True Blue Son (The Syndicate-Born Trilogy Book 3)

by K. M. Hodge

  Something was dreadfully wrong.

  For one thing, none of the pearlers sat at anchor beside the narrow wharf. As a rule, there should have been a hundred or so. As he contemplated the reason for this unusual event, something else came to his attention. He spotted no sign of life as far as he could see. Apart from the hotels, this was the busiest location in town. Sailing closer to land, he discerned clusters of ruined buildings, where a week ago there’d been solid structures.

  Dread tied knots in the pit of his stomach as James brought the Miss Nancy bumping against the jetty and jumped over the side. Running beside her, he made fast to a stanchion and directed his feet towards the centre of town.

  The closer he came to the main business district, the more damaged buildings he saw. As yet, he hadn’t sighted a solitary person. His heart in his mouth, he mounted the timber steps of the Roebuck Bay Hotel and pushed open the doors.

  In the dim interior, he barely made out the shapes of twenty faces turning towards him from the bar. All drinking and conversation ceased. Hands holding glasses froze, half raised towards mouths. James scanned the faces before him, not seeing one he recognised.

  “James,” said a voice from the deeper gloom at the far end of the bar. “Where the hell did you stem from?”

  James turned in the direction of the voice. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he recognised Harry Potts, the postmaster. “Harry.” His relief at finding a familiar face was evident in his tone. “What the hell’s been goin’ on here? The place looks like a bomb’s hit it.”

  Someone laughed. James turned, but he didn’t recognise the man who wore army fatigues. Then it hit him. All the men either seated or standing at the bar, except for Harry, wore uniforms.

  “Let me buy you a beer, James,” said the postmaster.

  James moved to that end of the bar.

  “Where the hell have you been?” asked Harry.

  “Beachcombin’, up north. Forget about me. What’s happened?”

  “The Nips!” said Harry.

  “Pull the other one.”

  Harry laughed at the surprise in James’s voice. “No, seriously.”

  “The Japs’ve been here?”

  “Bloody oath, mate!”

  The bartender pulled two beers and placed them on the counter.

  Suddenly parched, Harry grasped one in his huge, dark paw while James snatched the other. “Cheers.” He raised his glass.

  “Yeah.” James lifted his beer and drained half the contents in one swallow. “Tell me about the bloody Japs. When did it happen?”

  “Just over a week ago, I reckon.” Harry drank again, his manner soberer than his companion’s. “They bombed the town twice.”

  “Shit!” James started, almost spilling his drink. “I left here only a month ago.”

  “You were lucky then.”

  James thought for a moment. “Anyone killed?”

  “Some.”

  “How many?”

  “A coupla hundred, maybe. Nobody knows for sure.”

  “Jes-us!” James downed the second half of his beer in a single swallow.

  “Yeah.” Harry continued drinking in a sedate manner.

  “Where is everyone?” James glanced around at the strange faces lining the bar.

  “Been evac-u-a-ted, mate.” Harry pronounced every syllable of the word with care. “Everybody who’s not considered essential’s been packed off to Perth. Pretty much just these army fellers left... and yours truly.”

  “Where’s all the luggers an’ their crews?”

  “The Army made the owners burn the boats or sail ‘em south. The Japanese divers have been interred.”

  “Jesusssss!” James drew the word out in a long, sibilant hiss. Then, after a moment’s reflection, he added, “My shout!”

  Harry raised his eyebrows. “Have a bit of luck up north, James?” He eyed his companion with more care, and James made note of the curiosity on his face.

  “Bit a luck. You better bloody believe it!” He reached into the pocket of his salt-stained trousers, and his hand emerged holding a metal caddy. Old and sporting a multitude of blemishes and scratches, it had clearly once contained Bushells’ tea.

  “Sorry, James.” Harry grinned. “Tea’s not legal tender here.”

  “What? Oh.... Ha! Ha!” James sneered. He opened the container and tipped it forward.

  Harry craned his neck to see what tumbled out. He gasped but said nothing. In the dirt-smeared palm of the beachcomber’s hand, gleamed numerous round, lustrous stones.

