by Lisa Walker
‘PR? As in public relations?’
I nodded and gave my winning smile.
She didn’t return it. ‘So, you’re here to be nice to me until I feel better about the bats, is that it?’
She’d hit the nail right on the head — she was smarter than she looked. ‘That’s about right — unless you have any other suggestions?’
‘Can’t you shoo them away?’
I glanced up. Every tree in the forest was bowed under the weight of its furry burden. ‘How many do you think there are? Two thousand? Four thousand? They’re going to take a lot of shooing; besides, they’re endangered, you know.’ I’d looked them up in my book before I came.
‘Endangered?’ Maureen screwed up her face. ‘How can they be endangered? Look how many there are.’
‘Yes, it looks like there’s a lot of them, doesn’t it? But that’s just because they’re all here, rather than somewhere else. There’s not nearly as many of them as there used to be. A hundred years ago they’d fill the sky for hours on end when they flew out in the evenings.’ I may have been using a bit of poetic licence there. ‘It’s like the passenger pigeons in America. Have you heard of them?’
Maureen shook her head. ‘What have they got to do with it?’
I’d come across the sad story of the passenger pigeon on the internet while I was looking for a bit more guff on flying foxes. ‘There used to be billions of them — literally. When they migrated, the flocks were over two kilometres wide and took three days to go past.’
Maureen gazed up at the sky, possibly imagining a flock of birds blotting out the sun for three days. ‘What happened to them?’
‘Extinct.’ The word hung in the air for some time. ‘Same reason that the flying foxes are endangered — loss of forests. They just don’t have as many places to go these days.’
Maureen still looked unconvinced, but I could see she was thinking about it.
‘They’re also really important for the forests — they pollinate trees. The eucalypts would probably die out without them.’ I slipped my hand into my handbag before she made a comeback. ‘Have you ever tried earplugs? I find these ones are particularly good.’
Narrowing her eyes, she took the earplugs from me, crossing her arms. ‘Is that the best you can do? Earplugs?’
‘I could give you one of our new range of mugs … I’ve got a few in the car.’
Maureen eyed me like I was a cockroach she might stamp beneath her slipper-clad foot.
I returned her look meekly. ‘We also have T-shirts …’
Surprisingly, she smiled. ‘Look, don’t worry about the bats for now.’ She waved her hand in their general direction. ‘I’ve been reading Woman’s Daily. Fascinating story. Come inside and have a cup of tea. You can tell me all about it.’
‘The thylacine?’ I said hopefully.
She puffed air out through her lips disdainfully. ‘No, not that — the love-rat ranger part. That’s a story I’d like to hear. Better than The Bold and the Beautiful, I reckon, which is what I normally watch at this time of day if I’m not in the shop.’
‘Oh.’ I hesitated.
‘Unless you want to try to move them?’ Her eyes swept the bat colony.
I followed her gaze; there were so many of them. And they didn’t look like they’d scare easily. Not to mention that they needed a break. Tough choice — spill my guts to a relative stranger or try to move a flying fox colony? I followed her inside.
As I came into the lounge room I pulled up short. The curtains were drawn and it took a moment to work out what I was seeing. It was like a medieval arsenal in there: weapons were arrayed across all four walls. Not guns, but swords, maces, double-sided axes and other lethal-looking things I couldn’t identify. Barrels of acid … I took a step backwards. ‘Maybe I should have a closer look at those flying foxes …’
Maureen chuckled. ‘It’s all right, dear. It’s just my hobby.’ She eyed the wall proudly.
‘That’s an interesting hobby.’ I hovered on the threshold. ‘What made you pick weapons?’
Maureen gestured at a stack of DVDs lined up in a bookcase next to a huge television set. ‘They go with the movies.’
I took a step closer. There was the complete set of Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, Harry Potter and numerous medieval-themed movies I’d never seen. It’s interesting what people are into. ‘Fantasy, huh?’ Maybe she wasn’t planning on chopping me up and putting me in a barrel just yet.
‘Much better than real life.’ Maureen’s eyes shone. She took a sword down off the wall and handed it to me.
