by A C Praat
The familiar, fluttery sensation provoked by his direct gaze reasserted itself. ‘Philip –’
‘Damon.’
She shook her head. ‘That’s going to take some getting used to. But why did you think I’d say no?’
Philip shrugged. ‘Your life is in Adelaide. And Philip Templeton couldn’t – doesn’t – exist anymore. Not after the leak.’
Guilt tugged at her conscience. What choice did he have? Ra had been right – he had been thinking of her, not pulling some selfish stunt. ‘You’ve taken to your new identity?’
He nodded. ‘Be better if I could remember the passwords.’
She frowned. What passwords was he talking about?
‘My USB stick, the bankcard – I can’t access anything.’
Sol’s excited face sprang to Mishra’s mind. ‘Falafel. Use numbers for the L’s.’
‘Falafel? Who came up with that?’
Mishra flicked her hand in irritation; that didn’t matter. She still had so many questions. ‘Why did you jump off the yacht, Phi – Damon? Lexi and Raffe were beside themselves with worry. And so were we.’
‘I think I was scared the forged papers wouldn’t work.’
‘You think?’
He dropped her hand and stuffed his own hands into his pockets. ‘I don’t remember everything. I nearly drowned. And then I couldn’t …’ He swallowed. ‘I couldn’t remember the leak. I couldn’t remember anything after the treatment.’
‘What?’ She tugged his hands out of his pockets and grasped them with her own. ‘Philip, that’s … oh, my God. We thought you’d drowned. I thought you were dead. Again. Do you have any idea –’
‘I was trying to make things right.’
Mishra dragged in a breath and attempted to follow his story. He’d lost his memory? She’d heard of isolated cases – people forgetting days or months of their lives because of some trauma. What did Fran call it? Dissociative amnesia. But he must have remembered something about the campaign. ‘Why did you contact Charlie Breen?’
‘I saw the articles about the leak and my memoriam notice.’
His own death notice? ‘I can’t even imagine.’
‘And I knew I’d done something wrong, that someone was trying to find me. It looked like I’d done it – I’d leaked the code – and I needed to find out. Then you emailed, and things started coming back to me, faster than before. Here.’
At the end of the row, between the trees and the shelterbelt, two wine glasses sat on either side of miniature bottle of wine, all perched upon a tartan rug. ‘I thought you might be hungry.’ He smiled at her. ‘Could we just … I thought –’
His head flicked up to peer over her shoulder, toward the front corner of the orchard.
She followed his gaze. ‘What?’
He pushed her behind him.
‘Philip?’
‘Shush.’
A flock of sparrows scattered skyward to their right, chirping their protest. And Philip’s gaze wheeled with them.
‘I think someone else is here,’ he muttered.
She tugged the back of his jacket. ‘We have to go, Philip.’
Philip squatted and bundled the rug and the picnic into the backpack as he searched beneath the canopy.
Why was he taking so long? ‘Philip, please.’
She grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet. Where could they go? The shelterbelt here looked as impenetrable as the one facing the road. ‘The truck. It’s on the driveway,’ she said, breaking into a run. Above the muted thump of their footsteps Mishra detected a soft hum.
Her hand convulsed to her neck – body-knowledge of her sting from the previous week. ‘Bees,’ she panted.
‘It is an orchard.’ He squeezed her hand, egging her on.
The humming grew louder and closer. ‘Philip!’
A cloud of bees bore down on them. Mishra released Philip’s hand and covered her ears and neck, still running. Something grazed her hand and she struck it off. Philip skidded to a halt.
‘Philip! Come on.’
He stood, bees circling his head, his eyes wide and mouth open. ‘My bees.’
At the other end of the row a figure appeared.
‘Philip, look!’
He glanced to where she pointed.
‘Cut across the trees,’ he yelled.
He vaulted over the irrigation line hanging between the rows, taking the shortest route to the truck, and Mishra followed. He was running too fast for her. She dropped her hands to keep her balance and to fend off branches as they ploughed on. The humming grew louder in her ears. Every touch made her wince and cringe away: leaf, twig, insect. She swatted left and right. Ahead of her, Philip was drawing further away.
