by Maggie Groff
Suitably humbled, I pressed on. ‘Do any other sports classes use the change room at the same time as the swim class?’
‘Not on Tuesdays.’
Harper poured more tea for both of us and asked if I wanted another piece of toast.
‘No thanks, I’d better shower and get ready. I’m meeting Mrs Prendergast at ten o’clock for a tour. Apparently the principal is on some junket in Singapore.’
‘Why do you need to go to the school?’ Harper said abruptly. ‘I can tell you what you need to know.’
I’d known that Harper would be annoyed, which was why I hadn’t mentioned my visit to the school until now.
‘Oh, you know me,’ I said, casually waving my hand in the air. ‘I want to get a feel for the place and gather as much information together as I can. Sometimes I don’t know why information is useful until it is. Does that make sense?’
‘No,’ Harper said testily.
While Harper rather heavy-handedly loaded the dishwasher, I studied the circled faces in the photo and finished my tea. The photo didn’t really tell me anything, but it would help me to recognise the girls if I needed to.
‘Oh, while I think of it,’ I said, ‘Fergus has had the gong with the Sesame Street pillowcases.’
‘I love those pillowcases,’ Harper said sharply.
‘For heaven’s sake, Harps, I’m not accusing you of being a bad mother, but Big Bird has got to go. Fergus is growing up.’
Harper looked indignant, sniffed a mock sniff and said, ‘Says who?’
But I wasn’t listening to her—I was having a brain flash about cults. I stared at the school photo and the students’ names below the photo. Names? They were conventional names . . . except Peony, perhaps, but that wasn’t too way-out.
I shook my hands in the air, willing my synapses to connect.
Then it hit me. The reality that Bacchus Rising was a cult had been staring me in the face, and I’d been ignoring it. Members of cults don’t have conventional names. They have oddball names like Morning Mist and Earthly Dew . . . and Heavenly Brother Excalibur. That was the connection I’d been looking for—the propensity for cult followers to choose a new and fanciful name to signify the start of a new life.
What was that name on the Bacchus Rising website? Serene Cloud, Mystic Master of Mars. It was certainly fanciful . . . and Tildy had informed the police that she was now called Eternal Shadow. Clear indication that Bacchus Rising was much more than a business with a gimmicky website selling baubles.
It was so obvious that I wondered if I’d ignored it on purpose. Was my inner voice warning me off? Whatever, all the indicators now pointed to a cult. And I had the green light for a good story.
I grinned happily at Harper.
‘It’s not funny,’ she said crossly.
Chapter 14
Tattings High School was an independent coeducational campus sprawled across forty hectares of native bushland in the Gold Coast hinterland. The buildings were modern, the uniforms smart, and there was a distinct whiff of trust funds in the air.
To impress Mrs Prendergast, I’d dressed in black pants, a white linen shirt and black pumps—a classic well-to-do mother from the burbs. It was an effective masquerade that had met with the Prendergast seal of approval, as already we were best pals.
We were in her office drinking tea from dainty cups while she explained the benefits of encouraging students to realise their full potential through the broad and flexible curriculum offered at Tattings. I nodded my approval—it was good to know the nation’s future was in safe hands.
Mrs Prendergast was younger than I’d expected. Mid-thirties and comfortably plump, she had bobbed dark hair, a pleasant round face and flawless white skin. She was wearing a charcoal-grey suit that was two sizes too small, accentuating her weight.
‘If you’ve finished your tea,’ she said, ‘I’ll show you over the campus. I know Principal Hathaway will be most distressed not to have had the opportunity to meet you. Did I mention that she’s in Singapore?’
An image of Principal Hathaway sobbing all the way home in the pointy end of a Qantas jet popped into my head and I couldn’t suppress a smile. Far from being bored by Mrs Prendergast’s ramblings, I was exceptionally grateful to have something to keep my thoughts occupied. This little educational foray was exactly what I needed to take my mind off the impending trip to the police station this afternoon. Much as I like to portray an image of mature confidence, I was quaking in my boots over the two o’clock meeting.
