by Chris Hammer
Her smile flickers like a torch with a flat battery. ‘You could try your uncle. Vern.’
Vern.
Vern and he are walking away from the Settlement along Ressling Road, through the cane fields, the sunshine setting the world aglow. They’re laughing and they’re chatting, embraced by the warm winds of fate, towards a town where suddenly the light looks cleaner and the air smells better. His mother has taken Vern’s car, put the twins in the back, driving off to find Martin’s father and tell him the life-changing news, to tell him to down tools, to say goodbye to shift work. To tell him of the lottery and division one and their new beginning. No other winners, no one else to share it with. Just them. Half a million dollars. A fortune.
They walk towards the main road, Vern and he, the surface baking black in the sun, the bitumen searing through the thin soles of his thongs. ‘Tell me again, Vern. Tell me what we’re going to get.’
‘Fish and chips, matey, but not flake, not this time. We’ll get Tassie scallops, real scallops and Victorian lobster, we’ll get prawns from the Gulf as big as bananas, and wild barramundi from the Territory. We’ll have the biggest feed you ever saw.’
‘Calamari rings, Vern. Can we get calamari rings?’
Vern laughs. ‘Sure, mate, as many as you like.’
‘And Coke, Vern. Big bottles. Icy cold.’
‘And champagne, matey. The best we can find. French.’
‘Will I like it, Vern? Champagne?’
‘Maybe not yet, but you’ll have to get used to it now.’ And Vern laughs, his spirits bubbling, and Martin likes the sound of it, of drinking champagne.
He likes the thought of other things as well: a new bike with proper gears, a real cricket bat, maybe even a surfboard. The family can buy a new television, a big rear-projection one. Vern is thinking bigger, saying they can stop renting, move out of their fibro house, move out of the Settlement and get a place down by Five Mile Beach where the girls can have a bedroom each. He says they could even get a new car—not a new second-hand car, but one straight off the showroom floor from up in Longton, a car that’s never been driven by anyone else before.
‘What about you, Uncle Vern? What will you buy?’
‘Me? Nothing, matey. It’s your money. Your mum won it. It’s for her; for you guys.’
‘But what about you?’
And Vern just laughs. ‘Mate, I don’t need anything. I got no wife, I got no kids. I’m happy the way I am.’
And Martin holds his hand as they cross Longton Road and he loves his uncle all the more, and quietly plots to surprise him with a new fishing rod with a gold-plated reel that glints like magic in the sun.
chapter four
Back on the street outside Speight’s real estate, Martin’s phone says it’s nine thirty-five. Another hour before he meets with Nick Poulos. He rings Mandy, but again the call goes through to voicemail. He’s considering his next move when he sees Morris Montifore approaching along the footpath. ‘Morning, Martin. Trust you’re not putting your nose in where it’s not wanted.’ The policeman’s tone is teasing, but Martin is feeling drained by his meeting with Denise Speight and burdened by memories of the murder scene. He’s not up to banter.
‘Just find his killer, Morris. Let me know if I can help.’
Montifore picks up on the seriousness of his tone. ‘Of course. Sorry. Take care of yourself.’ From the other side of the street, carrying a tray with three takeaway coffees, comes Montifore’s sidekick, Ivan Lucic. He acknowledges Martin with a grunt before following his boss into the real estate office.
A little way along The Boulevarde, Martin finds a covered arcade leading through to the beach. He passes a second-hand bookstore, a noodle bar, two empty shopfronts with Speight Real Estate FOR LEASE signs and a surf shop, and walks out onto a footpath threading its way between Norfolk Island pines above the dunes. He walks along it, then descends some concrete stairs onto the beach proper.
Someone has raked the sand. Who rakes a beach? The local council, no doubt, with some sort of tractor. But why? Why groom a beach? An old man passes, stooped over a metal detector, the skin on his back like brown leather. A memory comes to Martin of himself as a teenager, mowing the lawns of local pensioners for pocket money. Magpies would follow in his wake, searching for worms, pecking surgically at the new-mown grass. The beachcomber reminds him of the magpies. As Martin watches, he stoops, picks something up, examines it and drops it into a dillybag strung over his shoulder. Martin had forgotten all about the lawn mowing.