‘Philip.’ A man’s voice, deep and decisive. ‘Philip!’
Philip’s head whipped right. Then he dodged left, following the line of the trees, racing away from the voice.
That voice – Mishra turned her head as she entered Philip’s row. Roberts! She’d led him to Philip. The moment of recognition stole her concentration and she tripped over the irrigation line, sprawling face first onto the ground and bashing the breath from her lungs.
Oh no. She crawled, then stumbled to her feet. Philip was doubling back to her. He mustn’t.
‘Run, Philip.’ A rasp, rather than a yell from her deflated lungs, and then a sob. They’d catch him.
Roberts was upon her, hauling her to her feet. She fought him. ‘You can’t!’ she screamed. He pinned her to his side with one arm, swiping bees away from his face with the other.
‘Philip,’ Roberts cried. ‘Come away.’
Philip jerked to a stop, just out of reach, his face a mask of indecision and anger. ‘Let her go.’
‘Philip, it’s me.’
Mishra struggled in Robert’s arms. The bees were swarming around her head and she couldn’t swat them.
‘Dad?’
‘Aye, son.’
She found her voice. ‘He’ll turn you in.’
Roberts released her, and she stumbled to Philip’s side.
Philip was trembling. ‘What?’
‘Hebden.’ Roberts slapped the side of his neck, and sucked his breath in through his teeth, pain creasing his face. ‘Philip, we need to –’ He dropped to his knees.
The bees were reassembling – hovering behind Roberts’ head, then as one they banked away over the trees.
A sharp crack split the air. Mishra ducked and Philip ducked with her. ‘What was that?’ she cried.
‘Run, Philip!’ Roberts dropped onto all fours, his eyes bulging, his face flushed. ‘He’ll find you. Run!’
‘Dad?’
‘Tell him!’ Roberts glared at Mishra.
Sweat was running down Roberts’ face. Anaphylaxis – she recognised the signs. She said, ‘Philip, you have to go. I’m going to call emergency services. You can’t be here when the ambulance arrives.’
‘My bees,’ he said. ‘It’s my fault. I should have stopped –’
‘Philip, there’s no time. Go!’ She shoved him and he lurched backwards, a picture of misery and confusion, before he picked up his feet and ran. Not back down the row, but in the direction the bees had flown.
‘Philip,’ she screamed. ‘Don’t!’
Beside her, Roberts collapsed onto his stomach then rolled onto his back, his eyes wild. He needed help or he would die.
She stumbled through the remaining two rows of trees to reach the driveway, lungs burning. She couldn’t remember seeing a first aid kit in the back of the truck, but then she hadn’t looked. Where were her keys? Patting the pockets of her tunic, she panted a breath of relief. First, emergency services. She hit the emergency call button on the key pad and picked through the items in the back of the truck while she waited for an answer. An old blanket, a tool box, canvas sheets. A green bag with a cross on the front: bingo.
‘Ambulance,’ she said into the phone, rifling through the depleted first aid kit. No EpiPen. ‘1543 Kapiro Road, Kerikeri.
’
My bees, Philip had said. And finally it hit her: not real bees, robots. She bent over and retched. Hand to her mouth, she focused on the operator’s questions. ‘A man in his sixties, I think. An insect bite – anaphylaxis? I’m not sure. I’m going back to him now.’
Mishra scrambled back through the orchard, dodging branches, slowing to step over irrigation lines, carrying her phone in one hand and the first aid kit in the other. Why had they attacked Roberts? She mentally re-ran her last encounter with him. He’d told her Hebden was dangerous, that he’d played Roberts for a fool. Was this Hebden’s revenge, or had the bees targeted the wrong person?
Roberts was still on his back, his neck swollen, gasping for breath. Of Philip, there was no sign. Just above Roberts’ collarbone two angry puncture wounds were effusing blood. Mishra pushed a bandage onto the wounds and applied pressure to staunch the bleeding. She reported the symptoms to the operator, then let her phone slip to the grass so she could roll Roberts into the recovery position.
