Dead Heat, page 4
‘She asked me to give it to her brother.’
The distinctive buzz of rotor blades was loud now, but when she glanced up all she could see were towering trees and grey sky.
‘Georgia,’ he said, ‘let me have the bag. I’ll give it to her brother.’
She took a step back. ‘I’ll do it. She asked me.’
He rubbed his face and left a smear of blood on his cheek. ‘That’s kind of you, but there’s no need.’
‘Sorry,’ she said. Her tone wasn’t apologetic.
Lee briefly studied her face and seemed to come to a decision. ‘Okay, but can I just check—’
His words were drowned by a helicopter swooping over them and he had to shout to make himself heard above the rotors.
‘You know where her brother lives?’
Squinting against the downdraught and the swirling debris of twigs, leaves and charcoal, Georgia shook her head. He gestured at the bumbag, indicating she would have to check inside for Suzie’s brother’s address, so why not do it now, while he was there?
Before she could change her mind, she unclipped the bumbag from her waist, unzipped it and peeled back the hard leather lid, sheltering it from the helicopter’s blast. Air tickets. What looked to be a Chinese passport. Purse. Two lipsticks, house keys, car keys, two pens, a credit card receipt for petrol.
The helicopter was thundering downwards and Georgia narrowed her eyes into slits to prevent them filling with lumps of ash.
Lee was squinting too as he stepped close and lifted the lipsticks and pens to peer at the bottom of the bag, which Georgia held. He opened the inside zipper and pulled out a handkerchief and what looked like a car parking card before stuffing them back. He checked the purse and flicked through Suzie’s passport. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a man in fluorescent yellow charging for the prone figure that was Bri, but Lee’s focus remained on the bumbag.
At last he stepped back, rubbing an ash-darkened arm across his face, frowning. Perplexed, Georgia turned away from him and zipped the bumbag closed. Then she was staring at the helicopter.
Oh my God, she thought, to get out of here I’m going to have to fly again.
Six
‘My name’s Greg,’ said the paramedic in the helicopter.
Another man said, ‘Georgia, we’re going to give you a shot of morphine now to help the pain in your hand.’
She registered the tiny prick of a needle in her upper arm, and then they were airborne, roaring into the sky, and Greg was talking to her, holding her good hand, while the other man bent over Bri. Suzie’s body lay on the metal floor of the chopper in a body bag. Lee sat opposite, holding a giant pad of cotton wool to his torn ear, staring blankly past her shoulder, blood running from the cotton pad and down his neck, on to his shoulder, and she wanted to ask him if he was okay, but she felt disconnected, peculiar, and found herself toppling sideways. Greg’s arms caught and held her, and he was telling her she was fine, she was okay. He felt so solid and warm and safe, like Tom, but Tom wasn’t here any more, never would be. Then they were landing – they were here already? – and the ambulance was wailing and Greg was still holding her hand and Lee was still opposite. Then suddenly they were at a hospital and at last it was quiet.
*
Georgia sat on a worn, beige, plastic-covered chair in hospital reception, waiting her turn with the doctor. The receptionist, an overweight, red-faced nurse with a badge saying her name was Jill Hodges, had sat with her for a while, talking quietly about everyday things, fetching her a glass of water when she asked, but now she was alone. The little hospital needed every qualified medic to help with Bri.
The door was open to the street and she could see it was raining. The dirt out front was pulverised into mud. Water dripped steadily into the two tin buckets in front of the reception counter. It felt weird being back in Nulgarra, having left just this morning. She had expected to be hurtled to Cairns, but the air-rescue services had taken one look at Bri and brought them to the nearest medical help, which had turned out to be the Douglas Mason Hospital on the corner of Upolu and Ocean Roads, Nulgarra.
She’d been twelve the last time she was in this hospital. Cyclone Nicola. A sheet of galvanised iron had come loose on the chook shed and was beating and hammering in the wind like a mad thing, the iron tearing slowly apart. Up a ladder, she’d been trying to nail it back into place when it ripped upwards and sliced her arm open. The drive to the hospital had been scary. A massive branch had missed their ancient ute by millimetres, and all three of them had ended up staying in town for the night. When they returned, the sheet of iron was lying on top of a bunch of ferns and the chickens were huddled miserably on their soaked bedding.
