She stared at the thing for a second. There must be fuel already in the engine but it had to run out at some stage. In any case, she couldn’t wait any longer. Doncaster would come looking for her. He would tie her up, lock her in—as good as dead while she waited for Jackson to arrive. She had to make her move.
She took a step towards the door just as a wave lurched the boat sideways, her foot slipping on the fuel. She fell face first onto the toolbox, her arm flinging out wide and knocking over the boathook as the pain shot through her temple.
Only it wasn’t a boat hook.
There, on the floor right beside her on the end of a length of something metallic, was a circle of thick barbed prongs sharpened to a needle point. A spear gun.
She scrambled to her feet, slipping again in the fuel, steadied herself on the toolbox and grabbed hold of the gun. She’d seen them before, there should be a rubber sling to pull back but this one was just a fully enclosed barrel. She looked it over, trying to work it out. There was a switch on the trigger pointing to the word Safe and a lever at the base. Was it hydraulic? Was this how to prime the spear? She cranked the lever twice, felt the pressure building, kept cranking until it was too tight to budge. She had no idea if she’d actually loaded the thing but either way, she could do some damage if she needed to—poke out an eye; scare the shit out of them. Just holding the barrel with the fearsome spikes at the tip gave her a burst of strength.
She took off her T-shirt, loosened the belt on her shorts, checked the safety lock was still on and thrust the loaded gun down behind her back, inside the belt. Then she pressed herself against the wall, the spear upright behind her with the deadly tip above her head and the trigger side-on below her butt. She breathed in and tightened the belt as tight as it would go. Fuel was still spraying everywhere, bubbling and frothing inside the cylinders. She kicked off her thongs and dropped her T-shirt, then opened the door. She stepped out carefully into the corridor, the gun secured to her body behind her back.
She stood in her bra and shorts, concealed at the base of the stairs for a moment, the fuel stench filling her nostrils. The boat was moving forward and the bucking motion was getting worse. They must have pulled out from behind the point into the rougher water. The longer she waited, the further from shore she’d be. She inhaled two deep, shuddering breaths and took off, bounding up the stairs.
Doncaster was sitting on the lounge with another Peroni in front of him. He yelled as she ran past, knocking over the bottle as he scrambled out of the narrow space behind the table. She was through the door in a flash and onto the back deck. Damien was at the helm in the pilot house on the next level up. She made straight for the side closest to shore with Doncaster right behind her, shouting, the throttle on the engine easing as Damien turned to see what was happening. She clambered up onto the safety rail and pushed off, diving high and wide, Doncaster’s hand snatching at her foot and slipping straight off. She hit the water hard, the spear gun pushing up and sliding sideways but the trigger still secure under her belt. She breaststroked twice under the water, kicked her legs and with her left hand edged the spear straight as she surfaced, then struck out for the shore, arms high, kicking like fury.
She heard the boat engine roar into reverse and flicked her head up as she breathed to her right, glancing towards the sound. Hermes was backing up towards her. Shit. Go harder. Right arm, left arm, more from her legs. She could hear the engines throbbing, Hermes’ hulking white hull looming to her right. She kept an eye on it, turning her head sideways and back with every lift of her right arm. Damien was up high at the helm, Doncaster at the stern, yelling, stepping out onto the duckboard with something long in his hand. A boat hook? Not a gun, thank God.
She reached around for the spear gun, trying to free it from her belt. Too late. Hermes was only a few metres away, the turbulence from the propeller churning the water against her. She had an image of her legs mangled in the blades. Hot panic flushed through her body. She spun onto her back, kicked hard, taking desperate gulps at the air as her arms flayed wildly.
The boat was close enough now to see the rage in Doncaster’s eyes. Damien was manoeuvring the boat close, the engines roaring, so close she could almost touch it, a violent rush of water swirling and shunting against her legs.
