Safe Harbour

by Helene Young

  The computer took its time starting up. The ageing machine didn’t have much life left in it. Truth was he didn’t use it often since the Queensland police department provided him with state-of-the-art equipment, which of course was connected to a system that made it impossible to go searching without leaving a trail.

  When he’d googled Tyrone Hillsmith today he’d expected to find something, but there were no hits. Based on the fact the man played a mean guitar solo and was easy company, Noah was prepared to trust his instincts and allow him to stay at Darcy’s house. It wasn’t uncommon to release someone into community care, but he’d never had to do it in the Cove before. When Darcy rang with her suggestion, his initial reaction had been to say no. He’d weighed up the options and decided it might help jog Tyrone’s memory, and maybe even give Darcy some closure on the night.

  Tyrone had volunteered his fingerprints and they’d come back clean. That helped allay Noah’s fears. Right now, though, he wanted answers. Tyrone’s history seemed a little too pure for him. He wondered whether they’d fished an undercover cop out of the ocean. The lack of a real address, a boat without an owner, a man with no memory – it all added up to a false identity, and Tyrone had the fitness and the attitude to be an undercover officer. But surely the force would have claimed him by now?

  Unless of course the guy was in the middle of something big that might still work out favourably for the police. In which case they’d hang him out to dry until they got the result. Undercovers often ended up as pawns – Noah had stayed well clear for that very reason. Besides, lying wasn’t something that came easily to him.

  The computer finally connected to the wifi and he started searching news stories. Two beers and two hours later he gave up. Nothing. The ABC homepage had a breaking news banner scrolling across the top. Another high-profile young sport star had been caught up in a brawl down in Sydney. Noah knew that an incident like this could see the player suspended or off contract and his sponsors may well abandon him. How did they expect kids who were often barely literate to cope with the pressure of the public adulation, and the six figure salaries?

  He knew what it felt like to lose a team. The emptiness left behind by the disbanding of his SERT crew could easily have been filled by alcohol and a destructive rage. But it hadn’t. He checked his watch. Time for bed or he’d be wrecked again tomorrow.

  Sleep eluded him and he squinted at the red digits on the clock radio. Three a.m. Dragging the sheet higher he tried to get comfortable. Car lights swept across the venetian blinds. His bedroom was behind the office, the window facing the side yard.

  ‘What now?’ he muttered, as his feet touched the carpet. No one usually came looking for him at this time of night. And they’d call first anyway. A dark-coloured vehicle was parked across his driveway, engine idling. Toyota LandCruiser. The car’s glossy bodywork glistened in the moonlight. He couldn’t see anyone and he wasn’t about to the open the front door. He snagged his Taser then peered out the back window. He’d seen first hand the damage a gun could do in a volatile situation. No sign of anyone in the yard and they’d have had to scale the fence to get there anyway.

  He heard footsteps on the gravel down the side. Someone was trying to walk quietly back to the front of the house. He couldn’t see any movement from the window in the spare bedroom. He strode back to the front door, weaving around the couch in the living room. A car door slammed and he wrenched his own front door open in time to see the vehicle make a sedate U-turn and drive away up the street. Its lights were off now, the number plate invisible in the gloom.

  ‘What the hell?’ he murmured, rubbing a hand over his chin. With the security lights on and a four-cell Maglite in his hand, he checked the perimeter. Next-door’s snappy little dog didn’t even bother to wake.

  He fingered the slit flyscreen on the closed guestroom window. They’d done nothing more than some annoying damage. Why would anyone try to break into the policeman’s house?

  The size of the car and the controlled way it drove off told him it wasn’t kids out joyriding. He’d come down pretty hard on the Larsens the other night; surely one of the elders wasn’t making mischief? He tried to recall the vehicles that belonged to them. Couldn’t imagine anyone in the family having the funds to hire a car that size, let alone a hundred grand to buy it.

  There were no other cases he could think of on his books that might have led to this visit. He prowled around the house one more time. He’d been involved in an operation in Brisbane that resulted in a crooked cop and his crime syndicate being put away for a long time. Payback was always a possibility, but that was almost four years ago.

