by A C Praat
He tossed a card on the console table by the door and exited.
Mishra stood in confused silence, staring after him. Would he really find Philip, only to make him face charges for the leak? She couldn’t let him do that. But what of his accusations about Hebden?
Her head hurt; this was all way too much to sort through on her own. She should call Ra.
No.
They’d agreed never to talk about Philip on the phone, or in electronic communication of any kind. And now Ra was in New Zealand. Of the five of them who had started on their plan to expose the military’s development of killer robots, only she and Sol remained in Adelaide. Raffe and Lexi were off somewhere on a yacht in the Pacific – New Caledonia, they’d told the investigating officers. That had been news to the rest of them. Raffe and Lexi had been vague about their itinerary before they left. But then it had been the week prior to the media release – they’d all been preoccupied with the campaign.
When could she see Sol? His chef’s timetable could be erratic – sometimes lunches, sometimes dinners, sometimes a split-shift. She switched on her phone.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
Three new messages.
The first was from Sol. Saw the news, darling. Ugly. I’ll stop by tonight. Kisses.
The second from her dad. Seen the headlines? Sorry, love. Give me a call. Love, Dad.
And the third from Fran, her colleague at the university. Want me to do your afternoon class?
That was Fran: pragmatic, cut to the chase.
Mishra smiled. She was lucky to have them. Could she face her afternoon class? It was small – just the postgrads doing advanced research methods. She paused, her finger over the reply button. Apart from the washing machine whirring away, there was no sound in the apartment. Two choices: she could stay here and worry about the implications of Roberts’ visit or do something useful. I’m coming in, she texted back to Fran.
* * *
The hubbub around the circle of desks ceased as she entered, a silence more complete than any she’d encountered in the classroom before Philip’s disappearance. Some of the students had attended the botched event for the Say No to Killer Robots campaign that she’d organised here at the beginning of the semester. And the rest had caught on that Mishra was linked to the media frenzy about the killer-bee project. She’d been fending off curious glances since the project hit the media.
Mishra dumped her bag on the desk at the front of the classroom and unloaded her laptop. The university had warned her against speaking about the campaign after that event. Back then they’d been worried about the repercussions of negative publicity for their funding arrangements with the military. They were well beyond that now. But Mishra was keeping up her end of the bargain. As long as her lecturer post was still paying the bills she wanted to keep her bosses onside.
‘Dr. McKenzie?’
‘Yes, Ruby?’
Ruby’s dark eyes searched her classmates before she turned her gaze back to Mishra. The pause was unnerving.
‘They’re saying the man who leaked the bee project is dead.’
Mishra dropped into the chair behind her desk and clasped her hands together. ‘Yes, they are.’
‘I – I mean, we think he’s a hero. It’s not right what they’re doing.’
Mishra paused to collect herself before she responded. ‘What they’re doing?’
‘That project with the bees. It’s not just about pollination, is it?’
‘I’m not … I can’t …’ She heaved in a breath while she grasped for a response. She was messing this up royally.
Ruby stood and approached Mishra. ‘I’m sorry, Dr. McKenzie.’
Mishra shook her head, trying to make her face smile. It wasn’t complying.
‘He was your friend.’ Ruby was blocking the view of the rest of the class.
Mishra nodded.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ruby said again.
‘Thank you,’ Mishra whispered. Her head started to thump. Just one more – this was the very last lecture of the year. She owed it to her students. Mishra sniffed and flipped open her laptop. Ruby retreated to her seat.
‘Who wants to pass these exams, then?’ Her joviality rang false. After all that practice, she was still a bad liar.
* * *
After class, Mishra jammed on her sunglasses and sped along to the psychology office to check her mailbox. The corridors were mercifully free of colleagues, many having finished their classes for the year. Students too were thin on the ground, though enough remained to fill the air with their unique fragrance – rich, floral perfumes with an undercurrent of sweat.
