by Lisa Walker
Alarmed by the squeals and commotion, the rats have now dived for cover. I tiptoe towards the part of the studio where they first appeared. Glass louvres across one wall open onto a palm forest. One of the louvres at the front, near the prop boxes, is open. It would have been easy to feed a few rats through while the class was distracted with my ludicrous handstand. I peer out at the palm forest, but there’s nothing there except a brilliant blue and green bird, hopping among the leaf litter.
A rat scurries over my foot. I squeal and run from the studio. Outside, yoga students clump in quacking huddles like well-toned geese. One girl giggles nervously as I appear. I toss my studio keys on the deserted front desk. Guess I’m not going to be a rock star yoga guru anytime soon.
I stop at a coffee shop to lick my wounds and pick up a copy of the Lighthouse News. Plan A hasn’t gone too well; it’s time to move on to plan B—checking out my main suspect.
First the candid yoga shock pics and now rats in the studio. Someone sure has it in for Ajay. If they’re trying to ruin his business they’re doing a good job of it. Rats scuttling across your feet do nothing for a place’s tranquil oasis feel.
The café is packed with hipsters having intense discussions. I order a double strength latte and a chocolate muffin.
Turning to the back of the paper, I check the yoga schedule at the Pink House. Luna Nakamura is leading an advanced power yoga class at three pm.
Great. Just great. Can’t wait.
14
Whale songs greet me in reception at the Pink House and the ubiquitous oil burner releases a spicy aroma, but there’s no one around. I glance at my watch. It’s five past three; the class has already started. I can’t say I’m in a big hurry to join in.
Brochures line the walls. I run my fingers over the rack. If I want to try ten types of massage, four types of past-life therapy, have my colon irrigated, oil dripped on my head or my aura read, this is the place to be. Every brochure offers the promise of a new, improved me. I take one of each and pop them in my shoulder bag. As I slip into the back of the packed-out yoga class, I feel more spiritual already.
‘Now, keeping your legs together, push up into a handstand.’ Luna places her hands on the ground and effortlessly lifts her legs.
Not handstands again. I would have liked to hold off for the easy class at six o’clock, but that would have cut into my big date. Considering I’ve been doing yoga all night and all day, my date had better be something sedentary. Dinner and a movie would be okay.
Luna is suntanned and muscular. Her sun-streaked brown hair falls over her face as she hovers upside-down, before slowly lowering her legs to the ground. Unlike Madeleine at Lighthouse Bliss, she is not dressed in skin-tight lycra, but in loose off-white pants and a white singlet. Her gold-skinned face is make-up free. Madeleine and Luna are the Yin and Yang of yoga instructors.
‘Coming down, jump back into crocodile,’ she says in her high-pitched voice.
I didn’t bother attempting the handstand, but now I jump back into crocodile, which is basically a push-up. My arms protest and I collapse—a crocodile door mat.
Why is yoga so hardcore now? Where is the ‘yoga for slackers’ class? Luna might not be as fast as Ajay, but they’re neck and neck for difficulty. It’s a credit to my professionalism that I not only make it through the class, but also summon the strength to ask her a few questions at the end.
Tottering to the front as the room empties, I cough and raise my voice by two octaves. ‘Excuse me?’ Rosco says that copying someone’s speech patterns helps to build trust.
‘Yes?’ Luna turns, looking unnaturally cool for someone who’s led two hours of torture.
‘Hey, I’m Olivia. I just wanted to say, I enjoyed your class.’ Not.
‘Oh, cheers,’ she drawls. ‘You know, it’s hard at first, but it gets easier. Yoga is a joy and a blessing, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, totally. I heard you on the radio the other day. And I was, like, interested to hear you used to work with Ajay.’
‘Yes, I used to be one of his instructors. Do you know Ajay?’
Using my keen intuition, I take a chance. ‘Enough to know he’s a slimy weasel.’
‘Sounds like you know Ajay.’ Luna is too spiritual to come straight out and say she wouldn’t spit on him if his hotpants were on fire, but I can read between the lines.
‘I wondered what your experience with him was.’
‘I don’t talk about it. Negative vibes.’
For someone who’s moved on, she still sounds angry.
