Desert Flame

by Janine Grey

  It was true. Her mother would have known what to do. The problem was, Eliza wasn’t her mother, whatever the colour of her eyes. She was the pampered princess Angela had always been so disappointed in. When it came to the kind of work KinSearchers had carried out, she had only the smallest clue where to start. She couldn’t take the money from this dying old man, whether or not he could afford it.

  She put the cheque back on his desk. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Weaver. I still think you would do better with a firm like Probate Professionals.’

  He let out an unexpected, rasping laugh, followed by a cough. ‘Honest, too. That’s why I want you.’ He took a crumpled letter from the open drawer and pushed both it and the cheque towards her.

  ‘There’s a letter here from the boy’s mother. She lives in Coffs Harbour, or at least she did. As I said to your father, that would be the place to start. It’s up to you whether you choose to cash the cheque.’ Weaver gave another shallow cough and slumped back in his chair, suddenly looking pale.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Eliza asked, alarmed. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  When he stopped coughing, he fixed her with those sharp grey eyes. ‘Yes, you can find the boy. Now let me get some rest.’

  Less than a minute later, Eliza found herself outside the house in Watson Grove, clutching the letter and cheque, the door closed behind her. This was insane. She hesitated for only a moment before knocking again on the door, determined to hand the money and letter back, but there was no answer.

  Eliza wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. She needed a job and now it seemed she had one – just not one she wanted. And unless she’d picked up more knowledge about the business than she thought she had during her work experience stints, things weren’t going to end well.

  CHAPTER 2

  ‘Don’t give me that look,’ Fingal McLeod told his companion.

  Blue continued to observe Fin with an unblinking gaze before her tongue darted out and she wandered away into the scrub.

  Shrugging, Fin turned back to his work. Blue might just be a lizard but she was right. It was dangerous – and stupid – to work alone in remote Ruin Flat, but the only other option was to call a halt, as Old Pauly had recently done. The old guy had worked his own claim at the flat for decades, mostly alone, so he could probably be excused for feeling his time had come to give the game away. But Fin had the itch between his shoulderblades; he had the excitement in his gut that convinced him that what he sought was out here. Somewhere.

  Problem was, somewhere was much the same as nowhere in the vast New South Wales outback, as far as his chances of finding his prize were concerned. No surprise why opal fields like Lunatic Hill and Cuckoos Creek had their colourful names. Opal mining was rich in mad buggers.

  Fin shrugged off the thought. Right now he needed to focus on the job at hand. He reckoned he had another four months before the cash ran out and he had to start looking for paid employment. Four months to succeed at what his father had spent years failing to do – locate the elusive opal that people hereabouts continued to speak of in hushed whispers, despite the opal’s legacy of bad luck.

  Dark Flame.

  Over the decades, a few had claimed to glimpse it, Fin’s father being the last. But, so the story went, when Logan had failed to back up his claims with cold hard proof, the mining community’s mockery and derision had driven him to abandon his quest, along with his wife and baby son.

  It may not have been the complete truth, but Mairi had lost her husband to the lure of opal and there was no escaping the irony that the comfort of the remaining years of her life depended on her son finding the thing that had caused her thirty-plus years of heartache.

  Fin stared around the desolate camp site. The earth was dry as dust, the rough grassy patches and line of wild orange trees the only splash of green. Rusting metal buckets, dried-out timber and ancient machinery were scattered haphazardly. Off to the west, half protected from the blistering sun and red desert storms by the craggy escarpment known as the Rise of Ruin, was the old tumbledown hut that had come with the land. His dad’s old mate, Jerry Bragg, said Logan used to stay there back in the day. But Fin had never been inside, not wanting to associate in any way with his deadbeat dad, preferring to sleep in the tent.

  Fin shook his head. More than a month ago, when he’d come out here, he’d had a clear purpose but already it was becoming muddied by the past. Was he fooling himself that this was just about the security and wellbeing of his mother, whose health was so fragile these days? Or was he just a feckless fuck-up like his father, cursed to chase a dream that would never be fulfilled?

