by Peter Cotton
‘And your dad?’
‘He was a Wadi Wadi man from Kiama.’
‘Where’s he now?’
‘Passed away two years ago. Heart attack.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Yeah, it was a shit thing.’
‘Fathers and daughters. That’s a special bond.’
‘It can be. And we were close when I was little, but not in the years before he died. That’s a hard thing I live with, now.’
I thought about Jade’s regrets about her father and quickly found myself mulling over a few regrets of my own. Jean had spent a couple of days in Canberra before she’d flown out for Jayapura, and we’d spent most of her stay fighting. I’d told her repeatedly that she shouldn’t be putting herself in such a high-risk situation, especially given what she’d said about the attitude of some Indonesian nationalists towards foreign journalists. She’d countered that I should trust her and support her decisions, and that it was hypocritical of me to be ‘ultra-protective’ when I was in a high-risk job myself. We’d both stuck to our guns, and as a consequence, we’d become even more pissed off with each other. We barely spoke on the drive to the airport. I’d been late for work, so I’d dropped her at the curb. That was a big regret.
Despite that last parting, our seven-year on-again, off-again, on-again relationship had had more ups than downs, though neither of us seemed to have had the time, nor the resolve, to make things really work between us. I’d shifted into her Kingston apartment almost as soon as we’d got together, but I’d maintained my flat in Reid, and I’d never kept much stuff at her place. Just enough to fill a suitcase, she used to say.
We were both job-focused, which meant we sometimes didn’t see each other for days, and when we did, it was often a brief encounter. Despite the hours we put in, I wasn’t ambitious like her. And unlike her, I didn’t covet my boss’s job — who’d want to end up like McHenry? But while the Live Cam provided her with interesting work and a healthy pay packet, Jean felt the producers there undervalued her efforts, so she was generally frustrated with the place. Then, three years ago, QTV had offered her a news position covering the region from Bangkok, and she’d jumped at it, with my encouragement.
After she went to Bangkok, we didn’t communicate much for a few months, but I thought about her a lot. Then she came back to Canberra for Rolfe’s fiftieth, and the two of us spent a few romantic days together at her hotel. The visit had rekindled our relationship, and we’d kept it going through texts, emails, and calls. We had a couple of holidays together in Thailand, and when she came to Canberra, which she did fairly often, she stayed with me. We were as close as we’d ever been, but I still couldn’t really believe in a future for us.
One time, when our jobs had us both in Melbourne on a Friday evening, we’d decided to drive down to Aireys Inlet to stay at a place she knew near the lighthouse. It had been the tail end of winter, but Jean had still spent hours bodysurfing while I’d stayed rugged up on the beach. We’d walked the cliffs overlooking the ocean on both mornings. During our Sunday walk, she’d said she’d find it hard to leave her Bangkok job, mainly because of the anonymity it gave her.
‘What’s so attractive about being anonymous?’ I’d asked her.
‘You know what I mean, Glass,’ she’d said. ‘In Asia, I’m just another faceless foreigner, and I can go where I want and do what I like. But here, people still recognise me from the Live Cam days, and you’ve seen it. They gawk and want an autograph or a selfie. I can’t tell you how much I hate it.’
‘Is there anything that’d make you give up Bangkok?’ I’d asked. ‘Leave the job?’
‘Well,’ she’d said, ‘I can think of a few things.’ She’d beamed me a smile then, which, strangely, was accompanied by a blush. ‘Despite evidence to the contrary, my dreams do extend beyond my work, you know, Glass. And I think I’ll probably settle back here within the next few years.’
‘What would you come back for?’
From the curious look she’d given me then, I knew I’d either missed a cue, or I’d pushed the conversation deeper than she’d been intending.
‘I don’t know, Glass,’ she’d said. ‘Us? You tell me.’
I’d chuckled. ‘You tell me first.’
By playing dumb, I’d effectively killed the conversation. We’d walked in strained silence for a few minutes after that, till a colourful bird darted across our path and had us both gasping in wonder. That missed opportunity at Aireys, to tell her how I felt, was by far my biggest regret.