‘Emergency services are on their way,’ she said.
Roberts wheezed and Mishra bent toward him.
‘Hebden,’ he huffed, glaring into Mishra’s eyes. Flecks of spittle dotted his chin.
Panic dialed up Mishra’s heart rate as she wiped away the spit. She picked up her phone. ‘How far away is the ambulance?’
‘Five minutes,’ the operator told her.
‘What was in the bees?’ she asked Roberts.
He shook his head. ‘Philip?’
‘Gone.’
His eyes closed, he seemed to relax, even as he fought for breath. ‘Tell him–’
Mishra leaned in. A final hiss of breath, an unfinished sentence and Roberts’ mouth hung open.
Tears prickled Mishra’s eyes. No. He’d asked for her help, but she hadn’t believed he’d keep Philip safe. And now...
Where was Philip? He’d run in the direction of the bees. Was he trying to stop them? Sirens wailed in the distance. ‘Philip!’ she cried. ‘Philip!’
There was no answering call. She peered between the trunks below the canopy, trying to catch sight of him. Better that he was away and safe. What was she going to do? She couldn’t leave Roberts like this.
But he’s already dead, a voice inside her head insisted.
She stumbled up the row to meet the ambulance officers. But the police had got there first; a uniformed officer – fluro vest over his light-blue shirt – strode toward her. Fresh panic swelled her throat. What should she tell him? ‘Down there.’ Her voice was a whisper as she pointed toward Roberts. She swallowed and tried again. ‘He’s already gone.’
‘Are you hurt, ma’am?’
Mishra shook her head as she crumpled to her knees.
‘What’s your name, ma’am?’
Her voice shriveled as she answered one question, then another, and started to tremble.
‘You’re going into shock. Lie back and raise your knees.’ He peeled off his vest and propped up her feet as her head bumped against the ground. ‘I’m Constable Gillingham. Is there anyone here with you?’
Mishra rolled her head from side to side as tears slid into her hair. ‘I’m alone.’
The office retrieved his phone from a pocket on his belt and burbled into it. ‘They’re a minute away. I’ll be back in a sec.’ He squeezed her shoulder then bolted down the row toward Roberts’ prone body.
She hadn’t lied exactly. She didn’t know where Philip was and Roberts was dead.
THIRTY-SIX
Philip burst through the shelterbelt into the next block, scattering birds and ripping the sleeve of his shirt. Where were they? The bees couldn’t range too far from their docking station. They’d flown this way – they’d be making their way back home. His gaze swept up and down the track at the edge of the block. No orange trees here; instead there were vines, trained around posts and wires about head height. The growth was lush and dense, with thin beams of light creeping to the ground. He ran up the track toward the road, bent over to peer beneath the canopy. The bees could be hiding anywhere, but the person with the docking station would be easier to spot.
Where?
Jogging around the top of block, he found the driveway onto the road. Tire tracks molded the mud. How long had they been there? He didn’t know. Since the last rains at least.
He’s dead. The thought dealt a blow to his lungs. Philip bent over his knees, trying to catch his breath. No – Mishra was trying to save him. The bees had attacked the wrong person. They hadn’t worked.
When was the last time he’d even talked to his father?
‘It’s done.’ A man’s voice cut through the bamboo shelterbelt from the neighbouring block.
Philip froze. He was exposed here – anyone could come up that driveway – but the bamboo between him and the voice was so thick it revealed nothing but the play of light and shadow.
‘Spasibo.’
What did he say?
A car door slammed, sending Philip to his belly.
‘He suspected, yes – he was good at his job,’ the voice said. ‘But you won’t be hearing from him anymore. Nobody will.’ A pause, then, ‘South. The General’s friend waits for me.’
Another door slammed, an engine revved and a car pulled away, just as sirens whined in the distance. Philip rolled onto his back, clanking the bottles and food together in his backpack. What had happened to his father? Nobody will. He was dead.