The man is not alone; the beach is already filling up with the glistening limbs and polished insouciance of backpackers, some dozing on their towels, some smoking, some on their phones posting envy-inspiring images to relatives still gripped by northern winters. No one seems to be talking, as if last night’s partying has emptied them of words. Out on the point below the lighthouse a gaggle of surfers float about, hoping the gentle swell might conspire to push up a rideable wave. The sky is clear and the sun is growing potent. The calendar has officially ticked over into autumn, but summer lingers here on the subtropical north coast of New South Wales. Only the quality of the light, the angle of the sun, suggests summer is ebbing. In his youth, on a Tuesday morning, on a working day, the beach would have been all but empty; just Jasper and Scotty and him, wagging school and smoking cigarettes among the dunes. No longer.
He looks again to the south. The lighthouse is the same: unchanging and judgemental, dominating the skyline atop the headland, glowing white against the blue clarity of the sky. Sprinkled below the lighthouse, Martin can see the trophy homes of the wealthy: cashed-up retirees and sea changers from Sydney and Melbourne, the holiday escapes of company directors and bankers, locals made good. Nobb Hill, they’d called it as kids. It had always been Port Silver’s premier address: brick houses in a fibro town. Now the brick is vanishing, replaced by steel and concrete, stone and stained wood, floor-to-ceiling double-glazing and decks cantilevered out high above the hoi polloi, providing views of sunrises, passing whales and the long golden arc of Town Beach to the north and Five Mile Beach to the south. Martin wonders if that’s where Jasper Speight ended up, on Nobb Hill, among the success stories of Port Silver. Martin wouldn’t be surprised; whatever Denise Speight might say about developers getting the lion’s share, real estate would generate a pretty penny in the town Port Silver is becoming.
‘Martin!’
He turns. It’s the hitchhikers, Topaz and Royce, approaching along the beach. Royce is wearing board shorts, his bare stomach washboard flat, a beach bag over his shoulder, his one-armed sunglasses at a rakish angle. But it’s Topaz who seizes Martin’s attention. She’s almost naked, her bikini no bigger than the mermaid tattooed to one side of her navel. He doesn’t quite know where to look and, as if sensing it, she sways her hips a degree or two more as she comes to a halt, her shoulders back, breasts thrust forward unapologetically.
‘Hey, what happened?’ asks Royce. ‘The filth came looking for us, checking us out. Wanted to know if you gave us a lift or not.’
‘What did you tell them?’
Royce shrugs. ‘The truth, of course. You picked us up, you dropped us off. The time of day, how you seemed. What happened?’
‘I stumbled across a murder scene a few minutes after I dropped you at the hostel.’
‘You shitting me? Murder? Here?’ Royce looks around at the serenity of the beach. ‘How heavy is that?’
‘Yeah. Thanks though. You ended up providing my alibi.’
‘Is that right? You were a suspect?’ asks Royce, sounding awestruck, as if Martin has emerged from a true-crime podcast.
‘Not for long, thanks to you two.’
‘Super,’ says Topaz. ‘You can spring for dinner some time.’ Her expression is playful, confident.
‘Sure,’ says Martin.
‘Great. See you,’ she says and saunters past. Royce smiles, raises an eyebrow above his lopsided sunnies and follows. Martin can’t help but turn and watch the
m go. Topaz’s buttocks bounce provocatively as she walks. You are pathetic, he reprimands himself.
The Port Silver Surf Life Saving Club still occupies the same prime location overlooking Town Beach, but the volunteer-built shed of Martin’s youth is gone, its cinder-block simplicity replaced by a gleaming two-storey imposition emerging from the dunes like an airport terminal. A steel-form deck stretches its entire forty-metre length, extending out across the white sands; it’s already well patronised despite the early hour. Walking towards it along the beach, Martin can see that the lower floor, in the shade of the deck, is devoted to the club’s founding purpose: open roller doors reveal old-fashioned surf boats, rope reels, surf skis: the traditional equipment of competitive surf lifesaving. Down on the beach, the equipment is more up-to-date: a jet ski gleams on a trailer behind a quad bike, ready for action. A small observation tower looks out over the red-and-yellow flags. Lifesavers in bulging red speedos preen at its base, casually flexing their muscles and checking out passing backpackers. When had they started patrolling the beach on weekdays? Are they still volunteers?