Then the engine noise dropped to idle with the boat right above her, the stern plunging up and down in the waves. Doncaster reached out with the boathook, almost overbalancing on the rocking boat. Clem knocked it away, spluttering on a mouthful of salt water.
Doncaster reached again and the hook lodged under her belt. She grabbed the shaft, wrenched at it, jerking it towards her just as Hermes dropped into a trough. Doncaster wobbled on the duckboard, eyes widening, arms flailing, then toppled into the water with a howl. She rolled onto her stomach and struck out for the shore again, her lungs heaving.
Glancing under her arm behind her she could see Doncaster swimming awkwardly towards the ladder at the back of the boat. Really awkwardly—almost a non-swimmer.
Five strokes, and she looked again on the next breath. He was climbing up the ladder and the boat was moving forward and turning towards her. Why the fuck hadn’t the engines cut out?
They would get her eventually. She needed to conserve her strength and prepare for the struggle. She reached for her belt, she would only get one chance with the spear gun. She needed it now.
She watched as Hermes came around in a semi-circle, turning towards her, bow up, lunging forward on the back of the waves. Clem sucked in air, trying to get her breath. The belt buckle had worked its way to the side, she groped for it. The engine was drowning out all sound. She fumbled with the buckle, her fingers would not do her bidding. The boat only fifteen metres away now. Then a splutter, as if the engine coughed. Had she misheard it? No. Another splutter, clearly, the engine struggling now. Then it spluttered away to nothing.
No fuel—finally!
Ten metres away, the bow subsided into the water with a sigh and the bay fell quiet. Just the waves splashing against her, the sound of her breathing, the shouts from Hermes.
As he strode down the pontoon, a small tinny was arriving at the far end, its single occupant seated at the stern—slightly built, not much more than a boy. Jackson broke into a run, approaching just as the young man was picking up a rope from the bottom of the boat, the engine idling and the boat gliding towards the pontoon.
‘G’day mate,’ said Jackson. ‘Here, I’ll give you a hand.’
‘Thanks!’ said the boatman, throwing the rope.
Jackson caught it, waited a moment and stepped into the tinny as it bumped alongside, the man looking confused.
‘Hey!’ he said, rising up from his seat.
Jackson lunged at him. There was a surprised yell as the man tumbled over the gunwale and splashed into the water.
She was out of practice—there was no pool in Katinga. She couldn’t seem to get a decent rhythm going and the shore was still hundreds of metres away. Beneath her, bottomless depths: a vast green expanse darkening to black. She tried to regulate her breathing. A shape flashed to her right. Shark? No, just her hair flipping forward as she swum. Again. Was she sure? Yes, just her hair.
Every now and then she took a glance under her arm as she swung it high. Somebody was moving on the foredeck of Hermes. She looked again four strokes later—something swinging on a crane. An inflatable dinghy. Clementine picked up her pace but she knew that wasn’t going to help her against the speed of an outboard motor. She steadied herself again, stopped, felt for the belt buckle, taking her time and easing the tongue out of its hole. She pulled the belt loose, reaching for the spear gun and edging the trigger out from underneath, with the waves rolling and shunting her. She found the safety switch and flicked it off, then began kicking, on her back towards shore, her eyes on Hermes as they lowered the dinghy into the water.
A minute or so later she heard the outboard engine fire, then the inflatable screaming towards her, Damien the driver. She clutch
ed the spear-gun trigger in her natural right hand, steadying the barrel with her left. Only one shot. Damien would have her or the gun in his grasp before she could reload. Should she aim for the dinghy? Would the barbs be enough to pierce the sides? Would it sink? Or should she aim for Damien?
Not yet. Not yet. Let him get closer.
The slap of rubber against the waves, a plume of froth from the outboard motor and the thing was upon her. She lifted the spear gun out of the water and took aim, the ring of barbed prongs pointing straight for his chest. He yelled, spun the dinghy around and sped off before she could get her shot away, roaring around in a tight circle, turning back to face her.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he yelled.