Fingering the small white ridge of scar tissue on her right forearm, Georgia heard a crash of thunder. She glanced up and pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders. It was muggy, the temperature around the early thirties or so, but Georgia wanted the sensation of comfort. She wondered if Lee was okay. After Bri had been rushed in, a doctor had given Georgia and Lee a quick once-over, and given immediate priority to Lee.
Funny how she’d initially thought Lee unfriendly and cold. Talk about getting the man completely wrong. He’d been incredibly brave, talking to them calmly as they went down, then helping them all out of the burning aircraft, using his body to smother Bri’s flames. He’d certainly come good when the chips were down.
She heard the fly screen crash shut beside her, then a female voice said, ‘Georgia Parish?’
A tall woman with tangled black hair, frizzy in the humidity, was holding her hand out. ‘God, sorry,’ the woman said, snatching her hand back, even though it was Georgia’s left hand that was injured. ‘You’re hurt. I’m India Kane.’
Georgia frowned. The name was familiar.
‘From the Sydney Morning Herald.’
Surprised, Georgia stared at her. India Kane was well known for her national and international exposés. What she was doing here was anyone’s guess, but somehow Georgia didn’t think it would be to investigate the famously flexible drinking hours at Nulgarra’s National Hotel.
‘Thought I’d better be upfront about it.’ India Kane smiled, and her deep brown eyes grew warm. ‘You’ve got a problem talking to a journo?’
Georgia shook her head more out of politeness than honesty.
‘I heard what happened. About your plane. And Bri Hutchison.’ The reporter grimaced. ‘Jesus. Tough call being injured like that.’
Georgia watched the rain in the street, picturing Bri and his sturdy brick shape striding for the harbour and his yacht. A truck splashed past. She watched it swing right into Ocean Road and disappear. Opposite, two Aboriginal women in baggy cotton dresses were sharing an umbrella. They were barefoot, spattered with mud and rain up to their knees.
India pulled a crumpled pack of Marlboro from her jeans pocket and offered them. Shaking her head, Georgia watched the reporter go to stand by the open door and light up. ‘Do you live here?’
Georgia shook her head again.
India looked at the lightly falling rain as she exhaled a stream of smoke outside. ‘Not enchanted with our rainforested north?’
‘Visiting from Sydney,’ she managed. ‘Funeral.’
‘Shit,’ the reporter said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Georgia bent her head, not wanting to talk. Her body was aching and she felt nauseous.
‘Georgia, do you know anything about the flight plan?’ India Kane asked.
She didn’t bother responding. She couldn’t think of any sort of reply. Didn’t care to.
‘Georgia?’ the reporter said again, and at the woman’s insistent tone, Georgia looked up. India was studying her. ‘Your name wasn’t on it. The flight plan. I was just wondering if you knew why, that’s all.’
‘A bloke didn’t turn up,’ she said. ‘I took his place.’
‘Hmm. I see. A man called Ronnie Chen was down to fly . . . And it’s a strange thing, but his body has just been found washed up on Kee Beach. They reckon he’s been dead a couple of days. Murdered. He had a bullet hole in the back of his head.’
Blankly, Georgia repeated, ‘Murdered?’
‘Yeah. And you took his seat on Bri’s plane.’
‘What does that have to do with me?’
‘I’m just checking things out. It’s what I do for a living.’
Unable to make sense of it through the throbbing of her body, Georgia gazed at a laminated poster of the lymphatic system pinned up behind the reception counter.
‘You okay for money?’ India suddenly asked, then added, ‘Oh, you’ve your bumbag. Good on you.’
Georgia touched Suzie’s bag. The blood had now dried and if she didn’t know it was a bumbag, she’d think she had a plank of wood at her waist, it was so stiff. She hadn’t given any thought to money. Hell. Her handbag had been incinerated along with all her credit cards. Was Annie around to help her out? Or had her housemate left for her Hong Kong holiday already?
‘If you need somewhere to stay,’ India said, ‘I’ve got a spare bed up here. As well as the best view in town.’
