PRAISE FOR BRIGHT AIR
“Maitland offers his readers a gripping drama … It’s a mark of his skill as a crime writer that we leave the book wiser, more knowledgeable about the natural world, as well as deftly entertained.’
—Weekend Australian
‘… will entertain those after an intelligent, realistic crime novel.’
—Canberra Times
‘Consummate powers of description distinguish Maitland’s thriller from the pack as he takes a break from his British police procedural series for an ambitious exploration of loyalty, betrayal, loss of innocence and guilt.’
—The Advertiser
‘Maitland is one of the famous five of Australian crime fiction … Bright Air shines.’
—Sydney Morning Herald
‘… a compelling story in an original setting you won’t want to miss.’
—Woman’s Day
‘… a terrific thriller … beautifully, leanly written; the characters and places drawn with skill.’
—Weekend Herald, NZ
‘… disarms criticism with his sparkling writing, penetrating psychological insights and powerful story-lines. Maitland also ruminates about risk and contingency, and there are curious parallels with Tim Winton’s Breath in the exploration of extreme demands on physical and moral courage.’
—The Monthly
Also by Barry Maitland
The Marx Sisters
The Malcontenta
All My Enemies
The Chalon Heads
Silvermeadow
Babel
The Verge Practice
No Trace
Spider Trap
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
This edition published in 2009
First published in 2008
Copyright © Barry Maitland 2008
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
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Set in Fairfield by Midland Typesetters, Australia
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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Margaret
And with many thanks to Annette, Angela, Ali, Kirsten
and Lyn for their invaluable advice, and to Tim
for sorting my Jumars from my prusiks
Heart hammering, she leaped up onto the ridge and began to run. The rock was fractured, treacherous, and her flailing feet sent stones skittering down the steep slopes on either side, from which flocks of seabirds rose protesting into the air, swooping and squealing. The equipment attached to her harness chinked and banged against her thighs as she ran, threatening to make her stumble. From behind and below she heard the shouts of her pursuers, calling her name, pleading with her to stop, but rage and fear drove her on. How could they have done this? She thought she heard one of them cry out in panic, as if falling, and she half turned her head to see, missing her step in the process. She scrambled for a handhold as her feet slid out from under her and she found herself hanging from the rock face. Looking down she saw the huge breakers crashing into the base of the cliff, a hundred metres below.
1
Love casts a strange light over everything. I recall the moment precisely, as if watching a loop of dazzling film played at half speed.
Through the French windows I can see one of our regular guests, Justice Rory McGregor of the Supreme Court, sitting on the terrace with a fat document on his knees. It is a late Sunday afternoon in August, the last weekend of winter, and a warm breeze has tantalised all day with its heartachey smells of jasmine and pittosporum blossom. The low western sunlight flickers through the angel’s trumpet tree above the judge, who sips from a cup of tea. I have the impression that he is having difficulty concentrating on his papers, for he’s staring down over the rooftops to Rushcutters Bay, glittering with sailing boats being readied for spring.
My Aunt Mary has gone to her bridge club leaving me in charge, and I am in the dining room, setting the tables for the next day’s breakfast and thinking how odd it is that I should find such a routine chore so comforting, like placing the pieces for a game of chess—cup, saucer, plate, knife, fork, spoon—in which no unexpected moves are permitted. This place—Mary’s little hotel—is a refuge, an old house screened by thick foliage from the tower apartment blocks that have grown up around it, a place of quiet predictability, of shady nooks and heavy dark timbers sheltering beneath a spreading orange tile roof. I have returned to the land of cosy abbreviations—the garbo, the ambo and the firey—and I just want to sink into it and disappear.
The reception bell sounds from the hall and I put down the cutlery to go and see, and there, standing at the counter, is Anna.
The sight of her jolted me, an Alice-in-Wonderland moment, as if I might be drawn back down some long vertiginous tunnel to the past. She wasn’t aware of me and I was tempted to step silently back behind the shelter of the dining-room door, but that would have been absurd.
‘Anna!’
She spun around, the smile forming immediately on her lips, not at all surprised to hear my voice. Clearly she had expected to find me here.
‘Josh!’
As she came towards me I was momentarily at a loss, not sure how to greet her. We were old friends, but time and circumstances had formed a yawning gap, and though it was only four years since we’d last met, we both hesitated to cross it. She reached out and held me at arm’s length for a moment, examining me, then ducked her face forward to kiss my cheek. I held her for a moment, feeling a little surge of affection alongside the foreboding.
‘You’ve changed, Josh,’ she said. Her smile was genuinely warm, that familiar ironic grin threatening to break into a laugh of pleasure at seeing me, and I felt ashamed that my initial reaction had been to run.
‘Oh?’
‘Mm.’ Her head cocked to the left. ‘You look more serious, a man of the world.’
‘It’s good to see you again, Anna. Is this a chance visit?’
‘I heard you were coming back.’
‘Really?’ That surprised me. ‘How was that?’
