Floodtide

by Judy Nunn

  The hook was certainly strong. Small as it was, it was made of steel, which, over the years, had rusted into the solid timber beam. It had been more than strong enough to withstand the brief, jarring weight of two bodies and the crack of a broken neck.

  'Oh God!' Mike's voice was barely recognisable, a hoarse, disbelieving whisper. 'Oh God! Oh God!' he said over and over as he stared in stupefied horror at the twisted mask before him.

  Spud and Ian had quickly sobered up. From their vantage point at the doorway, they'd registered that the girl hadn't landed on the floor along with Mike, that her form was still hanging there and that it was very still.

  Now, as Mike stood dumbfounded, Spud took over. Jesus, he thought, was Mike that bombed out that he couldn't see the danger? The girl had fainted – they'd have to resuscitate her. If they left it much longer, she could suffocate. Why the hell was he just standing there?

  'Come on, mate,' he urged, racing forward. 'We have to get her down before she strangles.'

  'She's dead.' Mike couldn't take his eyes from her face.

  Nor could Spud.

  'Oh Jesus!' His voice, like Mike's, was a horrified whisper. 'Oh Jesus, her neck's broken.'

  It was Spud who first came to his senses, taking the girl's weight in his arms. 'Get the belt off the hook,' he ordered.

  Ian crept tentatively forward, watching as the other two lifted the girl down and took the belt from around her neck. He clapped his hand over his mouth when he saw her lying there, her face contorted, her eyes fixed in a glassy stare. Then he started to whimper.

  'Shut up, Pembo.' Spud closed the girl's eyes, he didn't want to look at them either. He pushed her tongue back inside her mouth and closed her jaw too.

  Ian turned away, he was going to be sick.

  Spud sprang into action, taking instant command. Christ alive, somebody had to, he thought. Pembo was about to throw up and Mike was glazed over like a bloody zombie

  'Grab her clothes.' He directed the order at Ian. Then to Mike, 'Put your gear on.'

  Ian did as he was told, thankful to be distracted, but Mike remained squatting by the girl, gazing uncompre-hendingly at her. How had this happened?

  'Get dressed, Mikey.' It was an order. 'Your leg's starting to bleed, we don't want to leave evidence.'

  The remark jolted Mike briefly from his stupefied state. 'What do you mean? We have to call the police.'

  'Nope, I'll look after things. Leave it to me.'

  Spud had decided upon a course of action within seconds, and it didn't involve the police. Police entered Spud's equation only when they could prove useful, and his corrupt copper mates wouldn't be able to help him on this one.

  Mike was confused. The girl was dead, surely they had to call the police. His mind was jumbled, he couldn't think clearly.

  'Put your pants on – you're about to bleed on the floor.' Spud gathered up Mike's clothes and tossed them to him.

  Mike stood, catching them instinctively, then swivelled his head to examine the back of his right thigh which was hurting. There was a gash, superficial, but it was starting to ooze blood. He dressed, still on automatic pilot, letting Spud take command. He didn't know what else to do.

  'The belt as well.'

  Spud chucked it to him, but Mike didn't instinctively catch it. He stared down to where it had landed at his feet.

  'Put it on.' Spud gave the order with authority, watching as Mike slowly stooped to pick up the belt. Jesus, the bloke was on another planet, he thought. Taking the clothes Ian handed him, he fed the girl's feet through the panties. Ian turned away from the sight. Bugger you, Pembo, you could give me a hand, he thought. But he decided not to ask. Pembo'd only throw up. The panties in place, he started hauling the mini dress over the girl's head.

  'We're in this together, mate,' he said. 'You know that, don't you?' It was a word of warning.

  Spud had quite accurately read Ian's thoughts. Ian Pemberton didn't want any part of what was going on. He certainly didn't want to go to the cops. What would his parents say if he got mixed up in something as sordid as this? But he didn't want to help Spud cover up the girl's death either. He just wanted to run. He wanted to run from the boatshed and never look back. This was nothing to do with him.

  'We stick together, Pembo.' Spud pulled the dress down over the girl's hips, lifting her body, grunting a little with the effort. 'It's what mates do.' He looked up at Ian. 'You understand what I'm getting at, don't you?' This time it was more than a word of warning; it was a distinct threat.

  'Sure, Spud.' Ian turned; the girl was dressed now and the sight easier to bear. 'I understand.' Their eyes met. Sometimes Spud scared Ian.

  Spud lifted the body from the floor, draping the girl's arm over his shoulder, her head lolling drunkenly against his. There was no point in asking the others for help; they were both useless, in shock and still junked up, neither thinking clearly.

  'Give me her stuff.'