  Fin suspected the real answer lay somewhere between caring son and fuck-up. Growing up, it had just been him and his mum, their little family unit tight as a drum. Left with nothing after Logan shot through, Mairi had worked around the clock to give Fin a decent start. When she finished her office job, she’d return to housework, homework and child-rearing, replayed on an endless loop as she scrimped and saved for a small home of their own, which to her represented the ultimate in stability.

  Many a little makes a mickle, she always said when stuffing five-dollar notes into a jar.

  And she’d made damn sure Fin took his lessons seriously – in school and life. Guilt flooded him every time he thought of how proud she’d been when he’d secured his place at the University of Melbourne and then landed a job with Mineron immediately after graduating. And, later, how his fast-track through the corporate ranks of MineCorp had delighted her. Of how disappointed she’d be if she knew how badly he’d messed everything up.

  Only the sly serpent in her head had saved her from knowing the devastating truth.

  He hardened his jaw as he climbed down into the mine, testing each rung of the rusting ladder before it took his full weight. It creaked and groaned but it held, for now. It would soon be replaced. God knew how old it was. It had probably been there long before Logan had acquired the mine in the early eighties. The square sides hinted that the shaft had been dug before ladders became commonplace, in the early rather than mid-twentieth century – a time when miners would descend with back braced against one wall and feet against the opposite.

  Most of the gear left behind by Logan was in a similar state. Fin’s father had mined on a hunch and the smell of an oily rag, without the funds to invest in the modern equipment that had revolutionised commercial mining in the seventies. According to Jerry, Logan had even eschewed a jackhammer or explosives to blast into the rock because of the risk of damaging a major find.

  He’d had a point, Fin figured as he reached the bottom of the nine-metre shaft. The only thing worse for a miner than not finding anything would be to see a beauty destroyed by his own hands.

  Fin used a jackhammer but, like his father, at this stage he planned to work without explosives. Working alone, the risk was too great if something went wrong. He had no illusions about the brutal nature of the work. He’d been clearing fallen rubble for weeks now, backbreaking stuff even with the power winch he’d installed.

  The shaft was sound, but once the loose rock was out, he’d need to check out the construction of the three levels – the three more or less horizontal drives that ran off the central hub – before he could start work in earnest. The lowest level, which had sustained the rockfall, would almost certainly need shoring up. Yet he’d been heartened by the glint and glimmer of an opal seam, exposed by fall, which suggested the mine had been sunk in the right place and to the right level. Whether it came to anything was another matter.

  It might not be pleasant work, Fin thought, as he sent another bucket of rock up to the surface, but the rhythmic sameness of it was reassuring. Load, winch, ascend, unload, descend and repeat ad infinitum. The mindless repetition helped soothe his raging mind – and it was a hell of a lot cheaper than therapy.

  Being your own boss had its advantages, too: no one to answer to, and no backs to scratch or promises to keep. No political bullshit. After MineCorp, he had no stomach for
the game-playing. He could understand why some men came to the opal fields for a year and ended up staying a lifetime.

  Wearily, for the eighth time already that day, he climbed up after the bucket of rubble. Most of the smaller stuff was out, but there were some biggish chunks he’d have to smash apart with the jackhammer in order to move them out of the mine. By the end of the week, he reckoned he’d be ready to survey the levels. Maybe he’d get Old Pauly out from retirement to be his surface scout; that way if everything went pear-shaped while he was working underground, someone would be around to raise the alarm.

  Fin might even go into the nearby township of Helton later that afternoon to collect his mail and have a cold one, catch up with Pauly and the rest of the world. He liked his own company well enough, but he hadn’t seen another living soul except Blue for almost a week and depending on his own internal dialogue for company would drive him stark staring mad before too long. Outback fever.

  When he told Pauly about his days spent shifting rock that night at the Helton Hotel bar, the old man cackled, showing off a half-row of missing molars.

