Darkness more visible

by Finola Moorhead

  'We'll fix it for him,' Paul said. 'Not a problem. Give them thirty minutes.'

  The side-kick had another look at the car. Virginia and I squeezed back further.

  'Slow puncture, probably doesn't know about it yet.'

  He returned to the now low rumbling tow truck and got out of the drizzle. They revved off to the end of the macadam and along the dirt road to the river. Thunder clapped in the distance. We had half an hour before they returned, and discovered our work. They went towards the oyster jetty. The building storm was even more of a threat to dare-devil schemes. I swallowed another pain-killer and took up the rear as we five entered the dark godown.

  Meghan said, as she switched on the light, 'I want to get on their boat.' The moans of the chemist presented us with an immediate problem. He was hog-tied on the cement floor. I felt more in a bind than he. The Subaru could not leave this shed until the tow truck and the minders had gone, but they wouldn't go until they were satisfied he was accounted for. I longingly gazed at my bikes, wanting to escape, riding all the way home on my own if I had to. But I wasn't alone.

  'Enid Blyton eat your heart out,' said Rory.

  Virginia and Meghan laughed. Chandra and I caught each other's eye. 'Tiger Cat did not mention the bruisers,' I said.

  Virginia recalled that she did say the skipper of the cruiser was sleeping on board. 'I reckon,' she remarked, 'that they are going to pick him up, because there is a storm coming, a flood warning they've just heard, or something, and they are doing what they are paid for, minding.'

  'Fucking fizgig!' expleted our captive.

  'No, she's not,' I contradicted. 'Your man in the tow truck is. I saw that vehicle in the police yard, privileged parking spot.'

  Meghan fiddled with the information on the screen of her computer, balanced on the bonnet of Chandra's car, with her fingers and her brain-power, seemingly uninterested in the victim of her blow. Rory went over and examined his wound, feeling for fractures in his skull.

  He said, 'Yow. Ouch.'

  Virginia picked up my wrist and looked at my watch. 'We're running out of time.'

  'Won't be a minute,' Meghan responded as if spoken to.

  'What exactly are you doing?' I asked.

  'Less than five,' she muttered.

  'Five what?'

  'Minutes.'

  'For what?' I was getting exasperated with her and very nervous.

  'What Neil was planning to do in fifteen Meghan can do in five for better effect,' Chandra explained.

  'Forget it. I'm ringing Philippoussis,' I decided. But Chandra wouldn't release her grip on the mobile.

  'Call in the cavalry,' joked Rory, in hockey-sticks tones, still in the mood of the Famous Five. She really did not understand the danger we were in. I did. I did not want my friends hurt, or killed, either of which could happen, within twenty minutes. I walked over to my racing bike and began wheeling it to the door, putting the responsibility for their welfare squarely in Chandra's hands.

  'Hang on,' Virginia begged. 'Wait.' She turned to Meghan and asked, 'Why is this so important?' She gestured to the computing.

  'If we bury their destruction inside their own equipment, set it to work only at sea, with no outside input, no telephone calls, no emails, nothing can be traced. I can disable the pilot and their automatic transmission—possibly, if it's electronic, the rudder as well.'

  'And how do you intend to get aboard?' Virginia insisted, 'And then up to the poop-deck.'

  'I'll get to that. Margot's brought wetsuits, as well as a dinghy. No problem,' Megs said vaguely as she memorised her formula and closed the laptop. She put it on the front seat of the Subaru.

  Virginia smiled, 'You are way too focused, Meghan!'

  'What about him?' Rory gently kicked the knee of the weasel. Meghan handed her the ether.

  'What about them?' I almost screamed, expecting the tow-truck boys to be back at any moment. I put my foot into the pedal-case and began scooting in preparation to swinging my leg over the bar and haring off for help. But once on the tarmac I didn't press on. The wind was up. The storm brewing. Thunder getting louder. Lightning stepping closer on its erratic electric stilts like a magnificent daddy-long-legs of fire. No lights or automobile movement over near the mangroves. I really wouldn't leave my sisters to face the music, so I decided to scout and rode slowly across the airstrip. I heard a cry behind me. Chandra, in her wheel-chair, was racing towards me, body crouched, elbows flying. I circled and saw in a flash that the mobile phone was still on her lap.

