by Chris Hammer
The young policewoman is there, the video camera operator. Her voice is urgent, no-nonsense, addressing the paramedics. ‘Down there by the beach, where the lights are. The Port Silver crew have set up triage.’ She turns to the SES volunteers. ‘Phil, good timing. You blokes help the ambos. Do whatever they want.’ The ambulance officers, a man and a woman, are already pulling gear from their vehicle: oxygen bottles, a defibrillator, bags of equipment, stretchers. The SES team load up and head towards the pool of light under the open shelter, down by the beach, Martin with them.
They descend into a painting by Hieronymus Bosch: some people dressed, others half naked; some wandering in shock, others being violently ill; some helping others, others helpless. They pass Harry the Lad, eyes glazed and passive, being led by the hand up towards the car park. Johnson Pear is in charge, assisted by the middle-aged couple Martin recalls from the beach, no longer naked, no longer smiling. The man is standing, gazing around with a dazed look, but the woman is all business. There is a single paramedic here; the Port Silver ambulance must already be ferrying victims to Longton, leaving her. A man with dreadlocks is kneeling beside a young woman, holding her hand, talking to her even though the girl appears to be unconscious. As Martin watches, she goes into spasms, some sort of convulsion. The ambulance officers don’t hesitate, moving to take over straight away. All around other bodies are strewn. At least half-a-dozen are unconscious, others are awake but incoherent, muttering and rambling. Martin can see Topaz and Jay Jay among the unconscious, plus a couple of other faces familiar from the previous night. There is the smell of vomit, of shit. A young man starts screaming something and Lee moves to him, crouches, trying to calm him, trying to reason with him through the veil of drugs.
‘You lot,’ says Pear to the remaining SES volunteers. ‘Two of you help the ambulance officers. Help get the most serious cases to the ambulance. Phil, you driving?’
‘Yep,’ says Phil.
‘Right. Tell the ambos. If they want you to drive less severe cases to Longton Hospital, you do it, okay?’ Pear doesn’t wait for a response, turning to Nick and Martin. ‘You two?’ He hesitates, but only for a split second. ‘You have torches? Phones?’
Martin and Nick reply in unison: ‘Yes.’
‘Right. Search the beach, the tents, the cabins. People may have wandered off, become disorientated, passed out. You need to find them, get them back here.’
‘What about those guys?’ asks Martin. Over to one side, lying beyond the shelter at the edge of the spray of light, are the dark humps of four people.
‘Too late. Leave them.’
‘Okay, listen up!’ It’s one of the ambulance officers, a young woman, her voice clear and authoritative. ‘They’ve overdosed from drinking something. They may be getting worse, not better. They need to void, get any remaining substance out of their stomach. Anyone who is still conscious, get them to throw up. Fingers down the throat, sea water, whatever it takes.’
Pear turns his back on Nick and Martin, returns to assist the living.
‘Beach first,’ says Nick, ‘then we search the cabins and tents.’
‘Split up?’ asks Martin.
‘No. If we find someone, we’ll need to carry them back here as quickly as possible.’
‘Right. Beach first.’ But before Nick can respond Martin has walked across to the four dark shapes spread on the ground, away from the frantic rescue attempts. In the dim light, he can see their faces, devoid of life: the swami, Garth McGrath, a young woman and an old man, shirt ripped where someone has attempted to resuscitate him. The last two still have red-brown bindis smudged across their foreheads.
‘Shit,’ says Nick.
A voice penetrates their thoughts: Johnson Pear. ‘Get going, you guys. The chopper will be back any time.’
They head away from the pool of light, down onto the beach, the waves maintaining their metronomic rhythm, unhurried by the drama unfolding on land. In the half-light spilling from the shelter, Martin can see someone across the sand, standing by the remnants of a fire. ‘Look,’ he says to Nick Poulos. As they walk towards the figure, it turns on a torch, sweeping the sand, shining the beam directly at them.
‘Woah,’ says Nick, ‘you’re blinding us.’
The light drops. ‘What are you two doing here?’ Martin recognises the voice: Morris Montifore.