  ‘Ain’t nothing there, ya know. No one’s ever found anything but useless potch and ruin out at that place.’ He shivered. ‘Why do ya think everyone else has gone? I was there more than forty years and never found more than enough to keep me in grog. Come to me senses now, mind.’

  Fin shrugged. Others had said the same. ‘Doesn’t mean it’s not there.’

  ‘Black opal?’ Pauly laughed again. ‘Nah! No new finds in too long.’

  ‘They found good deposits of black opal at Coocoran in the late 1980s that no one knew about before. And they say a bloke found some south of Lightning Ridge a while back. If there, why not Ruin Flat?’

  Pauly’s white eyebrows rose above milky blue eyes. He was due for cataract surgery that had already been postponed twice. ‘That was fifteen years ago, according to the blackfellas.’ He snorted.

  Fin winced at Pauly’s choice of words, and looked around. Mick, the middle-aged Indigenous Australian with humorous eyes and a streaky beard, raised his glass. ‘No matter, brother,’ he said. ‘Blackfellas, whitefellas, we’re all just fellas.’

  Smiling, Fin signalled to Chris, the barmaid, to get the man another beer but Mick refused, saying his missus would be after him if he wasn’t home quick sharp. Fin turned back to Pauly.

  ‘So, how’s retirement?’

  Pauly grinned. ‘Can’t complain. Got a new car.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Fin was surprised. Pauly always said he didn’t have two cents to rub together. ‘How’d you manage that?’

  The older man touched a finger to his nose. ‘Ask me no questions, I’ll tell ya no lies.’ He drained his beer glass and said his goodbyes. Fin watched him hitch up his loose pants and head out the door.

  Maybe the old man had found something out at Ruin Flat and didn’t want to let on. It would explain why he’d suddenly upped sticks, leaving Fin alone. But then, why was he so adamant there was nothing there?

  It was more likely a lottery win. The old man was probably so bored by retirement he was conjuring mystery where there was none.

  It was time for Fin to head back to camp, too, given it was almost an hour’s drive on unsealed roads. He left the hotel and headed out to his battered Land Rover. As he climbed in, he saw the post he’d dumped on the passenger seat earlier, mostly official stuff. There was a packet from his mother’s nursing home in Coffs Harbour and he sighed, hoping it wasn’t to inform him of a rise in fees. Her house in the coastal town had been auctioned last year and the money invested, but the cost of her care was fast swallowing up the proceeds.

  Inside the packet was another envelope, addressed to him in what looked like fountain pen ink. His mother used to write with one, the pen having been a gift from Logan. Annoyed at the thought of his father, Fin ripped open the envelope. Inside was a letter stapled to a business card for a company called KinSearchers in Sydney. The letter asked him to get in touch regarding an urgent family matter, and was signed by an E Mayberry.

  Fin frowned. As far as he knew, there was no family. Just him and his mother. Then the penny dropped. The letter was probably from some scam artist. Muttering under his breath, Fin crumpled the letter and chucked it onto the back seat. Then he started the car, pulled out onto the road and headed into the night.

  *

  Twelve days after sending a third letter to the Coffs Harbour address Ernest Weaver had given her, Eliza knew she had to try another tack if she was going to get the job done. With her bank balance steadily dropping, Mr Weaver’s uncashed cheque was beginning to look more appealing by the day. But she couldn’t take the money without finding his relative.

  Dragging out the seventeen-year-old letter Mr Weaver had given her, she re-read it for about the twentieth time.

   Dear Mr Weaver,

  I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news but I have to tell you that Logan McLeod has not been a part of my life for about ten years now, since he left to begin a new life in Western Australia.

  You may wish to continue your search for him there. I have no idea of his precise whereabouts although it is possible he has connections in the mining industry. Logan had been an opal miner for several years before his departure, and it is possible he used these skills to begin a career in WA.

