by Lisa Walker
‘The animal libbers mightn’t have turned up if you hadn’t geed them on,’ I muttered.
‘No, but you still would have had ten journalists staring at an empty hall.’
‘It didn’t work out the way you thought it would, though, did it, smarty-pants?’
‘I’m not in your league when it comes to deception, Cassandra. Nothing turned out the way I thought it would.’
‘Including us?’
‘Us?’ Mac’s face was hard to read. ‘No — that wasn’t planned. Tell me, how did your big PR success go again? You had a group set up lobbying for development? Where did you find these people? How much did you have to pay them? And you made it seem like Rainforest Runaway was only part of what they wanted, didn’t you? Good thinking.’
I had nothing to say when he attacked me like that. It made me feel small and lost. ‘I’ve changed.’
He laughed sarcastically. ‘Right, you’re going to use your skills for good, not evil now?’
‘I am.’ Right then I would have said anything. I wanted my nice Mac back.
‘You are?’ He looked at me intently.
‘I am.’
He had a funny look on his face and I could tell he didn’t believe me. In a strange way, I didn’t mind. I’d had too many men who were pushovers in my life and Mac was far from that. He was keeping me honest, making me work for his trust — if that was the right word. I admired that.
‘If I’d deceived people for a good cause, would that make it all right?’ I said.
Mac looked away for a moment. ‘What do you think?’ His voice was soft now.
‘I don’t know. A lie is still a lie. Isn’t it?’ I said.
‘And is it always wrong to lie?’ he asked.
‘Depends what rulebook you’re running your life by, doesn’t it?’
‘People use words in different ways,’ he said.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Well, one person might call something a lie, and someone else might call it a necessity,’ said Mac.
‘You sound like you could be in PR. When I use a word it means just what I choose it to mean.’
‘Humpty Dumpty, right?’ Mac turned back towards me.
I laughed and met his eyes. ‘Yes. That’s amazing. You do know your Alice, don’t you?’
‘Grew up on it. We’re all mad here.’ He smiled.
So that was something else I learnt about Mac — he knew his Alice in Wonderland. Could any man be more perfect?
Mac stretched out his hand and took mine. ‘These are big questions, Cassandra. Do we have to answer them right now?’
As it turned out, we didn’t.
Neither Mac nor I had a watch or any other means of telling the time. I’d left my mobile at my house and he, of course, had never had one. After the first day I was fine with it — who needed to know what time it was?
We didn’t talk about what we were going to do next — not while it rained, not while the outside world was safely barricaded behind a moat of floodwater. I don’t know why. Maybe we thought it would never end.
Although, as it turned out, Mac was thinking ahead.
On the third day, or maybe the fourth, we woke to a different kind of light. ‘Look, Mac.’ A single ray of sun poured through a gap in the clouds. The rain wasn’t crashing anymore; it was polite suburban rain.
‘Time to get …’ A loud choonka, choonka, choonka drowned out Mac’s words.
Outside the window a helicopter headed for a high patch of land a couple of hundred metres away. We sat up in bed, pulling the covers with us for warmth. A familiar sandy-haired figure in a blue raincoat jumped out of the chopper as the blades were still turning.
‘It’s Simon. What are we going to do?’ I said.
Mac eyed the inflatable dinghy that followed Simon out of the helicopter. He swung his legs off the bed and pulled on his pants. ‘Follow my lead.’
I should have asked him then what he meant, but it seemed like there was no time. All those days together and suddenly there was no time at all.
As I got dressed — swimsuit and velvet dressing gown again — Simon and another man rowed across the muddy water to Mac’s house. Strolling down the corridor, I opened the door. Simon jumped out of the dinghy and ran up the stairs.
He had that look journalists always have when they’re frustrated on a story. Pre-Headline-Tension I call it. After they’ve got the story, it’s all fab — cigarettes in bed, love you, dahling, that was the best ever, et cetera.
Simon had the most severe case of PHT I’d ever seen. ‘God, Cassandra, I’ve been holed up at the Paradise Resort in Surfers Paradise for three days. You look terrible,’ were the first words he said to me.
I didn’t respond; he was talking too fast. Mac had told me to slow down and I had. I was now so slow you could have fitted an ad break between each of my thoughts.
