Floodtide

by Judy Nunn

  He offered up the final clincher. It was a cliché to be sure, but it was irrefutable.

  'She's dead, Mikey. Ruining two families and two careers won't change that. It won't bring her back.'

  Ian's nod of agreement was concerned and caring, but he felt like giving Spud a round of applause. God, Spud was clever.

  'So what do we do?' Mike said.

  He hated himself at that moment. He couldn't pretend that he was doing this for Pembo, although it was smart of Spud to give him that out. He wasn't even doing it for his family. His parents would be horrified, but they'd stand by him, knowing that he'd done the right thing in coming forward. He was doing this for himself. And it was the act of a coward.

  'We do nothing.' Spud got down to business. 'I'll be interviewed, there's no two ways about that. I knew Mayjay and I was part of the publicity campaign – the coppers'll be chasing up everyone connected with her. But I doubt whether they'll come at you blokes. They can't interview everyone who was there last night.'

  Ian's exhalation was audible, but his relief short-lived.

  'Of course, it'll be a different matter if someone personally identifies you two as having been in her company.'

  'What do we tell them?'

  'You tell them the truth, Pembo. You had a chat with her, Mike had a dance with her.' Spud smiled sardonically. 'You just leave out the nasty bits.'

  Extensive interviews were conducted during the investigation into Mayjay's death. The rockers all had alibis, most of which were backed up by the gang members them-selves, and the police continued to grill them mercilessly. The rockers remained their principal suspects.

  As far as it could be ascertained, the last person to have had any concrete exchange with the deceased was Qantas executive Brian Tomlinson. The deceased's personal publicist, Trish Barraclough, had witnessed the two leaving the sponsors' party, and had herself left the Scarborough Beach Hotel before ten o'clock, presuming her client was safe in the company of Mr Tomlinson. Mr Tomlinson, however, had remained in the main bar for half an hour; the barman, to whom he'd been chatting, observed him depart alone at around ten thirty. At approximately the same time, prominent businessman Spud Farrell had witnessed the deceased, and indeed talked briefly with her, at the Snake Pit.

  Random interviews were carried out amongst the hundreds present that night, and several reported having observed Mayjay, both at the Snake Pit and outside in the street watching the fight between the rocker chick and the beauty contestant. No-one had noticed who Mayjay was with, and she'd not been sighted after that.

  Mike McAllister and Ian Pemberton were not amongst those interviewed.

  Across the entire country, the press was having a field day. With proprietorial dignity, the West Australian treated the case as a tragedy. The shocking and untimely death of a young woman whose beauty symbolised the beauty of our state . . . All Western Australians mourn the loss of Mayjay. The West also informed its readers that Mayjay had truly been one of them, a fact unknown by many who'd presumed she'd come from Sydney. Mayjay, one of the country's foremost models, it was reported, had been Mary-Jane Smith, born and bred in Perth.

  No mention of Mary-Jane's mother, Ruby Chan, appeared in any media reportage. The police commis-sioner, a regular at the Sun Majestic Massage Parlour, had complied with Ruby's request that the press be denied her name and the details of her occupation. He'd agreed that it was only right, in deference to her daughter.

  Some of the eastern states' tabloids differed in their approach. BEACH GIRL BEAUTY MURDER! was the headline that screamed from the front page of one Sydney daily. MAYJAY, THE FACE OF WA, FOUND DEAD!

  Western Australians were outraged at the insensitivity, considering it typical of the disrespect displayed by eastern-staters towards the west. Their anger was justified: it was indeed tabloid journalism at its worst, and the editor knew he'd be rapped over the knuckles. A homicide had yet to be proved, but he'd been unable to resist the headline. To him, it was reminiscent of the Pyjama Girl Murder, and that had been a winner for years. It still was. Classics like the Pyjama Girl Murder could be trotted out every decade, particularly if the culprit wasn't found and the case remained a mystery. A good reporter could drum up all kinds of twists and turns, even conspiracy theories, out of unsolved crimes with catchy titles. The Beach Girl Beauty Murder was a journo's dream come true.

  Two weeks later, when Ian Pemberton returned to Kal-goorlie, the reportage was still extensive but no longer front page. And a month after that, the police having made no headway with their investigations, things seemed to have reached a stalemate. Even for the press.

  'You've got to try and put it out of your mind, Mikey.'

  Spud's eyes remained on the road as he drove across the Causeway, but he could feel the tension in Mike seated beside him. It was palpable; it had been ever since that night. Or perhaps it was only when Mike was with him, he thought. It was difficult to tell, they'd stopped going out together socially. Mike had kept pretty much to himself, and the few times Spud had called around, he hadn't been communicative. In Spud's opinion, it was high time they talked.

  Mike stared out the window. He'd known Spud would want to talk. They'd both known Spud would want to talk. It was why he'd originally refused the offer of a lift to the airport, and why Spud had insisted.

  Spud's eyes flickered from the road as Mike remained silent. 'You can't let it wear you down like this, mate. It's not healthy, you know.'