  “Whattaya think of them babies?” James grinned from ear to ear.

  In seconds, everyone had left their seats and crowded around, making for one of those rare occasions in an Outback pub where curiosity took precedence over beer consumption. Questions flew from every direction.

  James held up a hand and silenced them all. “No questions, no lies, fellers. This is just between me an’ the Nipponese Air Force.” He threw his head back and laughed. “Anyway, I’ve got more of these than I can spend in a lifetime. The beer’s on me!”

  Cheers and laughter echoed out into the hot, deserted Broome street.

  ***

  That evening, James strolled to Gilbert Newberry’s store overlooking Roebuck Bay. Harry had informed James that, as soon as the second raid ended, Gilbert had packed his belongings, loaded several of his luggers, and set sail for safer environs.

  Although saddened his drinking partner had deserted the town, James had another reason for visiting the captain’s place of business.

  One night, as they sat talking and drinking by the fireplace, Gilbert detached a loosened brick and levered it free with his fingers, revealing a hole gouged in the brickwork behind. “I don’t believe in banks,” he’d said in reply to James’s questioning glance. “It’s much safer to secrete my valuables in this homemade safe. With the brick and mortar returned to their former positions, no one can tell they’ve even been disturbed.”

  A part of James wondered whether Gilbert had left his stash behind. Another didn’t care. He simply wanted to use this secret place—to have somewhere safe to hide his pearls. He didn’t distrust the men in the pub, not even the ones he didn’t know. He dreaded the thought of police intervention.

  If the authorities paid a visit to the town and investigated the source of his sudden wealth, James would be in trouble. By then, everyone would know he’d come across a lugger, shot up and run aground in a bay to the north. Burnt almost beyond recognition. No sign of survivors. Knowing where he’d acquired the pearls was one thing. Taking them away from him was quite another.

  The door of the deserted building was unlocked. He opened it and entered and was struck by the strangeness of the now empty, forlorn store. Without the trader’s benches and merchandise, it no longer possessed any allure.

  Although the only illumination to the room came from moonlight streaming in through the windows, James walked straight to the fireplace beside which he’d spent many hours drinking and chewing the fat with Gilbert. Squatting, James prised the brick free and reached inside. The hole was empty. He smiled to himself as he extracted his own treasure from his pocket.

  He opened the tea caddy and emptied all but a few jewels into his hand. From another pocket, he took a white Vegemite jar. Into this he deposited the bulk of his pearls. He replaced the lid of the caddy and tucked it back into his pocket. Then he sealed the jar and inserted it into the space behind the brickwork. When he’d replaced the outer brick and the mortar, he stood and dusted off the knees of his pants.

  As he left the building and strolled down the main street to the pub, James pursed his lips and whistled. From somewhere his mind had plucked the song, ‘I’m Sittin’ on Top of the World’. Al Jolson had made the tune popular in the late ‘20s, but James couldn’t recall when he’d last heard it.

  It didn’t matter. His thoughts focussed on his fantastic luck. He’d never need to work again.

  CHAPTER 1: AFTERMATH

  Thursday, A
pril 27, 2000

  Cyclone Rosita had raged for several days. It stood out to sea and buffeted the coast with howling wind, horizontal rain and towering waves. It lingered, hovering, as if waiting for the right moment to strike. When it finally headed for land, it unleashed its full fury on the desolate northern coastline of Western Australia.

  Gusts up to two hundred kilometres per hour raced in from the Indian Ocean. Huge breakers hurtled with astonishing force against the dunes, rocks and mangroves lining the shoreline from Port Headland in the south to Derby in the north. Rain, driven by the all-powerful wind, lashed both sea and land. Assisted by savage gusts, the torrent tore fronds from palms, paint from exposed buildings, and tiles from roofs. Structures that hadn’t allowed the elements access for many years succumbed to the terrible onslaught.

  All of the shoreline suffered, the beachfront along Cable Beach and further south of Broome bearing the full brunt of the ferocious onslaught.

