Silver

by Chris Hammer

  The two other reports from that first year are perfunctory. The state Environmental Protection Authority has agreed to investigate the cheese factory; Ashton is quoted as saying it’s a formality and that he initiated the visit. There is no mention of what, exactly, the EPA intends to investigate. And there’s a report about a cheese factory truck crashing on the escarpment road. Tyson St Clair is quoted, again in his capacity as head of the Chamber of Commerce, calling on all and sundry—the federal government, the state government, the local council and anyone else—to fund the upgrading of the road.

  For the next four months there’s nothing, then reports come in a burst. The first is a brief on page seven.

  Police are requesting information concerning the whereabouts of Port Silver resident Amory Ashton, last seen on Friday afternoon at the Mackenzie’s Cheese and Pickles plant. The police say their inquiries are routine at this stage, but would like to hear from Mr Ashton or anyone with knowledge of his whereabouts.

  Martin looks at the date. The newspaper is the Wednesday edition, so Ashton was last seen the previous Friday. Five years and three months ago.

  By the Saturday edition, Amory Ashton is no longer a brief; he’s the front page. FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED—SEARCH FOR BUSINESSMAN. There’s a large head-and-shoulders photograph, apparently taken at the same time as the report of the federal grant. Ashton is wearing the same shit-eating grin, the same suit, the same unhealthy sheen, flabby face creased around pebble eyes. Dead eyes. The article reports Ashton’s Mercedes had been found burnt out in an isolated spot amid the dunes behind Treachery Bay. The car was found by fishermen the same day the factory owner was reported missing, but they thought little of their find and didn’t report it until returning to town two days later. The paper again reports that Ashton was last seen on the previous Friday by workers leaving for the day. Mackenzie’s Cheese and Pickles had cut weekend shifts three years before, so Ashton wasn’t noticed missing until the following Monday. The plant manager had thought it strange when his employer wasn’t at the factory first thing, and grew concerned after Ashton failed to attend a late-morning meeting. Even so, the manager didn’t contact police until that afternoon, after his boss failed to return phone calls.

  The next Wednesday’s paper and Ashton is still missing. The headline asks: WHAT HAPPENED TO AMORY ASHTON? The article states that police are probing the financial health of Mackenzie’s Cheese and Pickles, quoting unnamed sources. There is also an unconfirmed report of Ashton being spotted in transit at Auckland airport. The following Saturday’s edition has moved on: Ashton is still missing but the focus has shifted to the future of the cheese factory, with concerns about its ownership and viability. The plant is still operating, but its future is uncertain. And that continues to be the main thrust over the next several weeks as the plant closes, at first temporarily. The workers complain about back pay and being fleeced of entitlements, creditors call in the administrators, the plant shuts for good. The fate of Ashton becomes the footnote, relegated to the bottom of the copy, with nothing new to report.

  Slowly the stories ebb away, with short pieces to mark each anniversary cut and pasted from one year to the next. Then, during the past year, a new series of reports declare that ‘eminent local businessman Tyson St Clair’ is developing ‘visionary plans’ for the factory site, including a golf course. The opposition of local Aboriginal groups is noted; Josie Jones is quoted, saying the land is subject to an ongoing native title claim. Martin is impressed: Observer owner Tyson St Clair hasn’t shut out the opposing voices. Ashton and his disappearance are noted far down in the copy, enough to trigger the library’s search engine, but nothing more.

  Martin finishes his search. Ashton is either dead—possibly murdered, possibly killing himself—or he’s fled, a fugitive from his creditors and aggrieved workers. It’s entirely possible. If he knew the plant was beyond saving, he might well have pocketed the five-hundred-thousand-dollar federal grant and anything else he could pilfer from the company’s accounts and skipped the country. Nick Poulos had said the books were a mess and the Longton Observer had intimated impropriety. Perhaps he is overseas somewhere, living the life of Riley, the burnt-out car a clever ploy. It occurs to Martin that if Ashton torched his car and fled, then he would have needed an accomplice to drive him back out.