Her mailbox was full. On top was a university envelope. The letter inside confirmed the university’s decision to support her sabbatical over the summer term. Her stomach clenched. She’d been working toward this all year – she should be happy – but her time in Wellington was so much more loaded now than just a space for writing papers and considering her future. Her hand slid into the pocket of her tunic and clasped Philip’s note.
The second item was a thick cardboard envelope the length of a small shoebox. She turned it over. There were none of the usual markings indicating a new arrival from the bookstore – no markings at all except her name on the front. Mishra frowned.
‘Hi, Mishra. How are you?’ The departmental secretary’s face was sympathetic as she stood behind the afternoon mail trolley, her hands full of envelopes.
‘Okay, thanks, Lil.’ She held up the mystery envelope. ‘Did you see who delivered this?’
Lil shrugged. ‘Been head down sorting exam papers all morning. Sorry.’
Mishra smiled and stuffed the envelope into her bag. ‘Never mind.’
The air in her office smelled stale. She hadn’t been in since Hebden had phoned to tell her they were calling off the investigation and to expect an announcement in the media. Three days was long enough for the flowers on her desk to dry out and the petals to brown. Nothing else had changed. Nothing outward anyway.
Mishra collapsed into the visitor’s chair beside her desk and opened her bag. Too dark. She leaned over and flicked up her blinds, letting in afternoon light and a glimpse of the Art Gallery of South Australia across the lane.
Now for the envelope. Her name was printed onto the label on the front. The envelope felt light – lighter than a book of the equivalent size.
What if they’d stopped the investigation because they’d found Philip’s body? Mishra dropped the envelope into her lap.
Paranoia on top of everything else? They would have asked his mother to confirm his identity if they had a body. Wouldn’t they? All Mishra’s knowledge of crime and espionage came from movies. She’d never had to identify a body. Her mother had died at home.
What if the authorities had found Philip and done away with him themselves?
Now that was just ridiculous! Militaries in civilised countries didn’t go around killing their citizens because they leaked some information about a project.
He’s not Australian, the voice persisted.
‘Mishra?’
Mishra jumped, her heart racing.
‘Oh, Mishra, honey, I’m so sorry.’
Fran dropped to her knees and folded Mishra into a hug. Mishra relaxed into a face-full of Fran’s coppery curls.
‘They mean Philip, don’t they?’
Mishra nodded.
Fran released her and rocked back on her heels. The thick black rims of her spectacles were askew and she raised a hand to tilt them level while she studied Mishra’s face.
Mishra’s lips began to tremble. ‘I don’t know what to do, Fran.’
Fran struck her listening pose – very still, very focused – and waited.
‘I don’t –’ Mishra swallowed and tried again. ‘I can’t tell what’s true anymore.’
Fran clasped one of Mishra’s hands, but remained silent.
‘They’re saying he took his own life. But there isn’t a body. No one’s contacted us – I mean me and P
hilip’s mum – about a body. How can they be sure?’
Fran frowned. ‘That is unusual.’
‘We only have Brett’s word that he was at the marina that day Raffe and Lexi left.’
‘Brett? The flight lieutenant with the flashy abs?’
Mishra sent Fran a watery grin, despite her confusion. Trust her to remember that particular detail. ‘Yes, Brett. Philip’s old flatmate.’
‘They think Philip drowned at the marina?’
‘That’s what Hebden implied when he talked to us.’
‘But you don’t think so.’
She didn’t know – and Roberts wasn’t sure either. Fran was her only friend outside of the campaign. Her one sane friend. Tell her! The urge to unload pressed Mishra’s tongue against her teeth. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Denial is the first stage of grief, Mish.’
‘Oh, don’t go all Kübler-Ross on me.’
Fran smiled and released her hand. ‘What’s that?’ She pointed to the envelope in Mishra’s lap.
Mishra shrugged. ‘Probably a card. I suppose I’ll get some of those.’
Fran stood. ‘Are you still going to New Zealand?’
