by Judy Nunn
Mike picked up his towel and dried himself off. Then he sat on the sand, oblivious to the midsummer frolic all about him, the shrieks of children, the bat of a nearby tennis ball.
He felt no fear as he thought of his death; his mind was too preoccupied with the consequences that would follow it. What exactly would happen if he were no longer a part of the equation? Pembo certainly wouldn't bring up the subject of Mayjay – there would be no purpose. And if he were tragically struck dead by a heart attack, Spud and Pembo wouldn't dare try to implicate him in any investigation of the Institute's funding. It would appear an attempt to besmirch his good name in a desperate bid to save themselves.
Then his ego presented him with a further thought. Would there be any investigation at all? He was Mike McAllister, founder of the McAllister Institute, world-renowned for its scientific and environmental research. His death would be widely mourned, and most particularly by Western Australians. They would perceive the Institute as his personal monument, and Western Australians didn't like their monuments tarnished. No, he thought, there would be no investigation. No-one would dare. Through his death, the good name of the McAllister Research Institute would not only survive, it would thrive and prosper.
With a start, Mike was jolted back to reality. In his analytical state, he'd forgotten he was sitting on the beach. The shrieks of the children and the bat of the tennis ball were all too vivid now. He looked about him at the carefree clamour of Cottesloe on a blistering Saturday morning, just as it was every summer, just as it would be every summer to come. Every summer that he wouldn't see, Mike thought, suddenly overwhelmed by the magnitude of his decision.
He felt the heat of the sun on his back and the tingle of salt on his skin, and a mortal fear pervaded him. Did he really have the courage to end it all? Was he prepared to no longer exist? To become nothingness? For he didn't believe in life after death. His life had been devoted to science; there'd been no place for a welcoming God.
He tried to comfort himself in the only way he knew how. He would live on through the Institute, he told himself. The Institute was a testament to the value of his life. His own father had said as much. And he would live on in the memories of his wife and daughter. The blame-less memories, he reminded himself, the memories that must be preserved at all cost.
His reasoning made sense and strengthened his resolve. But it didn't eradicate the fear. Nothing could do that.
Decision made, Mike stood. Time for one last surf.
He dolphin-dived through the shallow breakers, making for the deeper waves beyond, and for the next half-hour his mind was blissfully blank as his body became one with the surf.
But afterwards, jogging up the beach on his way to the car, he was once again busily making plans. No time for the revisitation of his fear, he told himself, things had to be arranged with care. There was no room for error.
Mike drove directly to the Institute where he knew young Greg Saunders and several members of the team were working on Carina in preparation for next month's expedition.
'Ahoy there,' he called from the jetty to where he could see Greg up on the ship's foredeck.
'Mike.' Greg turned and gave him a wave. 'Come to join us workers, have you?'
'I'll swap you for the paperwork any day.' Mike grinned. 'Do you fancy a trip to Rotto tomorrow?' The two of them often took the cat out for a spot of fishing on a Sunday.
'Do I ever,' Greg called back.
'Right you are. Fill her up for me this afternoon, and we'll take off around eight.'
'You're on.'
They exchanged another wave and Mike walked back along the jetty.
All was now set in motion. Greg would be a witness to his death. There must be no element of doubt. He must be seen to have died of natural causes and under the most normal of circumstances.
Mike returned home. He showered and then shut himself away in his study immersed in his paperwork, trying as hard as he could to distract himself, but meeting with little success. There was time to think now.
The fear returned, and along with the fear came thoughts of his wife and daughter, and the realisation that he hadn't really dwelt upon the emotional impact his death would have on Jo and Allie. He'd been too busy trying to protect them from the ignominy of the truth. How typical of him not to have viewed his actions from their perspective – they'd be emotionally devastated.
He remembered how he'd considered his father selfish in excluding his wife from the final months of his life. 'Death is a personal thing,' Jim McAllister had said. But death wasn't a personal thing at all, Mike thought. Not when a man deliberately deprived a woman of a husband and a child of a father. His was surely the most selfish of all acts. But then, grief had a way of healing itself, didn't it? Dishonour did not. He steeled himself.
He was glad that Allie was off to a party that evening; keeping up normal appearances was proving difficult. Then Jo asked if he'd like to go out to dinner – the two of them often did on a Saturday evening.
'What about a quiet night at home,' he said. 'We could go decadent, what do you say?'
'Perfect,' she smiled.
