After the Flood, page 22
Yes. But I don’t want to give up you.
When he pulled up outside the house, evening had arrived soothing as the tone of a French horn. He removed his sunglasses, the glare reduced now to a single biscuit left on a tray out of politeness. Even though he had been the one to rent it, he’d only been to the house once before, but he remembered its plainness, the salmon brick, the smell of near ocean. He would like to have been here a couple of generations earlier when he imagined there might have been just a few beach shacks, red earth and the green-blue water. There was no vehicle at the house. He hoped they might have been delayed, that he could say he assumed that they had got cold feet, come to their senses, that he had waited and then, realising it was hopeless anyway, had left. He got out and stretched his legs. There was nobody visible on the short street although he fancied that he heard children’s voices floating out from a backyard somewhere.
It was what, three months back, that Thomas had told him that he must give them some proof of his commitment by renting the house.
‘You won’t live in it. You will come only by invitation. Understood?’
He had said he understood and then dutifully found the place online. His story made sense. He was FIFO on the island. He paid a month in advance. He had handed them the keys in Broome. Three months. An eternity and an eyeblink.
When he saw the car swing into the carport his heart sank.
Thomas and Annika climbed out. Thomas offering a short wave, Annika going straight to the house and opening it up, Thomas grabbing a plastic car cover from the garage.
‘Give us a hand,’ he said. Paul dutifully went over and helped pull the cover over the car.
‘Won’t you need it?’ Paul asked.
‘We’ll walk back to the sailing club. The boat’s waiting.’
Thomas said it with the sort of quiet discretion that people remove fishbones from their mouth.
‘Inside,’ directed Thomas and Paul led the way. Paul was disappointed that Thomas shut the door after them.
The house was stifling, and had that smell houses get when the pipes have not been running and the windows shut, a hint of stagnant water. Annika was sliding windows open. Eventually the breeze would make a difference but not yet. Thomas switched on an ancient air-conditioner and plugged in the fridge.
‘We’ll wait a couple of hours before setting out,’ said Thomas and pulled up a chair at the kitchen table.
Paul followed suit.
‘You have the passes?’ Thomas asked him.
Thomas had told him to get three identity passes and had supplied photos. It was probably unnecessary, really. The chances of a security person actually seeing them and stopping them was low. The more important part of the pass was the barcode that needed to be scanned to open the gates that gave access to the heart of the train. Although now he had no intention of handing them over, whatever Thomas said. He had only brought the passes with him because he wanted them to know he had been genuine.
‘Where’s the other guy?’ he asked. He noticed a look between Annika and Thomas and wondered what that meant.
‘He stayed with the boat,’ said Thomas, not looking him in the eye.
Paul did not know the other man’s name. He had made up aliases to go with the photos and then once the passes had been printed, he had deleted all records. Back a couple of weeks ago, he’d had no intention of trying to get away with anything. This was going to be his chance to go public and speak about why this had happened, the callous indifference of big companies. It had never unduly worried him before that the company against whom the attack was to be carried out was not the same company whose greed had killed Gabrielly. Now, however, it did. He wriggled uncomfortably and wished there was something cold to drink. As if reading his mind, Annika placed a plastic shopping bag on the table and pulled out three cold cans of lemonade.
‘So hot in here,’ she said placing one of the cans in front of Paul.
‘Got them from the machine at the sailing club,’ said Thomas popping his can. Paul saw there were half a dozen chocolate bars in the bag.
‘Something for our trip,’ laughed Thomas and held up his can for a toast.
Paul half-heartedly responded. He had to tell him. He’d just get a little lemonade into himself first.
‘They have to be somewhere,’ said Earle. Their optimism had been slowly evaporating.
Mal Gross said, ‘We’ve got eyes on every major road but they could be off the beaten track.’
Clement, Earle and Gross had joined Risely in his office. Despite the air-conditioning, Clement could smell sweat.
‘That’s probably a good thing if they are hiding out,’ said Risely, nervously shredding tiny pieces of paper with his fingers. ‘The longer they take, the more chance we’ll nail them before this goes south.’
Risely had ordered light planes and helicopters into the air but all they had come up with was a couple of false leads. And now it was dark and there would be no more air surveillance till dawn.
‘If they left right after they ditched the motorcycle, they could be in Darwin or Adelaide or beyond,’ said Clement. ‘On the other hand, if they want to inflict damage locally, it makes sense they’d wait until dark.’
‘Thanks for that cheery thought,’ said Risely. ‘The Federal Police are scrambling. Apparently these guys were not even a blip on ASIO’s radar.’
‘The aunt couldn’t help?’ Mal Gross had not been present when Clement had briefed Risely about his conversation with Jennifer Davidson.
