Floodtide

by Judy Nunn

  'So go on,' Mike said encouragingly. 'You were up to where you were cashing in on the boom. But so are a lot of others, I've heard. Isn't it dangerous?'

  'Oh, we'll get out of nickel before it crashes,' Ian said, 'and we'll last longer than most, because we're not the shonky ones. There are new listed companies that don't even have mining leases, let alone viable mines. We're the real thing.'

  'I thought Excalibur Nickel Resources was an exploration company.'

  'It was and it still is, but it's under the umbrella of Excalibur Holdings now – so is Excalibur Mining, we do the lot. Sometimes we prospect for the bigger companies, sometimes we develop the claim ourselves.' He picked up the briefcase that lay at his feet. 'Just take a look at this.' Pro-ducing the latest edition of The Bulletin, he opened it up at the right spot and proudly laid it out on the wooden crate before Mike. 'What do you think of that?' he said. 'A two-page spread, and cop the header!'

  Mike stared down at the picture before him. A sartorially elegant Ian Pemberton and his American partner, Phil Cowan, equally well-attired, were seated at a boardroom table looking the epitome of youthful corporate whiz kids. He read the header out loud: 'The young moguls of mining – two men on the move. The editor's fond of alliteration,' he said.

  'Read on, it's fantastic.'

  Picking up the magazine, Mike scanned the article, Ian watching him keenly, disappointed that he wasn't reading every word out loud.

  'Well, The Bulletin's certainly taking you and Phil seriously,' he said when he'd finished. He handed the magazine back, but Ian shook his head.

  'No, no, keep it, I brought that copy up for you. I've got heaps more.' He smiled happily, Mike's comment had pleased him. 'Oh yes, we're bona fide all right. Even if the crash comes and we get out of nickel, we can't go under. We're sourcing the full suite of base metals like copper, lead and zinc, as well as chasing the old faithful, gold, of course. Hell, we've even got a crew out just south of here near the Munni Munni complex doing a basic search for platinum.'

  It was important to Ian that Mike should know he was bona fide. He wasn't quite sure why, but he didn't want Mike McAllister to know of the dubious road he'd travelled to get this far. How he'd pegged alongside Western Mining and other big companies, writing up impressive prospectuses after basic surveys. How he and Phil Cowan had sold the ground to others, even to Western Mining, flogging what were little more than patches of dirt between major claims. The two had made a good team, Phil the ideas man and financial genius, but it had been Ian's expertise as a geologist that had paid off. His reports had never been outright lies. There'd always been enough evidence to suggest potential, and Excalibur could not be held responsible if the mining companies went off half-cocked without requesting a more in-depth survey. Their original intention had been to make money and then move on to another area before they gained a questionable rep-utation. But following the Poseidon strikes they'd changed their minds. They'd become bona fide instead.

  There was no difference in the long run, it was all about making money, but Ian wasn't sure if Mike would under-stand that. Mike belonged to the university days when academic qualifications had counted for something. And perhaps, Ian thought, they'd meant something to him too at the time, despite his ultimate aim to be rich. Perhaps that's why it was so important that Mike should know he was bona fide.

  'I presume you got my address from Muzza,' Mike said, taking advantage of the brief lapse in conversation. He was keen for news from home. 'How is he? We've been writing to each other and he sounds great.'

  'He is. Never seen him better.'

  'He's getting together an exhibition, he says.'

  'Yes, for mid-year. He's working like a madman.'

  'Is he still seeing the psychiatrist? I've asked him but he's being very mysterious. He says I have to come to Perth to find out.'

  'You mean he hasn't told you?'

  'Told me what?'

  'Well, he hasn't told us either, but it's pretty obvious.'

  'What is?'

  'The shrink isn't his shrink any more, she's his girlfriend.'

  'She's his what?'

  'You heard me, his girlfriend. At least that's what Spud and I reckon. He hasn't told us anything, but we pop in every few weeks, always on a Sunday, and she's been there the last two times we've called. Her name's Olga . . . something unpronounceable.'

  So that was what Muz had been hinting at, Mike thought. For the past few weeks Muzza had said there was some news he wanted to share, but not over the phone and not in a letter. Mike had presumed it had something to do with the exhibition. But it wasn't that at all. Muzza had a girlfriend. How wonderful.

  Ian was still rattling on. 'What he's doing with a woman when he can't get it up's beyond me. Spud reckons she must be a bit of a weirdo, but it's obviously doing him good, so we're happy for him –'

  'How's Spud?' Mike changed the subject.

  'He said to tell you he's living the life of Riley.'

  Mike smiled at the memory of one of Spud's favourite sayings.

  'He's breeding thoroughbred racehorses, amongst other things. He's bought a stud farm at Swan Valley.'

  'A bookie breeding racehorses?'

