Silver

by Chris Hammer

  Martin moves closer to the young man, keeping his voice low. ‘She’s in hospital, Royce. Here or in Brisbane.’ And Martin recounts as quickly as he can what occurred at Hummingbird. Well before he’s finished, Royce has looked away and is staring at a wall, shaking his head. ‘I don’t fucking believe it. She knows how to handle drugs.’

  Martin doesn’t know how to respond to that.

  ‘Come on. I’ll get dressed. We can find her.’

  ‘No, don’t get dressed,’ says Martin. ‘The place is crawling with cops and security; they’ll kick us out. Leave your gown on, lean on me. If they think you belong here, they won’t challenge us.’

  Royce looks at him approvingly. ‘Good thinking.’ There’s a pole on wheels by the entry to the ward, a fresh bag of saline attached to its top. Royce commandeers it, looping the bag’s tube around his arm. But they don’t need to go far. Just the next ward. Four beds, four women, curtains surrounding the beds drawn back. When lives are at risk, privacy comes a distant second.

  ‘Topaz,’ whispers Royce. He’s seen her in one of the beds closest to the door, asleep or unconscious or comatose, a monitor tapping time to the slow beat of her heart. He moves to her, the pole and Martin forgotten. ‘Topaz?’ He sits on her bed, reaches out, strokes her hair.

  Two of the other beds also contain sleeping women, but the occupant of the final bed is awake and sitting up, staring out the adjacent window. Jay Jay Hayes. Martin walks to her, sits next to her on a plastic chair, back to the door.

  She turns to him. ‘Hello, Martin,’ she says.

  ‘Jay Jay. How you feeling?’

  ‘Fucking awful. They pumped my stomach. Filled me up with charcoal.’ She’s clearly upset, her hands kneading the blanket. There are tears in her eyes when she looks back up. ‘Is it true? Did people die?’ She must see the answer in his expression, closing her eyes, dread creasing her face. ‘My God. How many?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Seven? Oh no. Who?’

  Martin reaches out, takes her hand. It’s trembling. ‘Garth McGrath. A man, two devotees, a young couple.’ At the thought of the young lovers, so innocent and so dead, his own eyes start to tear. ‘And Swami Hawananda.’

  ‘Dev? Oh God.’ Her eyes are wide with the horror of it, the death of her lover. ‘He’s passed?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘And you were there? You saw?’

  ‘Afterwards. With Nick Poulos and the SES. We helped. Did what we could.’

  Jay Jay nods, eyes hollow. ‘I see.’

  ‘What happened, Jay Jay? What went wrong?’

  ‘I have no idea. The potion was poisoned. Spiked. That’s all I can think of. A mistake. A tragedy.’

  ‘The punch is always spiked. Everyone knows it.’

  ‘No.’ Her eyes are filled with conviction. ‘No. Dev is—was—always so careful. Controlled the amounts, made sure everyone knew what they were doing, what they were taking.’

  ‘Which was what?’

  ‘Alcohol. That’s all it was, mixed with spices. He may have added drugs in the past, but not recently. After Garth turned up and the media followed, I spoke to him. He saw the risk. So in recent months it was just grog, spices and fruit juice.’

  Martin grimaces. ‘No. I was there on Thursday night, remember? People were taking more than just alcohol.’

  Jay Jay sighs. ‘You’re right. There are still drugs—weed and pills and whatever—but that doesn’t mean he was supplying them.’

  ‘Not just party drugs. There was Rohypnol, or something similar.’

  The dismay hasn’t left Jay Jay’s face, but now it has a focus. ‘The date rape drug? On Thursday? Are you sure?’ Her voice has softened to a whisper.

  ‘Yes. I was affected. So was Topaz. So was Garth McGrath. Maybe others.’

  Jay Jay shakes her head in disbelief. ‘I was there on Thursday. I didn’t have any.’ A line creases her forehead, confusion gathers at the corner of her eyes. ‘Garth? Why would he back up the very next night?’ She looks across the ward. ‘And Topaz? She was there both nights as well.’

  Martin follows her gaze: Topaz is still unconscious, Royce sitting on her bed, holding her hand, whispering to her. It’s a good question: why indeed? He turns back to Jay Jay Hayes. The tears have escaped her eyes, are rolling down her cheeks. She wipes at them messily, smearing her face with the back of her hand. He looks at her; she’s grief-stricken, the reality of her lover’s death gouging her emotions. He knows he should leave her to mourn, or stay and comfort her. Those are the decent options. Instead he persists, knowing he may not get another chance. ‘Has anything like that ever happened before with Rohypnol?’