‘Don’t come any closer!’ Clem shrieked, kicking her feet to orient herself towards the dinghy, ready to shoot if he moved closer.
He would know about spear guns. He’d be keeping the dinghy just out of range.
‘Listen to me,’ he yelled. ‘Put the gun away. You can’t win this, I’ll follow you to shore and get you anyway.’
She looked towards the shore. As she turned her head, he swung the boat towards her, full throttle. She was off balance, trying to wrestle the gun through the force of the water. She got it around, far enough, squeezed the trigger. A loud ppphhht and the spear exploded out of the nozzle, a flash of silver through the air and then punching into the dinghy with a smack and a loud woosh.
Damien was shouting obscenities as the whole side of the dinghy shrivelled. The shaft had buried deep and ripped a hole the size of a coffee mug right on the waterline. He grabbed for a bucket, began feverishly bailing water out.
Clementine tugged on the gun, hoping to retrieve the spear on the end of its string and reload but the barbs were doing their job, the jagged edges lodged tight in the torn flap of canvas.
The stricken flank of the dinghy was completely collapsed now and the water rushing in. The whole thing was tilting, the outboard lurching sideways towards the sea. Damien gave up on bailing, clambered onto the inflated side, straddling it like a horse. The boat seemed to want to float but it was severely crippled, the engine struggling to propel the misshapen mass, half of it dragging under water.
This was her moment to flee.
She ditched the gun and struck out for shore as fast as she could, counted twenty strokes, looked back quickly. Damien crouched over the outboard, making his way in reverse back to Hermes.
Every muscle in her body was burning, her breath coming in great wheezing rasps. She’d been swimming for close to half an hour. Almost there. Only metres from the shore.
Then she heard the high-pitched buzz of an outboard. She stopped, checked behind her. A tinny in the distance, white spray spearing from its front. It was near the point, coming from Barnforth, zooming across the bay in her direction—a single person onboard. She gasped, salt water burning her throat, then kicked hard for shore.
Another minute and she could see the bottom. Then it was under her feet and she scrambled up, wading through waist-deep water. The tinny was still a long way off but gaining fast as her feet sank into the sludgy sand. Knee-deep now, but she could barely lift her legs: stumbling, splashing face-first into the green then recovering; pushing forward on her hands and knees, then finally, out of the water and reeling up the beach.
She crossed the muddy flats, mangrove shoots like rubbery spears sprouting up through the grey, and headed for the track leading towards Piama. Onto the dry sand now, crumbling and scorching hot beneath her feet, the mangroves giving way to gum trees and palms. From a small rise along the track she glanced over her shoulder, panting hard, and saw the tinny roaring straight through the shallows and up onto the sand, coming to an abrupt halt on the beach. A man scrambled to his feet and leapt over the side. He had long pants and shoes—not dressed for boating.
Jackson! Running up the beach, following her footprints. Still quite a distance between them.
With the loose stones bruising her soles, she ran to the first house, pounded on the door, yelling, ‘Help!’
An elderly woman emerged clutching at her throat in shock as she opened it. Clem must have looked a sight—bedraggled and terror-struck in her bra and shorts.
‘I need to get to the police urgently,’ Clem gasped. ‘Please, help me.’
The woman stood there, white hair wispy around her face, an apron tied about her waist, barely taller than she was wide.
‘Please. Your car keys. A man with a gun will be here any second.’
The woman turned and hobbled up the hallway as fast as stumpy arthritic limbs could take her. ‘I’ll have to come with you, dear,’ she called in a broad Scottish accent. ‘George won’t be pleased if I just hand over my keys to a total stranger.’
She came back down the hallway with a set of keys and her spectacles, closing the front door behind her.
‘Can I drive?’ said Clem, holding out her hand.
‘Nae lass,’ she said, frowning. ‘You’re in no fit state.’