Mishra nodded.
‘Sometimes it’s better to stick with your support networks at times like this. Maybe you could put off the sabbatical till the first semester?’
‘Ra is there.’
Fran nodded. ‘Listen, I’m parked in the tow-away zone right now – but let me know when you’re leaving. I’ll drive you to the airport. Call me, okay?’
‘Thanks, Fran.’
After Fran left, Mishra sat and stared at the envelope, still bathed in uncertainty, but calmer. Fran had stopped the unnerving death spiral of what-ifs she’d let herself invent. She was so tired she’d like to curl up under her desk and sleep. But sleep would be impossible with the stupid envelope intact.
She took scissors from the credenza beneath her desk and cut along the top of the envelope. Two items were inside. A smartphone – one of the cheaper models – and a note printed with two words. Ring ASAP.
FOUR
Mishra closed her office door and returned to her chair, the smartphone in her hand. She trembled as she switched it on and watched the start-up routine. It landed on a password page.
A password?
She scooped up the note that had come with the phone. Had she missed something? No. The note contained only the demand Ring ASAP. She tore apart the envelope and studied the seams inside and out. Still nothing. What if it was Philip trying to contact her? Think, Mishra!
Two possibilities sprang immediately to mind: frangipani and Tess. Tess was Philip’s dog, tragically killed not long before they’d exposed the bee project. Now that she thought about it, Tess’s death might have been another factor propelling Philip into such an extreme action.
She started with frangipani – her favourite flower, and her last gift from Philip.
Upper case or lower case? Lower case first. She tapped and waited. Nothing happened. Then upper case. Still nothing. How many attempts would she have before the phone locked?
Maybe she should wait for Sol. He might have a better idea. The screen gleamed at her and the note roared in her head. Ring ASAP.
She picked up her own phone and dialed Sol’s number.
‘Mishra. What is it?’
‘Are you coming over?’
‘Just finished dinner prep. Could be with you in half an hour.’
‘I’ll see you at mine, Sol. Hurry.’
* * *
By the time she’d walked the final leg from the bus stop to her townhouse Mishra was convinced that Tess was the password. Sol was waiting outside, leaning against his beat-up Corolla, his leather jacket thrown over one shoulder and his earrings on the short side of his asymmetrical cut catching the afternoon light. He was cool and glamour personified. Mishra ran the last few steps.
‘Darling?’ Sol hugged her and she inhaled his comforting mix of sandalwood and spice. ‘It’s not just the nasty media, is it?’
Mishra shook her head. ‘Come inside, Sol.’
They walked between the shrubs lining the path of her handkerchief garden to the front door, where she stopped to rummage through her bag for the keys. ‘They don’t believe he’s dead.’
Sol rested a hand on Mishra’s arm. ‘Say again?’
‘That guy Roberts came over this morning, just after Philip’s mother left. Roberts wanted to know if there was anything else I could tell him.’ She shoved her keys into the lock and pushed open the door. ‘He thought they’d concluded the investigation too soon.’
‘He said that?’
‘Yes. He also said he was Philip’s dad.’
‘Get out!’
Mishra nodded and dumped her bag on the console table just inside the front door. She could explain Roberts later. ‘And now this.’ She handed Sol the note and held up the phone.
‘Where did it –’
‘Someone left it in my mailbox at the department.’
Sol took the phone. ‘And?’
‘It has a password. I’ve tried two already. What if it locks?’
‘But who –’
‘What if it’s Philip, Sol?’
Sol looped an arm around her shoulders. ‘Falafel.’
‘What?’
‘Just try it. No, wait. Let’s sit down first.’
They collapsed onto the couch in the living room, the afternoon sun striping their legs. Mishra switched the phone on and they waited, staring at the screen.
‘Falafel?’
‘It was a joke between me, Raffe and Charlie. favourite food-related secret codes. We were just messing around but …’ Sol shrugged.
