The Wave at Hanging Rock: A Psychological Mystery and Suspense Thriller

by Gregg Dunnett

  One time we were in the campsite shop helping ourselves to food - just taking it, we weren’t going to pay - when Mum came in unexpectedly. I was allowed to take food from the kitchen, but not the shop since it messed up her stock system. John had his hands full of chocolate bars but instead of looking guilty John just started talking to her like there was nothing wrong in the world.

  “Oh hello Judy,” he said, not even trying to hide the chocolate. “How are you?”

  She gave him a look, like he was busted, but he seemed to smooth right over it.

  “You know I was thinking the other day. A lot of people who come camping, they forget how boring it is when they’re packing. They forget something to read. What I’m trying to say is you should think about selling magazines in here. It could be a profitable line.” Then he put the chocolate down on the counter and started patting his pocket like he was looking for some money.

  “Now how much do I owe you?” he asked.

  You could see her looking at the chocolate bars, and then at John’s face like she couldn’t work out whether to be pissed off or to take him seriously.

  “Do you really think magazines would sell?”

  “Yeah I do.” He nodded meaningfully. “You should stock a few surfing magazines too. You get a lot of surfers here. I’m sure many of them would like a magazine to buy. I certainly would. Oh and I’ll get Jesse and Darren’s. How much does that all come to?” He held up his chocolate.

  She smiled at him like she enjoyed the cheek. And this was after she’d given me a right telling off a few days before, about how it ruined her whole stocktake. But she did make him pay.

  She tried it though, and he was right. Magazines sold really well. Soon we had a little stand in the corner of the shop, and we got daily papers delivered.

  John didn't forget either. Every month he would come in and buy his copy of Surfer and take it along to the caravan. Usually he nicked a bar of chocolate too. The thing was John never forgot things like that. Later, when there were things I really wished John would forget, that’s how I knew he wouldn't. The bastard wouldn't ever forget.

  ten

  SHE’D GIVEN JIM her number on the drinks mat from the bar. Classy move. Then she’d cursed herself for being such a cliché as her phone’s stubborn silence had taken an ever increasing role in her life. She was working full-time in the hospital at that point, sitting in with qualified psychologists during their sessions with patients. At the end of each session she checked her phone for messages. There were plenty, pictures of the baby from her sister, her mum checking how she was, but not the message she wanted to see. After two weeks she told herself to forget him. It might have happened, but it hadn’t. And now it wasn’t going to.

  It was four o’clock on a Friday when he called. Her session had been cancelled so she was at home, getting in a final couple of hours with the books before calling it a week. She recognised his voice at once.

  “I’ve been doing some reading.”

  “How mind improving,” she replied, telling herself not to sound too keen. “Anything interesting?”

  “You wouldn’t think so from the names, but bear with me: Donald Dutton and Arthur Aron. Come across them?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “That’s what I hoped.”

  ‘What about them?”

  “They were a couple of Americans who wanted to help out ugly guys like me. They did this experiment.”

  Natalie didn’t tell him he wasn’t ugly, but the thought screamed out of her mind.

  “They found a suspension footbridge that crossed a canyon, wobbly, think Indiana Jones and the temple of whatever. Then they put a female researcher on the bridge, a very attractive female researcher,” he paused. “Low cut top, short skirt, nice legs - do you know what I’m saying?”

  “I think I understand what attractive means.” She’d got up by now and walked to the mirror in the bathroom, she watched her own reflection say this, a flush of colour to her cheeks, she untied her hair with her free hand.

  “Good. So this attractive, this very attractive researcher has to stop men who were crossing the scary bridge. And she asks them questions. You know, a questionnaire. They have to interpret ambiguous pictures, squiggly lines. They have to tell her what they think they can see in them. And when they finish the woman gives them her name and her phone number, just in case they have any questions about the questionnaire they’ve just done. I’m sure that’s normal for psychologists?”

  “Pretty much standard practice.”

  “Right. Anyway, the same woman then did the exact same experiment again, but this time on a normal bridge, a few feet above a little stream. This time think, I dunno, Pooh sticks. Teletubby land. A bridge you wouldn’t feel scared on. And you know what they found?”

  “Misattribution of arousal.” Natalie said. She remembered the case now.

  “So you do know it?” Jim sounded disappointed.

  “Yes and no.” She said quickly. “I’m not really familiar with it.”

  “OK,” he said slowly. “Well perhaps I should go on. What they found was the men who met the same sexy researcher, same low cut top, on the scary bridge were more likely to interpret the images as sexual, and twice as likely to phone the researcher afterwards and ask for a date. What about that? There was a link between fear and attraction.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. And you know what the really interesting bit is?”

  “No.”

  “They did the same experiment again, but reversed, so that it wasn’t guys being tested but girls, and they found exactly the same thing. Put the girls in a heightened state of stimulation - if I can use that word - and they’re more likely to link that to thoughts of sex. More likely to find the person they’re with attractive.”

