by Nick Hawkes
The reporter straightened up and looked at him with a puzzled frown before exclaiming, “Ben! What on earth are you doing here?” He stepped over to Benjamin and held out his hand. “Well, I never,” he said, jerking himself upright. “Are you something to do with the drama that’s happened here?” He nodded in the direction of the detective. “This fellow won’t say anything other than that there’s been a death.”
“Don’t beat up the local police too much, Marcus, they’re only doing their job. Yes, I live here. Yes, someone has died in unusual circumstances. And no, I haven’t a clue what’s going on.”
The detective interrupted. “That’s quite enough. This is an ongoing investigation.”
Marcus began to protest.
The detective turned to Benjamin. “Can you shut him up?”
“Probably not. I was never able to at Rostrevor.”
The detective rolled his eyes. “You are not to say anything, d’ya hear? And I want you at the police station in Warrnambool tomorrow morning at 10am. Can you manage that?”
“Can I get my swag?”
“No.”
“Then where do I sleep?”
“At a friend’s. With a relative.”
“I’ve pretty much kept to myself since I’ve been here. I don’t know anyone.”
Marcus began bobbing his head forward like a Jabiru looking for a juicy frog. “Am I to take it that you have no place to stay…and that you’re actually living in Port Fairy now?”
Benjamin nodded.
“Well, that’s easy, then,” said Marcus. He swung around to the detective. “Benjamin can stay with me. I’ve got a flat in Warrnambool. It’ll be convenient for Ben, only ten minutes from here…and it will mean he’ll be on hand for your interview tomorrow.”
“I’m not sure that’s proper. You’re a journalist.”
“What’s the alternative?”
The detective sniffed. “You’re not to milk him for information. If I find anything in print before I give the okay, I’ll arrest you every birthday for the rest of your life for assaulting my boots with your balls. Is that clear?”
Marcus jutted out his chin. “If you promise me an exclusive on the story when you release the details.”
“Hmff.”
Evidently satisfied that the detective had signaled assent, Marcus replied, “Brilliant. Grab your stuff, Ben, and hop in the car.”
Benjamin had been feeling like a box of vegetables being bartered for at a market. He cleared his throat. “Um, thanks Marcus. I’ll follow you in my ute.” He looked up at the sky. The sun was hovering near its zenith. What on earth was he going to do with the rest of the day? He felt the need to get away from the barrage of questions that he knew would come from Marcus. He needed another world, a quieter place where strangers with guns didn’t fall through the roof and die.
“Detective, can I get my wetsuit and fins from inside?”
“I’d have thought an overnight bag would be more useful.”
“That too.”
“Why do you want it?”
“Calm day. Good light. I thought I’d go for a dive.”
Chapter 2
Felicity Anderson looked at the devastation around her and tried to fight down a wave of despair. The ‘house’ she had purchased was little more than a shed made of ugly cement blocks and a corrugated iron roof. However, its location meant that it had been horrendously expensive to buy. It stood just one street back from the Moyne River, which was very upmarket. The river was edged with luxurious modern houses, pontoons, and expensive boats owned by rich retirees from Melbourne. The rest of Port Fairy was very different; it was comprised largely of old houses built either of dark volcanic stone or weatherboard. Its gentle streets and cafés whispered of an age when time was kinder to people. The tourists loved it.
Felicity, or Flick as she was usually called, ached for that kindness. She needed it desperately.
She leaned on the shovel and stared at the pile of building debris in the middle of the shed. Ruined…like her marriage. She had invested her inheritance and her heart in a marriage and a townhouse in North Melbourne. The house had been a futuristic thing, minimalistic and clever but emotionally cold. He blamed her for the unreasonable demands of her job. She blamed him for having an affair.
The separation had been acrimonious. He was a lawyer, and she hadn’t fared well in the divorce settlement. She had run away to lick her wounds, fleeing her job and her marriage to the country with just enough to buy an ugly post-war garage in Port Fairy. The garage had once been used as a car repair business—until it was trumped by the large steel and glass dealerships in the nearby town of Warrnambool.
