The Getaway

by K. J. Emrick

  Silence met that comment as every single person in the group stopped to listen for the sounds of ghostly wails.

  I tried not to roll my eyes.

  “Where yer not right,” our guide continued, “is when ya call them ‘poor souls.’ Every man here at Port Arthur was guilty of something. Every single one of ‘em deserved their punishment.”

  “I fail to believe that,” Alistair argued, waving a hand into the tiny cell. “No one deserves to be treated like this.”

  “Guess there’s liberals everywhere you go,” another man in the group scoffed. He crossed heavy arms over his barrel chest and glared at Alistair. The thin t-shirt he wore with his jeans marked him as a tourist as surely as his American accent did. A local would’ve known to dress for cooler weather in the month of May. This is Tasmania, after all. Fifteen degrees Celsius is our high for the day. His shaggy black hair fell down past his shoulders. A gold cross dangling from his right ear swung back and forth as he shook his head. “You probably think everyone deserves a second chance, right? In America, we make sure people get what they deserve.”

  Alistair just smiled back. It was an odd sort of smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “We all have our opinions.”

  “Yeah. Some of us actually know what we’re talking about, buddy.”

  Oh, snap.

  The three university kids were whispering to each other and pointing at Alistair and dangly earring guy. Especially the girl with the heart tattoo. They might have come to see part of Australia’s history but they were obviously looking forward to a fight breaking out.

  The bloke was obviously looking for a row. A fight now, in the middle of one of Australia’s most famous prisons, would be just too ironic to put into words. For a moment even our tour guide Morten was silent.

  The moment stretched as Alistair just smiled at the American tourist. James caught my eye, and I’m pretty sure he was trying to tell me to step back. I’m pretty sure my expression told him just what he could do with that suggestion. I can take care of myself, thank you very much.

  Finally, the American threw his hand in the air and turned away. “That’s what I thought,” I heard him mutter.

  “Okay, okay,” Morten said, finally finding his voice. “Let’s just continue our tour now, shall we? If ya follow me, we’ll be leaving this part of the prison behind and going on outside to tour some of the other buildings on the grounds. Please, be respectful. Right. In 2010, Port Arthur was added to the World Heritage list along with ten other convict sites…”

  His voice trailed off as he went through a doorway. James and me and Alistair ended up at the back of the tour.

  “No pleasing some folks,” James mentioned to Alistair. “Especially Americans.”

  “James,” I said, a little surprised at that sort of comment coming from him. I know that James was proud of his heritage, being a several-generation purebred Australian—his words, not mine—but I ran an Inn nestled up against the Hartz Mountain National Park where people from all over the world come to stay. Americans, too. They weren’t any worse or better than anyone else. Just… a little more vocal sometimes, maybe.

  Funny accents, too.

  Alistair held up an understanding hand. “That’s quite all right. I take his meaning, Miss…?”

  “Adelle,” I told him. I’m Dell to my friends, and I’m not sure that Alistair is a friend yet. “Adelle Powers. And I’m not truly sure that I take his meaning.”

  James looked back at me. Then he shrugged. “Just a statement on our friends from the States, Dell. They can’t help who they are. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

  He put his notebook away again and put his arm around my waist as we walked. That didn’t mean this conversation was over, far as I was concerned, but I do have to admit his arm felt nice right where it was. This time away was going to be good for me. Good for us both, really, since the death of my husband affected James, too.

  “I’ve had enough of walking about for now,” Alistair said as we came out into the late morning sunshine again. “I’ve taken this tour twice before. Fascinating, really, but it’s getting on to lunch. I don’t suppose the two of you would care to join me? If you’re a journalist, James, I might be able to give you a few details about Port Arthur that aren’t on the tour. I’ve done quite a bit of research. Plus, I grew up here.”

  My stomach growled at the thought of food. Breakfast had been a long few hours ago. So when James enthusiastically agreed to the invite I didn’t argue. A girl’s got to eat. And, I had to admit that Alistair seemed like an interesting man. It might be fun to make a new friend.