‘So, what happens when we get to Alice,’ said Jade, breaking me from these thoughts with a jolt. ‘More questions from you and your lot, or am I free to go?’
‘The military people will want to talk to you,’ I said. ‘I didn’t tell you this, but they found John Sheridan’s body. In the bay as well, like Kylie.’
‘Oh no,’ she said, voicing the words with a sigh.
Having dropped that on her, I figured it was finally time to hit her with the revelation about her uncle, hoping it’d encourage her to spill what she knew about his activities.
‘I don’t know how to tell you this, Jade,’ I said, ‘but where I found you, back in that sidecar, there were lots of bikies having a meeting just metres away from you. And your uncle, Ken Bynder, he was the star attraction at that meeting. Did you know that?’
‘Uncle Kenny was there?’ she said, sounding genuinely surprised. ‘Where you found me? As if! You’ve really got it in for him, haven’t you?’
‘He was there. And from your description of Phil Manassa, he was there too.’
‘Well, maybe they were trying get me free! What else would they be doing?’
‘I’ve got no idea,’ I said, eyeing her in the wing mirror. ‘I was hoping you could tell me.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’
‘So you know nothing about your uncle’s political activities, even though you had to sit through all those political discussions he had with Kylie?’
‘What’s your thing with Uncle? I don’t get it. He’s like an obsession for you.’
I was becoming as frustrated with her as she was with me, so I decided to give it a rest. We soon reached the Stuart Highway and Erldunda, and headed north towards Alice Springs. The country on either side of the highway was flat and low, though the plant life became greener, somehow, and more abundant the further north we travelled. Vehicle tracks branched off the highway with amazing regularity, though none of them showed signs of recent use. I wondered who’d made the tracks, and where they led. Then I realised I was getting sidetracked by these musings. I looked in the mirror at Jade. She was staring at the road ahead, deep in thought. With one hour left in the ride, it was time to have another go at her.
‘What about this tunnel?’ I said, drawing a surprised grunt from her as I jarred her back into the present. ‘The one your grandad told you about. You say you haven’t seen it, but have you talked to anyone about it since you moved to Steeple Bay?’
‘No,’ she said, a scowl in her voice. ‘Of course not.’
‘What’s the matter with that? Why wouldn’t you ask?’
‘Because you don’t talk about secret things when you know they’re secret. People’ll tell you if they want you to know. Or if they think you need to know. But you don’t poke around. No one likes it. I don’t like it.’
And that was that. She’d lapsed into a sullen state and the situation wasn’t right for me to try to pressure her. But I’d organise to have another go at her. In an interview room, without distractions. I’d schedule it once the military types had finished with her. I considered calling McHenry for news about Jean, but decided against it. He would’ve called me if he had anything to report.
As we closed in on Alice Springs, strands of elevated country emerged north of the highway and blended into a low escarpment that soon follow
ed the line of the road. The craggy rock face and broken ridgeline provided some relief from the flat desert. We passed isolated houses and makeshift dwellings at the edge of town. Then came the new housing developments, and the small shopping centres servicing them.
As we crossed the Todd River Bridge, I called McHenry and asked about arrangements. He confirmed what I’d already assumed. White and his people would escort us to Jade’s auntie’s place, he said. She lived in Knuckey Avenue in Larapinta. Daisy would be waiting there, as would military intelligence. Jade would get a couple of hours with her family before she was taken off for a formal interview. I asked him if he’d heard any more about Jean, but he hadn’t.
Three identical late-model sedans lined the curb outside 34 Knuckey Avenue. The humvee and the rest of the convoy pulled in behind them, and I parked a few metres ahead of them. Two guys in sunglasses and suits got out of the sedan behind me. They stood on the nature strip and watched as we got off the bike and removed our helmets. The front door of the house flew open, and Daisy Rawlins charged down the steps. Within seconds, she and Jade were crying in each other’s arms.