  He flicked the lights off and locked the front door again. Could it be something to do with Tyrone? He’d given the nursing staff the impression he was taking the sailor home with him. He hoped Darcy had heeded his advice for once and not told anyone Tyrone Hillsmith was staying at her house. Could it be media? Journos didn’t usually go around cutting flyscreens with sharp implements, but the bloke’s story had caused a flurry of interest.

  Noah headed back to bed. He’d worry about it in the morning. The office phone rang. He cocked his head waiting for the answering machine to pick up. His recorded voice sounded calm, reassuring. The caller hung up after a lengthy pause and without speaking. Checking whether I’m here or not? Coming back for another shot later?

  He replaced his trackpants and T-shirt with something a little more sturdy. If he was going to be dragged out of bed in a hurry, he might as well be ready.

  Sunlight streaming into his room woke him. Noah sat bolt upright, feeling the crick in his neck. ‘Damn. I’m late.’

  He flicked on the coffee machine as he passed through the kitchen. Standing under the shower, with the running water helping to ease his muscles, he felt almost human again. He smiled as he rinsed off. He’d read an article yesterday claiming that a sleep-deprived man would find women more sexually attractive than usual, even if the women showed no reciprocal interest. It had seemed like some lame excuse for men behaving badly and the way he felt right now he couldn’t imagine finding anyone worthy of a second look – not even Darcy.

  The office phone rang again as he was frying his bacon and eggs.

  ‘Sergeant Morton, Mrs Simpson here, from the bakery. Some little bastards tried to break in last night, but old George chased them out with a broom. He’s only just told me about it now I’m at work. You need to come over.’

  ‘And good morning to you, Mrs Simpson. I’m sorry to hear that. Did they take anything, do any damage?’

  ‘No, no. George saw them off, but it’s unacceptable. Those young Larsen thugs have no right attacking honest businesses. They should all be sent to jail and taught some manners. If your predecessor, Frank, were still alive, they wouldn’t get off so lightly every time they break the law.’

  Noah didn’t begrudge her her belligerence. ‘Did George get a good look at them?’

  ‘Maybe, but he needs to go home and sleep so he can be back baking this afternoon. You’ll need to get here within half an hour.’

  ‘Sure.’ The high-pitched beeping of his smoke alarm made his head jerk. ‘Have to go, Mrs Simpson. I’ll be there shortly.’

  ‘Fuck.’ His kitchen was full of smoke from the charred bacon and eggs. He turned the gas off, slid the window open and fanned a tea towel under the shrieking alarm. It wouldn’t stop so he dumped the frying pan in the sink and filled it with water.

  Silence finally.

  Noah balanced a large travel mug under the spout of the automatic coffee machine and hit the button for a double-shot espresso. He needed more than his regular dose of caffeine this morning. His mobile beeped and just as he reached to check the message, the mug slid sideways, depositing steaming coffee all over the benchtop. Before he could stop it, the puddle trickled onto the floor as well.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ His usually dormant temper reared its head. He counted to ten. Nope, still want to punch something. He put a smaller mug under the s
pout and hit the button twice again. Only Monday, so two days until his cleaning lady came. He sighed, wrung out the dishcloth and started wiping.

  As soon as he spoke to the baker and got through his morning he’d head to Darcy’s place. Maybe Tyrone had woken up with his memory intact. Noah realised he’d also need to get his flyscreen repaired. Maybe one of the locals would do it for cash. If he waited for head office to process his claim, it would take months.

  He added milk and sugar to his now-full coffee mug. The first sip sent caffeine racing around his body, jolting his cells into action.

  Mug in hand, he unlocked the inside door to his office. The answering machine was blinking. He replayed last night’s call. There was about ten seconds of silence on the tape. He turned up the volume and pressed replay. Something in the background. Radio? He plugged in earphones and tried again. Late-night talkback, an ABC show he listened to when he was on the road. No help. It was syndicated statewide. But just before the call disconnected, he caught a fragment of conversation in the background, a low voice, a name. ‘Conor’s got to be . . .’

  He replayed it until he’d emptied his mug. Conor. Could be a first or last name. But what did it have to do with him? He typed it into the police database and nothing jumped out at him. He hadn’t arrested any Conors.

  The visit and subsequent call made even less sense in the clear morning light. What the hell was going on in the Cove? Like a stone cast into a pond was the sinking of the Phoenix creating a ripple effect?