‘Nice top.’ She eyes my whale singlet.
‘Thanks. I like your outfit too. It’s very … flowy.’
Luna smiles. ‘I’m not into lycra.’ She eyes my tights. ‘No offence. Natural fibres boost your nervous system and white magnifies your aura. Hemp is best. It’s more sustainable than cotton. You should try it.’
‘Right. I didn’t realise that. I will. Anyway, I’ve done yoga with Ajay and now yoga with you and I can tell you one thing. You beat him hands down. The way you demonstrated that half lord of the chickens posture? I’ve never seen it done so well.’
Luna’s eyebrows crinkle.
Perhaps I’ve got that wrong; time to extricate myself. ‘Well, namaste and goodbye.’ I turn to go.
‘Hey,’ she says.
I turn back.
‘I’m getting a group together. You might be interested?’
I try not to look too eager. Joining the Women Against McSushi group would be a major coup. I could find out if they’re the ones who have it in for Ajay. ‘Yeah, maybe. What sort of group?’
Luna picks up a few mats and packs them into her bag. I get the impression she’s thinking over her answer. ‘We do this and that. Take action when needed. If you give me your number I’ll give you a call when something’s on.’ She pulls out her phone.
I recite my mobile number. ‘Okay, thanks. See you next time.’ I’m going to be late for my date if I don’t get going.
She stares into my eyes. Hers are so dark, they’re almost black. ‘You’re either on the bus, or off the bus, Olivia.’
I nod like I know where she’s coming from. ‘Totally.’ Leaving Luna to pack up, I head for the car park.
There are only two cars left outside the building, mine and an old model Ford with a Magic Happens sticker on the back and a dreamcatcher hanging from the rear-view mirror. I peer in through the windows, but see nothing unusual. I glance behind me. No sign of Luna. It’s time to try something that isn’t in Rosco’s instruction manual. Nothing illegal, Olivia, he has drilled me. But what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Nancy Drew and Veronica Mars never take too much notice of rules and regulations.
As I regularly lock myself out of my car, I find it handy to carry a strip of plastic packaging tape which slips inside windows. Luna’s car is an old model like mine, so it should work. My heart pounds as I slide the tape down, flick the lock and open the door. Under the seats I find only a damp towel and a bikini. But when I open the boot a distinctive smell hits me—rats. The animals themselves aren’t here, but a few dark hairs have caught on the carpet. Bingo.
On the way out of town I’m past the McSushi billboard before it registers. Something’s changed. I do a U-turn and pull over in front of it. Someone’s gone crazy with a spray can. Red letters like knife wounds plaster Ajay’s rippling muscles—Stop the Whale Killers. I reach up and touch them. The paint’s still wet.
Whale killers? I take a photo. Things are sure hotting up around here.
15
‘Home to more attractions than any other destination in the Southern Hemisphere, the Gold Coast has the fastest, the longest, the highest and the most exciting thrill rides in the country …’
I moan at my radio alarm, roll out of bed and stagger into the kitchen. Heaping two teaspoons of instant coffee into my cup, I add hot water and drain it in one shot.
Nan pauses, her mug half-rinsed. ‘Are you alright? You look like you’ve been run over b
y a truck.’ She, herself, looks amazing. The more haggard I get, the more Nan blooms. It’s like that movie, Dorian Gray, with me playing the role of the hidden painting. Today Nan looks like she’s going to play tennis. It’s probably a tennis-themed shopping outfit though.
‘Not truck.’ I press my hand to my temple. My head is thumping. ‘Half man, half dog.’
The corners of Nan’s mouth twitch. ‘Tell me more.’
I sigh; the evening is a blur of fluffy blond hair. Gareth, the graphic design student, had arrived dressed in tight red-striped pants, a flowered Hawaiian shirt and a baseball cap worn backwards. He’d dragged me from dance floor to dance floor, barely pausing to drink guarana- and caffeine-laden soft drinks. I’d finally escaped at two am, only for him to ring at three am to tell me what a great time he’d had. It’s obvious why he’s into speed dating—he wouldn’t have the attention span for a normal date.
I don’t have the stamina for that kind of relationship. Particularly after overdosing on yoga. And I’ve still got a date coming up with the American Bloke on Friday. Only inertia stops me cancelling—it’s easier to let it stand.