Leaning against the doorway, I looked at Simon for a long time. ‘Simon, goodness … haven’t seen you since … hmm, must have been when you rocked up at my doorstep with all those TV crews.’
‘Yeah, great story — think I’m in the running for the Walkley. Thanks for that. Still, moving right along — where’s this thylacine?’ He looked behind me as if it might be lurking in the corridor.
‘Can you … slow down a bit? I’m not used to much stimulation at the moment. If too many things happen at once, I might freeze up, or something …’ I suddenly remembered Simon’s veiled threat to do a follow-up story on me. ‘Hey — that phone call, you’re not really thinking of doing a follow-up, are you?’
Simon’s shoulders lifted slightly. ‘Nah, not really. I was just calling to say hello. After all, we’re old uni mates.’
‘I suppose that’s one interpretation of our relationship.’ I nodded slowly. ‘I hadn’t considered it that way before. So, do most “old uni mates”,’ I bent my index fingers around the words, ‘run exposés in the Herald on each other?’
But I’d lost Simon’s attention — Mac had appeared behind me. He hadn’t put a shirt on, just his loose khaki pants. His shoulder pushed lightly into mine. His chin was black with bristles and his hair stuck up in wild corkscrews. He was dissolute and totally gorgeous; my body ached just looking at him. I waved my hand in his direction. ‘This is Mac, ranger extraordinaire.’
The cameraman jumped out from behind Simon and let off a volley of flashes.
‘Rein in your dog, mate,’ said Mac. He leaned casually against the door frame.
The cameraman bristled. ‘Who the fuck —’
‘Cool it, Chris,’ Simon said quietly.
The cameraman lowered his lens reluctantly.
Chris seemed a nice enough guy — longish wavy hair, combat trousers with twenty pockets and one of those waistcoats with a million apertures. The same air of anxiety seeped out of his pores, though.
It had never occurred to me before, but I realised now that people in Sydney were often like that. I was often like that. Hard to imagine. Right now, I was so slow I could barely talk. ‘Would you … like a cup of …?’
‘Coffee, great,’ Simon jumped in.
‘Water,’ I finished. ‘Mac doesn’t um …’
Mac took my arm and pulled me gently aside. ‘Come in. I might have a beer left …’
‘So.’ Simon sat down reluctantly in Mac’s lounge room. His knee jiggled up and down. He looked from Mac to me.
We sat down on the couch, shoulders touching — separation didn’t seem possible. Mac picked up his ukulele and strummed a few notes — giving an implausibly Polynesian vibe to the situation.
Simon frowned as Mac segued into ‘Ain’t She Sweet’.
The cameraman prowled around — itching to take photographs, barely restraining himself. I could see him setting up the angles in his head.
‘You two,’ Simon continued. ‘I take it you’re friends now? That’s a new development.’ His face didn’t give much away.
‘Yes,’ I simpered and took Mac’s hand. Where once were brain
s, there now was fluff. I just wanted Simon to piss off so we could curl up in our nest again. I knew that wasn’t possible, though. Not yet. I yawned the longest and widest yawn of my life. In three days I’d gone from Alice to the Dormouse. I breathe when I sleep is the same thing as I sleep when I breathe.
Mac squeezed my hand, winked, then placed it back on my lap. He seemed more on top of it all than me. He strummed a few more bars, ‘Tiptoe Through the Tulips’ this time. He must have known it irritated Simon. ‘Cassandra’s talked me round,’ he said. ‘We’re going to help with this thylacine story.’
We were? That was the first I’d heard of it. I flashed Mac a quick look, but his eyes were on Simon.
Simon nodded, quietly triumphant. ‘She’s a pretty persuasive little lady, isn’t she?’ His tone was a blokey nudge, nudge, wink, wink — not at all his usual style. He was trying to bond.
Mac didn’t respond.
Simon’s mouth twitched. He leaned over and pulled a wad of paper out of his funky go-gear briefcase. ‘I’ll need you to sign here, here and here.’
‘What’s this for?’ said Mac. He strummed again.
‘Exclusivity contract — didn’t Cassie tell you?’