There’s no access to the deck from the beach, so Martin enters from the footpath above the dunes, the doors facing back towards The Boulevarde. The foyer is lined with honour boards, gilt writing on darkening wood, and trophy cabinets, silverware blackening in the sea air, relics from the old clubhouse, looking like museum pieces. Black-and-white photos of smiling men in outdated swimwear fade slowly in their lacquered frames, shoulder to shoulder with grainy reminders of more recent decades, men with large moustaches, hairy chests and tiny swimmers, red-and-gold caps ageing to less certain colours.
There’s a counter with the usual pads for casual visitors to sign themselves in. Instead, Martin spots a young woman reading from a device as she walks, hair tied back, dressed for an office not the beach, exuding competence. ‘Excuse me,’ he says. ‘Membership?’
‘You want to join?’
‘If I can.’
‘You local? You should be local.’
‘Yeah. Just moving here.’
She frowns.
‘Moving back, actually. Grew up here.’
Her face brightens. ‘Well, no worries then.’
‘How much?’
‘Twenty bucks for a year, fifty for three. Twenty per cent discount on all food and drink.’
Martin smiles. ‘Hard to argue with that.’
‘Three years then?’
‘Sure. The pokies must be doing well.’
‘Yeah, miserable things.’
Through the foyer, the club is one large space, its glass doors concertinaed open to allow unfettered access to the deck, the sea breeze wafting through, the atmosphere prosperous and casual. There’s an area partitioned off for the pokies up the far end, but that’s it; the rest of the room is divided into zones defined only by the occasional rubber plant and variations in the furniture: tall round tables circled by stools in front of the bar, tables and chairs for dining and coffee close by the bistro, lounge chairs facing a huge screen at the opposite end of the building to the pokies. There’s cricket on the TV, a meaningless game in Doha that no one is watching. The back of the building, towards the foyer, is fronted by a long bar and the serving counters of the bistro and a cafe. Most of the patrons are out on the deck; inside, the club is all but empty.
Martin looks at his watch. It’s not yet ten o’clock, still more than half an hour before Nick Poulos arrives—if he’s on time. Martin checks his phone. No message from his lawyer, nothing more from Mandy. He calls her, but the phone again goes straight to voicemail. No doubt she’s already deep in conversation with her lawyer even as he waits for his. Or maybe she’s with Liam—as good a reason as any to ignore a phone call. He goes to the cafe counter and orders another coffee. This time it’s cash up front and no quibbling over blends. It costs half as much and tastes just as ordinary. He takes it out onto the deck and finds a vacant table. Overlapping sections of sailcloth extend above the deck, held taut by steel cables, providing shade and colour: blues and whites and yellows. He looks out across the raked sand and sculpted bodies, up to Nobb Hill and the lighthouse and, below them, the flat-sea surfers. It might get hot later on, but here in the shade, with a slight breeze wafting off the ocean, the day seems perfect. If only Jasper Speight were here to share it with him, with a cold beer and decades of news.
His phone vibrates on the glass tabletop: a text message. Change of plan. Meet at drakes. Noon. Level 3, 18 the boulevarde. Nick. Martin shakes his head with irritation, but replies with a thumbs-up emoji and then saves the lawyer’s number into his contacts. Another two hours. He should find somewhere to have a shower and change clothes; after a night in the cell he fears he’s starting to smell, an intrusion on Port Silver’s postcard perfection. He can fetch his car, still parked outside Mandy’s townhouse with his luggage on the back seat. He can swim at the beach, shower in the change sheds. He’s finishing his coffee, plan decided, when he sees him over the rim of his cup. Vern.
His uncle is a couple of tables away, staring at him. He’s not alone, he’s facing two other men, their backs to Martin, but it’s his nephew who has commandeered his attention. Their eyes lock. Martin can’t think; this hadn’t occurred to him. Not like this.
Vern stands, walks over. ‘Martin.’
Martin stands. ‘Vern.’
‘You’re back.’
‘I’m back.’