  Felons Bistro is located inside the Port Arthur visitor’s center. The red brick building with its slanting roof looked out of place after the grand remains of the stone block structures that made up the historic prison. It was a cozy little space, with a fireplace on one wall that would be lit in the winter months, and floor to ceiling windows that let the diners gaze out upon the carefully maintained grounds. One more beautiful view among so many here in Tasmania. Heavy wood tables had thick candles flickering in the centerpieces. Everything was clean and polished.

  Nice place. Still, not exactly my kind of restaurant. It’s not the name. I like the name. A restaurant on the site of a historical prison named “Felons Bistro?” The irony scripts itself. It’s just a little upscale, is all, and I’m a very simple woman. Er, except for all that talking to ghost’s stuff. I enjoy simple things like a good hamburger or some damper. Or pikelets, the way Rosie prepares them from the kitchen in our Inn.

  The menu here, on the other hand, features stuff like blue eye chowder, and dishes with words like gnocchi and chorizo in the title. Alistair ordered the pasta with calamari and mussels. James, ever the carnivore, had the Doo Town venison. I made do with the free range chicken parm—which was hand breaded and very good, mind you—paired with a glass of wine. It was one of the most normal things on the menu.

  “I think,” Alistair said in between bites of seafood, “that I’d like to visit the Island of the Dead. It requires an extra entry ticket, but I’m so fascinated by an entire island used to bury people. And the headstones are simply magnificent.”

  “It’s just the soldiers who have headstones, right?” I asked, and then caught the way James lifted an eyebrow at me. “What? I read the brochures on the way in.”

  James raised his drink to me, and I clinked my glass against his. The name of the bistro was etched on each—Felons—reminding us where we were and what we were here to see.

  Alistair watched us, a fleeting smile on his lips. “You’re partly right, Adelle. There’s a few headstones there for the inmates, mostly from the years just before the prison closed down, but those are so plain compared to the ones erected for the guards and their families. Benefit of having positions of responsibility.”

  The last bite of my parm wavered on my fork, partway up to my mouth. “You mean, the benefit of not being a prisoner?”

  “Well, certainly.”

  “Or a slave.”

  “There are a few buried there,” he agreed, “but in the further sections. Mostly those ones are unmarked slabs of stone.”

  “So you think that’s okay?”

  He blinked at me, as if that thought had never occurred to him. “The people of lesser station simply couldn’t afford to have a nice headstone when they died. Prisoners often had no one to pay for such a thing. Or anyone who cared, in a few cases. It’s no comment on their value as human beings, I assure you. I am a doctor, after all. I consider everyone the same.”

  I nodded, pushing my plate away. Something about the way he said that had unsettled me. Suddenly, the food didn’t seem appealing after all. “It’s just the way things are. Is that it?”

  “Dell,” James said in a low voice, “don’t be rude. We only just met the man.”

  “And now we’re hearing all about his views on the entitled upper class.”

  James was about to scold me again. I could see it in his eyes. But he sto
pped, when Alistair laughed. “I see you have an intelligent sheila to share your time with, James. Good on ya.”

  “She has her moments, to be sure.” The tone in James’ voice spoke volumes about what he wasn’t saying. I gave him a questioning look. I have my moments? Erngh! Didn’t he hear the entitlement in this man’s voice?

  He wants to call me a sheila one more time, he does. Let’s see how that goes over.

  “I’m afraid I’ve offended you,” Alistair said to me, leaning forward on his elbow to swirl the wine in his glass. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. I simply meant that this prison existed in a different time. A time when the well-to-do could have whatever they wanted, and the poor had to scrape by as prisoners. A lot of men were sent here for the simple crime of stealing to feed their family. No matter what our guide might wish us to believe, not everyone in Port Arthur was a hardened criminal. In the end, they were forgotten as anything other than a name on a stone. Sad to know, but there it is.”