‘Not as to their current whereabouts. She last spoke to Thomas more than a year ago. She hasn’t seen him for four years by her reckoning.’
Clement gave a shorthand description of the conversation he’d had with the aunt. It had been revelatory but not encouraging. ‘She said he had been angry more than half his life.’
‘Now he’s found something to target his anger on,’ said Risely.
But what exactly? wondered Clement. He couldn’t help feeling that he was missing something.
Earle said, ‘We got even less from Annika Styles’ mother: “Don’t know, don’t care.” Styles left home seven years ago and has pretty much never been in touch. No dear grandmother, no best friend.’
‘They probably exist,’ added Clement, ‘but by the time we turn them up it might not matter.’
‘Facebook? Photos? Phone?’ Mal Gross knew they would have canvassed all these but asked anyway.
Clement told him what they had gleaned: nothing.
‘They’ve been planning this for a long time. Perth is chasing up every phone number. They’ll let us know if they hit paydirt. Manners is trawling their social media. Berryman doesn’t have a bank account at all that we can find. Styles’ account has been dormant for three months. They’re either living on cash or they have some account under a false name, or both.’
There was a rapid and loud knock on the door. Gross who was standing closest caught the nod from Risely and pulled it open to reveal Jo di Rivi. She seemed bursting to tell them something. Please don’t let it be a bomb, prayed Clement.
‘Just had a call from the Mimosa security head. A man and woman in their twenties in the carpark acting suspiciously. They haven’t approached them yet.’
‘Go,’ ordered Risely.
Paul rolled the light aluminium on his fingertips. No more stalling.
‘We can’t do it,’ he said.
Thomas had his head back and mouth open relishing the last drops of the sweet soda. Now it swung towards him like a gun turret. For a moment the only sound was the mechanical grunting of the barely functioning air-conditioner. Static crackled, the sound of the can being crushed in Thomas’ hand.
‘What?’
Paul felt himself swallow. ‘We can’t go through with it. It’s a mistake.’
Frida, he was sure that wasn’t her real name but it was what he knew her as, had been out of Paul’s vision but now she appeared and moved to stand behind Thomas’ shoulder.
‘You can’t back out,’ she said. ‘Not now.’
Paul took a deep breath. He knew it would be hard for them. He understood.
‘We can’t be sure nobody will be hurt.’
‘We always knew that,’ said Thomas slowly, probing with his gaze.
Paul could feel anxiety rising like a tide. ‘We don’t know what the explosions might do. They might set off other explosions. Gas, fuel.’
‘So? Firefighters and security are like soldiers. They get paid because there is a risk.’
‘Look,’ said Paul. ‘Nobody understands more than me, what you have lost. But you have each other. You can still protest. Still fight against the greed of the multinationals. But this isn’t even the company that cost me Gabrielly.’
‘They are all cousins with the same pedigree,’ said Thomas.
‘But they are not. These people are innocent.’
‘Where is this coming from?’ asked Thomas, still poking like a cold surgical instrument.
Paul ignored him. The three security passes he had printed were hanging on lanyards around his neck. He pulled them out from his shirt and brandished them.
‘Look. I did like we discussed. I got the passes. I was ready. But I met someone. At work. And I realised that what we are doing is wrong.’
‘You “met someone”.’ Thomas smashed a sneer as if it were avocado. Paul felt colour rising. Be calm, Paul told himself as Thomas turned to the girl and repeated, ‘He met someone.’ Throwing his hands up in a theatrical gesture.
‘Yes,’ said Paul, resolute. ‘It showed me. There is hope.’
‘And she’s on the island?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why not just send her off?’
‘It’s not that –’ no, he didn’t want to become mired in what was irrelevant. ‘We shouldn’t do it. We won’t do it. It was wrong from the beginning but I didn’t see that. Gabrielly wouldn’t want me to do this. And I know you lost your mother but I’m sure she wouldn’t –’
Thomas stood from his chair with a frightening suddenness. ‘Don’t you tell me what she would or wouldn’t want. We agreed on a course of action. You gave your commitment.’
‘Yes, but I was wrong. We’re allowing our personal grief to create more grief. I don’t want that on my conscience. You don’t want that on yours.’
Paul swung towards the girl looking for her support but she was like a new sheet of A4.
Thomas moved around towards Paul. Paul was forced to stand in order to not have Thomas looming over him.
‘So, you have reconsidered for all of us?’
‘It’s the right thing.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Thomas reaching over and fingering the lanyards, ‘it is. Perhaps it was inevitable.’
Relief flickered over Paul like a welcome breeze. Or maybe it was the air-conditioning finally kicking in.
‘We can still protest. We can still expose hypocrisy.’ He wanted to reassure Thomas that what they had shared had not been false, nor in vain.