Curled up together on the sofa, they ate pizzas and mindlessly watched television. Mike registered nothing at all on the screen; as he felt Jo's body beside him, he drank in the nearness of her.
Later, they made love. The last time, he thought, the very last time. It was impossible to conceive that he would never make love to her again.
Afterwards, as they lay in each other's arms, he thought how very unfair he was being to her. But then, when had he ever been fair to Jo? He'd been so consumed by the importance of his own life that he'd ignored hers. But he had loved her. He'd loved her as much as it was within his capability to love.
'I love you, Jo,' he whispered.
She hadn't heard him say it in years and the words rather surprised her. The sentiment, however, did not.
'I know,' she whispered in return. She'd always known.
Over breakfast the following morning, Mike looked at the two women most precious in his life and wished he could tell them how much they meant to him. He would have liked to take his daughter in his arms and tell her how proud he was of her, and that he was sorry for what he was about to do and the unhappiness it would cause her. But everything must appear normal.
'You could have asked me along,' Allie said with a mock show of petulance.
'It's a blokes' fishing trip, and you'd only be a distraction to Greg.'
She pulled a face.
'Will you forgive me if I come home with some crays?'
'Yes,' she said. 'Six crays and you're forgiven.'
'Six. Right. It's a promise.'
He kissed Jo on the cheek and gave Allie a wave as he crossed to the door.
'See you,' he said.
*
Aboard the cat on their way to Rottnest, he kept up a similar semblance of normalcy. Greg must suspect nothing out of the ordinary.
They talked about the forthcoming trip to New Guinea. Greg was as excited as Allie. This was the first time he, too, would be accompanying the team on one of their international expeditions. Mike found his enthusiasm engaging. Greg was a fine young man, just right for Allie, he thought. They had so much to share and he loved her a great deal. Perhaps, now that Allie had gained her doctor-ate, she might take time out to register the fact. But if she did, he wouldn't be there to see it, would he?
'Take over the helm will you, Greg. I'll start rigging the lines.' He needed to distract himself.
Ten minutes later, he saw Carnac Island up ahead, tiny, a colony of seals dozing on the beach of its white sandy cove. Carnac was a keen source of interest to the Institute these days. An important part of the marine coastal environment, it was a valuable habitat for Australian sea lions, one of the world's rarest seal species.
But Mike wasn't thinking of the Institute and its studies as they neared the island. He was recalling how he and Jools had swum with the seals as children. Carnac had been a r
egular stopping-off point on the family trips to Rottnest. He remembered those special days when the seals had been playful. Each time he and Jools had ducked and dived and somersaulted in the water, the seals had done the same. Jools used to get hysterical with laughter.
He concentrated on rigging the lines.
The crossing was gentle, the swell mild, Alana up on the plane breasting the waves with ease, and soon Rottnest Island loomed before them.
'Head for North Point,' Mike said. 'We'll drift for snapper and dhuey.'
When they reached the deep reefs off North Point, they cut the engines, leaving the boat to slowly drift at the mercy of the wind and the tide.
They fished with handlines, and before long they'd hauled in several snapper and two excellent-sized dhufish. They noted the spots along the reef where the catch had been most plentiful.
Mike started up the engine and circled the boat to do another drift.
'Let's head back to where we picked up the dhueys,' he said.
They didn't drift into the spot as they would normally have done, Mike headed directly for it instead.
'Do you mind if we drop anchor? I want to go over the side and pick up some crays. I promised Allie I would.'
'Sure,' Greg grinned. 'Gives me more time to up the score.'
They always competed, especially for dhufish. Whoever hauled in more dhueys won the day.
When they'd dropped anchor, Mike stripped down to his bathers and fastened the mesh dive bag around his waist. He pulled on his flippers and took the rock lobster snare loop from the open storage locker in the cockpit. Then, mask and snorkel in hand, he slipped over the side. He trod water while he rinsed the mask.
'Good luck,' Greg said. He already had his line in the water.
'Yeah, won't be long.'
Mike donned the mask, inhaled and dived. He swam for the reef below, pressurising as he went, deeper and deeper into the overwhelming silence.
The visibility was perfect, the water crystal clear, and as he reached the reef, he was aware of the colour and activity that surrounded him. But he didn't lose himself in the wonder of it all as he normally did. He remained focused, he had to get this right.
He was around ten metres down, he thought, that should do it, and he locked himself into the side of the reef. Wedging each end of the snare loop's stainless-steel handle into the rocks, he positioned himself there like a sentinel. Then he waited, counting the seconds until his lungs would need air, monitoring his heart rate as he did so.