Could this ugly shed ever be transformed into a place where Felicity could live and chase her dream of being a writer?
She was currently staying in the back room of her brother’s home. He was one of the doctors in Port Fairy. His wife was pregnant again, so the arrangement couldn’t be long term. Nonetheless, she was grateful to have had a place to hide for the last six months. Staying with her brother certainly had its perks. When he felt the need to flee the demands of his career, he took himself off with one or two friends in his twin-hulled Shark Cat and went scuba diving. It was a passion Felicity shared, and she often went with them.
She checked the weather forecast again with the app on her phone. The conditions at Thunder Point would be perfect today. It was a rare occurrence. Swells from the Southern Ocean usually threw themselves against the rugged cliff-line west of Warrnambool, causing the sea in the tiny coves to boil with deadly fury. Today, however, all would be calm, and she could continue to test out a theory, a theory she was not yet prepared to share with anybody. She would explore it alone.
But first, there was work to be done. She kicked at the broken pieces of plasterboard and metal off-cuts on the floor, sighed, and began carrying them to the trailer that was parked outside. She wanted the debris cleared away before the tradesmen came next morning to install the window frames, complete with glass. By tomorrow evening, the space where the old garage doors had once been would be filled with a multi-paned, old-fashioned shop window she had bought from a salvage yard. The result would be pretty.
It would look a whole lot prettier, Felicity conceded, if she could afford to put a bull-nosed veranda on the front and clad the cement brick walls with weatherboard. And it would take a whole lot more work to make it livable inside. Whilst the roof space had been converted into a generous living area lit by loft windows, there was still a great deal to be done. Not even the second fixings were completed. Her house was nothing more, she decided, than a middle-aged tart with half her makeup on. There was no money left to finish it. Her ex had delivered a last parting gift of venom: he had maxed out the credit card they’d had in shared names. A letter from the bank demanding that she pay half of the outstanding amount lay crumpled in her pocket. It would take all that she had left. The implications were appalling. Moyne Shire Council were very specific regarding the deadline for completion of her rebuilding project. She would have to sell if she couldn’t meet that condition. Her dream—everything—would be lost.
The frame of the old shop window, due to be installed the next day, leaned against the inside wall. Felicity’s reflection stared back from it. The frames made her look as if she’d been crossed out—discarded, canceled. Was she really that insignificant? She examined her reflected image. She’d been told too often by her city friends that she was beautiful to hold to any false humility that she was not. But her good looks were definitely under siege by a dark smudge of building dust across her cheek, her gray pallor, and the grim set of her mouth. She had high cheekbones and dark brown eyes, the corners of which hinted at something oriental.
Felicity’s black hair was tied back into a long ponytail, its volume at odds with her petite frame.
She moved her image to the next pane of glass. No improvement. There were four rows of five panes; she’d counted them. She resisted the urge to check herself i
n all of them. Instead, she leaned forward, rested her forehead on the old painted wood, and began to cry.
Felicity never cried for long. There was a little voice inside her that made a habit of mocking her weakness. It was the tyrant that urged control. Always be in control. Always be precise. Always be right. Her father had insisted on it when she was a child. He’d died five years ago of a heart attack. Her Italian mother had died earlier in childbirth—at Felicity’s birth. She’d been born in the Solomon Islands where her father was a doctor. He’d worked with Médecins Sans Frontières and, at that time, still believed he could save the world.
“It looks as if you could use a coffee.”
Felicity was appalled to be caught crying. She wiped a hand over her face and turned around. A woman with untidy red hair piled on top of her head stood beside the tailgate of the trailer. She was dressed in a tie-dyed skirt, a gypsy-style waistcoat, and wore a necklace of gum-nuts, seashells and beads.
“How about I shout you a brew from the café around the corner?”
Felicity sniffed and forced a smile. “That’s very kind, but I want to get this lot ready for the rubbish tip.”