  'Oh, he's been pretty careful, he wants to be seen as legitimate. The stud farm's under a private company name so that he can maintain his bookmaker's licence. He's kept the gambling syndicate too, but he's watching it closely. If the shit hits the fan, he'll get out.'

  'He's sailing close to the wind if he wants to be seen as legitimate,' Mike said wryly. The travelling bookies and card sharps of Spud Farrell's syndicate were well known around the Pilbara, where they did a roaring trade. The local authorities, accepting gambling as a way of life, turned a blind eye, but syndicates like Spud's were hardly legitimate.

  'They won't get Spud. He's too smart.' Ian had had enough of talking about the others – he still hadn't told Mike his greatest news of all. 'Hey, crack another beer open, we have to make a toast.'

  'To what?'

  'Get the beer and I'll tell you.'

  Mike fetched a cold bottle and when their glasses were filled, Ian raised his.

  'To Arlene,' he said. 'Go on,' he urged when Mike looked mystified.

  'All right. To Arlene.'

  They clinked glasses and drank.

  'I'm madly in love and I'm going to get married,' Ian announced.

  The two of them proceeded to get quite drunk while Ian raved on about his fiancée, and when the beer had run out he left rather unsteadily to drive back to Dampier where he and his team were staying.

  After he'd gone, Mike realised that not one word had been spoken about his own life over the past two years. Pembo had shown not a shred of interest, which Mike found typical, but also healthy. He'd been startled to see Pembo standing at his front door, a jolting reminder of that night in Scarborough. He'd expected some uneasiness between them, and had dreaded the thought that Pembo might bring up the subject. But Pembo had been just Pembo. Arrogant, insufferably conceited, self-obsessed, and yet strangely vulnerable. Still desperate for Mike's approval, as he had been throughout their lives, their relationship remained unchanged. Mike was thankful, and a little envious. The dead girl obviously didn't haunt Ian Pemberton.

  He wondered if it was the same for Spud. Had Spud successfully put that night behind him? He'd certainly appeared to at the time – he'd been the strongest of the three of them. But then Spud had known the dead girl personally. Did she come back to him now and then? Would she be there between them always, a past that they shared, unspoken of, but ever present? He'd certainly felt that way when Spud had farewelled him at the airport – he'd felt that things between them would never again be the same.

  There was only one way to find out, he decided. He'd make a trip to Perth. He'd reneged on the offer of a few weeks' leave over Christmas, but he'd accept it now. It was time to see his family again, and Spud and Muzza. It was time to stop running away.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Mike's ass
umption regarding Ian Pemberton was correct. Ian never thought of the dead girl. He had at first, simply because he'd been scared. After his return to Kalgoorlie he'd lived in terror for months, waiting for some evidence to come to light which would connect him with the Beach Girl Beauty Murder case, which still regularly appeared in the newspapers. But he was well and truly out of the woods now, and there were far too many exciting things happening in his life. The night in Scarborough had become no more than a blur.

  Surprisingly enough, things hadn't been quite so easy for Spud. Never one to dwell on the past, he'd quickly put the episode behind him, even congratulating himself on the way he'd got Mike out of a very unpleasant situation. But he hadn't anticipated Ruby Chan and the guilt she would arouse in him.

  Ruby had mourned the loss of her daughter. A guarded woman, she rarely shared her feelings, but she'd needed to express her grief, and the only person she'd had to turn to had been Spud. No-one else knew of her relationship to Mayjay.

  *

  'She was a beautiful little girl, my Mary-Jane,' Ruby said. 'Even as a newborn, people admired her beauty, and newborn babies usually look much the same, don't they?'

  Spud nodded.

  'Mary-Jane didn't. Mary-Jane was always different.'

  This was the third time since Mayjay's death that he'd called around to see Ruby, having promised that he would. She never sobbed or wailed. She didn't even cry, just talked endlessly about her daughter, which made Spud feel most uncomfortable. He was riddled with guilt, knowing that he could have told Ruby the truth about what had happened. But he didn't. He simply sat there while she talked, hoping that when her grief subsided, and the ever-reminding reports in the press died down, Ruby would return to the hard-nosed businesswoman she was.

  But it seemed Ruby suffered her own sense of guilt.

  'It's all my fault,' she said one day. Unexpectedly, right out of the blue, and at first Spud hadn't known what she was talking about.

  They were at the Sun Majestic, sitting in the little back office going over the books for the end of the financial year. Mayjay had been dead for well over six months and Ruby had seemed back to her old self.

  'What's your fault?' he asked, presuming she meant the bookwork, which was impeccable as always. Ruby, like himself, was a wizard with figures and he'd never once been able to catch her out. 'Everything's spot-on, Rube, couldn't be better. Jeez, it's been a good year.'

  'Mary-Jane always blamed me for being a whore.'

  Oh no, Spud thought, here we go again.