‘Cassandra,’ said Mac.
I smiled at him dreamily.
Simon’s nostrils flared, but he kept a lid on his temper. ‘It just means you talk only to me until the story’s broken. After that — it’s open slather. You can negotiate any deals you want.’
‘And what do we get?’ said Mac. Strum. ‘For talking to you?’ Strum.
‘I’m authorised to go up to fifty.’ Simon’s hands whitened around the contract.
‘I suppose that’ll buy a few beers,’ said Mac. Strum. ‘Doesn’t seem much, though.’
‘Fifty thousand,’ I whispered.
Mac put down the ukulele, stretched his hands behind his head and yawned. ‘I guess that’s fair. It’s a big story. Okay, where do I sign?’ He smiled at me.
I had no idea what was going on. He was selling the story? Didn’t he want to keep it secret? Why hadn’t we discussed this while we could? The last three days together vanished with a bang that left me breathless. I was back to where I started with the man of mystery.
Despite his casual attitude, Mac read the contract closely before signing on the last page and handing it back to Simon.
The tension lessened as Simon slid the papers back into his briefcase.
‘Can I take a few pics now?’ said the cameraman.
Chapter Seventeen
Grumpy boredom
Mac was suddenly all business. While Chris wandered around snapping to his heart’s content, Mac pulled on his shirt and grabbed a few maps from the bookcase.
He stretched the maps across the coffee table. ‘You’ve got a chopper. That’s good, it’ll speed things up. Okay, I’ve sighted them, here, here and here.’ His pencil slashed crosses into the map. ‘Given the floodwaters, it’s a fair bet they’ll be here.’ His pencil came to rest on the map. I read the place name — Cougan Peak.
‘How many does the chopper hold?’ he said.
‘Three plus the pilot,’ said Simon. ‘You, me and Chris.’
Mac shook his head. ‘You, me and Cassandra.’
‘Come on.’ Simon pulled at his hair. ‘I need the visuals. Cassandra’s excess to needs, Chris isn’t.’
‘You can take a photo, can’t you?’ said Mac.
Chris had gone pale — his Pre-Headline-Tension, which had gone briefly into remission, was now about to explode. ‘I need to be there,’ he stuttered.
‘Just hang on while we do the reccie,’ Mac soothed him. ‘You’ll get your visuals. I want Cassandra there.’
Chris looked at Simon beseechingly.
Simon rolled his eyes. ‘What, you two can’t bear to be separated, is that it?’
‘That’s right.’ Mac’s voice was matter of fact.
‘Jesus.’ Simon looked from Mac to me.
I smiled sweetly. I didn’t know what was going on, but at least Mac wasn’t leaving me behind.
Simon grimaced and turned back to Mac. ‘Okay, you, me and Cassie — just for the reccie, then we come back and get Chris.’
Mac smiled. ‘It’ll be fine — you’ll see.’ He glanced at my swimsuit and dressing gown ensemble. ‘I’ll find you some clothes.’
‘I’m all right.’ It was all going too fast. I wanted to rewind — back to just me and Mac. I had a panicky feeling we’d never get back there. I looked at Mac to see if he felt it too, but it was like he’d flicked a switch from slow to fast — I was still stuck on slow.
‘You’d better have some shoes.’ He tossed me a pair of overlarge boots. ‘Here.’ A long-sleeved shirt and pants also flew my way. I eyed them dubiously and tucked them under my arm. I wasn’t ready to look like Charlie Chaplin just yet.
‘I’ll just be a minute.’ Mac disappeared into his room, reappearing shortly afterwards with a backpack over his shoulder.
We rowed over to the helicopter. Chris peered after us from the verandah like a dog watching a disappearing bone. Simon ignored him; he was still wound tight, pulling at the oars like he could will his world headline article into existence with the strength of his shoulders.
Mac didn’t offer to help — he was off in his own world, gazing out over the floodwaters with an unreadable expression. I perched on the seat of the rubber dinghy and wondered where this was all going. Why was Mac taking Simon to see the thylacines? Or was he? I wrapped my arms around my knees and gave myself a hug. Mac caught my eye for a moment, but looked away quickly. Not touching him felt like being deprived of oxygen.