‘SES,’ says Nick. ‘Pear sent us searching for more victims. You seen any?’
‘No,’ says Montifore. ‘I haven’t looked.’
Martin looks past Montifore. The fire, still burning, red coals glowing below orange-yellow flames. Logs and stumps still surround it, where people have been sitting. All around, the detritus of a party: empty plastic cups, water bottles, pieces of clothing. An empty wooden bowl, banded with gold. The smell of vomit.
‘Don’t go anywhere near the fire,’ says Montifore. ‘It’s a crime scene.’
A new noise imposes itself in a rush, a helicopter bursting into view above the headland, spotlight scouring the sand. It catches them in its blinding glare, Montifore waving it away from the fire. At first Martin thinks it’s media, but then he sees a figure winching down, helmet and goggles. The man unbuckles as Montifore runs to him. The man nods his comprehension, talks into his shoulder, guides the chopper in to land at the western end of the beach, away from the fire.
‘Look!’ says Nick Poulos. ‘There.’
And Martin can see it too. At the opposite end of the beach, up towards the point, a dark shape, a body lying prone, down by the water. They run towards it.
It’s two o’clock in the morning. Mandy has let him back into the cabin, persuaded by the urgency in his voice, the magnitude of the story and his need for electricity. The television is on, the sound muted. Martin is on the phone, his voice hushed but intense, relaying the facts to the Sydney newsroom as quickly as he can. Terri Preswell has gone home, Bethanie Glass is in the air, but Martin knows the man on the other end of the phone well. Cormac Connors, a true newspaperman, volunteering to coordinate the breaking story. Martin recounts the salient information as best he can. As many as seven people believed dead, including Swami Hawananda and Garth McGrath. Martin can hear Connors’ sharp intake of breath. The death of the soapie star is like pouring petrol on the bonfire; the huge story just got exponentially bigger.
‘You sure about McGrath? Your source is reliable?’
‘I’m the source. He’s dead. I saw his body with my own eyes.’
‘Okay. So the police haven’t released any names?’
‘No, I wouldn’t think so.’
‘Right. I’ll need to call Terri. It’s her call if she wants to run with it before relatives are notified. I’ll call you right back.’
Mandy is watching him from the bedroom doorway, her arms crossed, her face creased with concern. They stare at each other across the abyss of the lounge. Martin can’t see what she’s thinking, can’t divine her feelings.
The phone rings. It’s Terri Preswell. ‘Martin. Tell me what you know.’
He recounts the events of the evening.
‘You have absolutely no doubt it was Garth McGrath?’
‘None.’
‘Okay. Fuck the formalities. We can’t sit on it. He’s a public figure. We go with it.’
‘Your call,’ says Martin.
‘Your by-line,’ says Terri.
‘I’m okay with that.’
‘Good man. So what happened up there? What are the police saying?’
‘It’s definitely poisoning. Either a drug party gone wrong or murder. Or a murder-suicide. We need to canvass all possibilities. The police will be thinking along the same lines.’ He quickly recounts Montifore guarding the fire and the aftermath of the party surrounding it.
‘Photos?’ asks Terri.
‘Couldn’t. The police were there. They only let me stay because I was with the SES, helping.’
‘Okay, here’s how we’re going to play it. We’ll get a story up asap; Cormac can write it. The lead
will be seven believed dead, up to a dozen more airlifted out or taken by ambulance. A drug party gone wrong or a murder-suicide, with the finger pointed at the dead swami. We’ll run it with your by-line. Cormac will ring and read it back to you before it goes out. But we’ll leave McGrath out for now; no one will be reading at this hour except our competitors. I want to leave that until about seven or eight am, so everyone knows it’s our exclusive. Can you file that story? You have your laptop?’
‘Yep.’
‘Good. I want a news piece and your first-hand account. The competitors will scavenge the news report in no time, but your first-hand account, being there, that will set us apart. You good with that?’
‘Sure. Cops won’t like it.’
‘Sure as shit won’t. Does that bother you?’
‘No.’
