by Helene Young
Slinging the rough towel around his hips, he cleared the fog on the mirror, surprised to see how normal he looked. He felt grim, exhausted, but his brown eyes gazed back in the reflection, even and steady. The crow’s feet around his eyes could have been laugh lines. He dragged a comb through his wet hair, pulled it back in a ponytail. He wasn’t vain, or not any more, but he knew he’d once been a good-looking rooster. At thirty-eight he figured his glory days were fifteen long years behind him.
Was it time to run once more, up anchor and sail away, reinvent himself again?
But he was tired of running; he had put down roots here that had potential to grow, to gain real traction. He wasn’t ready to leave. He bent down and rummaged for clean clothes in the locker. He’d drawn a line in the sand. Running forever wasn’t an option, and Cooktown had got under his skin. Maybe it reminded him of what he’d had as a child, growing up in a small town on the fringes of Melbourne with a strong sense of identity. Maybe he wanted to give something back to the community with no strings attached. He eyeballed his reflection. And maybe he was kidding himself. The blue-eyed doctor and her cheeky daughter were a large part of why he wanted to stay. He just didn’t want to admit it.
He pulled on boxer shorts and then finished making his coffee. Ensconced in the cockpit, looking out towards the mouth of the river, he let his mind drift back to his childhood.
He remembered the lanky eleven-year-old selected to play in the under-13s AFL team in Waurn Ponds.
‘Mum, Mum, Mum,’ he called, racing into the kitchen, the smell of freshly baked biscuits making his stomach growl. He slid on the speckled tiles, ending with a flourish as he reached the table and dropped his bag with a thud.
‘Conor, Conor, Conor, you don’t need to repeat everything three times, you know.’ His mother smiled as she turned from the sink, her hands covered in suds. ‘And don’t drop your bag in the middle of the floor. Your father will go nuts.’
‘But I’m in the team. The under-13s.’
His mother’s face lit up. ‘That’s brilliant. But I’m not surprised. My boy can run.’ She held out her arms and he didn’t try to avoid the hug this time. She smelt of treacle and flowers, her body soft and comforting against his bony edges. She ruffled his hair, dropped a kiss on his head and let him go. ‘So when’s the first game?’
‘Two weeks away. Can you drive me?’
‘Of course.’
‘And Dad? Do you reckon he’ll come?’
Her smile was wide still, but he saw the light fade from her eyes. ‘I’m sure we can convince your father it’s worth the drive. So who else is on the team? Do you want a Milo or an orange juice?’ She was the master of avoidance who managed his father’s weekend binge-drinking by making excuses for him. Twenty-five years later she was still doing it. No one was ever going to live up to Albert Stein’s expectations.
With the 20/20 clarity of hindsight Conor knew now that his father’s disapproval had defined so many of his early choices, so much of his stubborn defiance. His father had left with the sun and come home after dark, smelling of oil and grease from the garage. All he wanted was for his boy to go to university, to move up the social ladder. Footy didn’t rate as a career. His mother only wanted her son to be happy, and she knew football had made his eyes light up.
Torn between his parents, he’d managed to do both, but his father’s triumphant smile when Conor’s playing career ended in injury was a bitter pill. He was never going to see eye to eye with the old bastard. Courtesy of Conor’s money, his parents now lived in a comfortable home in a nice suburb in Geelong and his father drove a top-of-the-range Holden. His mother still volunteered at the Red Cross and Meals on Wheels. ‘Give something back’ had always been her motto, even when they’d had precious little to give.
A whistle from the riverbank interrupted his train of thought. Joyce was waving from the jetty, a pair of binoculars hanging in his hand.
‘Fuck it,’ Conor muttered. ‘Won’t the mongrel even let me sleep?’ He debated ignoring the policeman, but the whistle came again. He stood up and cupped his hands around his mouth.
‘What do you want?’
‘You!’ the policeman yelled, motioning with his whole arm for Conor to come ashore.
‘I need sleep. I have training in a couple of hours.’
‘Later. You need to answer some more questions.’