‘Why don’t you find a nice boy and settle down?’ asks Nan. ‘All this gadding about like Britney Spears.’ She peers closely at me. ‘I hate to say it, darling, but it’s not agreeing with you. Your complexion …’
I’m too weak to retaliate. Besides, she’s right.
Jacq’s computer game beeps and shrieks in the lounge room. She glances at me as I come in. ‘Got him.’ The computer gives a loud wail. ‘He was stupid, that guy last night. Only idiots wear their caps backwards.’
‘You’re right. He was stupid.’
‘He smelt, too.’
‘Yes, he did. He smelt like rotten eggs.’ I know this game.
‘He smelt like poop,’ Jacq pauses, ‘with tinned fish on top.’
‘And sprinkles of rotten cheese.’
‘And vomit sauce.’
My head’s going to explode. I can’t face any more yoga today. I pick up the landline; maybe Rosco will let me off going back to Byron today when I tell him about the rats. A pretty impressive result, finding the hairs in Luna’s car.
I’m pressing his number when I remember the defaced McSushi poster. It had slipped my mind in the morning blur. What was that about? Ajay is a whale killer? Or McSushi? I put the phone down again. I should look into that before I talk to Rosco.
My computer boots up slowly. I find the McSushi website, but Jacq’s computer game is overloading the wifi and it takes an age to load. I lie on my bed to wait.
I float in blue. Pushing with my tail, I propel myself through the water. A song comes to me—it echoes and vibrates through my flesh. Oooo, eeeee, aaa. Ooo, eee aaa. Olivia. That’s my name. Olivia, Olivia. With a power thrust I burst from the water, falling back onto—
My bed.
‘Olivia.’
I rub my eyes. Rosco. What’s he doing here so early in the morning? My eyes go to my clock as it ticks over to eleven o’clock. Oh no. It all comes back to me. It’s eleven o’clock and I’m still in bed. How am I going to explain this?
‘Olivia.’ Rosco knocks loudly. It’s polite of him not to push the door down—the repair man is coming today for the other door, after all. ‘Are you in there?’
I snatch my mobile from the bedside table. It’s flat. Double oh no. Must be a problem with the reception, I rehearse. I’ve been … What the hell have I been doing, apart from dreaming I’m a whale? That’s right, computer research.
‘Coming,’ I call, scanning the McSushi site for a titbit to justify being in bed at eleven o’clock in the morning. Hmm, corporate information—nothing, global markets—nothing, menu—I try to ignore Rosco’s knocking. Special feature in our Tokyo and Iceland branches … I stare at the menu, hardly able to believe it.
Whale meat.
Ajay is endorsing a company that sells whale-meat sushi.
It’s amazing what celebrities will do when they think no one they know is watching. The links fall into place as I rush to the door. ‘Rosco, what are you doing here?’
‘I could ask you the same question.’ Rosco’s eyes linger on the side of my head. ‘I’ve been trying to call you.’
I pat my hair, fluffing up the flat bed head. ‘Really? There must be a problem with reception.’
Rosco glances at my phone, which is still in my hand.
I slide it casually into my pocket, in case he is tempted to check if it’s on. It’s time for my big Nancy Drew moment. ‘You wouldn’t believe what I’ve found out. I know who’s got it in for Ajay and why.’
I pull Rosco into my bedroom and point at the screen. ‘McSushi sells whale meat in their restaurants in Tokyo and Reykjavik.’
Rosco looks underwhelmed.
‘That’s dynamite in a place like Byron Bay.’
‘Yes, it would be.’ Rosco pauses. ‘Good work.’
Good work? Is that all he has to say to my amazing breakthrough?
‘So that’s the why. What about the who?’ Rosco sounds like a teacher coaching a slow pupil.
‘Luna Nakamura. I think she released rats at his yoga studio yesterday.’ I fill Rosco in on the rats in the studio and rat hair in the car story, skipping over some minor details, like my car break in. ‘She asked me to join her group.’
‘So there’s a group? And you’ve been invited to join?’ Rosco is more interested now.
I nod.