  He’s about to leave when a new idea comes to him. How far back do the digitised records go?

  He sets the date parameters: a two-week window, thirty-three years ago. He hesitates for a moment, lump in his throat, before entering his own surname in the search field: ‘Scarsden’.

  And there it is, emerging from the past, hitting him with newly minted clarity.

  TRAGEDY IN SWAMPLANDS

  A young Port Silver mother and her twin daughters have lost their lives in a tragic accident on Dunes Road, three kilometres south of Mackenzie’s Cheese and Pickles.

  Mrs Hilary Scarsden and her three-year-old daughters Amber and Enid lost their lives when the car driven by Mrs Scarsden left Dunes Road and sank in Mackenzie’s Swamp.

  Police say no other vehicles were involved. They are not ruling out mechanical failure.

  There is more copy but Martin’s gaze is drawn to a photo, the death car emerging from the lip of the water, winched by a tow truck, a man signalling back to the winch operator. It is a respectful photograph, taken from a distance, with only the winch man to animate it. Nevertheless, it’s enough to inspire morbid imaginings. Were the bodies still in the car, or had they already been retrieved? Thoughts flood into Martin’s head as if through an open window. Did the crash kill them, or did they drown? Did they suffer, or was it quick and painless? Did his mother die still elated by the lottery win or with the terror of drowning, of her precious girls being taken?

  He shakes his head, trying to clear away the speculation, the waves of unwelcome and unfamiliar emotion. He looks at the photo. The car appears unharmed, intact. No sign of damage, apart from a broken rear brake light. It hadn’t rolled, shows no sign of any visible impact. It had left the road and driven straight into the water.

  Inside the paper, the story continues. There is no more fresh information about the crash, just background, reporting that Mrs Scarsden and her daughters are survived by her husband, Ronald Scarsden, and their eight-year-old son Martin, long-term residents of the Settlement. There is another photo of the accident scene, a wide shot, taken from further back: the tow truck and the emerging car at its centre. The central drama is framed by vehicles on each side. To the left, a police car, with an officer talking to a man. Martin looks closely, trying to see beyond the dot matrix of the newspaper screen. Is the policeman Clyde Mackie? Is he talking to the person who discovered the accident? Martin is about to look away, the pit in his stomach growing, when it suddenly grows larger again. To the right, another vehicle. A Morris van. His father’s car. Martin looks back at the two men by the police car. Is that his father, back to the camera, helping the police? Had he driven out there, having heard the gut-wrenching news? But if the Morris belonged to his father, whose car had his mother been driving? They had never owned two cars, he’s sure of that. People in the Settlement were lucky to have one.

  He flips back to the front page, to the closer photograph. The car looks somehow familiar. Of course—Vern’s car. She had borrowed it to tell her husband of their bonanza. But why was she on Dunes Road? Of course: the cheese factory. His father must have been working a casual shift. Martin flicks back to the wider photograph. And there in the distance, another detail: the Port Silver lighthouse, a white vertical shaft, sitting on the horizon above the rear of Vern’s car. So the cross is definitely on the correct side of the road. Which meant she was driving back into town, not away from it, when she crashed. Had she already told his father the news of the lottery, been heading for Port Silver, full of joy and excitement, when something had gone terribly wrong? Vern’s car. Had he maintained it properly? Had the brakes been good? Martin thinks of his uncle: not good with writing, not good
with numbers, but always good with his hands, always tinkering. If the brakes needed work, Vern would have fixed them himself, done it right. And it was a straight road; there would be no need to brake anyway. Maybe a wallaby, bounding out from the scrub?

  The questions keep coming, unbidden and insistent. His father. Had he been the first on the scene, following them back into town for their fish and chips and champagne celebration? Had he witnessed the accident? Good Lord, no wonder he had taken up drinking, his life unravelling before his eyes. Martin examines the thirty-three-year-old photograph once more, the wide shot. It’s not hard to see, now that he knows what he’s looking for: the man, back to the camera, the one talking to the policeman, has a dark ring around his torso. From the water. From where he had waded in, trying to save them.