The editor laughs. ‘Good to hear you’re still one of us. Call me on the mobile when you’re filing. I’m going to head back in.’
Martin is smiling when he hangs up, amused by Terri’s compliment. Then he sees Mandy, arms crossed tightly, frowning. She shakes her head. ‘Seven people dead. And you’re smiling.’ She turns on her heel, closes the door of the bedroom behind her.
Martin wonders what to do, how he can explain, then concludes that two o’clock in the morning is not the right time to try. Instead, he gets out his laptop and starts writing.
He’s finished by four but sleeps only fitfully after that on the lumpy lounge, his phone ringing every half an hour or so: subeditors checking facts. And Bethanie will be arriving at Longton, wanting to meet. He shuts his eyes to gather his strength for a moment, only to be shaken awake. He opens his eyes. Mandy.
It’s morning and she has a cup of coffee for him.
He sits up. His neck hurts. Sun is pouring in through the windows. The first taste of coffee makes him want to believe in God.
‘Thanks,’ he says, searching her face.
‘I read your story,’ she says. ‘You saved that boy’s life.’
She hands him her iPad.
A sub has given his first-hand account a suitably emotive headline.
WE FOUGHT DEATH IN THE NIGHT
By Martin Scarsden at Hummingbird Beach
We found him on the beach. Dying, alone in the dark.
The waves were lapping at his feet, death just moments away. He was beginning to convulse, going into cardiac arrest. We thought we were too late.
I don’t know his name. It didn’t matter then, it doesn’t matter now …
He looks up at Mandy. She isn’t smiling, but she seems calm. ‘Go on. Do what you have to do. We can talk when it’s over.’ She turns away, then back again. ‘And for God’s sake, have a shower and change your clothes.’
But Martin doesn’t move. He scans down to the last lines of his story, wishing it might be different, as if somehow he might have dreamt it.
We found them inside their cabin, still entwined, still in love.
But we were too late.
Not everyone could be saved.
chapter twenty-two
Longton hospital is under siege, the car park churning with camera crews and photographers, radio journos and television link trucks, a moving clot of ambition, hungry for facts, ravenous for news. With Hummingbird Beach locked down, the crime scene inaccessible, the media have congealed here outside the hospital where half-a-dozen people are fighting for their lives. It’s life and death and it’s live to air, news as it happens, when it happens, the news you need right now.
Martin circles the scene, searching for somewhere to park. He leaves the Corolla a block away, in the sun, unable to find anything closer. He should have known it would be like this. If any news outlet had hesitated to send reporters, that hesitation had been quickly erased by his own stories, now metastasising across the country and around the world. A religious cult, drug-fuelled orgies, seven dead, a television star. Plus the X factor: the mystery surrounding what happened and who was responsible. It doesn’t get much bigger than that. The British, with their peculiar penchant for Australian television soaps, have gone nuclear; Garth McGrath, star of Paradise Waters, is dead at thirty-four, victim of a sex and drug cult. Unconstrained by any jurisdictional concerns, the London tabloids are already spiralling towards absurdity, competing with social media to vent the most ludicrous, salacious and far-fetched theories. Social media itself has turned feral, with blurry phone shots of the death scene multiplying, spawning fakes and dark humour. A mound of floral tributes is building outside the hospital entrance, climbing up the plain brick sign reading LONGTON BASE HOSPITAL. A group of middle-aged women huddle tearfully by the tribute, supporting each other in their grief, surrounded by hungry lenses.
‘Martin Scarsden, well met.’ He turns towards the voice, a voice resonant with timbre and authority. Doug Thunkleton, television reporter. ‘Should have known you’d have the jump on the rest of us.’
‘Hi, Doug.’
‘Fantastic piece. Fucking brilliant.’
‘Thanks. You back on news?’
‘Johnny-on-the-spot, just like you. I got some terrific stuff.’
‘You got in?’
‘Didn’t have to. Got the best of the phone footage, plus an interview with the hippie who filmed it.’
‘Right. So what’s happening now?’