We stood and I followed Mrs Prendergast out of the administration building into the blistering sunlight. On the way out she collected two hats and offered me one.
‘Thank you,’ I said, taking the hat. ‘I had noticed your lovely skin.’
Mrs Prendergast blushed.
‘We’ll take the buggy,’ she said, indicating a canopied golf cart.
We set off at breakneck speed and several students jumped off the path, feigning concern. I clung onto my hat and the buggy. Somehow, Mrs Prendergast’s hat didn’t budge—it probably didn’t dare.
The buggy seemed to be heading towards a large two-storey building with a flat roof, which stood on a small hill behind the Engineering and Technology Centre.
‘We’ll see the Performing Arts Centre, and then I’ll take you to the pool,’ she shouted. Both the buggy and Mrs P were at full throttle. It was like being on a ride at Dreamworld.
‘How old are your girls?’ Mrs Prendergast bellowed.
‘Fourteen,’ I lied.
‘We have seven sets of twins at Tattings, and one set of triplets.’
‘That’s great,’ I shouted.
A dance class was in progress in the Performing Arts Centre and I admired the students and the sprung floor. In the corner was an arrowed sign pointing to the change rooms.
‘May I see the change rooms, Mrs Prendergast?’ I asked.
She cocked her head to one side and looked quizzical.
‘They’re just change rooms,’ she pointed out.
‘I know, but my girls will ask.’ I shrugged at the whimsy of youth. ‘They’ll want to know about the showers.’
‘I understand,’ she said. ‘We have individual showers for student privacy. Do your girls have communal showers where they are now?’
I nodded, which appeared to satisfy Mrs P. Luckily, she didn’t ask me where the twins were at school.
The girls’ change room was a large brick-walled rectangle. Toilets with doors took up half of one long wall, and the other half had individual shower cubicles with white curtains and hard rubber mats, the kind that hurt your feet so you don’t stay too long in the shower. On the opposite wall were sinks, mirrors and benches and several wall-mounted hair dryers.
The centre of the room was taken up with rows of two-sided stands with head-height pegs. Some clothes were on pegs, but mostly they were thrown all over the place.
‘Gosh, hair dryers,’ I exclaimed. ‘The girls will be pleased to know that.’
Mrs Prendergast glowed with pride. Our visit to the change room hadn’t been a waste of time after all. As we were leaving, I discreetly pulled the black ribbon off the end of my plait and put it in my pocket.
‘These change rooms,’ said Mrs P, warming to the topic, ‘are used by female students attending swim and dance classes. I’m pleased to say that we use hypoallergenic soap and shampoo products. We also have other change-room facilities throughout the campus.’
Once we were back at the buggy, I held up my plait and said, ‘Oops, my ribbon’s fallen off.’
I nipped back into the change room, whipped out my digital camera and took a range of shots. In two shakes I was walking back into the sunlight, holding up my ribbon.
For the next half-hour I cooed over the Olympic-sized pool, the equestrian arena, science labs, athletics track, fully equipped industrial kitchen, visual media lab, state-of-the-art classrooms, cafeteria and every manner of court and pitch that a sport could be played on.
It was impressive. Tattings students were truly fortunate to have such facilities, and I was infuriated to think the Peonys and Savannahs and Briannas and Kylies of this world abused the privilege. I disliked the four girls even more and was almost glad that their underwear had been destroyed. In fact, I felt like doing it myself!
As we hurtled along the pathways I couldn’t help but notice that there were many places amongst the native bushland where students intent on secret mischief, like smoking, drinking and sex, could get up to no good. I wondered if they had any surveillance in place.
‘Do you have video security?’ I yelled.
Mrs Prendergast advised me that it was throughout the grounds but not in the buildings. I thought about that, and it made sense. No teacher would want to be constantly watched while teaching; it would be intrusive and offensive. Then again, it would be a real wake-up call for some parents who didn’t believe their little darlings misbehaved in class. It was odd that Harper hadn’t mentioned the video surveillance; I filed it away for future attention.
Mrs P had saved the library for last. As she waltzed ahead of me into the vast airconditioned library, she announced, ‘At least twice a term we have authors come in to talk to students. Tattings makes every endeavour to encourage students in the creative arts.’