  'I can't see that there's anything wrong with prostitution myself, so long as a brothel's run good and clean.' Ruby peered at him over the rims of her spectacles; she wore reading glasses these days. 'Whores serve a valuable purpose. There are a lot of lonely men out there. Some just need sex, but some need female company, and a good whore knows that. A good whore's better than any social worker. You just ask some of my old clients, they'll tell you I'm right.'

  Why was she so defensive, Spud wondered. Why did she feel the need to justify her existence, and to him of all people? Where was this leading?

  'Unfortunately Mary-Jane could never understand that. She saw me as a slut. It's my fault she's dead.'

  There was a pause, and Spud felt he should say something, although for the life of him he didn't know what.

  'All mothers blame themselves for what happens to their kids,' he said finally, trying to sound wise. 'Even if the kid gets sick the mother'll say it was her fault.' He'd read that somewhere.

  But Ruby wasn't listening. She took off her glasses and gazed at the unadorned wall opposite, massaging her brow with her fingertips, trying to ease the headache that threatened.

  'Mary-Jane decided very early on to be "bad". It was her way of getting back at me. But I didn't realise she'd learned so many tricks.'

  Spud remained silent, still mystified, but realising that she didn't need, and wasn't seeking, any input from him.

  'You remember that day when I came home, and she was there with your belt around her neck?'

  Jesus, Spud thought, how could he forget? 'Yeah, of course I remember. I didn't know what she was on about.' He smiled, trying to lighten the moment. 'Mayjay liked to shock, that's for sure.'

  'I was shocked that day.' The almond eyes now focused themselves on him and Spud felt distinctly ill at ease. 'Auto-eroticism, where did she learn that?'

  Spud shrugged. How the hell would he know? Did she expect an answer?

  Ruby didn't. 'About ten years ago,' she continued, 'there were two girls at the Sun Majestic who specialised in auto-eroticism. I didn't approve, it's a dangerous game. But I wasn't the madam then, so what could I do? One of them was over-zealous with a client one night and he ended up dead. She clamped the carotid artery for too long. He had a heart attack.'

  The almond eyes continued to observe him, calmly. 'Until that afternoon, when I saw you two together, I had no idea that Mary-Jane knew about auto-eroticism.'

  Christ alive, Spud thought, was she accusing him? 'Jesus, Ruby! She sure as hell didn't learn it from me!'

  'Of course she didn't.' Ruby's tone was dismissive and a trifle impatient. 'She learned it from the Sun Majestic – from the very place her own mother worked. Spying on the girls, watching how they did it.' Her eyes wandered, and she was again staring vacantly at the wall as she pictured her daughter. 'She would have been only fourteen, fifteen at the most. How interesting she must have found it.'

  Spud breathed a huge sigh of relief, she'd worried him there for a minute. 'This isn't doing you any good, Rube,' he said comfortingly. 'There's no point in going over the past. Mary-Jane's death wasn't your fault, you have to stop blaming yourself. Besides,' he said, hoping it would clinch the conversation and they could get back to the books, 'they'll catch the bastard who did it one day. Just you wait and see.'

  'I hope they don't.'

  'Come again?' Spud wasn't sure if he'd heard correctly.

  'It wasn't his fault. It was mine.' She turned to face him once more. 'Mary-Jane wasn't murdered. She'd had a belt around her neck, so they reckon. There was a wound from the buckle, that's what the police report said.'

  Spud nodded, he'd read it in the papers. He waited for her to go on.

  'They were having sex and things went wrong, that's what happened. And now some poor bastard is running around in fear of his life. I feel sorry for him.'

  Ruby's composure was deceptive. She wasn't at all confident. She'd given her theory a great deal of thought and she was waiting now for Spud to scoff at her. But she was hoping beyond all hope that he wouldn't.

  Spud himself was at a complete loss for words. How easy it would be for him to say 'You're right, Rube,' and tell her the whole story. Surely the truth would comfort her. But he couldn't. He didn't dare.

  'Does it make you feel better to think that's the way it was?' he asked.

  Ruby shrugged, as if it made no difference. But it did. It made all the difference in the world.

  'Well, I'll bet you're right on the money. I'll bet that's exactly what happened.'

  She said nothing, but Spud sensed he was on the right track. She wanted to be convinced, he could see it in her eyes.

  'A sex act that went wrong,' he said emphatically, 'that's just what it was.' His mind searched for the words Mikey had used, what were they? A ludicrous, hideous, meaning-less death, but an accident. No, that didn't sound right. 'It was a tragic mistake, Rube. It shouldn't have happened. But it was an accident. Nobody's fault – least of all yours.'

  Ruby finally cracked. Just a little. She made no movement, but a single tear found its way down her cheek. She'd wanted to believe her theory, even as she'd blamed herself. She'd wanted to know that her daughter hadn't died, terrified, tortured, at the hands of a madman.