  'I'm coming with you,' she panted as she whizzed by me.

  We were tiny creatures under a big, booming sky, fast-moving beings with steel wheels. But the lightning was several kilometres away. We stopped where the bitumen ended. In the obliging, sporadic luminance, we saw the mantis of a tow truck near the dark shucking shed and two figures on the pier. Chandra handed me her telephone.

  'Ring him now,' she said. There was in that second such respect for me and such trustworthiness in herself I went breathless. I did, as she assumed, remember his number.

  'He's probably in bed with the deputy coroner,' I commented as I waited for him to pick up his receiver.

  'I'm at the airport, Pip,' I explained. 'With a bunch of bad guys about to kill us. Well, they will if you don't get here quick.'

  I told him exactly what I was seeing, the motor launch pulling into the pier and where he would find the lab. The guys were taking their time securing the multi-million-dollar vessel to the pylons. I thought, shit, we've got to move.

  'Margot?' I heard Philippoussis as I threw the phone at Chandra's knee. She pressed the close call button and we made off back to the warehouse.

  Virginia and Rory carried the bound bloke to his car and left him in the back seat. We would hole up out of sight behind the Yale lock of Meghan's godown, keeping mum and listening. It was several minutes before I noticed my mountain bike and Meghan herself missing. But I was hushed when I opened my mouth. The tow truck's engine we heard as it came to a stop outside the hangar. They were still arguing loudly about immaterial things.

  'You go prawning three days after the full moon!'

  'Three days, you reckon?'

  'Exactly. All up and down the rocks, you see the fires of prawners eating their catch.'

  A third voice had joined the debate.

  'Well, that gives me a few days to get the gear together.'

  'But they catch flathead near the oyster leases, prawns are further down.'

  'Yeah, you done spinning, Paul? like fly-fishing from moving boat?'

  'It's the storm I've got to worry about,' the skipper confided.

  'Fishermen don't like the moon. Rather be out there with a searchlight when it's pitch black.'

  'Hey, the chemist is in his car!' The young off-sider's voice yelled. 'He wasn't there before, Paul, was he?'

  Paul evaded the question, preferring to stay cool. 'Flathead have spikes. That's what I know about them.'

  'He's out cold!'

  'Don't eat an oyster in a month with o in it,' said Paul, as we heard him break a rifle or shotgun and clamp it back together. 'Never break that rule, son.'

  'The door to the factory's been jemmied,' the younger chap informed. Paul himself was prowling around the depots, rattling doors, checking shadows. 'Bolt-cutters in the tool-box.' His voice was loud, and terribly close. We froze into ice statues. He wanted to be at the lab when the other guy opened the door, curiosity getting the better of caution, he left off rattling our doors. As they investigated the disappearance of the lab set-up, I squatted and prayed for the cops to arrive.

  Meghan Featherstone is leaning the bike against Virginia's ute when a Highway Patrol car turns the corner. She places the bike in the boat and climbs into the back and hides under the tarp. She lifts the edge to watch the police stop at the gate. When the uniform is back inside, the cruiser dims its lights and proceeds as quietly as possible. They circle the airport car park, then stop at the junction of the roads. In the d
istance, Meghan sees, in a flash of lightning, another, the large white four-wheel-drive with its red and blue toplights, making its way along the dirt track at the other end of the aerodrome property, a powerful searchlight flashing its beam forward and back.

  'Estuaries. Oyster sticks, racks under them.' She thinks, 'I was born with a caul. Where's the wetsuit?' Hiding on the tray of someone else's pick-up, feeling around for a latex body-suit she is not sure will fit, thinking that at least it will protect her from the lightning she fears more than the bullets of men's guns, she is obsessed by the chance to get back at someone who deserves the worst the best way she can; a fairly brilliant plan, detailed down to the last specific factor.

  Driven by the dynamism of its logical progression, amazed by the dramatic beauty of its execution, arrested by a circus outside, Meghan realises she is a maniac. If she doesn't do this, she will have no catharsis. She is enthralled by the thrill, but stilled, having to take stock, and for her it is like hitting a rock. She does not want to face her ludicrous self. She wants no mirror, no lens, no self-reflection or criticism. She just wants to do it, to be within the experience, to feel the hysteria. To do it, to get out, to dive into shark-infested waters, swelling with the debris of upstream flood, to challenge the fates, shake her fists at the gods, is a dream, whereas to be silent and staid is a nightmare. She parts the tarpaulin. And ducks as the sirens of more cars arriving present the reality, a ho-hum drug-bust of petty crims and their pathetic greed and incomprehensible stupidity. Lights and sounds and a thunderstorm. She cannot bear inaction a moment longer. She wants to see if she'll survive. She needs the high. She sneaks out of the hide and retrieves the bike.