‘Fuck it,’ Conor muttered again. He could make them come to him, but then they’d be tramping all over his boat. Maybe they already had. ‘Give me five.’ He had a phone call to make. Better to pre-empt the inquiries.
He grabbed his phone as he went below. Noah answered on the second ring.
‘Mate, it’s me. Sorry to bother you again, but I may need some help this time.’
‘Right. What do you need?’
‘There’s been some trouble. Maybe I’ve witnessed more than I realise. Maybe nothing connected. Either way, the cops want to question me. Again.’
‘Okay. I’ll let the witness protection boys know, along with the Feds. Are you involved?’
‘I don’t believe so. Wrong place, wrong time, twice in a month seems too much of a coincidence though. The old bloke who’s been injured may be up to his neck in it.’
‘Colleague?’
‘My boss.’
‘Shit. You and hot water . . . Call you back.’
The phone line went dead. Conor finished pulling on a shirt and long pants. He went back on deck. Joyce was leaning against a pylon, phone glued to his ear.
‘Take care, old friend,’ Conor said with a last pat on the side of the boat. ‘Who knows where this will lead.’
14
Kristy couldn’t stifle her yawn. Her spine ached as she slumped in the chair. Abby would be finished training soon and then she could go home and crawl into bed.
‘You want to try sleeping at night,’ Freya said as she touched her friend’s shoulder.
Kristy summoned a smile. ‘Good idea. I’ll try that tonight.’
‘You want a coffee?’
‘No, thanks. What I want is to crash out for a couple of hours, but training seems to be running late.’
‘Yeah, apparently Joyce wanted to talk to Conor.’
‘No surprises there. Joyce attended a traffic accident last night. Guess he wanted to check the facts with Conor.’
Freya angled her head. ‘Conor was involved?’
‘Not sure, but old Bill McBride’s been badly injured. The rescue helicopter picked him up this morning.’
‘Oh. I heard the chopper and wondered what the go was. Is he okay?’
‘I hope so,’ Kristy replied. ‘He’s a tough old fella and I can’t imagine why anyone would want to run him down.’
‘Run him down?’ Freya’s gaze slid away from Kristy’s. ‘That’s terrible.’
‘Looks that way.’
‘Any idea who did it?’ Freya’s voice squeaked on the last word and she cleared her throat.
‘No, the police are investigating. I hope they haven’t set their sights on Conor again. After Danny and everything.’
‘Conor? Oh my God, that’s awful. He couldn’t be involved.’
Kristy felt the tiniest niggle of alarm. She was as sure as she could be that Conor hadn’t run Bill down, but was he involved in some way? Freya’s edginess was doing nothing to settle that alarm.
‘I hope not. But . . .’ His parting comment about karma had wormed its way into her doubts. What did she know about him except that he was great with kids and made her body burn with the lightest of touches? He could be a killer on the run for all she knew.
‘Well, he must have passed all sorts of tests to be allowed to work here. Miller’s not going to hire someone with a question mark.’
‘I guess not.’ Kristy watched Freya’s face. ‘Conor said someone on a black speedboat had fired shots at them earlier in the night. Hit the Lady Leonie and winged Bill. It’s got to be connected.’
‘Shit.’ Freya’s eyes were wide, her f
ear real. ‘You’d think that would be easy to trace.’
‘Maybe.’
‘It can’t be Conor.’ Freya squeezed Kristy’s arm. ‘He’s not like that. I’m sure of it.’ She reached up to brush her hair from her face and her long sleeve fell back. The row of fingerprints on her biceps was purple and distinct.
Kristy didn’t look away as Freya smoothed the fabric flat again. She let the silence settle, waiting.
‘Jonno had the shits with me because I said Sissy’s birthday present was too extravagant.’ Freya looked up and this time met Kristy’s gaze. ‘You and Abby want to come round for lunch tomorrow?’
Kristy hid her surprise. She’d only been out to the McDonalds’ to drop Abby off or to collect her. That always took place in the foyer of the McDonalds’ mansion. ‘Tomorrow?’