He was oblivious to all but the needs of his body as the seconds ticked by. Then more and more seconds. Now was the time he would normally go up, he thought. He'd go slowly and steadily, depressurising on the way. But he didn't go up. He held on, his pulse quickening, his brain sounding an alarm which he ignored. Not yet, he told himself, not yet. A further warning was followed by a sense of panic. Go up! Go up, his brain said, but he fought against the impulse to swim for the surface. He needed to be absolutely sure he had pushed himself beyond his body's limits.
Alarm bells were now ringing, his heart was pounding. Yes, he thought, it was time. Any longer and he might risk the possibility of drowning, and he mustn't drown. Drowning could be seen as a purposeful act. People would query why Mike McAllister, so experienced a diver, had drowned.
He pushed away from the reef, swimming with all his strength for the silvery, dappled light above.
It happened when he wasn't far from the surface. The pain was crippling and he doubled over, clutching at his chest, unable to use his arms further. He resisted the involuntary impulse to scream, keeping his mouth clamped shut, kicking his legs, feebly now, but his powerful diver's flippers moved him ever upwards as the fierce iron fist closed around his heart. The pain was unbearable and the light above unattainable as he craned his neck to look up.
Just a few seconds more, he thought. He couldn't give in. He was close, so close . . .
Then he broke through to the light and felt the sun on his face. A strangled cry escaped him as he opened his mouth for air. But there was no air to be had. No air, no sun, no light, just blackness. Oblivion.
His body bobbed like a cork on the ocean's vast surface.
EPILOGUE
Johanna McAllister had decided that her husband's funeral should be open to the public. The decision was a brave and generous one – it would mean the accompanying intrusion of the media, and she would far rather have had a small private service with family and friends. A private person herself, Jo had no wish to parade her grief, but she knew there would be many who would wish to pay their respects.
Mike's mother and sister were in agreement. A public service was only fitting for a man in Mike's position, particularly given the overwhelming reaction to his death, although Maggie and Jools, too, would have preferred a small affair.
Mike's daughter had no qualms at all about a public service. Allie considered it not only fitting, but mandatory. If she'd had her way, her father would have been given a state funeral.
The reaction to Mike McAllister's death had indeed been extraordinary. He and his work had been internationally recognised for well over a decade, and media around the globe were quick to pick up on the news that was head-lines throughout Australia. Dr Mike McAllister, eminent scientist, environmentalist and founder of the renowned McAllister Research Institute in Western Australia, had died unexpectedly of a heart attack. He'd been only forty-nine. Condolences poured in from all parts of the world.
Jo was moved by the tributes, but dreaded the ceremony. She'd shared her emotions with no-one but Allie, even then maintaining a show of strength, feeling that she must for her daughter's sake.
Allie herself had wept for days, a raw outpouring of grief that Jo had found healthy. She'd rather wished she could have done the same, but she'd kept her own tears for the nights when the bed had seemed such a desolate place. Allie had quickly developed her own form of strength, however. 'At least he died the way he would have wanted,' she'd said with a sort of proud defiance. Jo couldn't refute that, and she was glad her daughter found some comfort in the thought. But it didn't take away the emptiness, did it?
Mike's personal secretary, the ever-capable Bev, took over the funeral arrangements. The service was to be delayed a week longer than the family would have preferred, but Bev maintained it necessary to allow those coming from overseas to make flight arrangements, which they agreed was practical.
Then Bev's instructions were issued. They were abundantly clear to all, particularly the media:
Press are welcome on the understanding that the privacy of the McAllister family be respected, and that no photographs be taken inside the church.
Television cameras are to remain outside the church's boundaries.
There are to be no flowers delivered to the church or to the bereaved, but in lieu of floral arrangements donations to the World Wildlife Fund will be gratefully accepted. Following the service, transport will be provided for those who wish to attend the gathering which will be held at the McAllister Research Institute.
All are welcome, but members of the press are to respect the fact that the gathering is a private affair. Unless they have any connection with the family, they are not invited to attend.
Bev was highly efficient and she was running the event like a military exercise, for which Jo was eternally grateful.
The day arrived, and the members of the press were apparently mindful of their instructions. Photographers' cameras clicked and whirred from a discreet distance, and journalists made no approaches, biding their time for perhaps a brief statement from one or two of the mourners following the funeral service.