‘Medical staff promising a press conference at ten. An update on the victims. Latest we’ve heard, there are four still critical, four serious, a dozen more in for observation. A couple airlifted to Brisbane, but the rest they’ll treat here.’
‘Why Brisbane?’
‘Closer than Sydney.’
Martin turns back to look at the hospital. There’s a policeman and a security guard standing at the entrance. ‘Anyone getting in?’
‘Not a chance. We tried dressing a cameraman as a male nurse. No luck.’
‘Chequebook?’
‘What do you take me for?’
‘Didn’t work, huh?’
‘Nah. So we’re all stuck out here waiting. I’ve heard it’s bedlam in there. They’re discharging anyone they can, just to make room.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. We’re doorstopping people as they leave.’
‘Getting anything?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘Okay. Thanks, Doug. See you round.’
‘Hey, Martin, while we’re waiting, any chance of knocking off a quick interview? As far as I know, you’re the only journo who made it into Hummingbird Beach.’
Martin sighs. It’s the last thing he needs. ‘Sure, mate, but let’s make it a bit later.’
He has only gone a few steps when another voice bails him up. ‘Martin!’ It’s Bethanie Glass.
‘Bethanie. Didn’t take you long to get here. Get any sleep?’
‘Not a lot. You have anything new?’
‘No. You?’
‘Nope. I went down to the commune, but it’s sealed off, no access. Then I came up here. Have you spoken to Terri?’
‘Not this morning.’
‘You should. She’s singing your praises. Loves your pieces. Wants you to stay with us. You should call her. Get a good rate out of her while you’re still in favour.’ Bethanie smiles.
‘Thanks. I will.’
‘How do you want to play this?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Division of labour.’
‘Well, one of us needs to stay here for this press conference.’
‘I’ll do it,’ says Bethanie. ‘You’re the one with the local contacts.’
‘Thanks, Bethanie. Joint by-lines?’
‘Absolutely.’
Martin looks at the hospital, at the security guard and police officer. ‘I’ll see you in a moment.’ He walks across to the entrance.
‘You media?’ asks the beefy-looking security guard, puffed up by the importance of his role.
‘I’m a local. Port Silver,’ says Martin, deflecting the question. ‘I’ve come to help a mate. He’s being discharged.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Royce McAlister. Got in a brawl down at the beach the other day. He’s been in for observation.’
‘Is that where you got that shiner?’
‘Yeah. I tried to break it up.’
‘Wait here,’ says the security officer and moves inside.
Martin turns to the policeman. ‘You a local?’
‘Glenn Innes,’ says the constable.
‘Didn’t think I recognised you. Long way to come to guard a door.’
‘You’re telling me. Sooner I’m out of here the better.’
‘Must be under control by now. You won’t be here much longer.’
The policeman regards him warily. ‘I wouldn’t know.’
The security guard re-emerges, addresses the constable. ‘Yeah, he’s good.’ And then to Martin, ‘Follow me.’
Martin trails the security guard through the foyer to the reception desk. There is a hum of efficiency, of things being done, of well-controlled urgency; a complete contrast to the provincial inertia of the previous day and the chaos at Hummingbird during the night.
‘You’re here for Royce McAlister?’ asks an older nurse in a voice of matronly command.
‘That’s right.’
‘Good. Follow me.’
Royce is sitting up in bed. He doesn’t look surprised to see Martin, and doesn’t look surprised when the nurse announces his friend is here to pick him up. ‘Good on you, mate,’ says Royce.
‘I’ll let you get dressed and collect your stuff. Sign out at the desk downstairs when you go,’ says the nurse.
They wait till she’s gone before either of them speaks.
‘What the fuck is going on around here?’ whispers Royce. He points across the ward. ‘There was an old bloke there this morning. They kicked him out, put that girl in there as soon as his wife turned up.’ Martin looks across at the young woman sleeping peacefully, monitors connected, two separate IV drips feeding her arm. ‘It’s a blokes’ ward,’ whispers Royce. ‘But they put her in here, told me I had to leave, to find someone to collect me. I’ve been calling Topaz. I saw her yesterday and she said we were leaving. Now she’s not answering.’