  She nods. ‘It did. Just the once that I know of. A month or two ago. I only heard about it afterwards.’ She looks down, breaking eye contact. ‘Same thing, just a few people affected.’

  ‘Is it possible that the swami was not being completely honest with you?’

  ‘Dev?’ Her eyes flare, momentarily defensive. ‘No. No way. And whoever was spiking drinks with rohies, it can’t have been in the potion.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘If it was, everyone would have been affected.’

  ‘Who was affected the first time?’

  She looks up at him, offers a smile, out of place on her ravaged face. ‘There’s a rule: what happens at Hummingbird stays at Hummingbird.’

  ‘You think that’s going to cut it with the police?’

  The smile fades. ‘No. That was Garth’s rule. But he’s dead now.’

  ‘So who was affected?’ he asks again.

  ‘Garth. Jasper Speight.’ And now she does look up at him. ‘And maybe your girlfriend, Mandalay.’

  That stops him dead, derailing his line of thought. Mandy at Hummingbird Beach. With Jasper; with Garth. His chest feels constricted; for a moment it’s hard to breathe. Jay Jay had said before that Mandy had been at Hummingbird, but he’d pushed it aside, glossed over it, telling himself she’d just been there to check out the scene, not to participate. Christ. He presses on, pushing his emotions down into a box like he has done so many times before, suppressing them, reverting to intellect alone, like a pilot on one engine.

  ‘As you say, it sounds as if the Rohypnol is unconnected,’ he continues. ‘Both times, just a few people affected, no one poisoned. But this time everyone was poisoned. The potion is the obvious vector. Who made it?’

  ‘Dev. He serves it from a ceremonial bowl.’

  ‘I can’t remember that. Not on Thursday night.’

  ‘No, the potion is only dispensed every second Friday, at the end of a two-week intensive. He ladles it into small glasses from his bowl. It’s meant to be a release after two weeks of abstinence, a celebration of re-entering the world.’

  ‘He was there on Thursday. There was no bowl, but he was doling out something from a big Coke bottle. I had some.’

  Jay Jay cracks a weak smile. ‘What can I say? He liked to party.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah. There wouldn’t have been any of the intensive people there, not on Thursday. You’d remember them. They’d all have henna symbols on their foreheads by then. They get bigger as the fortnight passes.’

  Martin thinks for a moment, trawling his suspect memory. He remembers the guru sitting in a lotus position, opposite a pretty girl, but he can’t remember any markings on her face.

  ‘So who got this potion of his? Only those doing the course?’

  ‘No. They went first, then anyone who wanted to could join in. The idea was the participants were re-entering the world, so it helped if the world was partaking. I think that was the theory. On the off weeks, there’d always be a party. It wasn’t really connected to him, but he often showed up. Just like Thursday.’

  ‘So, there are two types of parties? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘I guess. The ceremony took place every fortnight. At first it was just the swami and a couple of followers, then people camping started joining in.
Then word got out and people would bus in from the hostel in town. So now there’s a party every Friday, even on the alternate weeks when the intensive people don’t participate.’

  ‘But the swami would still attend?’

  ‘Most times. He was a bit of a drawcard.’ She smiles momentarily, as if some fond memory has come to her.

  ‘So who organised these parties?’

  ‘No one. They just became a regular thing.’

  ‘But a bus would come out from the hostel—driven by Harry Drake junior.’

  Jay Jay nods, frowning. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did Harry supply drugs?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure, but the people from the hostel are always out of it, more than anyone else. So probably.’

  Martin lowers his voice, attempting tact, knowing he fails. ‘The police will wonder if the swami did it on purpose.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Murder. Suicide. Some elements of the media are already reporting it that way.’

  She shakes her head, keeps shaking it, expressing her disbelief long after he gets the message, as if to convince herself as much as him. ‘No. There was no sign. Nothing like that. He said he wanted to stay at Hummingbird for the long term.’

  ‘Where did he mix the potion? In the communal kitchen?’

  ‘No. Up at his retreat or in his cabin, by himself. He’d bring it down in a big Coke bottle, like the one you saw, then pour it into the bowl.’ She’s about to continue when some thought comes to her, causing her to lift both hands to her mouth, eyes wide. ‘He told me someone had been going through his things.’

  ‘When? Yesterday?’

  ‘No. A week or two ago.’

  ‘You should tell the police. They’ll want to know.’ She nods. ‘But tell me: two parties in two nights; two drug parties in two nights. Is that usual?’

  ‘No. I can’t remember that happening before.’