‘I’ll manage, thanks,’ Georgia said. Her mind was now taken up with the problem of finding some money. Her mother was staying with friends out of town and she couldn’t for the life of her remember their name. Her boss would loan her some cash, though. She’d ring Maggie.
‘You’re worried I’ll extract my pound of flesh later.’ India sighed audibly along with a stream of cigarette smoke. ‘How about if my paper pays? Say if we did a story on how you overcame your phobia of flying again, or—’
‘It’s okay, honestly,’ Georgia said. ‘I’m going to ring a friend. I only need enough for the odd sandwich and a couple of taxis. My air tickets are still valid, or so I’ve been told.’
India blinked. ‘You lost your money?’
Georgia gave a nod.
‘Look, don’t worry about hassling your friend. Why don’t we travel down to Sydney together. You really want to fly? Or shall we drive?’
Georgia jerked her head to stare at the reporter. ‘You’d drive with me all the way to Sydney?’
India grinned. ‘It’s only two or three thousand Ks, and since I don’t mind a bit of open road . . .’
Both of them flinched when the door banged open and a man said, ‘Georgia, I’m Dr Ophir. Sorry for the wait, we’ve been trying to stabilise Bri, but if you wouldn’t mind . . .’
The man wore a white coat and his face was anxious, his hands spread wide. He took in India Kane, then halted. His expression turned hard.
‘Miz Kane. I thought I already—’
India Kane flicked her cigarette stub behind her and on to the rain-drenched concrete path. ‘I was just going.’ Delving into her bag, she pulled out a card, gave it to Georgia.
‘Call me on my mobile,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to be elsewhere tonight, but let’s meet tomorrow.’
‘Mobiles work up here?’
‘Yeah, I was surprised too. Some new mast went up around Butchers Hill.’
Turning India’s card in her hand, Georgia wondered if the new mast meant Far Northern Queensland was at last catching up with the rest of the world.
‘Anyway, ring me, Georgia. I’ll give you a lift to the airfield tomorrow, if you like, and we’ll decide then whether we’ll fly or just keep heading south until we hit Sydney. And if you change your mind, let’s share a bottle of wine sometime anyway.’
*
Dr Ophir checked Georgia over minutely, pausing at a circular white scar on her right shin. ‘What happened there?’
‘Tropical ulcer.’
‘Went mighty deep.’
The ulcer had smelled like fly-blown meat, she recalled, and her mother had turned white as milk when she’d removed the bandage.
‘Whatever is this stuff?’ Linette had asked as she gently bathed away a mass of brown-grey fibres from the pus-fouled wound.
‘A poultice,’ Georgia had admitted.
Linette had given the nurse a lecture that made her flush bright red with a combination of anger and remorse. ‘But you told us to use natural remedies—’
‘Not for a streptococcus infection.’ Linette was horrified. ‘Put her on antibiotics immediately!’
Dr Ophir gave Georgia some lignocaine, ringing a block of local anaesthetic around her wrist, then carefully washing the gash in her left palm with a saline solution before stitching. She didn’t watch, concentrated instead on looking through the little window overlooking the town’s main drag. Nulgarra, sleepy ocean-rimmed backwater, where tourists didn’t stay long. By the time they’d got this far north they’d already visited Cape Tribulation and the Daintree, the largest surviving tract of tropical lowland forest in Australia, and even in the peak season, from May to November, when a lot of Aussies headed here to escape their winter down south, the town wasn’t exactly a hive of activity.
It was March now, seriously low season. Through the sprawling fig trees splitting the pavements she could see that the bait shop where Tom used to work was shut, along with the dive store and the office that sold tickets to Port Douglas and the reef, but Price’s supermarket was open, along with Mick’s café, famous for its all-day brekky and deep-fried oysters. She’d only seen Mick shut up shop once, and even then it had only been for two days when his mum had died, because the second the news got out, the town rallied round. Sheryl, the local solicitor’s wife, had donned Mick’s huge grease-stained pinafore, her brother had taken charge of the vats of oil, and between them they’d kept the café going. Sure, the sausages were underdone, the oysters burned into circular cinders like lumps of coal, but nobody cared. They were doing their bit. Doing what neighbours were supposed to do.