And then, creeping across his uncle’s face like the dawn across the sea, the smile comes, small at first but growing until his lips crack open and his teeth shine forth, a smile full of happiness and welcome. ‘Martin. My boy. Welcome back, welcome back!’ And Vern steps forward, wrapping his arms around Martin, hugging him tightly. Martin can feel the strength of his uncle’s arms, the power of his chest and the depth of his feelings. He hugs him back: Vern, his one living relative.
The embrace ends. Martin can see his uncle’s companions have stopped talking, have turned to witness the scene. Vern turns to them, his voice joyful. ‘It’s Martin. My nephew. The journalist. My sister’s boy. He’s back.’ Now he’s grinning madly at Martin, slapping him on the back. His hair is flecked with grey but still thick, there are wrinkles at the corners of his eyes but his face is youthful, the skin at his throat is beginning to loosen but his blue eyes are clear and sparkling. Martin is forty-one, his uncle must be in his mid-fifties.
‘Vern,’ says Martin. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry? Sorry for what?’
‘You know for what. For everything.’
‘Piffle. Forget about it.’ Martin can’t quite believe it. Vern has every right to resent him, yet there is nothing to see in his uncle’s face except joy. ‘How long you back for?’
Martin smiles then. ‘For a while. Maybe for good.’
‘For good? Holy shit. For good?’
Martin laughs. ‘Maybe.’
‘I don’t believe it. Hard enough keeping you in the country, let alone Hicksville, New South Wales.’
‘Hicksville seems to be doing all right,’ Martin offers.
‘It’s a girl, isn’t it? Has to be.’ Vern is grinning. ‘Don’t tell me; it’s that blonde from the papers, isn’t it? That looker from down in the bush? Drop-dead gorgeous.’
Martin can’t help himself; he grins back.
‘It is? Ha, I knew it! You lucky bastard!’
Martin can feel himself starting to blush, the hardened foreign correspondent reverting to teenagerdom. He speaks, trying to sound in control. ‘Her name is Mandalay. Or Mandy. Mandy Blonde.’
‘Well, fuck me rudderless,’ exclaims Vern, clapping his nephew on the shoulder. ‘I like this Mandalay Blonde, luring you back here. When am I going to meet her? I need to buy her a drink.’
‘Soon. Soon, I hope.’
‘Good. But let me buy you a drink now. Let’s celebrate the return of the portable.’
‘Prodigal, Vern.’ Martin laughs. ‘It’s prodigal.’
But Vern has stopped smil
ing. ‘Shit. Sorry, Martin. I forgot, you don’t drink.’
‘No. It’s okay. I do a bit nowadays. Picked it up again after I finished uni, when I became a journo. But maybe not at ten in the morning.’
Vern turns to his friends, mutters a few words, then collects his coffee and the remains of a toasted sandwich. They sit at Martin’s table.
‘This has made my day, Martin. Fuck, it’s made my year. I’m so glad to see you.’
‘Me too, Vern. I’m glad to see you. I’m sorry I’ve been such a self-centred arsehole. You deserve better.’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’
But of course he does. And Martin knows it too. It was Vern, aged twenty-one, who had become the emotional bedrock for an eight-year-old Martin. It was Vern—who had left school officially at fifteen, unofficially at twelve, who could barely read or write—who had eventually housed him and supported him and insisted he finish his last two years of school. And it was Vern, full of love and pride, who had sent money as Martin worked his way through university. Vern, whom Martin had then cut adrift. The gun reporter, self-obsessed and determined to put Port Silver and its grief behind him, determined to build his career, who had hardly thanked his uncle, receiving birthday cards and Christmas cards but rarely responding, embarrassed by their ill-formed letters and childish spelling. Later, after university, when he was financially independent, the cards still came. After a time, they came addressed care of the Sydney Morning Herald because Vern no longer knew his home address. And yet still they came. At one point, wanting to forget, wanting to leave Port Silver permanently behind him, Martin had sent a cheque, a repayment, some restitution for all his uncle had done for him. Vern never cashed it, but the cards had stopped. Martin looks into Vern’s eyes, those kind blue eyes, and wonders how he could ever have been so relentlessly thoughtless.