by Liz Byrski
Liz Byrski was born and brought up in England and has lived in Western Australia since 1981. She is the author of a number of non-fiction books, and has worked as a staff and freelance journalist, a broadcaster with ABC Radio and an adviser to a minister in the WA Government. Liz now lectures in professional writing at Curtin University. She is also the author of Gang of Four; Food, Sex & Money and Belly Dancing for Beginners.
www.lizbyrski.com.au
Also by Liz Byrski
Gang of Four
Food, Sex & Money
Belly Dancing for Beginners
TRIP OF A
LIFETIME
Liz Byrski
First published 2008 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
1 Market Street, Sydney
Copyright © Liz Byrski 2008
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or any entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia
cataloguing-in-publication data:
Byrski, Liz.
Trip of a lifetime.
ISBN 978 1 4050 3827 0 (pbk.).
I. Title.
A823.3
The characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Typeset in 11/14pt Palatino by Post Pre-press Group
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
These electronic editions published in 2009 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
Trip of a Lifetime
Liz Byrski
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Contents
COVER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ONE
Later, even when she’d had time to think about it, she still couldn’t remember anything unusual about that evening; no sense of foreboding, no warning signal, not even a feeling of unease. The meeting ran late, it was dark and wet as they came out of the office and she was fiddling with her umbrella while she waited for Shaun to set the alarm and lock the door. But as she turned to go down the steps to the street, she tripped and grabbed his arm and that was when it happened. Something hit her shoulder with tremendous force, propelling her forward as her neck was thrown back, the noise a sharp explosion as she hurtled down the steps. The next thing she remembered was the ambulance, the wail of the siren, a mask over her face, and Shaun urging her to hang on, before everything went blank again. When she finally regained consciousness, it was in the harsh light of the emergency ward.
‘I can’t have been shot,’ she insisted, closing her eyes again.
‘Try to keep your eyes open, Miss Delaney,’ someone said. ‘Can you talk to me, please?’
She forced her eyelids open, aware now of pain, a lot of pain in her left shoulder and her head.
‘Can you see me?’ She nodded in the direction of a white coat. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’
‘Three.’
‘Yes, good. Someone took a shot at you. They got you in the shoulder but you’re going to be fine.’
‘My head . . .’
‘You hit your head. It’s not serious but it’ll need a few stitches, and an x-ray will show us where the bullet is. I’m going to give you something for the pain. This’ll sting a bit.’
‘Shaun?’ she asked.
‘I’m here, Heather.’ His drawn face appeared above her. ‘I’m going to stay with you.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Fine, and you’re going to be okay too, just hang in there. This is Detective Roussos.’
The room lurched drunkenly and a new face emerged.
‘Sorry, Miss Delaney, but time’s important. Do you have any idea who might have done this? Who might want to . . . want to kill you?’
‘Kill me?’
‘A grudge, perhaps? Something political, past or present?’
‘Of course not . . .’
His faced blurred and then clarified. ‘You’re sure? Not a constituent or some protest group?’
She tried to shake her head but it hurt too much.
‘Any threats? An old boyfriend, an ex-husband?’
‘Christ,’ she murmured, ‘it’s a wonder I’ve lived so long with all those people wanting to kill me,’ and she closed her eyes against the glare of the lights.
Barbara heard about it as she was driving home from her book club. It was the lead story on the eleven o’clock news and she swerved onto the verge, reaching for her mobile before remembering she’d left it plugged into the charger in the kitchen. Her stomach churned with anxiety as she accelerated back onto the road, wheels spinning on the wet Tarmac, and drove home as fast as she could through the rain. There was a message from Shaun on the answering machine and another from Adam, left some time later, asking her to call him when she got in. Her hand shook so much she misdialled and had to start again.
‘Heather’s okay,’ Jill said when she answered the phone. ‘She was hit in the shoulder. Adam was going to go up to Newcastle tonight, but they told him she needs to rest. So he’s getting a flight in the morning. Here, I’ll put him on.’
Barbara took a deep breath and dropped into a chair. ‘I can’t believe it. Who’d want to shoot Heather? It doesn’t seem possible.’
‘Apparently that’s what she keeps saying,’ Adam said. ‘Shaun was with her. Someone in a car shot at her as they left the office. Heather was hit and fell down the steps. She is okay, though.’