‘You think it’s from Charlie or Raffe?’
‘Use a number for the Ls.’
Mishra tapped the screen. If Sol was right, then the phone wasn’t from Philip. The final 1 opened the homepage.
‘Yes!’ Sol said, thrusting his fist in victory.
Mishra’s face crumpled as hope of hearing from Philip once again died.
‘Sorry, doll,’ Sol said. ‘I’m so sorry. But they might know something.’
Mishra held out the phone. ‘You do it.’
Sol pushed her hand back. ‘They sent it to you.’
‘But I didn’t know the password!’ Anger flared. If Charlie and Raffe knew something about Philip they’d kept it from her. She didn’t have any expectations of Charlie, Sol’s journalist friend who broke the killer bee story – she hardly knew her. But Raffe was different. Raffe was her friend.
The contacts list in the phone had only one number in it.
Mishra pushed the green phone icon and waited. At first there was silence, and then the sound of ringing.
‘Mishra? Is that you?’
The voice was Raffe’s, but the tone was wrong. The Raffe she knew was laid-back, exuding the sort of comfortable confidence that came with a moneyed background.
‘Where are you? Where’s Philip?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know.’
It was all she could do not to fling the phone across the room. All this ludicrous secrecy, all her hope and anxiety – and for nothing.
‘Here.’ Sol reached for the handset and turned it to speakerphone, holding it between them.
‘Mishra? Mishra, are you there? Has Lexi been in touch?’
‘Raffe, it’s Sol. Just me and Mishra. I thought Lexi was with you?’
‘She was, but –’ They heard a heavy sigh. ‘She left after we berthed. I’m in Opua, New Zealand. We’ve lost Philip.’
‘Philip was with you?’ Mishra was caught between relief and fury. Why hadn’t they been in touch?
‘Until last night, yes. When we woke up this morning he was gone. Took his gear. Either jumped or fell ... what the hell are we going to do? We can’t alert the authorities – he’s trying to disappear.’
‘They’re reporting he’s dead over here,’ Sol said.
Mishra’s mind was racing. He was still
alive! Or had been until last night. Thank goodness.
‘Mishra,’ Raffe said, ‘what should we do?’
‘Now you’re looping me in?’
‘He didn’t want you implicated in the leak – the university, your job …’
‘Much better to let me think he was dead?’
‘I know, I know. It sounds rubbish now.’ Raffe’s voice was weary.
‘Where is he, Raffe?’
‘I don’t know. This coastline is full of little islands and beaches. We took the runabout out searching as soon as we realised.’
Mishra closed her eyes against a sudden vision of Philip’s body washed up on a beach.
‘I’m so sorry, Mish.’
The flatness in Raffe’s voice tweaked fresh anguish, spiked with exasperation. What had Philip been thinking?
FIVE
You wouldn’t credit it. Brett was bending to shove his bag under the seat of the passenger in front of him – not an easy maneuver with your face squashed sideways into the backrest – when Mishra shuffled past. Mercifully she was looking up, reading the numbers of the seats on the overhead lockers. Brett froze. What the hell was she doing on this flight? Their intelligence from Roberts said that she wouldn’t be leaving Adelaide for another week at least – maybe more. And she was supposed to be heading for Wellington, not Auckland.
Several things occurred to Brett. First, Roberts might be feeding them bad information. Brett had done his best to ingratiate himself with Roberts when they met after Philip disappeared, emptying the entire contents of his short stint flatting with Philip into Roberts’ head. Brett had never believed Philip was dead. He’d been sure he was on that damn yacht with Lexi and her rich boyfriend, even when Lexi and Raffe sailed into Sydney without him. They could have dropped him anywhere en route.
From now on he’d take anything they gleaned from Roberts with a grain of salt.
Second, something must have happened. Why would Mishra be leaving Adelaide so soon? There had been the media release about Philip’s suicide. She must be feeling like shit. Maybe she needed to get away from the madness.