  The voice of the librarian disturbs his train of thought. ‘Are you okay?’

  Martin looks up, startled, trying to pull himself back into the present. ‘Yes. Fine. Why?’

  She blinks, hesitant. ‘You’re crying.’

  The surf on Town Beach is rougher than usual, the flatness of the previous days pushed to one side by a tropical low drifting south towards New Zealand. There are no clouds here, not in Port Silver, but the swell is high, the waves churning. An offshore breeze is adding chop, turning the waves ragged and unpredictable, not deterring the swarm of surfers off the point, but discouraging swimmers from venturing more than waist deep. Not Martin; he’s out among the breaking waves, diving under, emerging only in time to dive again, feeling the wash pull him one way and then the other as the cylinders cascade over him. He’s not used to it: his body remembers the patterns of the waves, his mind recalls the tactics, but his muscles have lost the easy endurance of his teenage years.

  Abruptly, he’s short of breath, hardly able to suck in enough air before needing to dive under the next wave. But still he persists. He needs this, the pounding of the surf, the cleansing, the second-by-second decision-making, the concentration on survival banishing all other thoughts. He surfaces, copping a mouthful of water as one wave catches its predecessor in a double peak. He coughs, attempting to draw breath, merely ducking under the next break rather than diving towards the sand, feeling himself shaken by the power, pushed violently towards the beach, lucky the wave caught him before it started breaking. Now his arms are weak and protesting, and his lungs hurt. He needs to get back into shore, not much more than fifty metres away. But some knowledge comes to him, some instinct. There’s a gap in the waves, and he starts swimming out to sea, as hard as his arms will allow, away from the break zone. Out the back.

  He dives through a final wave just before it shatters, his body threatening to go into lockdown. Instead he wills calm upon it, kicking his legs up, floating on his back, forcing himself to relax. Another wave comes through under him, no longer a threat, bobbing him up and down like a cork. He drops his legs again, treading water, regaining his strength, regaining his breath. Then, when he’s ready, he pushes back into the break zone. He fails to catch the first wave, but it’s enough to return him to the surf. He dives under the next, but knows he can’t wait too long. The next is perfect, breaking in a curl, slow motion, left to right, the timing perfect, the place perfect. He starts swimming towards shore, two or three quick strokes, and then the wave has him, lifting and carrying him shorewards atop its rushing wall of water, riding it, above the foaming white front as the wave completes its break, its power almost spent, propelling him forward a few more metres before finally relaxing its grip. He tries to stand, his feet touching the bottom. Another wave comes through, foaming around his head, a final caress. Martin swims along with the remnants of the next one, borrowing its residual energy. A few more strokes, then wading, the waves little more than froth. His legs are rubbery, his bladder suddenly demanding. He walks up onto the sand, trying not to lurch. A lifesaver watches him pass without a word, eyes full of knowing.

  Lying on the beach, sun on his back, towel beneath his stomach, the sensory memories of his teenage years return. Toes digging into the sand, the hovering shadows of seagulls. But not just sensory memories. Real memories as well. His father. Drinking. Always drinking. Drinking away the lottery, like chipping at a mountain. The hero of his boyhood disappearing into stupefied oblivion, his only communication to demand another beer from the fridge or takeaway food. And always the Veuve Clicquot, glowing like a lighthouse in its alcove above the television, promising to guide Martin to a safe harbour, away from the sea monsters that prowl the depths.

  He’s still there, lying on the sand, wondering if even the most powerful surf could ever cleanse him of his past, when Mandy finds him and wrenches him back to the present. She’s crying, her beautiful face contorted in pain.

  chapter seventeen

  Martin is on his feet immediately. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Martin,’ is all she can manage.

  He wraps his arms around her, pulls her close. ‘Is it Liam? Is he okay?’