Mishra was there all by herself. Time to test his Damon Hunter alias. Retracing his course through the vine block, Philip gathered his resolve as the sirens became deafening then ceased.
Beyond the shelterbelt Mishra lay on the ground, a police officer crouched next to her, doing something with her feet. She must have sensed Philip, because she turned toward him, a frown on her face, and shook her head. What did that mean? He should stay away? It was too late?
He hesitated. What would she tell them?
It was happening again – the need to run. Just when they’d reunited. Come away, his father had said. Did he know about the bees?
In the orchard, the officer stood, then bent toward Mishra, laying a hand briefly on her shoulder. Frustration heated Philip’s veins. He should be the one looking after her.
A light drizzle began to dot his face and arms. What would the authorities do next? His mind went back to the crime dramas his father had so often scoffed at: the unlikely scenarios, and the speed with which they uncovered evidence and received lab results.
They’d search the area. What if they found him? Panic trumped his irritation. He’d leaked the code and he’d run. And now his father was dead. All the facts linked back to him. There was no choice; he couldn’t be caught now.
With the backpack squashed to his chest to muffle the clink of bottles against glass, he fled down a row of vines to the end of the block, then vaulted a gate into an overgrown field. Remnants of a plastic hothouse sagged in the spring heat; thistles and blackberry were rampant. Too exposed. He needed to get to the main road out of sight of the police or whomever else might follow him. The field sloped away to a stand of regenerating bush. He’d studied the maps. There was a river down there somewhere, which, if he followed it upstream, would lead him to the tributary that ran the length of Wil and Afra’s orchard. The river offered a better option than bashing a hole through every single shelterbelt he hit until the state highway.
After checking behind him, he ran past the decrepit hothouse, down the slope to the bush then picked his way through, the sound of rushing water intensifying as he drew closer to the river. At the edge of an escarpment he stopped. The bank down to the river was steep and bushy. Through the trees he could see a footpath on the other side of the river. Just his sodding luck. Well, he wasn’t going to swim for it. His breath caught in this throat: they’d killed his father. He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes.
No time to think about that; he wasn’t safe yet.
Following the river upstream, Philip struggled through th
e bush until he reached the highway, where he scrambled up the steep berm, slipping on loose gravel, then stopped to assess his location. He’d come out just east of the road that went to Wil’s place. When the traffic allowed it he dashed across the highway and slid down the berm on the other side, rejoining the river. Afra had mentioned a waterfall on his first night, but he hadn’t yet explored that part of the orchard. Now he would.
When the river forked he tracked the tributary across several paddocks, then into the bush once more. The riverbed widened into a round pool, into which the water tumbled from a rocky shelf twenty meters or more above him. He drew back. Beneath the surface of the clear pool logs cast long shadows like so many severed limbs. Philip collapsed onto a rock and splashed his face and arms with water, washing the pollen out of his scratches. As he sat there catching his breath, enclosed by the overhanging canopy of mature trees, images of his father assailed him. He’d died on that orchard. Died. Philip waited for the emotional onslaught but nothing came. Why was his father here?
More flashbacks: Philip, come away. The bees crowding around Mishra and his father. Then his father, swollen and bleeding, on his knees. ‘Hebden,’ he’d said. Hebden, that snake – he must have authorised the attack. It should have been Philip dead on the orchard, not his father. Had his father been trying to warn him?
But Mishra had said his father would turn him in.
He closed his eyes and tried to summon Mishra’s face, her scent, her fingers curled into his hair.
A warm splash hit his arm. Surprised, he lifted his hands to his face.
Tears.
Nothing worked out the way it should.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Brett opened his eyes to slits, then closed them again. It was dark. Carpet grazed the side of his face while his crumpled body thrummed with the vibration of an engine. He hurt: his head, his back, his stomach, his arms and legs – Christ, his leg. Close to his groin, his trousers were wet and warm and sticky, but the rest of him was cold, so cold. The wad of material stuffed into his mouth blocked his throat, intensifying the stench of blood and exhaust and cleaning solvents that assaulted his nose. The blood. He couldn’t think of that hole in his leg.