  “That’s fascinating,” Natalie said. “I must remember that if I ever meet a sexy man with a clipboard on a bridge.”

  “I think that would be wise.”

  “Well thank you.” It occurred to her for a moment that this was all he’d phoned to tell her, but he didn’t keep her wondering for long.

  “So anyway, that wasn’t why I phoned. Are you busy tonight? I know this great restaurant.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Too short notice?”

  She thought of the books. There was a bottle of white wine in the fridge. Half of it had her name on, the other half her flatmate’s.

  “Not exactly.”

  “That’s a relief as I’ve already booked it. There’s just one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The restaurant’s in Ireland.” He didn’t give her time to take that in. “Actually that’s not the problem. I didn’t tell you but I’ve just bought my own helicopter. The problem is I got it second hand. It might be a bit shaky, rattly. Some important bits might fall off on the way over. It might be a little scary if you know what I mean.”

  “Slow down. What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve flown in a helicopter before right?”

  “What? No.”

  “Oh. In that case it’ll definitely be scary. Flying out over the sea like that. Nothing below you but the churning waves. You’ll have to be careful not to let that fear/attraction thing affect you.”

  She shook her head. She said the only thing she could think of.

  “I’ll do my best.” She wondered if he could hear the smile in her voice.

  “Can you meet me at the airport in an hour?”

  “One hour?!”

  It hadn’t been nearly enough time, but she didn’t want to be late. She showered with the door open, shouting out to her flatmate questions about what one wore for a first date in a helicopter. They settled on a summery dress with a denim jacket. Matching pants and bra, thank God there was something clean. Then she drove, as he’d told her to, around the side from the airport’s main entrance where a smaller road she had never noticed before took her to a little car park. Inside the perimeter fence a numbe
r of helicopters were parked up, and further away a collection of light aircraft. He was standing by a gate. He waved her into a space and then punched a code and led them inside.

  It was a relief to see she’d called it about right. He was wearing jeans, smart trainers, a shirt with short sleeves, the top button left undone.

  “Here she is,” he said.

  At first Natalie thought he was talking about her, but then she realised he was pointing at one of the helicopters sitting out on the tarmac. He led her out to it, it was bigger than she expected, the rotors were still and drooped so low she could have reached out and touched them. He opened the door for her but let her climb in unaided.

  “Like I said she’s second hand, but she’s had every possible check. Actually she’s in great condition,” he said as he settled himself into the seat alongside her. He handed her a set of headphones and pulled on a pair for himself. Even on the ground Natalie already felt high up, the windows in the side were much lower than in a car, to give a view down below she supposed. But apart from that the interior of the machine surprised her. It looked like a car, albeit a luxury car with dials and buttons everywhere and leather seats - not like her little Fiat. And the smell was different too. Helicopter fuel she supposed. He spoke to someone through his headphones and pressed some of the buttons. The helicopter began to shudder and Natalie realised the rotors had begun to turn.

  “What’s it for? I mean, who do you fly in it?” She realised she could hear his voice through the headphones.

  “Business people, pleasure flights - people like to fly over their house for some reason. There’s a big contract for the wind farm we’re hoping to get.” He jerked his thumb behind him. “Got six seats in the back, all for hire. We’re just glorified taxi drivers really.” Then he added like it was an afterthought. “But if that fear/sex thing does kick in, there’s a bit more room back there than in a normal taxi.”

  “I’m managing to keep myself under control at the moment.”

  He shrugged as if there’d be plenty of time.

  “OK, but we haven’t taken off yet.”

  He spoke again into the radio. Natalie didn’t understand the terms but got the gist and just nodded when he turned back to her and said: “That’s us.”

  The noise of the engine built from a low grumble to something louder, an incessant thudding behind the cushioning of the headphones. Then they moved sideways. Then the ground began to drop away.

  “Jesus!”

  She gripped the armrest tightly and watched the airport disappear below them, then give way to a golf course, then fields. The city was already behind them as they headed west. She had an idea of the speed they were travelling from cars not far below, another idea from how quickly the coast came into view.

  “We’ll head out the Bristol Channel and then out over the Irish Sea,” he said. “Flight time should be just under an hour. Are you hungry?”

  She had totally forgotten about eating. “I might be when we get there.”

  “You look nice by the way.”

  “Thank you.”

  He lapsed into silence and seemed content to focus on flying the helicopter, occasionally he would exchange words with someone through his radio, and sometimes she glanced across and saw him watching her. When she noticed he would smile then look away.

  They left the land behind them and flew out over the water. For some reason she felt less safe with water below them and she thought of what would happen if the helicopter went down, how that cold black water would pour in, how far they were from land even if she did make it out. From the height they were flying, just a few hundred metres up, the ocean seemed endless. She thought of what he’d told her, how people often confused exhilaration and fear for something sexual. She noticed the stick which came up from the floor of the helicopter. Her eyes followed it up until they rested between his legs where his hands gripped it, just a few inches away from the button fly at the front of his jeans. She realised she was staring and she felt more blood flush her cheeks.