I made noises like ‘gosh’ and ‘wow’ and threw in an ‘awesome’.
She turned to me and clapped her hands. ‘Any questions?’
Thinking quickly, I asked about fees and scholarships.
‘The school is very aware,’ she said, ‘of our obligation to . . . how shall I say . . . the less fortunate in our society. Tattings offers two full scholarships a year to State school students who have academic promise and would benefit from an education here.’
She looked slightly unnerved. Two sets of fees may have just flown out the window.
‘Would you like scholarship information?’ she asked nervously.
‘No, no,’ I reassured her. ‘I was just interested. It’s good to know that Tattings has such a generous philosophy.’
She looked extremely relieved.
Back in the office I handed the hat back to Mrs P and in exchange she loaded me up with booklets, uniform lists and fee schedules. I waxed lyrical about Tattings, thanked her for her time and we shook hands. I told her that I would be in touch.
Outside, I sat in Miles’s car and checked my messages. The first text was from Miles telling me that the rozzers were after me, which made me smile. The second was from Marcia, thanking me, and I felt a warm glow of satisfaction. Why is it that pleasing other people is so rewarding?
There was a phone message from Harper’s home phone. It was Fergus. ‘Aunty Scout, don’t forget to tell Mum about the pillows.’
I had one missed call from a number I didn’t recognise, and decided that it could wait until I was back at my desk and could make notes.
Harper had thoughtfully packed me a salad roll, a tub of tabouli and a bottle of water. There was a little note on the roll wrapper that said, Thanks for helping. Gosh, another one. Move over, Mother Teresa!
The car park at Tattings was quite pleasant and I did the necessary with my blood sugar test and had lunch. While eating, I flicked through the paperwork Mrs P had given me. The fees were huge and I hoped Harper was entitled to a discount for Fergus, if and when he attended Tattings.
It was a pleasant drive back to Byron Bay. To take my mind off my impending date at the cop shop, I listened to a Keith Urban CD from Miles’s country and western collection. As I drove south through the Tweed Valley, I upped the volume. I wasn’t sure, but I might have been on the turn with the country and western thing.
I filled the car up with petrol and by one o’clock had given it a once-over with the Dust Buster and returned the keys to Miles. After making a fuss of Chairman Meow, I turned the machine on to rewash the sheets, put yesterday’s white linen suit in a bucket of Napisan to soak off the chilli sauce, and unpacked my bags. If I kept busy I wouldn’t have time to be nervous about the police.
Fat chance.
Chapter 15
I was in Dave Fanshaw’s cluttered law office in Byron Bay. He was sitting in an old rattan cane chair on one side of his desk, drinking good coffee and smoking a Cuban cigar. I was sitting in a similar chair on the other side, drinking bad tea and trying not to gag. I’d just finished explaining to Dave the circumstances surrounding my stolen car.
Dave is the lawyer who rents my garage and, as far as the lawyering lark goes, he’s one of the good guys. In addition to private clients, he does pro bono work for local not-for-profit organisations and pensioners. And me.
‘Bummer about the Drug Unit,’ Dave said, puffing out a great plume of smoke. ‘If you weren’t such a parsimonious bastard you’d have been using your garage.’
‘Oh, ha ha,’ I said.
‘And you’ve no idea what they found in the car?’
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘No idea at all.’
‘They probably found syringes and needles.’
‘Probably.’
‘That’d be your diabetic stuff, wouldn’t it?’
I nodded.
Dave peered at me over his round rimless glasses and stroked his trimmed grey beard.
‘I think I better go to the station with you,’ he said, ‘in case they beat you with phone books.’ He broke into a broad grin. We both knew that I was far more likely to be offered a cup of herbal tea.
Even so, my relief that Dave would accompany me was palpable, as I hadn’t wanted to face interrogation alone. While Dave made a call to swap his two o’clock appointment, I inspected my surroundings.