Thomas put his hand on his shoulder. ‘We can. Maybe not you, but we can.’
It felt like a punch to his side near his ribs. He was so stunned he did not move though he knew as he looked down and saw the knife in Thomas’ hand that he had been stabbed.
‘No!’ he tried to shout and felt another punch near his kidney.
Blood was leaking out of him. Whether it was the shock or actual blood loss, he didn’t know, but he felt strength going from his legs and he gripped the chair for support.
‘You don’t decide for me,’ Thomas hissed at him and he felt the lanyards being lifted over his head.
He clutched the back of the chair with increasing desperation. It was as if the hands of devils were pulling him down. Thomas leaned down towards him.
‘Gabrielly would be ashamed of you,’ he said.
Something hard slammed into Paul’s head. The resistance went out of him. He felt himself crumple onto the lino, a limp piece of lettuce fallen from a plate. It was growing quickly darker around him.
‘It’s not true,’ he tried to say but wasn’t sure if he actually spoke. Gabrielly was not ashamed of him. She wasn’t …
25
A young man and woman siphoning petrol, that’s what the Mimosa alert turned out to be, a complete waste of time. Shepherd, Earle and Clement had tooled up with firearms and vests. The assault team had been readied. The two miscreants weren’t much more than kids, frightened as bunnies when the lights hit them. Clement and the others had made it back to the station for the loss of ninety precious minutes. Although, thought Clement, whether they were precious was moot, for in the last two-and-a-bit hours they’d uncovered nothing new.
It was going on for 10.00 p.m., close to sixteen hours since Earle’s pancakes. They’d discovered much yet accomplished nothing. He’d already sent the others home. Risely had gone an hour back with an order that Clement should follow suit and get some sleep. Everything was really out of their hands. Other people were watching computers and social media and phones and highways and byways. Clement’s phone would ring as soon as something was turned up and only then would he be needed. And quite possibly not even then.
‘Perhaps we should call it a night,’ suggested Earle.
‘You’re right,’ he said.
His legs were stiff. He looked at the whiteboard in the big room and saw all their wild theories written up there. Not even erased yet because there had been no time. All those hours pushing ideas through tired, dark brains trying to feel the slightest tickle of a clue: the two women in it together, wildlife smuggling, Seydoux diving for drugs.
Clement checked he had his phone and wallet. He’d not spoken to Phoebe for days. He needed to give Bill Seratono a call, gently prod him about a boat. He was at the threshold to the back corridor that led to the carpark, Earle politely waiting for him, when he felt that sharp prick you can get when you’re groping around and almost accidentally stab yourself with an idea you knew was out there somewhere.
‘What?’ said Earle recognising in his partner a change.
‘It might be nothing.’
Clement found himself drawn back towards the whiteboard. Somebody, Jo di Rivi probably, somebody with neat small writing had listed dot points under the heading Sun King Phone. Clement pointed at the almost invisible, until now forgotten entry.
It read boat hire.
‘Seydoux was in touch with …’ he looked for the name on the other part of the board, found it, ‘… Coleman from Deep Adventures about hiring a boat for him to take some divers out.’
‘You called him, didn’t you?’ said Earle, curiosity pulling him closer too.
‘Yes. He said Seydoux occasionally made some money with a hire but I didn’t ask him about this one.’
‘You’re thinking Berryman and Styles might have organised a boat?’
Clement was already dialling Coleman’s number. ‘It’s smart. They can disappear anywhere up here …’ Clement’s finger traced over the huge expanse of coastline, oceans and tiny islands, ‘… and all the time we’re out blocking roads and looking for them on land.’ That was the thing about the Kimberley, thought Clement. Only a few roads for thousands of k’s, easy to be hemmed in, but on the water, the escape routes were endless.
Coleman’s phone rang and then almost immediately a message kicked in. ‘Hi, I’m out on a charter right now and might be out of range but you can try our office …’ he ran through the number too fast, as people familiar with their own number are wont to do. ‘Leave a message and I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.’
Ingrid was holding his hand and pulling him towards the water, urging him but he just wanted to lie there on the sand. He didn’t want to move. The water would be cold. He was already cold but she was laughing and urging him.
‘Paul, come on. Paul, please. For me.’
It was as he went to lift himself from the beach and suddenly found he had no strength, and that his muscles had melted into the surrounding sand, that he woke.
It was dark and he was very, very thirsty. His first thought was that he was on a floor surrounded by spilled Coca Cola. That’s when he remembered. Surprisingly knowing it was his blood didn’t reduce him to a million pieces. Instead, reason kicked in. He wasn’t dead yet. He had to stop them. Ingrid was in terrible danger. He felt for his phone but it was gone. They must have taken it.