  ‘Do you think he was genuine?’ Martin asks.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Martin is recalling the swami, dressed in street clothes, wearing a Panama hat, meeting with Tyson St Clair in Longton. ‘Did he believe in what he was doing?’

  She smiles wryly. ‘Absolutely. He was very genuine. He helped me.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Meditation. Reflection. Forgiveness.’

  Martin glances out the window. Put like that, it sounds almost attractive. ‘So he was the real thing?’

  ‘In his own way. Unorthodox, but sincere.’

  ‘Unorthodox how?’

  ‘After I quit surfing, I spent a bit of time in India, at ashrams. Trying to find myself.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Didn’t do me any harm, except for the dysentery.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with him?’

  ‘He’s not from that heritage. He’s got a few chants, but none of the scriptures. If he’d trained under a guru, he’d have been more like the rest of them. But that doesn’t mean he was a fraud.’

  ‘I guess not,’ says Martin, deciding not to debate the definition of fraud.

  They sit in silence for a while, each consumed by their own thoughts.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing in here?’ It’s Morris Montifore, standing in the doorway, angry and indignant.

  ‘Morris, I need to tell you something,’ says Martin, standing.

  ‘No you don’t,’ hisses Montifore, taking him by the arm and leading him out into the corridor. ‘Get this straight: we are not on speaking terms, you don’t call me by my first name, and as sure as fuck you don’t ring my mobile.’

  ‘I’m trying to help.’

  ‘By infiltrating a crime scene and then reporting it in the Herald? You told me you were done with journalism.’

  ‘I saved a life at that crime scene.’

  Montifore stops, stilled by anger. ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘What?’

  Montifore stares at his shoes, as if counting to ten. He calms down a little. ‘Okay. Tell me. What is so important?’

  ‘The drug parties. They’ve been going for months. Sometimes just alcohol and marijuana. Sometimes ecstasy. But maybe not supplied by the swami, not recently.’

  ‘We know.’

  ‘I was at one Thursday night. There was something else. Rohypnol.’

  That gets Montifore’s attention. ‘You can’t know that for sure.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I know how you can find out. I was here yesterday. At this hospital. Me and that comatose young woman in there, the one with the doting boyfriend. Her name is Topaz. They took blood samples from us. You have my permission to test mine. I’ll give you written permission if you need it. Compare it with whatever you’ve got from last night.’

  Montifore sees the logic. ‘You’re suggesting that this was an escalation, two nights in a row?’

  ‘Maybe. Or maybe totally unconnected.’ He’s about to go on, to tell the policeman about the previous incident, then decides against it. Jasper and Mandy together at Hummingbird: that’s not a fact he wants to drop into the bear trap mind of Montifore.

  The detective doesn’t pick up on Martin’s hesitation. ‘Okay. Good. But leave now. You can’t be here.’ The instruction is clear, but his voice has softened, lost its acrimony.

  Martin goes to move, then says, ‘I need to take that guy with me. They’ve discharged him, given his bed away.’

  ‘Okay. Get him quick. And Martin?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That boy on the beach—the one you saved. Thank you. I didn’t see him.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Montifore nods, a curt, almost imperceptible expression of gratitude.

  Martin re-enters the ward. ‘C’mon, Royce, we need to get going.’

  ‘Can’t I stay with her?’

  Martin shrugs. ‘I suppose. But you’ll still need to get changed and collect your stuff. They’re taking your bed.’

  Outside, in the car park, the day is hot and growing hotter. There is no wind, no sea breeze, not even a dry exhalation from the hinterland. Summer is extending its reach, stretching into March, its power undiminished.

  Martin sees Doug Thunkleton hovering and retreats into the shade of a jacaranda tree. He punches a name into his phone, calls the number. Jack Goffing. ASIO agent. The two men bonded during the investigations down in Riversend, each helping the other out of difficult situations. Maybe Jack can help now.

  ‘Martin. I see you’re back in the thick of it.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You’ve seen the news reports?’

  ‘Australia’s Jonestown?’

  ‘Jesus. We used that?’

  ‘Who hasn’t?’

  ‘Jack, about the dead swami—Dev Hawananda—he used to dole out this potion at the parties. He might have poisoned it, or someone else might have tampered with it. You know what I’m talking about?’

  ‘Yeah. I read your story, among others. Good job, by the way.’

  ‘Is it possible he’s a fake?’

  ‘You mean not actually divine?’

  Martin can hear the sardonic barb in the intelligence officer’s comment, but he shares none of Goffing’s amusement: he was there, he saw the dead and the dying. ‘No, I mean not actually a swami. Is there any way to check him out, to see if he was who he claimed to be? Maybe check out his background in India?’