My mood picked up once I was inside the chopper. I’m like a kid that way, I guess — easily distracted by gadgets. Buckling my seatbelt, I pulled the headset over my ears. The choonka, choonka, choonka started and we lifted straight up and raced across the floodwaters towards the mountains.
God I love helicopters, René. I should have been a helicopter pilot. It has to be the next best thing to being Superman, zapping across the sky like that. Maybe it isn’t too late?
It was only a couple of minutes before Mac leaned forward and tapped the pilot on the shoulder. He pointed downwards and spoke into his headset. ‘Just let us down there. Come back tomorrow morning.’
Simon flinched and pulled his mouthpiece towards him. ‘Tomorrow morning? I’m not prepared for an overnight stay. I thought this was just a reccie — what about Chris?’
‘No point in trying to see them unless you stay the night,’ said Mac. ‘I’ve got a bit of food and a tarp to keep the rain off. We’ll see if they’re here, then you can come back with your cameraman.’
The sound of Simon’s teeth grinding came through the headset.
The helicopter hovered over the top of a peak that jutted out of the rainforest like a bald head. ‘I’m not going to be able to land,’ said the pilot. ‘Too rocky. I’ll hover as low as I can. Try to climb out like you’re getting out of a canoe — don’t tip the boat.’ He dropped the helicopter down, down, down, until the struts were a couple of feet off the ground.
Mac climbed out first, carefully. I passed his pack to him. Simon, despite the warning, jumped out. The helicopter swayed and Mac ducked down, pulling Simon with him as the blades tilted towards them.
‘Gently,’ yelled the pilot, steadying the helicopter.
I climbed out carefully, the noise and the wind buffeting me, and crouched on the ground next to Simon and Mac. The pilot gave us a thumbs up, lifted, and was gone.
No-one spoke for a while — even after the noise of the helicopter died away. It was still raining; I tightened the cord on my all-weather dressing gown as I looked around. The oversized clothes Mac had given me were still tucked under my arm. I wasn’t tempted to put them on yet, though. A girl has to maintain some standards. Thick, grey clouds gathered below us in the valley, but up here it was just misty. Spiky trees hovered at the edge of our vision — it looked primeval, lonely. I shivered and folded my arms. W
e were going to spend the night up here?
Mac went into pioneer mode — erecting a tarp using sticks and bits of string. He fussed around with it for ages. Simon, meanwhile, paced up and down like his plane to New York was running late.
Every time he turned at the end of a lap he’d glare at me like it was my fault. ‘There’d better be a thylacine,’ he growled as he went past. ‘Or I’ll see to it that you never work in Sydney again.’
I considered his threat as he stalked up to the end of the clearing, turned abruptly and stalked back again. His Gore-Tex jacket hood was pulled up over his head. He looked like a mad monk.
‘Like I care,’ I muttered as he strode past. Not much of a comeback, but the best my fluffy brain could manage.
He stopped, the raindrops running down his face, and gave a sarcastic smile. ‘Think you’re going to stay in the bush forever with Ranger Rick, do you?’ He jerked his head at Mac. ‘Don’t suppose you’d get a job back in Sydney anyway. Who’d have you?’
‘You would.’
He laughed, but I’d hit my target. He thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. It might have turned into a cat fight if Mac hadn’t called over to us. ‘Come and get out of the rain. You’d better shut up too, if you ever want to see the tiger.’
Simon glared at me. I glared back, tossed my head and clumped over to the tarp, my boots squelching in the mud.
Mac had spread a plastic sheet over the ground, but it was still rocky and spiky. I moved next to him and he put his arm around me. Simon sniffed and stared out at the rain. His whole body radiated impatience.
I tried to signal Mac with my eyes in a ‘what’s going on?’ way. Either he didn’t understand, or he chose to ignore it. I contented myself with squeezing his hand. He squeezed back.
‘No talking,’ he whispered. He paused, then whispered even softer — so soft it was just a breath. ‘Try to trust me.’
I searched his face. He was a hard man to read, when he didn’t want to be read. I thought I saw discomfort there, maybe guilt. Why ‘try’ to trust me? Why not just ‘trust me’? Was it going to be so hard?