  The Annihilation Tragic rides. She rides through the wind and rain to the far side of the airstrip, then along the fence to the track. Onto the jetty and there is the boat, battened down. She jumps on deck. There is nothing she can do, the poop is locked, the underdeck likewise. She tries everywhere, but there is no way in, no tools at hand, not even to smash the glass.

  The long-wheelbase LandCruiser pulls up. A tall dark man and Margot Gorman walk along the wharf. Meghan dives into the swirling river. With Rory, Virginia and Chandra it wasn't hard to wait in silence. While we were worried about her, Meghan's manic energy was not missed. We were tense but we were calm, as if each of us had spent time alone without moving a lot, and were thus practised at not fidgeting. I noticed Virginia relax her wrists and turn her palms open. Rory clasped and unclasped her greenish white stone. Chandra went through a series of finger exercises as I go through stretches of my hamstrings et cetera. I was so tired a yoga posture was just what I needed. I stayed in the cross-legged asana, with my right hand on my left, simply sitting.

  When we heard the sirens, Rory tossed her stone and we played catch. There were a lot of male voices. When I heard a female, either Constable McKewen or the deputy coroner, I thought it was cool to emerge, as Phil Philippoussis wouldn't be far away. The others could do what they liked.

  Three patrol cars and the LandCruiser blocked the tow truck and the weasel's BMW. To the first uniform I encountered I said, 'Detective Constable Philippoussis about?'

  'Over there,' he directed me.

  'Ta, mate.'

  Phil in his adidas tracksuit was not the most senior man. He introduced me to his detective sergeant, a serious-faced Christian-looking chap, and to the deputy coroner, also in a tracksuit. She was drop-dead gorgeous, intelligent, friendly and competent. As it wasn't her patch—there wasn't a dead body—she genially said she was along for the ride, but it was plain she could have been boss if she wanted to. The plain-clothes unit was from her office. Paul, if he was the Crank's informant, had been bagged by the wrong crowd. I gave them a potted history of the last few hours, showed them the rubbish bag Meghan had filled and handed over the clip from the automatic. In explaining the state of the black-market chemist, I tried to make light of Meghan's behaviour. The weather was beginning to look really filthy. I inveigled Phil to drive me over to the boat, which they would have to commandeer anyway. 'It's a matter of urgency, Pip.'

  When Meghan saw us coming towards her on the jetty, she turned around and did a running dive into the moving river. She swam about a bit in my wetsuit and eventually came back to the pier. We pulled her out by her arms, and she said, 'I needed that.'

  'You could have been killed,' said Philippoussis.

  Meghan replied, 'Precisely. But I wanted to get those arseholes.'

  Phil assured her that he would inform Interpol and impound the cruiser. He checked the mooring and slapped some SOC tape about the place. I picked up my bike and put it in the back of the police vehicle. Meghan was shivering but exhilarated. It had been quite a night for her, but she was still frustrated. 'I don't trust men,' she muttered.

  When we returned to the line of warehouses, I discovered that Virginia had ridden my other bike back to her car. We checked out with the sergeant and waved to the deputy coroner, who smiled, 'See you.' Chandra drove me across to Virginia waiting at the wheel, with her head on her hands, sleepy. There were only a couple of hours till dawn, and we had to take the dinghy back to Lois's. So I worked out, everyone could come to my place. If Chandra slept with me and Virginia allowed Rory the other half of the sofa double-bed, then Meghan could have the floor with the couch cushions, we'd be right. We trundled along the back roads through the mangroves, paperbark and tea-tree, across the bridge to the north, past the bend where Hugh Gilmore died and the little white cross with its plastic flower wreath still stood, home.