‘I ran into your aunt in town a month ago. Didn’t she tell you? She said you were coming home. Is it for good, or just a visit?’
‘We’ll see,’ I said vaguely. Mary hadn’t mentioned meeting Anna, but I’d noticed other signs of forgetfulness. ‘Glass of wine?’
‘Yes, please.’
We settled ourselves in the comfortable armchairs by the windows of the empty lounge. I’d been back ten days, but the place still had an air of unreality about it, as if I might jerk awake at any moment and find myself in a crowded tube train. I relished the abstraction of it, the invisibility of the stranger, knowing that it
wouldn’t last, especially now that Anna had come.
The smile faded from her face, and without that sparkle I realised how much she, too, had changed. She’d lost weight, and her features seemed to have become a little harder and, in the process, to have developed more character. There was a small scar on her temple that I was sure hadn’t been there before, and shadows around her eyes, and I wondered if she might have been ill. Certainly she was much better groomed than in the old days, in a smart blouse and skirt, her face neatly framed by an immaculate helmet of black hair.
She turned to me with a serious look, as if trying to read something from my expression, and I felt a need to say something innocuous to head her off. ‘That’s our judge.’ I nodded at the figure through the window, now in murmured conversation with Socrates, Mary’s labrador, sprawled at his feet. ‘Justice McGregor. He’s due to hand down sentence tomorrow on the man who murdered those two women on the train.’
‘Oh, that case. How terrible. He looks as if he’s discussing it with the dog.’
‘Could be. They have a lot in common. The same sense of humour, for instance—the judge likes to hide the dog’s rubber bone, while Socrates steals his gloves. And though the judge spends his time wrestling with complex moral issues while Socrates can’t spell cat, I’m not sure that there’s such a fundamental difference between them, actually.’ I stopped abruptly, realising that of course it was Luce who’d taught me to think like that.
‘Actually.’ She grinned. ‘You’ve become English, Josh.’
I shrugged. ‘Cheers. So what are you up to these days, Anna?’
She was a manager at an aged-care nursing home out at Blacktown, she said. I found it hard to imagine this. The four-year gap was shrinking again while we talked, the physical differences fading as I tuned in to the Anna I’d last known, a 22-year-old student.
‘Must be a responsible job, I suppose?’
‘Fairly.’ She frowned, creases forming between her dark eyebrows. ‘They … need a lot of help, our clients.’ The way she said it sounded almost like a penance. ‘And how about you? How was London?’
I took a deep breath and did my best to be entertaining without going into too much detail. ‘It got pretty intensive towards the end,’ I concluded. ‘Good money, you know, but pressure, and hellish hours. After four years I felt I needed to come back, at least for a while.’ I thought I sounded reasonably plausible, becoming a better liar with practice.
‘Well, you’ve had lots of responsibility too. Can I have some more wine?’
It suddenly occurred to me that she was anxious, hesitant about bringing something up, and I thought I knew what it was, the same unspoken thing that had been preoccupying me ever since I’d first caught sight of her.
I stood up to fill her glass, and then, as if it had just occurred to me, said, ‘You know, I was devastated not to make it back for Luce’s service. There was a mix-up with your message—I’d moved to a new address and by the time it reached me the date had passed and there didn’t seem any point in flying back. I’m sorry. It must have been terrible.’ I realised I was asking her to forgive me.
‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘It was.’ I gathered that not only was she not going to make it easy for me, but that this wasn’t what she’d come about.
‘Her father took it hard, I suppose.’
‘He didn’t show much, but, yes, I think so.’
‘I … I wrote to him, but I didn’t get a reply.’
‘I don’t think he replied to anyone.’
‘Ah.’ Although the activity of refilling our glasses meant I hadn’t had to meet her eye, I was acutely aware of her watching me closely, as if straining for a false note. I found I couldn’t think of anything more to say.
Finally she spoke. ‘Haven’t you been reading the papers, Josh?’
‘Not much; I’ve made a point of avoiding them for as long as I can. Why?’
‘About Curtis and Owen?’
I shook my head, intrigued, wondering how they might have got into the news. ‘What have they been getting up to?’ I said with a laugh.
She didn’t smile back, but looked down and traced a finger around the base of the glass. ‘A couple of weeks ago I got a phone call from Suzi.’
‘Owen’s wife? Oh yes? How are they both? Any more children? I didn’t keep in touch.’ In fact I hadn’t kept in touch with any of them.
‘I did, with Owen and Curtis. We used to catch up from time to time. They still went climbing together.’
‘Really?’ I gave her a look, which she avoided.
‘Yes. They’d gone to New Zealand for a week. Suzi had just heard that there’d been a bad accident on Mount Cook. Curtis was killed.’
I felt the impact of the words like a physical blow, wiping the stupid smile off my face, pinning me back in my chair. ‘Curtis? Dead?’ An image of him came vividly into my mind, red curls spilling out from under his climbing helmet, a big cheeky grin on his face.