  He took the sandals and evening bag Ian handed him and, half-dragging, half-carrying the girl to the door, he issued his final instructions. 'Lock the shed and put the key back, then go to the Snake Pit and make yourselves seen. Don't forget to take my gear – it's outside by the window. I'll meet you there as soon as I can. If anyone asks, I'm in the lavatory.'

  Spud prayed that Mike's and Ian's gear would be where they'd left it. If their jackets and shoes had been stolen, it could prove an added complication. As he staggered off towards the sandhills, he prayed, too, that he and Mayjay looked like any other drunken couple.

  He didn't actually need to stagger. He was strong and bore her weight with ease, but every now and then he lurched for effect, even muttering drunkenly for the benefit of anyone who might see them, keeping his head down all the while. It was a fine performance and he played it with panache, but he hoped it was unnecessary. He was heading away from the main beach area and there appeared to be no-one around.

  At the Snake Pit, the male vocalist was once more in full flight and the activity on the dance floor was as wild as ever.

  Mike's and Ian's jackets and shoes were miraculously just where they'd left them, 'saving their possie in the sand'. Ian immediately set about doing as Spud had instructed, making himself seen, dancing and flirting with every girl he could, albeit with a touch of desperation. Mike, however, sat by their jackets staring morosely into space, seeing nothing but the girl hanging there, his own belt about her neck. The same belt he now wore around his waist. How had it happened?

  Spud returned, and proceeded to play loud and drunk although he was as sober as a judge. He danced with a couple of girls and sang along to 'Heartbreak Hotel', much to the vocalist's annoyance, then he went across the street to the pub where he bribed the barman to refill his flask.

  He pretended to drink a lot of bourbon, but actually imbibed very little, encouraging the others to drink up, particularly Mike. Mike was muttering about the police again and Spud needed to keep him distracted.

  'Not now, mate,' he murmured in reply. 'Not tonight. You're in no fit state to do anything tonight, we'll talk about it tomorrow. Come on, have another slug.'

  They stayed at the Snake Pit until one in the morning and Mike was drunk when the three of them left in Ian's car. As they dropped him off at Claremont, Spud extracted a promise – from Ian too. They would meet here at Mike's place, he said, at ten o'clock, and they would say not one word about what had happened until then.

  During the drive back to their city apartment, Spud refused to discuss the matter with Ian. 'I'm not saying anything while you're full of speed. We'll talk about it tomorrow, like I said.' And when they got home, he disappeared to his bedroom with a 'Night, Pembo', as if nothing had happened.

  Ian was left with no option but to retire to his own bedroom, where he stared sleeplessly at the ceiling for hours, frightened out of his wits and wishing he'd stayed in Kalgoorlie.

  *

  The news was on the radio that morning, and on the television too. It hadn't made the newspaper
s yet, but it certainly would the following day.

  Mayjay, the face of Western Australia, had been found dead at Scarborough Beach, her body discovered by two joggers shortly after dawn. The cause of death had been a broken neck and foul play was suspected. Police were keen to interview a gang of rockers who had caused a disturbance outside the Snake Pit the previous night.

  The whole of WA was shocked.

  'It was on the radio, did you hear it?'

  Spud returned to the flat, having been out to buy the Sunday Times and a couple of takeaway coffees, to discover Ian pacing about in a state of agitation. Spud hadn't heard the radio report himself, but the people in the milk bar had been talking of nothing else.

  'Of course it'll be on the radio. It'll be on the telly too, and tomorrow it'll be headline news all over Australia.'

  Spud dumped the paper and coffees on the dining room table. Ian's agitation annoyed him. What the hell had he expected? That Mayjay's death wouldn't rate a mention?

  'But they're hinting it was murder!'

  'Why wouldn't they? People don't go around breaking their own bloody necks, especially not in the sandhills at Scarborough!' In his exasperation, Spud raised his voice. He was feeling a bit jumpy himself and Ian's semi-hysteria wasn't helping. 'Get a grip on yourself, Pembo, and turn the telly on.'

  After they'd watched the television newsflash, which all the channels were running at regular intervals, Ian started ranting again. Spud told him to shut up.

  'We don't talk about it until we see Mike,' he said. 'That's what we agreed.'

  They left the flat ten minutes later, Ian maintaining his silence but still twitchy.

  It wasn't Ian's nervousness that was Spud's main concern, however. Pembo would keep his mouth shut through sheer terror, Spud knew it. Mike was the worry. The drugs and the booze would have worn off by now and Mike would want to do the right thing. Mike always did.

  'I'm going to the police. I should have gone last night.'

  It was just as Spud had feared.

  The three of them stood at the end of Claremont jetty. The jetty had been Mike's idea; he'd seen from the balcony that it was deserted.

  'I don't want you to come with me and I won't tell them you were there. It'll be exactly as it happened, just me and the girl.' Mike couldn't bring himself to say her name.

  A huge weight lifted from Ian. He was off the hook.