He smiles. ‘Excellent work. Better than I expected. I want you to play along, find out who their members are, what they’re up to.’
‘You want me to dob them in?’ Now I know Ajay’s on the side of the whale killers, I don’t know if I want to be on his team any more. Or his wife’s team anyway.
‘He who pays the PI …’ Rosco says.
Calls the tune. ‘Yeah, I know, I know.’ It’s one of his favourite sayings. ‘Anyway, it’s not like I can do anything right now. She said she’d call me when there’s an action on.’ And my phone could well be flat that day …
It’s like he knows what I’m thinking. ‘You’re going to have to toughen up, Olivia. I’d never make a buck if I only took on clients I like.’
‘No. I know that.’ I force a smile. ‘It’s okay. I’m tough.’
‘Right, come back into the office. I’ve got a new client coming in at twelve you might be able to handle. But as soon as Luna rings, I want you on it.’
I nod. ‘Are you going to pass on my results about the rats?’
‘Yeah, I’ll let Rochelle know—suggest she gets the police to search Luna’s car. Your evidence won’t be admissible, of course—being obtained illegally.’
Clearly he has deduced how I discovered the rat hairs.
He walks towards the door. ‘See you there in a few minutes.’
‘Where do you draw the line?’
I’d spoken quietly and hadn’t expected an answer, but Rosco freezes, halfway out the door. He turns. ‘The line? You’re talking about ethics?’
I nod.
‘You draw it at a point that lets you make a profit, but doesn’t stop you sleeping. I’m sleeping well, how about you?’
‘I’m sleeping okay so far.’
‘When you’re not, let me know.’ He pulls the broken door shut behind him.
16
My stomach churns uneasily as I get ready for work. I don’t feel good about the idea of identifying the members of Luna’s group. Why didn’t I tell Rosco this? Because I want the job. I hope Luna gives her car a clean before the police get there. She’s a hippie nut in hemp clothing, but I like her. Her heart’s in the right place, which is more than I can say for Ajay.
I pull out a clean white, immune-system-boosting cotton T-shirt, team it with my blue cargo pants and pick up my shoulder bag. Hopefully my new client will be more to my taste.
In Rosco’s office, a man leans back on his chair, his arms dangling beside him.
‘Olivia, this is Brad Cahill,’ says Rosco as I take a seat.
He looks familiar, but it’s not until he pushes his daughter’s photo across the table that it falls into place. He’s the man-fish. His daughter is Maya, heiress to the world longboarding title, or so he’d have us believe.
‘She’s got the title right here,’ he smacks his palm, ‘if she’d get her act together, but she keeps buggering off when she should be training.’ Brad’s blue eyes drill Rosco. He’s a handsome man—broad shouldered, strong-jawed—but his suntanned hands are clenched. He looks like he wants to hit someone and he wants us to make sure he’s got the right person. Great.
I look sideways to Rosco, hoping for a flicker of eye contact to tell me we’re on the same wavelength. But Rosco is sitting forward on his chair focused on Brad. As the interview winds up, he does something bizarre.
‘Hey.’ Rosco pushes a pad across the table. ‘D’you reckon I could get an autograph?’
Brad grins, obviously delighted. He scrawls his name on the paper. After a vigorous handshake—Rosco’s—and a brief nod—mine—he strides out the door.
After he’s gone, I turn to Rosco. ‘What was that all about?’
He glances at the signature, tears it off the pad and places it carefully in his desk drawer. ‘Brad Cahill—you haven’t heard of him?’
‘Nuh.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘No.’
‘Well you’ve got some catching up to do. Where to start? Five times world champion. Started professional surfing as we know it—big sponsorship, cosmetics contracts, movie deals, you name it—all his idea. They used to call him the Ultimate Wave Machine.’ He sounds like he’s talking about Nelson Mandela.
The Ultimate Wave Machine? I don’t get it, but it’s obvious Rosco does.
‘Some people reckon it was the end of surfing in its pure form, what he did. Budgie Goldsworth—you must have heard of him?’
I shake my head.
Rosco’s eyes widen. ‘Last of the old-style surfers, the soul surfers—you know, in it for the love. Brad pushed him off his perch in 1992. They haven’t spoken since—never appear at an event together.’