As Dr Ophir stitched, Georgia couldn’t feel anything through the anaesthetic, just the sensation of pulling and tugging. She watched a bare-chested man the colour of tea walking down Ocean Street. He had a fishing box and rod in one hand, a big cooler in the other, and her breath caught. She knew he was heading for the mouth of the Parunga river, where Tom used to love fishing for flathead and trevally just after a storm. This time of year was the best angling, when the streams were full and fish movement at its greatest. If Tom were alive, he’d be out there fishing too.
Distantly she wondered what would happen to her grandfather’s little fibro house now he was dead. Her mother would probably sell it and take the proceeds back to Byron Bay with her. At least now her mum would have some money in her bank account, so long as she didn’t give it away to one of her charity cases, that was. Not for the first time, Georgia wondered at her mother’s astonishingly carefree attitude to life. At fifty-one, her mother had no pension, no superannuation, no savings. She lived in a rented caravan at the far end of a huge caravan park in Byron Bay, just south of Brisbane, where she drew up astrological charts for sixty bucks a throw, and read fortunes for twenty. She sold the odd crystal at the local market and collected her monthly State benefit cheque, but some days she had no money, not even a dollar twenty for a litre of milk. It never seemed to bother her. Inheriting Tom’s house wouldn’t change her mother’s life, but it would help stop Georgia worrying.
The doctor finished stitching. ‘There’s no need for you to be in overnight. Are you okay to stay with someone in town? It’s all arranged, and if you have any difficulty, they can bring you straight back here.’ He paused and gave her a smile. ‘But I doubt that’ll be necessary. You’re in excellent shape, considering.’
‘Where’s Lee?’
‘He left after I’d sorted him.’ Before she could say anything, he added, ‘He didn’t leave an address, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Is he okay?’
Dr Ophir nodded.
‘Can I see Bri?’
He shook his head. ‘Why don’t you come tomorrow?’
‘Do you know who I’ll be staying with?’
‘Mrs Scutchings is waiting outside. She said she’d put Lee up as well, if he needs a bed.’
Georgia gazed at her mud-caked deck shoes, too drained to protest.
Seven
Armed with a roll of crêpe bandage and a tube of antiseptic cream, Georgia watched Mrs Scutchings march into the hospital, sweep her arctic gaze over the rapidly filling buckets, and bark, ‘The roof should have been fixed before the wet.’
Irritated, Nurse Hodges tucked the phone beneath her plump chin and glanced up, but Mrs Scutchings already had hold of Georgia’s elbow and was marching her down the muddy path towards an ancient, rusting white Honda, which was double-parked beside an ambulance.
With a ghastly rattle, the Honda started, its wipers making screeching sounds on each downward arc. Mrs Scutchings jammed the stick into gear and drove down Ocean Road, past Price’s supermarket, the National Hotel, Mick’s café and a Bendigo community bank.
There was a new sign outside the park and adventure playground: ‘Welcome to Nulgarra. Population 1,800. Enjoy Your Stay.’
As if anyone would bother staying in Nulgarra with Port Douglas on the other side of the Daintree. Port Douglas had boutique hotels, motels, countless pubs and cocktail bars, a yacht club, a marina filled with millions of dollars’ worth of ocean-going yachts and supermarkets that never closed their doors. If their mother had taken them to Port Douglas instead of Nulgarra, Georgia wondered whether her sister would have stayed instead of hightailing it to Vancouver, away from the relentless humidity and hordes of insects. Maybe, she thought. Maybe not.
Mrs Scutchings jabbed the brakes as they approached the harbour, preparing for the sharp right-hand bend at the end of Ocean Road, and Georgia looked left, hoping to catch a glimpse of Three Mile Beach through the mangroves, but instead her gaze was riveted to the mega-yacht moored in deep water at the end of the southern pontoon.
Instantly she was back at Tom’s funeral looking at the vines creeping across the roof of Nulgarra’s crematorium and listening to heated gossip all around her. She felt a debt of gratitude to the boat, which had enabled her to distract those who pressed her about her marital status.