Dave’s office was the full Hemingway experience. A battered old desk, strewn with papers, took up most of the available space, and an overhead ceiling fan swished around, gently rustling the fronds of a large potted palm. On the wall was a photo, taken in 1946, of Hemingway sitting in an Adirondack chair at Finca Vigia, his home in Cuba. Odd, eh? I hadn’t heard the Adirondacks mentioned in ages, and here they were suddenly rearing their head twice in a few days.
Dave’s wife, Daisy, buys all his clothes, and she follows a simple formula. Today Dave was wearing a white shirt, black tie and black trousers. Tomorrow he would be wearing the same combination of colours and items, only different brands. His white linen jacket and white Panama hat were hanging on an antique stand in the corner of the office. Daisy would have a fit if she knew that Dave often changes into a safari suit when he’s in town, and wears aviator sunglasses in the street, so he looks more like Hemingway.
If you haven’t guessed yet, Dave is a frustrated writer. Late forties, short and stocky, he keeps his thick grey hair short and brushed forward over his forehead just like you know who. At various times of the day, Dave can be found at a table at the Beach Hotel, wearing his safari suit and drinking a Cuban mojito while tapping away on his laptop at the great Australian novel.
‘Let’s go,’ Dave said, slapping his hands on the desk and standing up. He put his jacket on and smoothed down his hair before placing the white Panama hat on his head. I felt a bit ordinary seeing as I didn’t look like anybody famous.
Relishing the fresh air as we emerged onto the street, I took deep breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth to calm my quickening pulse.
It wasn’t far to the police station from Dave’s office and we talked as we walked. The sun was hammering down and the pavement was, as always, crowded with locals and tourists. A busker was sitting on a stool outside the Commonwealth Bank playing his guitar and singing Leonard Cohen’s ‘Suzanne’. I did a double-take to make sure it wasn’t Leonard Cohen. One never knows in Byron.
‘What are you working on?’ Dave asked.
‘I’ve been given the nod that a cult has moved from the US to the Gold Coast. It looks like they’re here, but under a different name.’
‘Have you got any leads?’
As we threaded our way through a throng of young people, I outlined the situation to Dave, in
cluding my relationship to Tildy. He looked thoughtful as he listened.
‘Are you going to spring this young woman if she’s with the cult?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Be careful, Scout. Cults aren’t illegal in Australia, you know, although some of their activities might be. As they say, “It’s the deed, not the creed.” Tildy was almost certainly recruited by these people, but she will say that she joined of her own free will, so in the eyes of the law, they haven’t kidnapped her. However, if you try to rescue her against her will, then it’s kidnapping.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ I confessed. ‘And you’re right, I was thinking of it as a rescue.’
‘I’ve never been quite sure what defines a cult or separates it from a religion,’ Dave said. ‘From personal experience, my understanding is that, in a cult, the doctrine takes precedence over one’s own thoughts, and you lose the ability for critical thinking.’
‘Personal experience?’ I couldn’t help asking.
‘A few years ago, Ben dabbled with a cult near Adelaide. He was travelling around Australia with a girl called Bijoux. We hadn’t heard from him for two months and then Bijoux turned up on our doorstep telling us that she had run away and left Ben with a cult they’d befriended. She’d become scared when she’d discovered that the cult had guns for protection when the final day arrived. Trust me, Scout, it’s not the sort of thing you want to hear first thing on a Saturday morning. Ben’s done some crazy stuff, but this was the most frightening.’
Ben is the Fanshaws’ twenty-eight-year-old son and only child, and the reason Dave provides me with free legal services. Nine years ago, on an early morning walk, I came across a young man unconscious on Clarkes Beach. It was New Year’s Day and there were several people sleeping off the night’s revelry on the sand, but there was something about the angle in which the man was lying that didn’t feel right, so I had a closer look at him. He didn’t respond to slaps and pinches, and his breathing was laboured and shallow. I turned him on his side and called an ambulance—apparently he’d had a bad reaction to a party drug and would probably have died if he hadn’t received treatment as soon as he did. I stayed with him at the hospital until his parents were located, his parents turning out to be Dave and Daisy Fanshaw. We’ve been good friends ever since.