I went to the passenger window of the humvee and thanked White for everything he and his people had done for us. Then I got back on the bike and called out to Jade. She turned and gave me a wink. I responded with a thumbs-up, and Daisy nodded at me and mouthed a ‘thank you’. I started the bike and eased away from the curb and headed off to the airport.
As soon as I got on the plane and put on my seatbelt, I conked out. Next thing, I was being jolted awake as we touched down in Canberra. I had forty minutes before my meeting with McHenry, so I caught a cab to my flat in Forrest, had a quick shower, and changed my clothes. It seemed like an age since I’d been home — living in fear for your life can inflate your sense of time passed.
When I walked into the office at City Station, various colleagues congratulated me and asked about Jean. I thanked them and said I knew as much about Jean’s ‘situation’ as they did. I took the lift to the fifth floor. The PA gave me the thumbs-up, and I went straight into McHenry’s office.
‘There you are,’ he said, beaming as he got up from his desk. ‘And not much worse for wear, by the looks of you.’
‘Bent but not broken, sir,’ I said, sitting down opposite him and taking out my notebook.
‘I’ve just spoken to a senior person in Foreign,’ he said, suddenly sombre. ‘There’ve been a number of fatalities among the foreigners in Jayapura. That’s from the Indonesians themselves. Some others from the site are in hospital, but the majority are locked up in various places around the city. We don’t have access, so it’s a waiting game, I’m afraid.’
It was what I’d been expecting: no definitive news at all. I looked through the window at the lake and tried to steady my breathing. My gaze moved to the far shore and up the wide avenue to the War Memorial. I immediately dropped my gaze back to the water. When you wanted something out of your head, reminders of it popped up everywhere.
‘I’m sure she’ll be fine,’ said McHenry, and I think he meant it. ‘But let’s move on for now. And, Glass, you did a very good job up there. Impressed plenty of people. Pity about your companions.’
‘I would’ve been gone if not for Coombs. And Jade Rawlins proved to be a lifesaver, as well.’
‘Yes, the girl. You got first bite at her. What did you make of it?’
I opened my notebook and scanned what I’d scrawled in the departure lounge in Alice.
‘Bynder’s involved in everything,’ I said, summarising my notes. ‘He insisted Jade travel to Alice, she refused and was abducted. Then he’s on the ground in the desert where she’s being held. None of it’s coincidental. He seemed cut up when he spoke about Kylie’s death, but it’s hard to say with him, and he knows more about how she died than he’s told us. And the Bynder–Manassa relationship is interesting — and it links Bynder with Calder. Then, there’s the tunnel Jade talked about.’
‘Navy’s onto it.’
‘Of course. And one more thing. On the ride to Alice, Jade talked about her family being part of the stolen generations. That’d be worth exploring when we look into the scope of Bynder’s activism.’
‘Navy’s onto that, too.’
‘What? How did they know about that?’
‘The stolen-generations link? You don’t think they’d give you that helmet and not listen in, do you?’
9
McHenry poured two coffees from a glass plunger and slid one across the desk to me. He sat back in his chair, picked up a thin pile of papers, and began flipping through them.
He paused near the top of the pile and withdrew a page.
‘No sightings of Bynder, yet,’ he said, examining a printed email. ‘But they’ve got a good idea where he is. Somewhere in WA, apparently. I’ll keep you posted.’
He continued flipping till something in the middle of the pile caught his eye.
‘Sheridan’s post-mortem was this morning,’ he said, ‘I don’t expect much to come from it. Not a lot to work with, after all.’
He continued to flip till he found another document of interest.
‘Territory police detained a bunch of your bikies yesterday,’ he said, looking up. ‘We’ve got people talking to them, but given the number of lawyers suddenly involved, I don’t expect a quick return from that one.’
He kept flipping to almost the end of the pile.