Then I remembered I had noticed a newspaper item, not long after I’d got back: two Australian climbers hurt in the Southern Alps, names withheld. I’d read it with a kind of shiver, thankful that all that was behind me. I must have missed the later reports.
‘… Curtis’s parents.’
‘What? Sorry, Anna, I didn’t catch that.’
‘They were abroad, Curtis’s parents, and they were having trouble tracing them.’
‘What about Owen?’ I felt disoriented, unable to think clearly.
‘Yes, he was very badly hurt. Suzi was hysterical. They wanted her to fly out straight away, but their new baby was sick, and she couldn’t go …’ Another image, Owen beaming through his glasses, a small child perched on his shoulder.
‘Dear God.’
‘You’ve heard nothing of this?’
‘No, no … Go on.’
‘Well, I said I’d go. I caught the next plane to Christchurch, where the boys had been flown. I made it just in time to be with Owen when he died.’
‘He died? Owen too?’
‘I thought you must have seen it in the news. It was on TV too.’
No wonder she’d been looking at me strangely. ‘God, that’s just terrible, Anna. I can’t believe it.’ I reached out my hand to grip hers. It felt cold.
She nodded sadly, knowing the arithmetic that was going through my head. There had been six of us at university, six friends who went rock climbing together. Now three were dead: Luce first, and now Owen and Curtis.
‘Just three of us left,’ I said. ‘You, me, and … I suppose Damien is okay?’
‘Oh yes. I spoke to him on the phone yesterday.’
I felt dizzy, unable to breathe properly, and suddenly I couldn’t stand it, sitting there talking calmly like that, and jerked abruptly to my feet. ‘I think I need something stronger than wine. Can I get you a brandy, Scotch?’
She shook her head and I headed out across the hall to Mary’s private sitting room, where I took a deep breath and poured myself a whisky from the bottle in her sideboard. The clock on the mantelpiece softly chimed the hour, and I stood for a while staring dumbly at the pattern in the Indian carpet at my feet. I felt physically shaken by the news, yet I didn’t seem to feel anything for them. I tried to picture the two of them, Curtis and Owen, but my brain didn’t respond. Finally I thought of Anna sitting out there alone and I straightened up and opened the door. The judge, his report under his arm, was crossing the hall with Socrates, perhaps bent on a game of hide-and-seek. They looked at me and something seemed to strike the judge. He gave a guarded smile and gestured at the drink in my hand. ‘Just the thing.’
I had the ludicrous idea that he was accusing me of stealing Mary’s Scotch. ‘I’ve had some rather bad news,’ I blurted, and began telling him about Curtis and Owen, and about climbing, and about Lucy too, and I could feel the tears stinging the insides of my eyelids. Then Anna appeared at the door across the hall, and I shut up.
The judge said, ‘My dear chap, of course I read about it.
They were close friends of yours, those fellers? I’m so sorry.’
He sensed Anna behind him and turned, and I introduced them. We commiserated for an awkward few moments before I escaped with Anna, leading her out to the terrace, now deserted, where we sat down with a sigh. Across the bay deep shadow was rising like a purple tide so that only the tops of the buildings on the far ridge were glowing in the golden evening light.
I gulped at my drink. ‘Sorry. These past weeks must have been dreadful for you. Have you seen Suzi?’
‘Yes. Her mother has moved in with her. And Curtis’s parents flew back as soon as they got the news. The funerals will be held on Tuesday. I’ll give you the details.’
‘Thanks.’
I tried to remember the last time I’d seen the two of them. It was the night before I left for London, my farewell party. I could remember Curtis, pissed, standing on a table to sing a farewell song, but not much more, for Luce had been there too, and the evening was a blur of booze and guilt.
Anna was very quiet.
‘Is there something else?’ I asked.
Her eyes met mine for a moment, then slid away. It was such an uncharacteristic gesture that I was disconcerted. Anna was sometimes stubborn and over-earnest, but never shifty.
‘Something bad?’
‘Maybe I should leave it for now. You seem pretty shaken up.’
‘No.’ My voice was off-key. ‘No. You’d better tell me. What on earth is it?’
‘It’s about Luce, Josh.’
‘Luce?’
‘Yes.’ She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. The light was fading and the evening air had suddenly lost its warmth. ‘You have to imagine what it was like, when I arrived in Christchurch. I caught a taxi straight to the hospital as soon as we landed. It was dark, and there was a lot of activity outside—TV crews, reporters. At first the staff wouldn’t let me see Owen, but eventually I persuaded them that I was representing his family, who couldn’t get there for a day or two. From their reaction I gathered that that would be too late.
‘It was hard to make him out at first among all the tubes and dressings, just a few pink and purple bits of his face visible. He was so still, eyes shut, as if he was completely absorbed in what the machines were doing to him, pumping, dripping, measuring. The nurse said they were amazed that he’d survived the flight to the hospital, and didn’t expect him to last the night.
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