‘But shot! Wh
at about Shaun?’
‘Shocked but okay. He’s going to stay with her until they take her up to the ward.’
‘But why?’ Barbara persisted. ‘She’s only a backbencher, it’s not like she’s a minister, or even particularly controversial.’
‘Not to us, perhaps, but there’s the abortion stuff, the refugees, and Jill just reminded me that she led that protest about the high-rise development, so . . .’
‘But no one would shoot her for that, surely? Not for any of those things.’
‘People have been shot over abortion,’ Adam said.
‘In the US, but this is Australia,’ Barbara protested, ‘and it’s not even Sydney, just provincial Newcastle, for heaven’s sake.’
‘I can barely believe it either, Barb,’ Adam said wearily. ‘But it’s happened. I’m getting a flight out just before six thirty so I’ll call you from the hospital.’
‘No. I’ll see you there,’ she said. ‘I’ll meet you, we can go to the hospital together. And, Adam, sorry for interrogating you. You must be feeling terrible.’
‘Not the best,’ he said, ‘but I’ll see you tomorrow. Maybe we’ll know more by then. Flight gets in at seven twenty-five.’
Barbara stared at the smouldering embers in the woodstove and shivered with shock. Perhaps she should get straight back into the car and drive there now. A quarter to midnight, it was only forty minutes from Morpeth to Newcastle, less at this time of night. She could be at the hospital by half past twelve. But then, if they’d told Adam not to fly up from Sydney until the morning . . . She dialled the hospital and asked for emergency. Miss Delaney was fine, the nurse told her, she’d just been transferred to the ward. ‘Best to wait until morning,’ she said. ‘Come in after eight o’clock. You get a good night’s sleep now and try not to worry.’
Propped up on pillows, Heather watched archival footage of herself on the midday news. There were grabs of her speech in state parliament about asylum seekers, and some sound bites taken outside her office during the protest about the high-rise development on the coast. The final fifteen seconds came from a speech she’d made at a pro-choice meeting.
‘Obviously I’m just a troublemaker,’ she said in a weak attempt at humour. ‘Heaps of people want to kill me.’
‘Well, we don’t know that,’ the doctor said, looking up from her chart to stare at the screen. ‘Just that one person might have wanted to. I guess most of us could think of at least one person who might like to take a shot at us, and that’s without going outside our immediate families.’ She smiled and returned the chart to its rack. ‘I think my ex would be first in line with an AK47. Now, you take it easy, you’re doing fine. There’s a mob of journalists outside. Shall I send them away?’
‘Please.’ Heather rested her head back on the pillows, contemplating her own detachment. Shouldn’t she be worrying about who had done this and whether they might try again? But it seemed enough to be in a safe place where everyone knew what they were doing; enough to be alive when she could, so easily, have been dead.
‘You’re still in shock,’ Barbara had said earlier. ‘It’ll take a while.’
‘Shock and drugs,’ Adam suggested, with a break in his voice, and Heather, thinking that they both looked terrible, had urged them to get some breakfast in the hospital café.
‘It is not an assassination,’ said the Premier, his hawk-like face filling the screen as he corrected the breathless reporter. ‘Heather Delaney was shot and wounded, and I want to assure the people of New South Wales that the perpetrator of this horrible crime will be found and brought to justice.’ He looked around at the cameras, pausing for effect. ‘Law and order and public safety top my government’s list of priorities. We’re working right now on a new initiative to make our streets safer. And yes, I’m flying up to Newcastle to visit Ms Delaney later today.’
‘Remind me to be painting my toenails,’ Heather said aloud, and the doctor gave her a wry smile.
‘I’ll be back this afternoon,’ she said. ‘Try to stay out of trouble.’
There were pictures now of her electorate office where people had left messages, flowers and hastily made signs and placards: ‘RU 486, the fight goes on!’ read one. ‘Stop the high rise! We will not be moved.’ ‘Stop the Pacific solution.’ And the camera homed in on a chilling note of dissent. ‘Better shot next time.’ Had someone really tried to kill her for any of those reasons? A woman for whom Heather had fought a couple of battles with Centrelink wept as she tried to tear it down and was calmed by a police officer who took the sign away.