  He spread his hands apart, almost apologetically, and took a drink as if that was the end of it. The thing was, I couldn’t very well argue with him. He was right in what he was saying. It was just the way he was saying it. Made me want to knock his block off.

  Or maybe I was just being too sensitive.

  “So,” Alistair said while I was still trying to think of a reasonable comeback. “What do you think about joining me for a tour of the graves? It’s an extra ticket, I know, but I promise… it’s well worth…”

  His eyes were focusing on something over my shoulder. Turning to see what was so fascinating, all I found was a room full of people eating and talking and laughing. James actually saw it first. His grumbled comments about Americans and their manners clued me in.

  The man we had seen in the tour group with the dangling cross earring and the bad attitude was sitting at a table on the other side of the room. As I watched he shoved his chair back and got up on his feet, gesturing wildly at a waiter who had apparently brought the wrong order. He was shouting and complaining about his meal and the cost and basically everything about everything. Swiping his hand across the table he sent a plate of salad greens sliding across the table, the American grabbed up a black duffle bag from the floor, and stormed out. It was an over-the-shoulder thing and big enough for a pro hockey player. It looked very sturdy, and very heavy.

  “Did he have that bag on the tour?” Alistair wondered out loud.

  “Don’t think he did,” James said.

  I tried to remember. The man had been very quick to challenge Alistair by the cell doors for those comments he made. Not that I could really blame him after sitting here and listening to him over lunch. I could picture the scene in the prison hallway perfectly, and I certainly didn’t remember any black bag. Interesting.

  Here’s something else I’ve developed in my, um, middle years. A sense of curiosity. Turns out there’s mysteries everywhere if we know where to look. Questions without answers. Odd occurrences that need someone to shine a light on them. I’ve gotten myself into more narrow scrapes than I care to recount asking the right questions at the wrong moments. Was the American’s black bag going to be one of those questions that led me into a deeper intrigue?

  Doubtful. After all, it’s just a bag. And I’m on vacation.

  “Dell?”

  That was James, catching my attention back to the conversation at our table. The rude American would have to be someone else’s concern. The waiter had already cleared his table off and offered it to another couple with a smile. He was either very good at his job or else he was a really good actor.

  “Sorry,” I said, turning back around in my seat. “I was just daydreaming, I suppose. I’m a bit tired. James, can we just go to the cabin now? We could always come back for the ghost tour tonight like we planned.”

  I could actually see the disappointment in his eyes at the suggestion of leaving. “I was just about to ask our new friend a few questions,” he told me. “That is, if you don’t mind, Alistair. A hometown boy from Port Arthur, grows up to be a doctor and comes home again? Brilliant stuff. Make for a great story.”

  “No worries,” Alistair responded. “I’d be delighted to talk to you about it. Anything to help the press.”

  Right at that moment I couldn’t’ve cared less about James’s story. We were on this trip together. Me and him, not me and him and a total stranger. I just wanted to go back to the cabin for a little while. I was hoping to spend a few more hours with James like we did last night, just talking and holding each other and soaking up each other’s comfort. Now that we were away from the town and my son and every prying eye in Lakeshore, this would give us the perfect opportunity to decide where we were heading. My husband was dead for real this time. He’d been murdered. Something like that kind of weighs on a girl’s heart and strains every relationship she has.

  I need to get past everything and just be with him. I need to know where we’re going.

  “Tell you what,” he said to me. “Why don’t you head back to the cabin and I’ll meet you there in a bit, all right?”

  Apparently, we’re going in separate directions for now. Is he for real?

  “Or, you could stay with us,” Alistair suggested in that oily smooth voice of his. “The hand-made brownie with macadamia nut ice cream is to die for.”

  Using my cloth napkin to wipe my lips, I tossed it back down on the table. “I’m not in the mood for ice cream. James, please. I’d like to go.”