  10

  ‘So what do you know about gardening?’ Darcy asked Zeke as he stood with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his baggy pants.

  ‘Nothin’ really. Only what Auntie’s showed me.’

  ‘Right. Well, that’ll do.’ She waved her hand over the garden bed beside her. ‘We’ll start digging this lot over and then see how the soil feels.’ She hoped she sounded like she knew what she was talking about. Her last sous chef, Matt, had been an avid believer in homegrown produce. The tiny space behind the restaurant had soon filled with tubs of herbs, veggies and edible flowers.

  She handed Zeke a mattock. ‘Seen one of these before?’

  ‘Yep. I’ll be right.’ Zeke looked like he’d borrowed his older brother’s body. His demeanour, his social skills spoke of the seventeen-year-old boy from the country. Yet his wide shoulders, strong arms and the dark stubble on his jaw meant no club doorman was ever going to ask him for ID.

  Darcy picked up the garden fork and headed for the bed along the back fence. Sweet potatoes, with their long, leafy runners, grew in abundance in the soft loam. Rosie had introduced her to their sweet flesh when Darcy was still in primary school. One steamy afternoon Darcy had taken the long way home, kicking a stone along with her polished brown shoes.

  Smoke hazed the sky above Rosie’s tumble-down house with its fibro cladding and wonky guttering. A stray dog lay panting in the shade, barely bothering to lift its head as she approached. She hesitated, uncertain whether to pat him or not. She’d always wanted a pet.

  ‘Hey, Darcy, you leave that mongrel alone. He’s a no good lazy fella that doesn’t even bark. You come and sit with me.’ Rosie was reclining in a squatter’s chair, her red dress bunched up around her knees. ‘Come on, sit here. I’ll be back in a mo.’ Rosie heaved herself up and walked inside, the soles of her feet pink against her dusty skin. Darcy loved the contrast. She’d asked Rosie once if that meant she was really a white person with a very good suntan. Rosie had roared with laughter and replied that God had baked her a bit longer. Stacked beside Rosie’s chair that afternoon was a pile of sweet potatoes, fresh dirt clinging to their whiskery roots.

  For Darcy the memories of those afternoons could still send a curl of warmth through her body. Rosie’s was a tangible love that wrapped warm arms around her, dried her tears, plaited her hair, and bestowed loud smacking kisses on her cheek. It didn’t matter who it was, Rosie showered them all with her love.

  When Rosie offered her a plate of roasted vegetables, Darcy’d screwed up her nose at first, her mother’s warning about only eating at home loud in her ears. But there was no refusing Rosie and Darcy’s eyes had popped wide open at the sweet taste of the potatoes. Over twenty years later they were still comfort food to her.

  Despite all her daydreaming, Darcy had managed to unearth a dozen good-sized potatoes. Plenty more still lay hidden for another day. She stabbed the fork into the lawn beside her and straightened up, tugging her sweaty T-shirt down. How long before Noah came calling? She glanced at her watch. He must be busy. She’d half expected him to turn up for breakfast or at the very least call to check on Tyrone. She was also expecting a call from the tradesman who’d done the driveway at Whale Song. He’d agreed to check out the offending drive and see what could be done to finalise the council approval.

  ‘Good morning.’ The smoky voice almost made her jump. She raised her head and shielded her eyes from the glare.

  ‘Sleep well?’

  Tyrone waggled his head from side to side.

  Darcy laughed. ‘Perhaps you’re not used to iron roofs. I must admit the house even sounded noisy to me last night. I should have warned you.’

  ‘It wasn’t the house. It was the stillness. It was the same in the hospital.’

  ‘Ah, so you’d been at sea a while, then?’

  ‘Seems that way.’

  ‘Nothing clearer this morning?’

  He looked down at his feet, shook his head. ‘Nope. Or at least nothing concrete. The smell of bacon had me drooling earlier, but that might happen to everyone.’

  ‘Sorry, I tend to eat early. Hungry?’ She walked towards him.

  ‘Yeah, but I can make something myself.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. Zeke, you want a bacon and egg sandwich?’