  'Yeah, yeah.' Mike's response was testy. 'I know.'

  'You don't want to talk about it, do you?'

  'You're a mind-reader, Spud.'

  'Right.' Spud took his aggression out on the car and they zoomed down Canning Highway well over the speed limit. 'We won't talk then,' he snapped. Fat lot of thanks he got for saving the bloke's hide!

  Mike felt guilty as they pulled up at the airport. It wasn't fair of him to take things out on Spud. Rightly or wrongly, Spud had put himself at risk for the sake of his mate. It wasn't Spud who was the coward.

  Spud opened the boot and Mike heaved out his gear.

  'Thanks for the lift.'

  Sensing that Mike didn't want him to come into the airport, Spud's anger turned to hurt. Mikey was closing him out.

  'Rightio,' he said abruptly. 'I'll see you then.'

  'Listen to me, Spud.' Mike stopped him as he started to move off. 'Things between us haven't changed.' It was a lie, Mike thought, things between them had changed. They'd changed because he'd changed. He'd changed irrevocably. But that wasn't Spud's fault. 'You're my best friend, you always have been, and I'm grateful for ... for everything you did.' He had difficulty getting the words out. 'I just can't talk about it, that's all.'

  The girl's face was there as he said it, eyes staring, tongue lolling. She'd always be there, with his belt around her neck. He'd wondered whether if he'd given himself up, things might be different; whether he might have found some form of exoneration in admitting his guilt. But then the coward in him had hoped that he'd never know.

  Spud grinned his forgiveness. 'Not another word, mate, not another word.' He flung his arms around Mike. 'Mates forever, eh, Mikey?'

  'Yep.' Mike returned the embrace. 'Mates forever.'

  Mike shouldered his pack and, suitcase in hand, walked into the airport. Spud watched him go. Poor old Mikey, he thought, he was doing it hard. But he'd get over it. Up there in the Pilbara it would all just become a bad dream.

  BOOK THREE

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The old wooden rocking chair creaked rhythmically, a comforting sound, as Jo rocked gently back and forth. A tiny, perfect hand encircled her forefinger, tugging in time with the mouth that suckled greedily at her breast, and the blackest of eyelashes fluttered in frenzied ecstasy. Feeding time was always an orgy. Jo laughed, overwhelmed by an indescribable love.

  Johanna Whitely had given birth to a baby girl at Sydney's Royal Hospital for Women in September 1967. She called her Alana.

  There was no hidden agenda in he
r choice. She intended to make no claims on Mike, she didn't even expect to see him again. And if she did, and if he mistakenly read some meaning into the fact that she'd named her baby Alana, then she'd simply tell him the truth. It was a pretty name. She'd always loved it.

  Jo had her personal reasons for the choice. Her own childhood memories were not happy, and she wanted a past to share with her daughter. That past, she'd decided, would be Mike's. She'd paint pictures for the child of the lovely old house by the river where her father had grown up, and the sailing boats and the jetty and Baxter the dog. Perhaps, when Alana was old enough, she might even tell her that she'd been conceived on Christmas Day aboard a beautiful yacht. A yacht called Alana. It wouldn't altogether be the truth, but it was a nicely romantic white lie. And it had happened on Christmas Day.

  At first Jo had cursed that afternoon in Mike's side verandah bedroom. It had been one of just two occasions when they'd had unprotected sex – after their first time, she'd had herself fitted with a diaphragm. But she hadn't taken it with her that Christmas Day, she hadn't thought she'd need it.

  When her worst fears had been confirmed, she'd been unable to tell Mike. As she'd listened to him talk of his career plans, so excited by the offer of the Pilbara expedition the following year, she'd known finally and conclusively that she held no place in his future. She'd always felt insecure, but she'd lived in hope. Now, carrying his child, she'd been able deceive herself no longer.

  During the ensuing fortnight in Manjimup, she'd made her plans, keeping the news also from her mother. Her mother would insist upon her staying at home, and Jo had vowed to herself she would never again live under the same roof as Darren Collins.

  Terrifying as the prospect of single motherhood had been, never once had she contemplated abortion as an option. Which rather surprised her. Having always professed herself an agnostic – mainly in order to avoid conversations about religion – she had supposed that she believed, as the feminists advocated, in a woman's right of choice. But when faced with her own personal dilemma, the right of choice had not seemed to apply to her. She'd wondered whether perhaps she was not an agnostic after all. Perhaps she really did believe in divine retribution.

  In her characteristically practical fashion, Jo had persuaded herself that it was meant to be. At least it had brought about a decision. She might have waited years, possibly her whole life, in the hope that Mike would recognise the value of the love they shared. For she didn't doubt that, in his own way, he loved her, even though his career overshadowed the fact. But she didn't want to wait forever in the wings of someone else's life. And she couldn't saddle him with a child. Not now. He needed to be free. And so did she. A child wouldn't ruin her life, she'd decided, a child would enrich it. She would do everything she'd intended. She would complete her degree, she would take up a career in medicine, and she would have a child with whom to share it all.