‘Sissy’s birthday. Jonno’s having friends around – his, not mine. It would be nice to have you there. Nice for Sissy as well. She doesn’t have many friends.’
It was impossible to miss the subtext. Kristy knew how effective isolation was in dominating a woman. ‘Sure. I didn’t know it was her birthday. What can I bring? A salad, dessert? Champagne?’
Freya shook her head. ‘No grog required, I’ve got another carful of that. Just yourselves. It will be great to catch up. It’s hard living so far out of town. I wish we were closer.’
Kristy felt that tug as well and wrinkled her nose at her friend. ‘It’s not that big a drive. We should catch up more often. We could all go to Cairns maybe – you and the kids and Abby and me.’
Freya’s face lit up. ‘I’d like that, but . . .’ Reality closed it down again. ‘Maybe sometime.’
Kristy let it go. ‘What time would you like us?’
‘One o’clock? There’ll be people staying the night, but I wouldn’t put you through that.’
‘So a casual lunch? Barbecue?’
‘He’s flying in caterers.’ Freya rolled her eyes. ‘Some celebrity chef and his hangers-on.’
‘Really? Wow. I won’t turn up in a T-shirt and shorts then.’
Freya laughed. ‘You always look good. But there will be women from Sydney who like to dress up. I’ve even ordered an outfit from one of those websites I sent you. Did you buy anything?’
Kristy nodded. ‘A couple of floaty summer dresses and a new pair of sandals.’
‘Really?’ Freya held up her hand. ‘High five, girlfriend. That’s awesome!’ Kristy laughed as they slapped hands.
‘Even Abby approved. I think she was a little disappointed they weren’t more sexy, but it’s baby steps for me.’
‘You and me both,’ Freya said, serious again. The two women exchanged glances.
‘There she is,’ Sienna called as she and Abby led the others through the doors from the court, bringing the heat of the afternoon with them. Conor was rounding up the last of the stragglers. ‘Mum, Mum! Can Conor come to the party tomorrow? It’d be way cool if he did. I told him it would be okay.’ Her words tripped over themselves. Abby trailed along behind, her expression glum.
‘Wait up, wait up. I don’t think it’s an open invite, Sissy. Sorry, Conor.’
‘But it’s my birthday. I can invite whoever I want and I want Conor to come.’ Sissy’s bottom lip quivered.
‘You know what your dad’s like, Sis.’ Freya raised apologetic hands as Conor joined them.
‘He’s a jerk. And a loser. Like I want fancy caterers from Sydney flown in. I want Abby and Conor and it’s my birthday.’ Her eyes welled with tears.
Conor intervened. ‘Sissy, if your dad’s gone to the trouble of catering he won’t want a freeloader. We can do cake next week at training. Candles even.’
‘No. I want you to come to my party. And Abby. It’s my party.’ Sissy’s hands were on her hips now.
‘Abby and her mum are both coming.’ Freya sounded weary rather than annoyed. ‘I invited them. It was meant to be a surprise.’
Kristy gave a sharp nod to Abby, whose expression had lifted even though she looked like she was just about to contradict Freya.
Sissy squealed. ‘So Conor can come with them too! You’re the best.’
Freya capitulated with a sigh and handed over a twenty-dollar note. ‘Go buy a drink for you and Abby.’
The girls giggled as they walked to the counter, their arms looped. Sissy flashed a glance over her shoulder at Conor.
He looked embarrassed. ‘Sorry about that. She invited me at halftime. I thought she was joking, but at the end of the game she insisted. I said I’d have to speak to you. I thought it was a kids party.’
Freya smiled at him. ‘No need to be sorry. You’re the highlight of Sissy’s week. And she’s right. It is her birthday. She should at least have someone she wants there. But you do need to know my husband’s not necessarily going to roll out the red carpet for you.’
‘Right.’ His gaze rested on Kristy for a moment and she felt her cheeks burn. ‘Any word on Bill?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing new yet.’
‘And how are you doing?’ She didn’t doubt the concern in his eyes was genuine.
‘Probably as good as you. I hear the cops bailed you up again. Did you get any sleep?’