I swished it experimentally. ‘Mmm, I see what you mean.’ It was strangely thrilling. I swished it again. If only I had some dragons to slay. That would be satisfying. Those knights had it easy — no struggling for a sense of purpose. Just find a maiden in distress and rescue her. Easy.
‘And it’s not just the weapons …’ She pointed her chin at a poster of Orlando Bloom as Legolas.
‘Yes, nice hair. Aragorn was my favourite, though,’ I said.
‘Oh no, dear, he was already spoken for, wasn’t he?’
‘Yeah, that elf girl.’ I frowned.
‘You’re right, she wasn’t anywhere near good enough for him. But at least Legolas was single. There’s no point in trying to compete with elf-queens, is there?’
The conversation was taking a strange turn, but I played along, thrusting and parrying with my sword. I could get to like this. ‘No, I suppose not. I still think, though, if the right girl came along … Maybe someone who shared his interests in …’ I glanced at the walls, ‘weapons and so on. I’m not sure that Aragorn and Arwen had a lot in common, really.’
Maureen laughed and lifted the dog off the sofa. ‘You know you’re not allowed up there, you silly old thing. What I’d really like is one of those swords from Lord of the Rings; might have to take a trip to New Zealand for that, though. Look.’ She picked up a photo from the sideboard. ‘Here’s me at the last North Coast Medieval Jousting Tournament.’
The photo showed Maureen in chain mail, looking slightly flushed. ‘Nice.’ I handed it back to her. ‘You look very … formidable.’
She nodded. ‘I won my section. Why don’t you take a seat; I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘It must be getting near tea time; leastwise in decent places where there is still tea time,’ I said, quoting Sam Gamgee.
‘I like a girl who knows her Lord of the Rings,’ said Maureen.
Our cup of tea took most of the morning. I told her about the night on Cougan Peak and how Mac had disappeared. It actually felt good to talk about it. She was a good audience: sipping her tea, munching on scones and making encouraging noises when I paused.
At the end of my story Maureen had some advice to dispense on the subject of Mac. ‘You gotta look after yourself. No-one else is going to.’ Her eyes bored into mine. ‘You hear what I’m saying, dear?’
I nodded doubtfully — I didn’t, really. First Rodney, then Sam, now Maureen … Who was going to be next to warn me off Mac?
‘What I mean is, men … they’re not always what they seem. Not everything is as straightforward as Lord of the Rings in real life.’
Was my life now more complex than a twelve-hundred-page trilogy? If so, it was beyond me. I wasn’t sure if she meant that Mac: (a) wasn’t what he seemed in the first place, or (b) wasn’t what he seemed after I thought I’d got to know him, or (c) wasn’t what he seemed now, that is, a love-rat psychopath, or (d) none of the above, or even possibly (e) an elf in disguise. Telling me that Mac wasn’t what he seemed may have been one of the least useful bits of advice I’d ever had.
‘Mac and I,’ Maureen continued, ‘we’re kind of close.’
I remembered Rodney’s comment about the hall key: she’s got a soft spot for Mac. I nodded encouragingly.
‘He’s like the son I never had and I love him dearly, but he’s not good news for girls like you.’
‘Why’s that?’
Maureen eyed me t
houghtfully, like she was weighing her words. ‘Emotionally unavailable, I think they call it these days.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s a slippery fish.’
I looked at her blankly.
‘A greased eel, a melting popsicle …’
‘Huh?’
‘He has girls, but they don’t stick. That disappearing thing he did, well, that’s what he does. It’s not the first time.’
‘It’s not?’ That explained the casualness of the police. They’d been there before. I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. Was I just one of a long line of jilted lovers? ‘But why?’ It was a stupid question, but I couldn’t help it. A slippery fish was a slippery fish and that’s all there was to it.
‘I don’t think it’s my place to say.’ She clamped her mouth shut. It was obvious I wasn’t going to get any more out of her.
Still, we parted on the best of terms. ‘Sorry I can’t do anything about your flying foxes,’ I said. ‘And thanks for the scones.’ My head was still trying to absorb what she’d told me about Mac.