  If you find him, please let him know that his son is a fine boy.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mairi McLeod

  The address at the top was for the Coffs Harbour suburb of Toormina. Eliza had tracked down the relevant phone number via an old directory but the people at the other end knew nothing about a Mrs McLeod or her son. Having sent three letters and received no reply, she was all but certain that Mrs McLeod and her son were no longer living there. But how to be sure?

  Eliza googled the Toormina address. Almost immediately, it appeared on a number of property sites, having been sold the previous year. Excited, she rang the real estate agent’s phone number, and spoke to a woman whose warm voice confirmed the vendor had been a Mairi McLeod. The voice cooled when she grasped Eliza was in no way related to Mrs McLeod.

  ‘Sorry, but I can’t give out personal details of our clients,’ she said.

  ‘Of course not,’ Eliza soothed. ‘It’s just that my elderly client has lost contact with his family and, sadly, he has very little time to reconnect. I’m wondering if you can point me in the right direction? Do you know what Mrs McLeod’s plans were after selling her home? Had she bought elsewhere?’

  ‘Hold the line, please. I’ll just ask my colleague who managed the sale,’ the woman said brusquely. Eliza waited patiently until she came back. ‘Mrs McLeod went into a nursing home, that’s all I can say.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Ending the call, Eliza returned to her laptop and did a search of nursing homes in the area, and came up with three. Her second call, to the Treetops Community Care nursing home, brought results.

  ‘Yes, Mairi McLeod is a resident,’ said the man at the end of the phone.

  ‘May I speak to her?’ Eliza asked.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. You see, Mrs McLeod is not well. She becomes easily confused and distressed.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I’m calling from a company called KinSearchers on behalf of a family member who is trying to reconnect after a long time.’

  ‘Oh, yes! I remember we had a couple of letters from your organisation forwarded from Mrs McLeod’s former residence. We sent those on to Mairi’s son.’

  Eliza’s pulse picked up. She was closing in, she could feel it. ‘I haven’t had any response from him. I don’t suppose . . .?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t give out confidential information but if Mr McLeod drops by to see his mother I’ll pass on your number.’

  ‘Does he visit often?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, although now you ask, I don’t think he’s been in recently.’

  Eliza thanked the man for his help and put the phone down. On her laptop, s
he called up her bank statement, which made her wince. But she’d made some progress with the Weaver-McLeod case so maybe she could justify cashing Ernest Weaver’s cheque, which she would need if she was going to travel to Coffs Harbour.

  Her mobile rang and she answered it absently.

  ‘How are you going, Elle?’ It was Charlotte.

  ‘Good, actually,’ Eliza said, surprising herself. The McLeod mystery was a useful distraction from her woes.

  ‘I take it you haven’t read this morning’s paper, then?’

  ‘No. Should I have?’ In the weeks following her father’s death, there had been a couple of articles hinting at Hugh’s financial embarrassment, but media interest had rapidly moved on to other high-profile targets.

  ‘I’ve sent you the link,’ Charlotte said. ‘Don’t take it to heart, okay? Your ex probably just had too much to drink.’

  Bemused at the thought of George doing anything remotely inappropriate, Eliza said goodbye and opened the link Charlotte had sent. It opened a story from the Herald’s social commentator, headlined: Society girl broke and broken-hearted after hotel heir calls it quits. Her stomach sank as she read enough to get the gist, which was that she had made a play for George as a way out of her financial troubles but he’d been too smart to fall for her wiles. Oddly, George was not quoted directly in the piece, although his younger sister, Felicity, clearly had no qualms in offering her opinion.

  ‘It was obvious from the start what it was all about,’ Felicity was quoted as saying. ‘George is a lovely guy, but if Eliza thought he was going to fall for a pretty face and the Mayberry name, she was wrong. My brother has no problems seeing through people like that and, fortunately, he’s already moved on with one of my good friends, Helene D’Arcy, who’s a much better fit for him.’

  It was vintage Felicity. Eliza had never exactly bonded with George’s sister, who’d made it clear from the start that she was used to being the most important woman in George’s life. But they’d both made an effort to get along – or so Eliza had thought.