  ***

  “I’d swear this was the strongest, wildest cyclone ever to batter these shores,” said Maude Rowley one morning, a week after the hurricane passed. “I’ve lived here all me life and never seen anything like it.”

  “If you ask me,” said Heather Fochs with authority, “there was nothing natural about it.” She plonked down onto one of the aluminium chairs outside the Boulevard Café and massaged her arthritic joints, wincing in pain.

  “The way it stayed out to sea for so long, sort of waiting.” Velma Garden had coloured her white hair bright blue, and her faded eyes appeared almost colourless next to it. “I mean, to be so powerful and yet do so little damage in the town.”

  “It’s almost as if it was directed by some entity... something evil, maybe,” said Heather, following up her first train of thought.

  Maude’s high-pitched giggle was out of control. “You and your evil spirits. You were going on about things like that in the days when you used to tell fortunes. Next, you’ll be telling us Mildred’s been abducted by some wicked spirit.”

  “Where is Mildred?” Heather’s voice showed sudden concern. “She’s usually the first to arrive, and she did suggest this place.” She looked around the shopping centre, distaste evident on her weathered face. “Although why, I’ll never know.”

  “I’m here, my dears. I’m here. Never fear.” Mildred Jones stepped from the doorway of the chemist shop, where she’d been watching her friends and listening to their conversation. She pulled up the last vacant chair and sat. “What’s all this nonsense about spirits?”

  “We’re just talking about the cyclone.” Maude laughed again. “What have you heard?”

  “They say,” said Mildred in a conspiratorial tone, “that Cable Beach’s been washed away.”

  “The whole of the beach?” Heather always took everything literally. Even after seventy-one years, she hadn’t yet learned the art of small talk.

  “Nah,” said Velma, “just the sand from the area near the access road.”

  “Access road? What access road?” At eighty-two, Maude suffered from a mild case of Alzheimer’s, and today was one of her vague days.

  “The four-wheel drive access road, you silly old bag.” Velma’s tone was scathing. She was a sprightly sixty-seven-year-old, and everyone knew she didn’t suffer fools lightly, not even her best friends.

  “Someone said the end of the road’s suspended.” Mildred leaned forward and stared at each of her friends in turn. “Must be... oh... two metres above the level of the beach.” She ran a hand over her hair, although there wasn’t a strand out of place.

  “I’ll bet that made the papers down south.” Maude suddenly emerged from her vague spell. “They’ll be mightily pissed to learn their favourite holiday destination’s been.... What’s the word I want?”

  “It’s not a word, it’s a new bloody brain.” Laughter tinged Velma’s tone. “Honestly, you’ll be forgetting your own name soon.”

  “Leave her alone, Vel. She can’t help it.” Heather prided herself on sticking up for her friends. “You might end up like her one day.”

  “I bloody hope not. I couldn’t think of a worse fate than losing my memory. I’d kill myself first.”

  “Ah well, we can’t please everyone.” Mildred waggled her fingers in front of her face, swatting at non-existent flies.

  The others stared at her.

  “Jesus, Mil. Are you losing your marbles as well?” asked Velma.

  “We wouldn’t be human if we didn’t have something to complain about,” Mildred continued as if Velma hadn’t spoken.

  “She’s lost the plot.” Heather sighed. “Perhaps Mil got hit on the head during the cyclone.”

  The others laughed.

  “The town was lucky,” interjected Velma.

  All except Mildred turned their attention towards her.

  “Anxious to change the subject, Vel?” asked Heather. “Can’t stand the thought of getting old?”

  “Time to cross that bridge when I get to it.” Velma’s cheeks flamed. “I just can’t believe nothing more than a few trees was uprooted. The wind was the strongest I’ve ever known. And I’ve lived here all....”

  “Wind? What wind?” asked Maude.

  The other three erupted into new gales of laughter. Their chortles had barely subsided when a teenager appeared beside their table.

  “Take ya order, ladies?” she asked through a wad of chewing gum. She was rather pretty in a punk sort of way. Her rainbow-coloured hair stuck out at odd angles, detracting from her pleasant features.