‘No, no, don’t you worry about that, dear.’ She wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I’ll try the earplugs. If that doesn’t work, I’ll give you another call. Fancy a bit of jousting some time?’ She said this in the casual way someone in Sydney might have suggested meeting up for lunch.
‘Sure. Why not?’ Unless I’m shopping on the Champs Élysées. That was beginning to feel more and more likely.
‘Rightio — I’ll let you know when the next tournament’s on.’ She stood on the street and waved as I drove off.
Another surprise was waiting for me at the feral chicken encounter. Trev Benson, who I’d spoken to on the phone, was Trev the barman. It was obvious in retrospect, but there seemed to be something wrong with my phone skills at the moment. Why didn’t I ever know who I was talking to?
Maybe it wasn’t me, it was them. Were they trying to unsettle me? Perhaps my conspiracy theory wasn’t so far off the mark.
‘Hello, hello, small world, in’t it?’ Trev said as I got out of the car. A couple of sleek cats twined themselves between his legs.
I put my hands on my hips and sniffed. ‘Where are these chickens?’ I’d had enough of being mucked around.
Trev took me behind his house to yet more rainforest. Sure enough, ten or so roosters were scratching around among the vines. The cats, which had followed us, pricked their ears at the sight of them, but didn’t move.
‘They look happy,’ I said.
‘They’re digging up the plants. It’s a nature reserve, you know.’
I didn’t, but I nodded. ‘Okay, looks like it’s going to take a night-time operation.’
Trev pulled his cowboy hat down to shade his eyes. ‘Didn’t pick you for a girl who knew her chickens.’
I stared him down. ‘I know my chickens, all right. And that’s not all I know.’
He cocked one eyebrow. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’ I hoped I sounded more knowledgeable than I felt.
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning …’ I didn’t really have anything to add. ‘Meaning, you’ll be hearing from me about those chickens.’
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ Trev asked abruptly.
I sighed. I was pretty tea-ed out, but you should never refuse hospitality. ‘Maybe a cold drink?’
‘Come in,’ said Trev.
After Maureen’s house I was a bit worried what I would find. But the main decoration in Trev’s little Queenslander was a huge map of the area with pins all over it, similar to the one in the pub.
‘Your cane toad map?’ I said.
‘Who told you about that?’ He sounded cross.
‘Rodney … at the bar …’
‘Oh, right, yeah.’ Trev eyed his map. ‘Shocking things. His bushy eyebrows dropped. ‘Think I’ve got ’em worried, though.’
I followed him into the kitchen. He pulled a glass out of the cupboard and filled it with water from the tap. The phone rang. ‘I’ll just get that — ice is in the freezer.’ He pointed as he left the room.
I opened the freezer and jumped backwards. It was like a scene out of Alien — frozen little bodies in plastic bags filled half the cabinet. The cane toads’ warty heads pressed forlornly against the plastic, ice cubes resting on top. I slammed the freezer door before they could defrost and attack.
‘Actually, just out of the tap is fine,’ I murmured as Trev came back in.
He chuckled. ‘You don’t need to worry about them. They’re only dangerous when they’re alive.’ He opened the fridge — here two shelves were also stacked with toads in plastic bags. These ones were less rigid — one of them moved a leg slowly. It was creepy and a little sad, but I suppose they had to go. Beside the waving leg nestled some milk, cheese and tomatoes. I wrinkled my nose — there was no way I was staying for lunch.
‘I put them in here first — then into the freezer once they’ve gone to sleep. It’s the most humane way.’ Trev gazed at the cane toads, then added, ‘Poor buggers. It’s not their fault they’re so far from home. They’re just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
Something about the way he said it reminded me of what Rodney had said about Trev’s experiences in Vietnam. Wrong place, wrong time. Did Trev relate to the cane toads somehow? ‘You’re doing a great job,’ I said, rather feebly.
‘Someone has to do it.’ Trev spun around to face me. ‘Don’t they?’ He slid open his cutlery drawer and extracted an envelope. Pulling out a photo he pushed it across the table to me. ‘That’s my biggest one.’ The toad was lined up next to a ruler.
I peered closely. ‘Twenty centimetres — that’s almost as big as a cat.’