Clem glanced up the road as the woman creaked out to the car. ‘I’m so sorry but we have to hurry! He’s coming up the beach now!’
‘Good Lord!’ The woman was puffing as Clem grabbed under her elbow and herded her along to the rusty old hatchback parked under a decrepit carport. Clem kept her eyes on the end of the street. Movement on the track behind.
‘I can see him. Please, ma’am, you have to let me drive,’ she begged.
‘Wheesht,’ she said crossly. ‘Ma’am, my arse. It’s Mrs Henderson to you.’
Clem flung open the driver’s door. Mrs Henderson plonked herself in and cranked the key while Clem raced around to the passenger side and dived in. The engine revved sharply and the car vaulted backwards, Mrs Henderson’s ample bosom bouncing against the steering wheel. On the street now and Mrs Henderson pushed the gear lever into drive. In Clem’s side mirror, the man, Jackson, running onto the end of the street, slowing, steadying, raising a gun.
‘Duck!’ yelled Clem, pushing Mrs Henderson’s head down. They heard the sound of the gunshot, the glass exploded in the rear windscreen. Mrs Henderson gave a yelp, eyes like saucers and stepped down hard on the accelerator, tyres screeching as the car leapt forward. Another shot. Clem looked over her shoulder. Jackson was taking aim again. She scrunched her eyes closed as the crack sounded but they were speeding up the road now, Mrs Henderson hunched forward, gripping the wheel, glasses perched on the end of her nose.
Clem looked back again. Jackson, standing with his hands by his side, gun lowered, the rolling flurry of the Great Sandy Straits surrounding his figure in a stripe of brilliant blue, the salted green of the mangroves mocking him along the shore.
CHAPTER 20
Clementine watched one of the junior constables unspool a reel of blue and white police tape around the perimeter of the yard. Both of the Barnforth police vehicles were here and backup from Wallyamba had just arrived. The shanty looked unsettled, discomforted by the presence of a dead body in the kitchen and the authorities descending upon it like flies.
She reached across to tousle the silky fur around Pocket’s ears and felt a painful twang in her shoulder. By her estimate, she’d probably swum close to a kilometre in choppy seas. Every muscle felt heavy and stiff and she kept noticing her teeth were clamped tight. She forced her jaw to relax, put a wall between her mind and the future.
Gunning down the main road to Barnforth, Mrs Henderson and Clem had flagged down the second police car, lights flashing, sirens blaring on its way to the shanty. The old lady pulled over and Clem ran out into the middle of the road, waving her arms. They left the hatchback by the side of the road and travelled in the back seat of the police car. Clementine held Mrs Henderson’s shaking hand all the way.
Clem sat now, her back against the pandanus in the backyard, Pocket stretched out beside her, his head on her thigh. When she’d arrived he’d been distressed, barking and crying frantically from the laundry.
As she sat now, tracing the scar that
ran from his ear to his chin, she could sense his fatigue, but he would not allow his eyes to close.
Through the laundry window she’d seen Sarge’s tan and gold shape, still with Membrey’s blood spattered on his chest. He seemed subdued, as if the crisis had drained him and weariness had set in. He’d been locked in the laundry, inexplicably from his perspective, as Clem and Torrens ran off, leaving him with the tantalising smell of the attacker’s blood in the kitchen just the other side of the door, then a second person and more gunshots. He’d whimpered when he heard her talking to the police officers in the backyard. She wanted to pat him, hug him but they wouldn’t let her near until forensics came.
Noel would be home soon. She thought about how to let him know his house-sitter had turned his sleepy little shack into a crime scene, his gentle pet into a vicious attack dog.
Mrs Henderson was so shaken up she couldn’t stop talking, her Scottish accent becoming increasingly broad until eventually her husband arrived. A small man wearing sandals and long socks over spindly white legs, he had reached out and put his arm around her shoulders. She melted into him, mid-sentence, collapsing in noisy, wet sobs.
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