  'Oh yeah?' Spud sneered. 'And how did she get into the sandhills?'

  'I took her there myself. I was scared, I didn't know what I was doing.'

  The sneer faded and Spud spelled it out. 'You need witnesses, Mikey. You'll be dead in the water on your own – they'll have you up on a murder charge.'

  'It was an accidental death.'

  Like Ian, Mike had been awake most of the night. The effects of the speed pills had deprived him of sleep, but when the drunkenness had worn off, he'd been able to think through the events of the night and he'd prepared himself for the consequences.

  'It was a ludicrous, hideous, meaningless death,' he said with deliberation, 'but it was an accident.' This was what he'd told himself, over and over as he'd tried to force the girl's contorted face from his mind.

  A ludicrous, hideous, meaningless death? Spud was angry, Mike didn't appear to realise the implications.

  'Jesus Christ, Mikey,' he burst out, 'this is Mayjay we're talking about! The face of WA! It's been a state-wide campaign, the government's involved! The press'll have a field day and the coppers are going to need a scapegoat!' He waited a moment for the penny to drop. 'Don't you know what that means?'

  'No. What does it mean, Spud?'

  'It means you need us, mate. It means you need witnesses!'

  Ian felt sick again. This was his worst nightmare.

  Mike leaned against the corner pylon of the jetty, the one he and Spud used to chuck bombies from when they were kids. His knees were weak and the after-effects of the pills had set in – he could feel the palpitations.

  'Sit down, mate, you look bloody terrible.'

  They sat, all three of them, Mike leaning against the pylon, the other two with their knees hunched up. They looked like overgrown kids in a huddle, planning some mischievous prank.

  'You know I'm making sense, don't you?' Spud asked.

  'Yeah ...' Mike could see that it would certainly look bad without witnesses. 'But I'll take my chances, I'll go it alone. Hell, it was me with the girl, wasn't it? You two weren't involved.'

  'Of course we were.'

  'No, we weren't,' Ian interjected, seeing a way out. If Mike wanted to go it alone, they should let him. Anything rather than be dragged through the mud as a couple of pervs who'd been watching a sex act that had ended up going hideously wrong. He'd be labelled forever; his parents would die of shame. 'Mike's right, Spud. It wasn't us with the girl.'

  'But it could have been, couldn't it?' Spud turned like a rabid dog. 'Don't tell me you wouldn't have played her games if she'd asked you to, Pembo – you were red hot for it. I know I sure as hell would have. It just happened to be Mike, didn't it? We're involved, mate, make no mistake about that. And we stick together – that's what mates are for!'

  His use of the word 'mate' was deliberately scathing. Pembo was a mate only when it suited him, and it was time he learned that mateship meant more than that. Much, much more.

  Ian fell silent. He was no match for Spud, he'd do as he was told. But his life was shattered and he stared down at the jetty, absently picking at the old splintered wood, picturing it all – his parents' revulsion, the derision of his workmates. He'd never live it down.

  'Don't worry, Pembo, you're off the hook.' Spud's tone remained scathing, but his eyes were on Mike as he made his announcement. 'We're not going to the cops, any of us.'

  Mike, puzzled by the contradictory new tack, was about to interrupt.

  'No, no, hear me out, Mikey, please,' Spud said reason-ably, and Mike waited for him to continue.

  'If you go to the police, Pembo and I go with you, whether you like it or not. If you try and go on your own then we'll simply front up, so there's no way around it.'

  Mike made no reply, and Ian kept picking at his hole in the jetty.

  'But have you thought about what it'll do to Pembo's family and career?'

  Ian stopped fidgeting and looked up. Had he heard right?

  'More importantly, have you thought about what it'll do to your own family? How do you think this'll affect your mum and dad? And what about your career, Mikey? You can say goodbye to the Pilbara trip for starters – you'll be in court. Then, even if you get off with some "death by misadventure" plea, it'll have been in every paper all over the country and who's going to want to employ a bloke with a past like yours? All those years of study down the drain.'

  Spud had spent much time deliberating upon the argument he'd present, and he could see from Mike's reaction that he'd taken the right tack. Mike hadn't thought through the ramifications of this on the rest of his life and the lives of his family; he'd been too preoccupied with doing the right thing. Spud congratulated himself on the added touch – the ruin of Pembo's life along with Mike's own had been a pure stroke of genius. Personally, he couldn't give a shit about Pembo's life. And he hadn't even bothered using his own as leverage – adverse publicity certainly wouldn't ruin him. All of which had left him wondering at his actions. Granted, he'd prefer to avoid any involvement with the death of Ruby Chan's daughter, but when it came to the crunch he'd be able to handle Ruby. Spud had concluded that, for once, his motives were quite possibly altruistic. He wanted to save Mikey. Mikey was his mate.