  After a moment of silence, James cleared his throat. “Uh, sure, Dell. Sure thing. Just give me a few more minutes, right? Have some dessert. Look around the gift shop, maybe. Me and Alistair won’t be long. Promise.”

  Then he took out his pen and paper, and it was like he forgot I was even there.

  I used to admire this about James. This unflagging dedication to his craft. He was a man who held the truth to be the most important thing in the whole universe, and his life was dedicated to uncovering and reporting the facts people needed to know, and all that. If there was a good story here in Port Arthur, James would find it, I’m sure.

  Only, I didn’t need him to be James Callahan defender of the truth right now. I needed him to be James Callahan, boyfriend of Dell Powers. The man who gives me comfort and support when I needed it. My strong rock. The one I can turn to whenever I feel anxious or upset.

  My boyfriend should be taking me to our cabin right now and holding me and telling me he’s going to love me forever. My boyfriend should not be chasing his next byline.

  Standing up from our table in frustration, I scraped the chair across the floor just so I could hear the noise that it made. Gave me an odd sense of satisfaction. Juvenile, I know, but there it was.

  James didn’t seem to notice how irritated I was, or perhaps his obsession for a new story was just more important. Without another word, I left him and his new best friend behind in the restaurant.

  The rest of the visitor’s center was pretty normal stuff for a tourist attraction. The gift shop sold tea towels with photos of the prison on them, as well as t-shirts and collectible cups and handmade jewelry. Mannequins in period dress were standing in the corners and against the walls for people to take photos of. A map of the grounds caught my attention for a moment behind protective glass, near the entrance. James and I had spent a couple of hours before the tour started looking around and most of the places on the map I’ve already seen.

  Until the ghost tour tonight, there wasn’t much more for me to see. The Island of the Dead, sure, and definitely the Memorial Garden for the 1996 massacre. That’s something that everyone living in Tasmania should see at least once in their life. There’s been a lot of tragedy on this little peninsula. Not all of it in the distant past.

  I was still debating with myself about going back to the cabin without James as I found my way to the Lady’s Room. One thing was for sure, I wasn’t going to stay here and wander around the visitor’s center for hours while he finished picking his new friend’s b
rain.

  The second stall was empty. So was the first, probably, but I don’t ever use the first stall. That’s the one everybody rushes to when they just can’t hold it and I never know what I’m going to find left behind by the last person to use it. I’ll stick with the next stall down, thanks.

  I’d just turned the lock on the swinging door when the lights went out.

  There’s a recurring nightmare that I have about dark bathrooms and bad men doing bad things. This is how it starts.

  Only, this isn’t a nightmare. The scream from the toilet stall next to mine is very real.

  Jumping up and groping for the lock, I banged my fingers against the knob and there’s a very good chance that I cracked a nail at the same time. Hard to tell in the dark.

  “Hello?” I said, calling out to whoever was in the room. Was there someone else in here when I came in? I’d been too wrapped up in my own thoughts. I hadn’t noticed.

  I could hear noises. Thumping and footsteps, and I don’t know what else.

  Carefully, I felt for the lock. I opened the door.

  Then the lights came back on.

  For a moment I stopped, standing in the stall, feeling completely stupid. There was no one else here. I pushed the stall doors open one at a time. Empty. Empty. Empty. No one at the sinks.

  So what did I just hear?

  While I stood there wondering what had just happened, wondering if I should go find someone and report a woman screaming in the Lady’s Room one second and then disappearing the next, another noise caught my ear. A hollow sort of squeaking sound.

  Turning to see what it was I found myself staring at my own reflection in the long mirror above the sinks. The glass shook as something drew lines along its surface. Lines that traced themselves in sudden condensation, and beads of water.

  The lines made letters. The letters made words.

  DON’T LET IT HAPPEN AGAIN.

  The words hung there for several heartbeats, then smeared away from end to end as if a ghostly hand had wiped them off. The room rang with a flat echo like that same hand had slammed against the mirror when it was done, to punctuate the importance of what it had just shown me.