  The trip seemed to take a long time, the sea seemed vast. Eventually some rocks appeared in front of them, the largest with a slender white lighthouse perched upon it.

  “Nearly there,” Jim said. “That’s Tuskar Rock. A lot of people drowned there before they built the lighthouse.”

  She watched as it slipped beneath them. From a distance the rocks looked black, but looking straight down she could see they were really dark green from their coating of seaweed. Soon afterwards a lighter green rose onto the horizon in front of them and he told her it was land. Ireland. She felt herself begin to relax, realised how tense she had been while over the water. Jim checked some instruments as they closed the coast until they were finally over the beach and Natalie’s breathing flowed more easily. Then they turned right, followed the beach north for a little while until they came to a headland, and, set back from it a large building, its roof a splash of red. They edged out over the water one more time, but here, the sea was shallow and clear and the white sand beneath the water painted it Caribbean blue. The land was lush green.

  “Aren’t we going to an airport?” Natalie said.

  “No need,” Jim replied and as if to show what he meant he swung the helicopter around so that Natalie’s window was looking almost straight down at the beach below her. Then they levelled off and descended towards the lawn of the building, she went from seeing only its roof to seeing it from ground level, an impressive white-painted building, like a country house. And then with the lightest of bumps the skids of the helicopter found the lawn and then the whole weight of the machine was pushing into the grass. They stopped moving and became a part of the normal world again.

  The restaurant was obviously expensive, the tablecloth was thick and heavy, the cutlery shone. The cream walls were minimally decorated with abstract art, perhaps to not distract too much from the view out of the windows, where small waves lapped against the shore. But to Natalie it was the helicopter that stood out most, sat on the middle of the lawn, a constant reminder that this was really happening.

  A man in a white dinner jacket showed them to a table. He seemed to know Jim. Despite his dress he wasn’t at all formal, they exchanged jokes, him in a lilting accent that sounded fake at first it was so absurdly Irish. He complimented her without embarrassment.

  “I’ve been out here a few times before,” Jim explained once the waiter had settled them in and retreated. “Clients. They come out here to impress their girlfriends. They spend all evening telling them how good the breakfasts are. Can you believe anyone would fall for that?”

  She hadn’t let herself think about getting home until then. But as he spoke she wondered if she was just the latest woman to sit opposite this man, totally at his mercy. She felt a flush of indignation at becoming ensnared in a situation to his advantage.

  “Red or white?”

  “Sorry?”

  “The wine. They say you’re supposed to have white with fish, but I say have what you like. It’s not like anyone’s watching.”

  “White.”

  “Good choice.”

  The waiter came back at the signal from Jim and after a serious discussion, walked smartly away to fetch a bottle.

  “So does it always work?”

  His frown showed she’d lost him.

  “Your clients, getting you to fly them out here with their girlfriends. Does it always work for them? Do the women always stay for breakfast?” She smiled at her emphasis on the word, to show him she didn’t believe for a moment they were really clients.

  He thought for a moment then broke out into a smile. “You don’t believe me do you? I really have only ever been here with clients. I usually get to sit in the bar, drinking mineral water, just in case it doesn’t go well for them. That’s how I know Sean so well. We’re the only people here not pissed by midnight.” He smiled at her then went on. “Drinking and flying, there’s no police up there but it’s still not the done thing.”

  The wa
iter returned with a silver bucket, the neck of a wine bottle poking out from its bed of crushed ice. He pulled the cork with no fuss and poured a small amount into Natalie’s glass for her to try. It was delicious and she said so. The waiter filled her glass then looked to Jim’s, but he placed his hand over the glass so that it remained empty. With a nod the waiter settled the bottle back into its bucket and retreated again.

  “But to answer your question, I’ve flown three clients out here. And I’ve had three breakfasts. They really are good.”

  Natalie suddenly didn’t care if he was lying. She laughed out loud, then reached over and picked up the bottle. At first she made it look as if she just wanted to read the label, but then she rested its neck against the rim of Jim’s glass and watched as the wine flowed out.

  “They better be.”

  eleven

  IT WAS LATE summer, nearly two years had gone by since I moved to Wales and we were fishing from the pier. We were going for flat fish - flatties we called them cos that’s what they were back home in Oz. We had a couple of crab lines down to get bait. We didn’t fish that often, only when there was nothing else to do, but it was that sort of a day - grey, a bit windy, the ground boggy and soaked from rain. Crabs were easy to catch. First you had to climb down the rusty iron ladder on the side of the pier and twist off a few big juicy mussels from the thick wooden legs, then grab a rock and smash them open until the orangey-yellow meat was exposed, bits of iridescent-blue mussel shell tearing into it and releasing the juices. Then tie that to a line and drop it down. The crabs were quick to find it, you only had to wait a minute or so, and they were so stupid they would hold onto the smashed mussel even when you pulled them up out of the water and onto the pier. Even if the wind caught them and knocked them into the pier legs, the crabs would still try their best to hold on. I didn’t much like the next bit.