  56

  …arrayed in purple and scarlet…

  Judith Sloane examines her treasures in the woolshed. She handles the valuable contents of her cashbox, her payment of rubies, and slowly lets them run through her fingers into a hand-painted silk scarf. Another electrical storm flickers in the distance. Spinning the combination lock of the little safe, she places it in the rusty chest. The domed tin lid falls with a clatter. The noise annoys her. Judith finds herself without allies, without friends, but it is not her fault. Padlocks secure on the antique trunk, the boards of the false floor replaced, she shifts bundles of fleece. Although she has no lover, she has pounds of heady dope in the shiny boxes of small white goods, kitchen gadgetry she has never used.

  The Koori from Kempsey was not much more than a one-night stand. Although Judith milked the fling for all its politically sound connotations in the gossip mills, she would not lend her the Triton. She allowed herself to be bought a beer, fed a meal, even considered buying a pair of decorated singing sticks, or led the family to think she did, but was horrified at the thought of them all piling into her expensive vehicle, pristine with carefully contrived vibes coming from little silver statues of goddesses and occult talismans.

  Under more floor-boards is the crate of presents, women's artwork, appliquéed jackets, crude carvings, finger-form pottery, mobiles of feathers and sticks, shell necklaces, stained glass designs in copper-foiling, paintings, pictures in watercolour, crayon and charcoal; proof of how much she is loved and admired. Many women have adored her.

  But now, she cannot remember who did what. Judith is not interested in opening the shoe boxes where hundreds of photos of sheep, pigeons, cows and horses, portraits of women with smiles and guitars, postcards from all over the world are squashed in so tight the corners are coming apart. In an old leather suitcase, strapped with a rein, are things she did with her own hand to give, but couldn't part with. She looks at those: a hand-woven wall-hanging, a knitted vest, several cards, bits of tatting and crochet, clay pieces, homemade parchment from recycled paper; much of the work unfinished. On top of the moved and replaced planks she arranges junk, tools, some old, some borrowed and not returned, a galvanised bucket with a hole in the bottom, a new block-buster handle.

  The storm is brewing in the north-east. Judith checks the appearance of the hovel with a tug here, a toss there, like a fastidious window-dresser, and leaves a set for a scene depicting the careless innocence of subsistence. She
has now more money than she ever dreamed possible. No work on the planet, short of international stardom, could have earned her so much. She has no need to suffer fools gladly.

  Judith Sloane assumes it would have been easy to seduce the sexually amoral Cybil Crabbe, a push-over. She has never had trouble getting lovers. In her mind she had her already, a partner to travel with, see the Barrier Reef, sail around the Whitsundays, after all the toil, spoil herself with the good things in life. And it would have been a nail in the coffin of Virginia White. So much clever planning, being as cunning as she could, the gift of Virginia's violence exactly what she hoped for, turns, with such a banal and abrupt dismissal, to dust as dry as ash in her mouth. She doesn't believe it. Refusal hadn't bothered Judith much before as she could slither away with her secrets to meditate in privacy at her wheel, appropriate the rejection as her own and re-emerge with smooth stories, to tell the truth in confidence that it was her choosing, actually. She could use flattery to charm whomever she wanted.

  Clouds rear heavily behind the circle of hills that surround her place as she tramps from one shelter to the other. Wet weather generally wraps her in its cocoon. Her shack is away from the threat of falling trees, but there is no honey in the jar. Two cans of dolphin-friendly tuna and one of no-brand pink salmon do not provide the comfort she should expect from food, even mixed with potato mash and beans from her garden. She sits down to spin at her wheel, hearing the bleating of her flock as they hunker down together under the red cedar and the turpentine at the rocky knoll in the paddock. As shepherds are said to talk to their hats, she starts an erratic rave.

  'The spiders are colonising my space. Their gummy traps take up more and more room.' Old webs dangle from the corners of her dwelling. Gusts have thrown up bits of unclean wool to hang suspended in the sticky dust, getting dustier. Her flock of black sheep are brown. The loose tufts have faded to reddish tan, an uncomfortable in-between. The older bits are greenish. In her meditation Judith perceives Virginia as her dark side. 'No one has sympathy. I scratch and spit to defend myself as I am torn and tearing. Savages. Culprits of civilisation and its victims whine and scheme.' The spiders are silent. Black cockatoos screech, rain and rain. Their lazy wings lope like big-boned athletes, arrogant, powerful parrots flying from casuarina forests and pine plantations. The sky blackens with wings and brumous winds.