‘Dave Calder’s office reckons Phil Manassa’s on leave for a couple of weeks,’ he said, extracting the relevant document. ‘They gave us his phone number and address. The phone’s going through to messages, and no one’s answering the door at home. And, as far as we can tell, of the three of them — Bynder, Manassa, and Calder — only Calder owns a light plane. It’s housed at the Nowra airfield, but it’s been absent from its hangar since late Wednesday. No flight path logged, so no passenger manifest, but it’s a fair bet that, wherever the plane is, Bynder and Manassa are with it. And yes, we do need an intensive with both of them, and with Calder.’
He put the papers back on his desk, had a sip of his coffee, and studied me closely.
‘So,’ he said, ‘do I get you into post-trauma while you’re here? If only to cover my arse?’
‘I’m fine boss, really,’ I said, feigning disbelief at his suggestion. ‘If you sent me to “post” every time something nasty happened, I’d spend half my life there. I’m good, honestly. And, more than anything, I want to stay on this case. I know it better than anyone — except the navy, of course. And I really need the distraction at the moment.’
‘I know you do,’ said McHenry, nodding sympathetically. ‘So it’s lucky navy’s asked for you back again, eh? They value continuity and they liked the way you handled yourself in the desert. I guess it means they’ve got used to you, somehow. But they still want you shadowed. You’ll be hearing from the person replacing Coombs, soon enough. I assume you’re overnighting here, and you’ll hit the road in the morning. How’re you getting over the mountain?’
‘I liked being on a bike again,’ I said. ‘So, I think I’ll ride.’
‘That’s fine, but don’t forget, you’ll have your shadow in Jervis Bay, so you’ll need a car for some of the time there. Cherry’ll fix it up. Use him. And take care of yourself, okay?’
With that, McHenry began flipping through his pile of papers again, and I put my empty cup on his desk and made for the door.
I sat next to Rolfe on a thinly cushioned stool in one of his favourite bars in New Acton.
‘… no alcohol of any sort,’ he said, scowling at his glass of mineral water. ‘Rein it in, or you won’t see your sixtieth. So, I’m being sensible. My less-than-robust circumstances demand it. But that’s enough of me talking about me. What do you think about me?’
‘Ha ha,’ I said, smiling at a well-worn gag.
‘Back to the serious stuff, then —
and I agree,’ he said, ‘you must stay busy. As I said, I believe she’s okay. Alive and well. You’ll see I’m right. But while you wait, you’ve got to think of yourself to some degree.’
I nodded and scanned the deserted bar. It was one of a dozen such establishments that’d sprung up recently in these parts. Windowless places with dull lighting, amateur artwork, and ‘interesting’ furniture that killed your back.
Rolfe poked at his mineral water with a swizzle stick. As was his way, he’d thumbed his nose at the heat and dressed in one of his trademark double-breasted suits with a colourful silk kerchief poking out of the breast pocket. In recent years, he’d achieved a social status to match his distinguished attire, thanks to his influential blog and the hugely popular Blood Oath bus tour, which the blog had spawned. He employed ex-gallery journos on his tour buses and he voiced the onboard audiovisuals they used. Unlike my book, his account of our time in the ‘house of death’ had sold hundreds of thousands of copies, and the film based on the book had netted him another big swag of cash. Yet, despite his triumphs, he was forbidden from indulging in his only sensual pleasure: single malt whiskey.
‘If I truly lived in the moment,’ he said, pushing the glass of water away, ‘I’d drink single malt all day, every day. And if you truly lived in the moment, you’d be … Well, I don’t know where you’d be, or what you’d be drinking, but I hope that, given the choice, you’d be drinking it right here, right now, with me.’
‘I would be,’ I said, patting him fondly on the back.
‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ he said. ‘I asked Tom Vaughan to join us. Editor of The Nowra Chronicle. He was looking forward to meeting you, but he’s had to drive back early — some sort of emergency with his printers. Anyway, he did send me something in line with your request.’
Rolfe reached inside his jacket and produced a folded sheet of A4 paper, printed both sides with double-spaced type. He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, carefully unfolded the sheet, and read aloud from it.
‘Dave Calder is living proof that humble origins are not necessarily a life sentence,’ he said.