“Hmm. Would it help morale if I gave you a hand to load it?”
“That’s very kind of you but there’s…” Felicity was interrupted.
“It would be payment for my asking if I could have some of the metal off-cuts on your trailer. I’d like to try and use them in some of my sculptures.”
“Oh, of course. Take what you want.” She held out her hand in a stiff, formal way. “I’m Flick, by the way. I’m trying to renovate this place but running out of money. Under a bit of pressure…as you can see.”
“Yeah. Life’s a bitch. I’m Gabrielle. Call me Gabs. I’m an artist. I live in a converted milking shed on my parents’ property just out of town. It doesn’t make a very good shop front, so I’m broke as well.”
Despite her fragile state, Felicity laughed. Gabs grinned and also began to chuckle. It was enough to cause the last vestiges of propriety to crumble. They both convulsed with laughter and hung on to each other for support while wiping tears of mirth from their eyes.
“I agree, life’s a bitch,” said Felicity, catching her breath, “but I’m crazy enough to dream anyway.”
“That’s my girl.” Gabs put her hands on Felicity’s shoulders and studied her face. “Feeling better?”
Felicity sniffed and nodded. “Thanks.”
Gabrielle glanced at her watch. “Hmm. I’ve got to run. I do some part-time waitressing at the café on the main street. But let’s do that coffee as soon as we can.”
“When are you next in town?” asked Felicity.
“I’m flexible.”
“In two days, then. Here. Same time.” Felicity leaned forward and kissed Gabs on the cheek. “Take what you like from the trailer. I’m off to chase…” She nearly said ‘a dream.’ “…an idea.”
Felicity shivered. It was early spring, and the water was very cold. She lifted the inflator tube above her head and depressed the air dump valve. Slowly, she began to sink through the shafts of light slanting through the water. It was always a magical moment. She pinched her nose and blew to equalize the pressure as she descended. Her rate of descent began to increase as the water pressure squeezed air from her wetsuit. She bled air into her buoyancy control vest to slow it down.
Felicity looked around, orientating herself as the marine fairyland unfolded around her. A tiny glass cuttlefish with a frill of beating fins edged away from her…and a school of magpie perch parted to allow her to drift down through them. Normally, she would have dawdled in their midst to photograph them but today she wanted to go to depth, at least twenty meters, and search among the silt and kelp at the edge of the reef. Her air supply would be used three times more quickly than at the surface, so time was of the essence.
She had studied the local weather, the winds and the currents…and pored over the results for days and days, checking and recalculating. What if the ship had first hit Thunder Point and then been swept around into the bay where it was deliberately beached because of the damage? Surely there would be evidence of it. The sailors would have thrown everything they could spare overboard to lighten the ship. Perhaps people had been looking for evidence of the ship in the wrong place for all these years—if she was right.
Down she went.
The water was clear enough to allow the dappled sunlight to play on the waving fronds of kelp below her. Kelp never seemed to be still. Its long leathery fronds swayed to and fro in the slightest of currents in a hypnotic dance. Felicity knew it to be a dangerous dance. The straps of kelp were stronger than a man’s arm and could easily entangle.
She worked her way down the tumbling rock face, which was covered with a fantastic array of sponges and seaweeds. Fish darted into crevices and under rock ledges as she brushed by. She’d searched the shallower regions of the reef in three earlier dives. Today was her deepest search yet…and possibly her last. The kelp forest was as deep as she could go.
Felicity tried not to disturb the silt as she finned her way slowly along the bottom of the rocky cliff. She was looking for anything out of place. But everything was disturbingly normal. Time passed and she looked at the dive computer poking out from under her waistband. It showed that she had six minutes before she would need to ascend to the decompression stop five meters from the surface. She had tagged the depth on the Shark Cat’s mooring line.