  When she'd arrived in Sydney, she'd contacted her aunt, as she'd promised her mother she would.

  'As soon as Nora's helped you get settled, you'll let us know where you are, won't you?' her mother had said. Hillary Collins hadn't enjoyed telephoning her younger sister to ask for the favour. She and Nora had been estranged for years, the exchange of dutiful Christmas and birthday cards being their only form of communication. But she'd had little choice: Johanna had been insistent upon going to Sydney. Why on earth the girl would want to continue her studies in the east was beyond Hillary's comprehension, but then Jo had always been wayward and unpredictable. She was probably moving to Sydney out of spite, just to put extra distance between her and Darren, Hillary had thought. If so, it was extraordinarily ungrateful after all the help he'd given her.

  'Darren will continue to send your allowance,' she'd said meaningfully.

  'Thank you, that's very kind of him.'

  Even without her mother's instigating phone call, Jo had intended getting in touch with her aunt. Nora was the only person she knew in Sydney and she'd need a contact. Perhaps even a confidante, although she hadn't been sure how much information she would share with Nora.

  Unlike her mother, Jo had kept in touch with Nora over the years, the two regularly corresponding. She hadn't seen her aunt since she was a child, but Nora had at one time been the most important influence in her life. Moving into the family home in South Perth shortly after the death of Jo's father, it was Nora who had helped Hillary through the grieving process and it had been Nora who had cared for the lonely, devastated little girl. She'd stayed with them for three years, holding the fragile household together while she completed her psychology degree at UWA. Then, not long after Hillary's remarriage, Nora had moved to Sydney, and a year or so after that she herself had married.

  Hillary hadn't travelled to Sydney for her only sister's wedding, a fact which Jo, even at the age of eleven, had found strange, particularly as Nora had been such a mainstay in her mother's hour of need. She'd found it strange, also, that as the years progressed Nora had rarely been mentioned, and when she herself had talked of her, her mother had been non-communicative, showing little interest in her younger sister.

  'She's a Sydney-sider now,' Hillary had said dismissively. 'You can write if you like, but I can't be bothered myself. I feel we don't have much in common any more. East and west don't mix.' It was as if they existed in two different worlds.

  Jo had never known how, or why, the estrangement between the sisters had occurred, but she'd found out shortly after her arrival in Sydney.

  Nora had welcomed her with open arms, insisting Jo stay with her and her family in their terrace house in Potts Point.

  'At least until we can find you somewhere decent,' she'd said. 'You'll want a place close to uni, I suppose.'

  'Yes, I suppose I will.'

  Jo hadn't told her aunt that it could be years before she'd be looking at uni. She hadn't really thought about it too much herself. She'd have the baby, then figure out what to do. One step at a time.

  Nora was everything Jo remembered: strong, direct, capable, and with a sense of humour that at times enjoyed shocking. Slim and athletically attractive, she hadn't even seemed to have aged, although she appeared a lot smaller than Jo recalled. But then, she supposed, grown-ups always look big to a nine year old, and children take little notice of age.

  'How do you get on with Darren?' Nora asked.

  'Fine.'

  Jo had been in Sydney only a week when Nora had plonked the question into what had seemed like a general conversation about her life in Perth at uni and her holidays spent in Manjimup.

  'No. I mean, how do you really get on with Darren. Do you like him?'

  They were sitting on the back balcony looking out over the tiny cottages of Woolloomooloo, and beyond that the Domain and the city skyline dominated by the massive arch of the Harbour Bridge. Nora's house was one in a long string of impressive terraces that fronted on to Victoria Street and which were currently under threat by greedy developers and corrupt town-planners. 'They're trying to illegally change the residential zoning so they can build high-rise blocks and take advantage of the view,' Nora had said. 'They're offering people a fortune to sell up, but Geoff and I are going to stay put. We'll fight them all the way.' Built on a sandstone ridge overlooking the valley, the terraces had a truly spectacular view from the rear.

  Jo became aware that Nora was studying her keenly, already reading something into her reservation.

  'No, I don't like him much,' she admitted. Then, as her aunt continued to study her, waiting for more, she decided that she might as well tell the truth. 'Actually, I can't stand him.'

  'That's what I thought – you've never mentioned him in your letters. Why can't you stand him, Jo?'

  'Because he's destroyed my relationship with Mum.'

  'Did he ever do anything to you?'

  Jo faltered. She'd been about to tell Nora everything, but the question had taken her by surprise. It had been so blunt, so direct. What was there to tell? When I was a child he used to look at me, and
make excuses to touch me, and I didn't like him. It would sound exactly the same as it would have sounded to her mother had she ever told her: the over-reaction of a child still grieving the death of her father and jealous of her mother's new husband. That was surely the way Nora would see it. She might even try to defend Darren. 'But he was only trying to be a good stepfather,' she might say. Jo wasn't having a bar of it.