Heather wished she could cry, shout or even smash something, but her emotions had deserted her. And the painkiller that she could pump through her veins at the touch of a button had scrambled her ability to think straight. They were running a story from the US now, George Bush and Tony Blair walking up to a podium, the Stars and Stripes and the Union Jack in the background. Heather sighed and hit the mute button.
‘Risky job, politics,’ Detective Roussos had said when he came back this morning. ‘Being in the public eye, sticking your neck out. Risky.’
‘Not as risky as yours.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘No? At least we know who our enemies are.’
Heather started to muster an argument about rogue elements recently uncovered in the police force making that hard to believe, but she was exhausted after the first two sentences and gave up. She had never thought of politics as risky; hard, yes, frequently frustrating, always challenging and often rewarding but never risky, at least not in the sense of her physical safety. Fifteen years in parliament and, in the split second it took to pull a trigger, everything had changed. Everything she knew and thought she knew about the job, about herself, about the future, was thrown into chaos. She closed her eyes and wondered how she could be so coolly aware of the significance of what had happened but still feel no emotion.
While Heather contemplated her own lack of emotion, the Prime Minister and the leaders of the federal and state Oppositions were expressing theirs to the nearest available microphones. And political allies and opponents who, in the past, had spoken less than kindly of Heather now issued statements laced with outrage and dripping with affection. Meanwhile, the talkback lines were running hot with callers upset, angry and shocked, and blaming, variously, the government, the opposition, illegal immigrants, terrorists, Christian or Muslim fundamentalists, teenagers and junkies. And one shock jock took time to point out that as a feminazi from a now outdated women’s movement, Heather had probably only got what was coming to her.
In the hospital café, Barbara was feeling weak and nauseous. She had barely slept and at four o’clock had given up trying, got out of bed, revived the fire, made tea and waited impatiently for it to be time to drive to Newcastle. When she’d called the hospital the night before, the nurse had asked if she was Heather’s mother and she had been tempted to lie, because she felt as though she were.
‘Her aunt,’ she’d said. ‘Her mother’s dead, we’re very close.’
She was the younger sister of Roy, Heather and Adam’s father, and had been at school with Dorothy, his wife. When Roy contracted polio in the fifties, she moved in to help with his care and, when he died, Barbara stayed on with Dorothy and the children. Long after Heather and Adam had grown up and left home, the two women shared the house in a friendship that lasted until Dorothy died of cancer in the eighties. In the bleak morning light of the hospital café, against the background clatter of crockery and cutlery and the steady hum of conversation, Barbara felt bloated with a lifetime of love not fully expressed and tears not openly shed; tears that now threatened to burst the dam of her usual self-control. On the table in front of her, Adam’s clasped hands were shaking. She pushed aside the remains of a rubbery croissant and reached out, putting her own hands over his. He grasped them and looked up. He seemed to have aged ten years overnight.
‘She’s going to be okay, they said so, and you can see she is okay,’ Barbara said.
‘I
know, but what do we do now? How’s she going to be when the shock wears off? That maniac is still out there and presumably still out to get her.’
‘Perhaps it was meant as a warning . . . or maybe it was an accident. Did they say if there was another crime there last night?’
Adam shook his head and fidgeted in his chair. He’d drunk far too many cups of bad coffee and was feeling jittery and confused. ‘The police reckon it was deliberate.’ He paused and ran a hand through his hair, and Barbara noticed that it was greyer than she’d remembered, and thinning. ‘I don’t know what to do next,’ Adam went on. ‘Maybe Shaun will know. He texted me to say he’s on his way. And I guess we’ll have to talk to the media.’
Barbara gave him a weak smile. ‘Did you call Jill?’
‘Yes. I told her I’d be staying on for a few days. She’s fine. Toby thinks it’s terribly exciting, can’t wait to get to school to tell his friends.’
‘He’ll be a hero for a day with this story,’ Barbara said. ‘His aunty being shot; how wonderful to be young enough not to know what it all means.’
‘I wish,’ Adam said. ‘I don’t know how to deal with any of this. It’s something you only expect to happen to other people.’ He thought longingly of Sydney, of home, of Jill and the kids, the chaos of family breakfast, and the safe monotony of the orchestra with whom he should by now have been rehearsing Brahms’ 1st Symphony on his beloved cello.
Jill was in the kitchen drinking her second mug of coffee and watching the news.
‘But who did it?’ Daisy persisted, her mouth full of banana. ‘Who shot Aunty Heather?’
