and vermin. But Brent, as always, was hidden behind his lens.

The Sergeant switched her attention to Jay. "The University of the Sunshine Coast was treated recently, I believe, Dr Bennett?"

"I refused to allow them to use that stuff in my office," said Jay dully.

"And so was the Surf club."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Boof. The Club was a second home to Boof. Since his teens, he had haunted the bar, where he could always count on being shouted a drink and scoring a root (sometimes from the same source). More recently, his father-in-law had put him on the payroll as a glorified cleaner, bouncer and surf coach. He had naturally been the one to order and assist at the recent pest treatment.

"Just that this controlled substance was actually quite easy for almost anybody to acquire in sufficient quantities to sprinkle over the mask. And since Allie was well known to be an asthmatic, it would be obvious to anyone that it could do her serious harm."

Allie's mother gulped. Aunty Gloria squeezed Jay's hand.

Sergeant Clunes looked around the group.

"Access to that substance presented no difficulty. And almost everyone here

was at Allie Staples' campaign launch. It was quite a local event – a fund-raiser for the Surf Club and the Asthma Foundation and an important PR event for the Labor Party."

She focused on Boris.

"Why were you there, Mr Popoff?"

"Oh. Well, I take an interest in local events," he said lamely.

"In local corruption," snorted Sky.

"And why exactly were you there, Ms Tantie?" asked Sergeant Clunes.

"Why shouldn't I be?" Sky countered aggressively. "I'm a lobbyist. I lobby politicians."

"But you and Allie Staples had very different ideas about local development, didn't you?"

"Yes, we did!" shrieked Sky. "But at least she was in the right general direction. If I was going to kill someone, there's plenty of names higher up the list than Allie."

This was undoubtedly true, but her vehemence was so extreme that people shifted away from her.

Boris, sweating, looked relieved that this particular kind of heat was off him.

They all looked expectantly, fearfully at the Sergeant, who said, "Thank you for your attention. I assure you the police are actively pursuing the investigation."

A collective sound of disgust arose from the gathering. After all that!

Nervous giggles erupted, and people slowly resumed drinking and talking to each other in a subdued way.

Tiffany was annoyed. She had hoped to be in at the kill, so to speak. Unlike the others, she knew that two constables were stationed on the other side of the folding door.

She intercepted the Sergeant on her way out.

"There's something you should know."

She recounted the story of Boris's penthouse promotion.

The sergeant eyed her steadily.

"I presume that is where you got the idea?"

Tiffany stared at her blankly.

"I..what?"

"Sorry, Tiffany. Nice try, but Aunty Gloria has you on tape, checking the first aid masks before the electoral campaign launch."

Tiffany gave the light, throaty laugh which turned on so many viewers.

"I presume this is a joke. O.K., I won't hassle you any more for a straight answer."

She turned gracefully and made for the exit. The young constables grabbed her wrists as she reached the threshhold. Her slender body slumped and she gazed up tearfully at each of them in turn. Both young men looked uneasy. They loosened their grip.

And she was off, shoving aside the throng in the public bar and running hard down the entry ramp and off into the narrow street, now closed to vehicular traffic, thanks to Councillor Staples' campaign to make the beachfront a barefoot haven.

She kicked off her expensive Italian high heels and turned the corner, clearing the

palms waving in front of the old bakery. She knew this area well. The job on the local station was supposed to be her ticket to the big, wide world, but here she was still, stuck on her despised home ground, churning out mickey mouse stories and amateurish commercials.

She nipped into a front garden, an old-style sandy patch of lawn edged with thin paw-paw trees. Nowhere to hide. She rounded the side of the house then, hitching her skirt up to her waist, vaulted the fence to make it to a public right-of-way little-known to newcomers.

Pausing, she could hear no clod-hopping police boots pursuing her.

She'd done it.

She had never wanted to be the subject of the news. But time to think about that once she'd got clear. The nearby Council car park was slated for re-development, but so far it still had a huge Moreton Bay Fig whose magic forest growth would provide the shelter she needed. Tiffany was a determined girl who did a lot of running and aerobics and had scant interest in modesty at the best of times. She could climb the tree in her undies, if necessary, and wait out the police search. She moved quickly to the end of the public walkway, between two high paling fences. And there, at the end of the passage, was Meredith Clunes, waiting for her. She turned and ran back, but Clunes caught her and twisted her arm behind her.

"Tiffany, Tiffany, you're showing your knickers."

Tiffany snarled.

It was over. The constables were thumping along the passage towards her, red-faced. Clunes clicked the handcuffs on.

She straightened. Meredith Clunes, taking no chances, kept her in a tight grip and marched her back towards the passage exit.

"I suppose you thought it would be a good career opportunity, Tiffany?"

"Well, it would have been." She paused. "It still could be. How long do you think I'll get?"

"Not my department."

"Bloody Aunty bloody Gloria and her bloody video! I thought old ladies were supposed to be technophobes."

"Doesn't pay to go for stereotypes, Tiffany. Very limiting."

"Very funny. What's that noise?"

There was a low whirring sound. Then she saw Brent standing at the passage end, his camera as always in front of his face, the lens pointed at her.

"Turn that bloody thing off! At least let me get my shoes back on."

Sergeant Clunes winked at him. She thought his exposed eye winked back.

_______________________

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