Beady eyes stared at her from a rock crevice. She turned away and looked down. What’s that? It was a stick of something protruding from the silt by the kelp bed. The small stick was encrusted with marine life, but she could see a collar of verdigris where it protruded from the silt. Verdigris could mean only one thing—copper. She tugged at it. After a brief moment, it pulled free. There wasn’t much length to it but what excited Felicity was that the section under the silt was bent into a perfect right angle. Nature usually avoided straight lines and right angles. The action of pulling the bent piece of copper free dislodged a piece of flat stone, pulling it half clear of the silt. She picked it up. As the cloud of silt floated away, she saw what seemed to be carving…
Ouch! Felicity felt a punch on her left forearm and a stinging pain. She jerked around to see a large moray eel thrashing its snake-like form in the water as it savaged her arm. Felicity twirled in the water, trying to shake off the writhing monster. She spun and flailed in panic, desperate and sick with revulsion.
Suddenly, the eel was gone. However, the entangling embrace of the kelp fronds now presented a far more deadly danger. She twisted and turned but only succeeded in entangling herself more. Felicity fought down rising panic and looked carefully at why she was so trapped. It didn’t take long for her to see the reason: shark line. Long lengths of the tough fishing line were threaded through the kelp binding her tightly.
She tore at the fishing line, causing bloodied welts to appear on her hands. She was going to die. She knew it. So stupid. Not much air left. She thrashed and twirled. No way to get free. Getting tired. Losing strength.
What? She was dreaming now.
A figure in a black wetsuit was in front of her. It couldn’t be true—the figure had no scuba tanks. No one swam at twenty meters without scuba tanks! She was hallucinating.
The figure held Felicity’s shoulders to stop her twisting, gave her the okay signal, and began slicing at the kelp with a knife. Seconds later, he put his hand to his mouth and tapped her regulator.
It took a moment for her to understand that he needed to share her regulator so that he could breathe. She nodded.
He eased the regulator from her mouth and breathed on it hungrily. After taking five breaths, he returned it to Felicity’s mouth. This maneuver was repeated a number of times as he cut away the fronds and fishing line. Eventually, Felicity was free enough to pull the emergency alternate regulator from its housing on her vest and thrust it toward her rescuer. He grabbed it, put it in his mouth, and breathed deeply before contin
uing to cut away at the kelp.
It wasn’t long before she was free. Her rescuer wrapped an arm around her and began to kick for the surface. However, she fought herself free of him. The stranger let go immediately, holding up his hands to show acquiescence. She reached down, scooped up the carved stone that she had dislodged from the silt, and tucked it behind her vest cummerbund. Only then did she allow herself to be guided toward the surface.
Felicity looked down at the kelp forest that had so nearly killed her and noticed the very long fins of her companion. They were the fins of a free-diver. But he certainly wasn’t free any more. Both of them were breathing from the same tank, each connected to it by an umbilical cord—forced close together. She felt his arm around her shoulder.
As they swam upward, it was she who needed to take control, pulling him back so that she didn’t ascend too fast. The diving technique that worked for a free-diver definitely didn’t work for a scuba diver who had spent time at depth. Felicity needed to decompress. She patted her hand down, signaling for him to slow down.
He nodded.
They drifted up toward the mooring line of the Shark Cat, keeping pace with the bubbles they exhaled. When they got to the tag on the mooring line five meters below the surface, Felicity held up a hand. She tapped her watch and splayed out her fingers. We need to wait five minutes. Please understand me. Please.
He pointed to her and made a ring with his forefinger and thumb.
He’s asking if I’m okay. She nodded. I’m fine.
He gave her the thumbs up, grasped the mooring line, and bent around to examine Felicity’s wounded forearm. A cloud of rust-red blood had been drifting out from the rip in her wetsuit. She watched as he unfastened the knife scabbard from his leg and strapped it around her forearm to staunch the flow.
It was an act of kindness that provoked an extraordinary emotion in her.
Minutes later, they broke the surface at the stern of the Shark Cat. Felicity pulled out the piece of flat stone from behind her cummerbund, reached up, and placed it in the outboard engine well.