  “Thank you, Carmel.” Mildred prided herself on knowing everyone in town. “We’ll have four teas, thank you.” Her tone was soft and melodic, designed to seduce.

  “Will ya have somethin’ to eat with that?” The waitress scribbled on her notepad.

  “Some of those chocolate éclairs in the display would be nice.” Velma’s voice thickened, as if the mere thought of the treats made her drool. Her blue eyes gleamed, now the same shade as her hair. “That all right with you, Maude? Like an éclair?”

  “What’s an éclair?” asked Maude.

  The other three laughed again.

  “That all?” Carmel chomped a few more times. Her mouth opened and closed like a cow chewing its cud. She kept her eyes hooded, guarding schoolgirl secrets.

  “Thank you, dear,” said Mildred.

  Carmel turned and walked away. Her hips swayed seductively, and her hot pink panties were visible below her hemline.

  “Bloody dress. It’s too short.” Maude’s voice was almost an inaudible murmur. “Should be a law against it.”

  This time, all four women burst into laughter.

  “How do you know that girl, Mil?” Maude was the first to recover from the fit of cackles. “I can’t keep track of the youngsters, meself.”

  “I know her mother.”

  The others leaned forward and hung on her words.

  “She’s related to someone famous from Broome’s past, I think,” Mildred added, as if this explained everything.

  “Trust you to know that.” Velma turned down her mouth in a contemptuous sneer, displaying her well-known jealousy of Mildred.

  “Anyway, between the four of us, I’d bet no one knows as much about this town as we do,” Heather rejoined the conversation.

  “Or about the cyclone,” said Maude.

  “Or the cyclone,” the others chorused.

  They laughed again, and their chuckles continued until their beverages and cakes arrived. Like vultures, they grabbed their éclairs and thrust the flaky pastries into wrinkled mouths.

  “What about Eco Beach?” Mildred’s mouth was partly filled with food.

  “Eco Beach?” Velma’s words were barely distinguishable over the cake crammed into her mouth.

  “You know, the tourist attraction south of here, where the turtles struggle ashore to lay their eggs.” Mildred’s tone was patient, like that of an adult explaining something to a child. She’d stopped eating and watched her friends.

  Velm
a spluttered and choked, dollops of cream and large crumbs of pastry spattering across the surface of the table. She extracted a handkerchief from her dress pocket and coughed into it. “No, you silly old bag,” she said, once she’d recovered from her hacking fit. “I know where Eco Beach is. What happened there?”

  Mildred seemed not the least bit offended by the name-calling. “Oh, I heard it bore the full brunt of the cyclone.”

  “And...?” Heather prompted for more details.

  All three ceased stuffing food into their mouths. Their eyes were expectant. What did Mildred know that they didn’t?

  “It’s been decimated.” She looked from one to the other, enjoying being the centre of attention.

  “Decimated?” said Maude.

  Mildred couldn’t decide whether she’d lapsed into another vague spell or she simply sought more information. She decided on the latter. “There’s nothing left. The buildings, the sand dunes, the beach... all gone.” She studied the reactions of her comrades. Their eyes grew rounder with each word. “The whole bloody area’s been stripped clean back to the bedrock.”

  “Shit!” Heather took another bite of her éclair.

  “I don’t believe it.” Maude picked up her cup and sipped her tea.

  “Is that all you know?” Velma tried to eat, drink and talk at the same time.

  Mildred leaned forward, one conspirator to another. She opened her eyes wide and held their stares. “I did hear,” she whispered across the plastic tablecloth to her rapt audience, “that the bulldozers clearing the site for reconstruction found a skeleton buried there.” She sat back and devoured the looks of disbelief on her cronies’ faces.

  CHAPTER 2: DREAMS & REALITY

  Wednesday, May 3, 2000

  Claire Elizabeth Jennings had dreamed of making love on the world-famous Cable Beach for a long, long time. She couldn’t remember a time in her life when this fantasy hadn’t been one of her favourite sources of sexual imagery. The pearling town of Broome held a special fascination for many people from the southern states, none more so than she.