  She’s shaking her head, eyes closed. ‘He’s fine. At child care.’ She draws a breath. ‘Fuck, Martin. I don’t believe it. I— Shit. Pure shit.’

  He says nothing, waiting.

  She takes another deep breath, gathers herself. ‘I went to see Tyson St Clair.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The bastard,’ she says. The tremor has gone from her voice, replaced by determination. ‘The utter bastard.’

  ‘What happened?’

  And then she laughs, taking Martin by surprise. She steps back, looking at him and shaking her head as if in disbelief. Laughs again, not a real laugh but a facsimile, feeble and humourless. ‘The bastard. The contemptible shit.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  She breathes deep, tries to compose herself. ‘I went to see him. I wanted to see him up close, to see what I could tease out of him. I thought I could suss out his interest in the cheese factory. I’m the new owner, or might be soon, and he wants to buy it.’

  Martin nods his understanding. He’s not sure Mandy approaching St Clair is so wise, given the police are yet to exonerate her of Jasper Speight’s murder, but he keeps his opinion to himself. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He doesn’t work from his office; he works from his home up near the lighthouse.’

  ‘I know. I’ve been there.’

  She looks at him, assimilating this fact. ‘Right. Did he show you his office upstairs, with the views and the models? His eyrie?’

  ‘He did. But what happened?’

  ‘So he answers the door, as if he’s been expecting me. I figured it was a bluff, you know, that he was trying to unsettle me, make me seem predictable. Anyway, he sends me upstairs, says he’ll be straight up. So I’m waiting up there, admiring the view, checking out the models. There’s one of Hummingbird Beach, the cheese factory, all his plans. And then he comes up the stairs, wearing a robe. And suddenly he’s pissed off. “What are you doing?” he says. I start asking what he means and …’ Her voice trails off, she pauses to gather herself, then continues with renewed determination. ‘He kind of barks at me, “Get your gear off and bend over.”’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard. He …’ And again her voice breaks.

  ‘What the fuck? What did you do?’

  ‘I kicked him in the balls.’ And the smile cracks again, so now she’s laughing and crying at the same time, fighting both. ‘And then I got out of there. I headed for the stairs. He grabbed me by the arm, so I slapped him. In the face. Not as hard as I wanted. I was off balance. And I told him to fuck off. He was angry, so angry. I think he was about to hit me. And then it was like he got it. He looked horrified and let me go.’

  ‘What do you mean he got it?’

  ‘I think he mistook me for someone else. Someone he’d been expecting.’

  ‘What? Who?’

  And the distress is back in Mandy’s eyes, the tremor in her voice. ‘Don’t you see, Martin? He thought I was a hooker.’

  Martin’s synapses are firing, neurons conne
cting, as facts and imaginings mix and blend with hunches and journalistic instinct to simmer and bubble in the intuitive soup of his mind. Tyson St Clair, property schemes, a mistaken identity: the ingredients churn inside his cranium, steaming and stewing. It’s a familiar feeling, an intoxicating one, the sensation he’s on the cusp of discovery, that a big story is brewing. It’s there, he can sense it, taste it, the thrill that so often presages a scoop. But he keeps himself in check, says nothing to Mandy, not in her distraught state. And he remembers Riversend, where he had leapt to incorrect conclusions and been sacked as a result. Not this time. This time he’ll double-check; this time he will stand the story up.

  First, he drops Mandy at Drakes. She’s composed herself, steel replacing distress, eager to see Winifred, eager to press charges, eager to spit roast St Clair on a legal rotisserie. He gives her a final hug of support, kisses her and watches her stride in through the automatic doors. She’s right: St Clair must have mistaken her for someone else; it’s the only possible explanation. Mandy and St Clair had never previously met. He must not have seen any of the coverage of the Riversend murders, didn’t make the connection. Or her auburn hair had fooled him. Not just an arsehole then, but a dumb arsehole. Now, with Liam at child care and Mandy plotting with Winifred, Martin is free to follow his intuition. Twenty minutes later he’s parking the Corolla at Hummingbird Beach.