One sardonic eyebrow twitched. ‘I make a good fit for their crime, unfortunately. I understand that, but I didn’t realise the Cooktown cops would run to tactics the CIA would be proud of. I haven’t had a chance to stretch out on my bunk and shut my eyes, but I plan to now that training’s finished for the day.’
Kristy bit the inside of her cheek. The smouldering intensity she saw in those dark eyes and the thought of being stretched out next to him was doing crazy things to her libido.
‘Bet you sleep like a baby for the rest of the day.’ She was sounding prim again and folded her hands in her lap so she wouldn’t fiddle with her hair. She was not some star-struck teenager. She’d put a halt to everything and he’d taken it in good grace. No point in revisiting that decision now.
‘Bet you’re right,’ he replied. His grin said he’d recognised her confusion. He turned to Freya. ‘So where is this party and what time?’
‘One o’clock. You know where Glenview Station is? Out on the Endeavour River Road?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t have a car.’
‘Oh. The taxi’s going to love you then. Or maybe . . .?’ She looked at Kristy.
Damn, Kristy thought, backed into a corner. She’d look churlish if she didn’t offer, but she didn’t want a forty-five-minute drive with her hormones racing and her daughter sitting in the back seat. ‘Of course he can come with us. Abby will like that too.’
‘Okay. I’ll meet you in the car park.’ Did she detect a triumphant glint in his eyes?
‘Right. We’ll pick you up at twelve-fifteen then.’ She sounded haughty, but she couldn’t stop it. She looked across at Freya. ‘I’d better get going now. You’re right, Frey?’
‘Yup. Time to collect my little man as well and head home.’
My little man. Kristy’s smile didn’t slip even as the words knifed deep. ‘Great, we’ll see you tomorrow.’ She slung her bag over her shoulder, surprised when Conor moved the chair beside her so she could slide out. His courtesy made her feel even more churlish. ‘Thanks. Twelve-fifteen, don’t be late.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Kristy.’ His smile gently mocked her. ‘Catch you.’ He tipped two fingers to his forehead in a sketchy salute as he turned and walked towards the locker room. The smell of clean sweat and salt lingered. Kristy took a deep breath to steady herself, and beside her Freya snorted.
‘Should be a hot date tomorrow.’
‘Oh, please. He’s just a flirt.’ Kristy shoved her hands in her pockets, knowing they were trembling.
‘Nuh-uh. I’ve never seen him so chatty and, trust me, enough mothers have tried engaging him in conversation,’ she said, with air quotes for the last word. ‘He was allegedly knocking off the barmaid from the pub on the front, but she went back to the UK.’
‘You
seem to know a whole lot about him.’
‘Nothing wrong with window-shopping. I reckon he’s tough enough to take Jonno on if push came to shove. Of course, Jonno might just kill him too. See you tomorrow.’
Freya’s words chilled Kristy. She knew Jonno was reported to have killed before. According to the locals, he’d been lucky to get away with the last one. The story went that he and his mother had killed a prospector who strayed onto Glenview Station. They used their helicopter to fly his body out and then ran a herd of cattle over the site of the shooting. The evidence was obliterated.
She’d only met him once, and the cool appraisal from his ice-blue eyes had left her feeling exposed and vulnerable. It had been not long after she’d started work at the hospital. He’d pushed through the hospital door, leaving it to slam in his wake, cradling a limp Buddy in his arms. The look of fear in the boy’s pale face as he struggled to breathe had had Kristy hurrying from her desk.
Half an hour later she’d found Jonno pacing the waiting room, a phone jammed in his ear. She’d paused, expecting him to hang up, ask for news of his son. Instead he’d stood there, eyeballing her for several seconds before turning away abruptly and continuing his conversation. It sounded like a negotiation, and not a particularly amicable one. She waited for him to look at her again, to register her disapproval. That’s all it usually took for a normal person to feel guilty about ignoring a doctor. She tapped his shoulder.
‘John? I’m sure you’ll be delighted that Buddy’s responded well to the drugs and oxygen. I’d like to keep him overnight for observation, just to be sure. Where do you live?’