  The lad turned with a grin, sweat glistening on his forehead, his teeth white against his skin. ‘You know me and food.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she smiled back. ‘Come and meet my houseguest, a friend from out of town. Ty, meet Zeke.’ She deliberately shortened his name. ‘He’s my hired help for the day. Needs to save some money so he can go to Sydney and play for the Stallions.’

  ‘The Stallions? Good team.’ Tyrone frowned, then turned it into a smile. ‘You look like a front rower.’

  ‘Yeah, up the middle.’ Zeke looked down.

  ‘But he’s quick too, according to Noah.’

  ‘Really? Maybe a fullback, then?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Zeke was uncomfortable under the scrutiny and Darcy felt sorry for him.

  ‘I’ll call when it’s ready, eh?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Zeke picked up the mattock again and headed back to the bed to clear more of the straggly grass. There was already a knee-high pile beside the low brick edge.

  Tyrone stepped aside to let her past and she smelt soap, shampoo and an unfamiliar earthiness. He was still wearing the clothes from last night. They’d need to do something about that today.

  ‘So you remember league?’ she asked as she walked up the stairs.

  ‘Yeah, it seems I do. The Stallions. Are they top of the table still?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. League’s not my thing. My dad spent every weekend coaching and it even consumed him during the off-season. Consequently I did everything in my power to avoid it.’ The sport had stolen her father. She hated it with a passion even while she recognised it gave young men like Zeke an opportunity.

  He frowned. ‘I know the rules, but I can’t remember following a team, my team.’

  ‘Maybe you weren’t that passionate. Did the doctors give you any clue about how long it might take for your memory to come back?’ She led the way through to the kitchen, not looking at him. She didn’t want to pressure him, but it was bizarre that he could remember a rugby league team, a game, yet have no clue to his identity.

  ‘No. They said it varied with each individual.’

  ‘And how are you feeling this morning? Do you have a headache?’ She thought he looked drawn, tired still.
/>   ‘Yeah, I’ll take some medication later.’

  ‘Right.’ She got the bacon sizzling in the pan and sliced the loaf of sourdough she’d left out after her own breakfast. ‘Plans for the day?’

  ‘Thought I could help out in the garden.’

  She glanced up and caught a gleam of amusement in his eyes. ‘You garden, then?’

  ‘I’m willing to try.’

  ‘Great. I could have this yard whipped into shape in a day. Help yourself to coffee.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He spooned the grounds into the Bodum and waited for the kettle to boil. ‘One for you?’

  ‘Yep, and Zeke. White and one for both.’

  Darcy cracked eggs into the bacon fat. As soon as the whites set she shook the pan to loosen them. Beside her Tyrone cleared his throat. She glanced at him. Grief was etched into the tightness of his face. Surely no one could feign a look of such deep confusion, sadness. She felt churlish for her earlier doubts.

  ‘You’ll be right,’ she said. Empathy wasn’t something she doled out freely any more.

  Eyes swimming in unshed tears, he shook his head. ‘Will I? I don’t know. I felt it here.’ He tapped his chest, his voice ragged. ‘Watching you break the eggs. It reminded me of a better time, another place, but I couldn’t hold it long enough to make sense of it. Shit!’ He turned away, strode to the window and looked out, shoulders shaking.

  ‘I’m sorry. It must be incredibly hard. No pressure. You’re safe here.’

  ‘Safe?’ He spun on his heel, palms up, cheeks wet. ‘And yet I’m wound up like a spring. I have nothing. No clothes, no money, no identity. I’m beholden to strangers, to you, to Noah, with no way of knowing whether I can repay that kindness or whether I’m bringing danger to your door.’

  Darcy managed a laugh. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, lay his head on her shoulder and smooth his dark hair. She didn’t move. ‘Look, at the risk of repeating myself you’re not beholden to anyone here. You’ve landed at Banksia Cove, a community that’s done it tough over the last couple of years. Everyone around the Burnett region knows what it’s like to lose. The floods that ripped the heart out of Bundaberg’s CBD did a whole lot more damage to the surrounding farms. A rampaging tornado took out Bargara and then the state government forgot we even exist. Most insurance companies won’t touch the place so people around here just pitch in and help out. You might resent feeling like a charity case, but no one here resents helping you. You’re alive. And someone, somewhere is missing you. It’s just a matter of time before Noah finds them.’