‘They get bigger. Only good part is, if they keep getting bigger they might start eating rabbits.’
I glanced at Trev. ‘You’re joking?’
‘Nup.’ His face was straight.
I gave the photo the right amount of respectful attention, then slid it back in its envelope. I didn’t like to imagine a cane toad bigger than that one. ‘Better head back to the office, I guess.’
‘Do you want a cheese and tomato sandwich before you go?’
‘No thanks, I just ate,’ I lied.
Trev laughed uproariously. ‘Thought you’d say that.’
He was making himself a sandwich as I let myself out.
Ant’s CD was still on constant rotation in my car. I pricked up my ears as ‘Khe Sanh’ came on. Cold Chisel, 1978. I’d never paid much attention to the song before, hadn’t even really registered it was about the Vietnam War, but now its words seemed particularly apt. Instead of taking to drugs like the vet in the song, had Trev turned to cane toads? I figured we all had our demons, and catching cane toads was a better way of coping than many others. In fact, there was something quite admirable about it.
By the time I got back to the office, the day was nearly over.
‘G-g-girl called in here for you,’ said Rodney.
‘What did she look like?’
Rodney blushed the most vivid red I had ever seen him. ‘B-b-b—’
He didn’t seem to be able to go on. ‘Blonde?’
He nodded. ‘And b-b-b—’
‘Beautiful.’
He nodded again, his tomato red turning burgundy.
It was stupid, but I felt a bit jealous. Making Rodney blush was my thing. But Jessica, it seemed, was even more overwhelming. What was I, meatloaf? I was about to return to the question of the posters when Rodney’s phone rang. He grabbed it with relief.
Rodney managed to be terribly busy on the phone for the remainder of the afternoon. He darted nervous looks in my direction between calls. Giving up on any answers from that source, I picked up my bag and stalked out. The Amble Inn beckoned like a cocktail at the end of a hard day. Maybe I’d just talk to Jessica about the job a little more …
But out in the street I had a visitor — Simon was sitting on the hood of my car. He aimed a camera at me as I approached. I
struck a pose, one hand on my hip. ‘Reduced to taking pictures of me, hey? Can’t you find the thylacine?’
‘Heard the breaking news about your hairdo. Came to check it out.’
I laughed. ‘I owed Ant one. Anyway, it’s not that bad, is it?’ I patted my hair.
Simon smiled. ‘Not at all. Personally, I’d turn gay for Angus Young.’
I punched him on the shoulder and he winced.
‘Hey, guess what turned up in the mail today?’ He turned the camera over in his hands.
I eyed it in surprise. It looked like the one he’d had on Cougan Peak.
Simon held the display towards me. ‘Recognise this?’
Leaning against the car, I gazed at the image on the screen. The Tasmanian tiger ran towards the bushes, its striped rump facing the camera. In an instant, I was back in that moment. ‘You’ve got a picture?’ I didn’t know how to feel.
‘Looks like it,’ said Simon.
Chapter Twenty-four
A gigantic conspiracy
Simon passed me the camera. I looked more closely at the image lit up on the screen. I knew what I’d seen, but having the picture in front of me … it took my breath away.
‘This is the camera you had on Cougan Peak, isn’t it?’ I said.
Simon nodded, his smile grew broader. ‘Fantastic shots — I’ve emailed them off to my editor.’
‘Wow. How did you get it back?’
‘Like I said, it turned up in the mail, addressed to me at the newspaper. They forwarded it on.’
‘Did Mac send it to you?’
Simon shrugged. ‘I assume so. He didn’t leave a calling card.’
My stomach lurched. ‘Was there anything … with the camera?’
Simon raised one eyebrow. ‘Like an apology maybe? No.’
‘Where was it mailed from?’
‘Sydney CBD.’
Not Tasmania. Wasn’t that where he was supposed to be? I felt an almost irresistible urge to get on a plane and hunt him down. But where would I start? ‘So … that’s great, Simon, photographic proof, big time.’
‘Yep, it’s what we needed, all right.’ Simon glanced around him — checking for rival journalists — and lowered his voice. ‘I’ve heard a rumour there’s a big political announcement on the way.’