  There’s a pause. Then: ‘Morris Montifore is there. Tell him your suspicions. You don’t need me.’

  ‘Montifore is run off his feet, head like a pressure cooker. I can’t get near him and, if I did, he’s likely to explode. If you find something, then I guarantee I’ll pass it on to him.’

  ‘Before or after you publish?’ The amused tone has returned to Goffing’s voice.

  ‘Before, of course. I’d want his quote.’

  This time Goffing laughs aloud. ‘Okay, I’ll see what I can do. But you do realise it’s a Saturday? You’re lucky I�
�m going in to work this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, and Jack, one other thing.’ It has come to him as an afterthought. ‘There’s a young couple here—an Australian called Royce McAlister and his American girlfriend, Topaz Throssel. They’re young, in their twenties. There’s something not quite right there.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘They got caught out trying to extort money. The boyfriend says Topaz knows her way around drugs, but she was at the Hummingbird parties on Thursday and Friday nights. She’s in hospital now, comatose and on a drip.’

  Goffing doesn’t speak at first. With anyone else Martin might grow impatient, but he’s learnt to value the intelligence man’s cautious assessments. ‘I don’t get it,’ he says finally. ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Past criminality. Any convictions. Maybe this whole disaster is a result of some scam gone wrong.’

  ‘Have you told Montifore?’

  ‘I don’t have anything to tell him. Not yet.’

  Goffing promises to do what he can and ends the call.

  Martin starts to walk away, but doesn’t get far before he’s intercepted by Doug Thunkleton, camera crew hovering with intent. ‘That was smooth. How did you get in?’ asks the TV newsman, flicking his head towards the hospital.

  ‘Native charm.’

  ‘You got time for a quick interview?’

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait until after the press conference?’

  Thunkleton glances at his watch, frowns. ‘I guess you’re right. Straight afterwards then?’

  ‘Sure. Just come find me.’

  Martin looks as Thunkleton rejoins the pack. It’s growing larger by the minute as more and more journalists arrive from Sydney and interstate. It’s the biggest story in the land and getting bigger. It’s in his nostrils; he has got the scent. He wants to get to Port Silver as fast as he can, to stay focused, to chase down the facts and spread them to the world. First he finds Bethanie, confirms she will cover the press conference. Then he hurries back to his car and, muffler growling, drives towards the escarpment and Port Silver.

  But the road won’t indulge him: it cares nothing for stories and deadlines and journalistic egos. It’s too narrow, there’s too much traffic percolating up through its hairpin bends, there’s nowhere to overtake. He finds himself stuck behind a semitrailer grinding its way down the mountain in first gear. Tyson St Clair is right about one thing: Port Silver is not going to get much bigger without a new access road. Just when he thinks he couldn’t be moving any more slowly, the truck wheezes to a stop altogether, air brakes hissing. Hesitantly, Martin pulls out, contemplating overtaking, but then sees the issue. Below them, another truck, the twin of the one in front of him, is coming up the mountain. It’s negotiating a precarious three-point turn around a hairpin corner, a helpful motorist waving directions to the driver. Martin pulls back in, stops and turns his hazard lights on. This is going to take forever: first the truck coming up, then the one in front of him going down; it will need to execute the same manoeuvre to get around the corner—and then the two or three hairpins below that. Martin lets out a sigh, tries to convince himself it doesn’t matter, that he’s not on deadline. But the lack of motion tugs at his focus, at his single-minded pursuit. He wants to concentrate on the poisoning, he wants to question the swami’s bona fides, he wants to ascertain the source of the Rohypnol, he wants to ponder the mysterious disappearance of Amory Ashton, he wants to speculate about Royce and Topaz and the role played by Harry the Lad. He wants to think about anything other than Mandy at Hummingbird with Jasper and Garth. But the traffic is stopped; there is no escape. Jay Jay’s revelation has sprung back out of its box, no longer compartmentalised. What does it mean? That Mandy’s been unfaithful? Had she misled him and Winifred about the fight with Jasper at the lifesavers? Had she lied to the police? Back in Riversend, she’d also been slow with the truth, about her relationship with the homicidal priest. He’d been blinded by her beauty, believing her. But that was then, back before she knew him, back before they were lovers, back before they’d started planning a future together. Surely it was different now. But why hadn’t she told him she’d been to Hummingbird? Instead, she’d slapped his face after she learnt he spent the night there. And now he can’t ask Jasper, he can’t ask Garth, and the thought of confronting her turns his stomach.