Authors: Caroline Carver
Thanks, Mum, she thought as she pulled a spare pair from the bottom of her handbag. Have clean knickers, will kick ass. Talking
of which, where was Lee? He hadn’t rung. Had he rescued her mum yet? Was he on his way to her? They had only three days until
the deadline on Sunday . . . Her mind started to gallop into panic, and she hurriedly checked her mobile. No missed calls,
no messages.
Call me, dammit, she told him. Call me. Be like Mum and have a little telepathic sensitivity, will you? Tune in for a second.
I want to know what’s happening.
Call me.
Nothing.
Must get him trained, she thought, shoving her mobile on top of her dirty clothes. Ringing me at the police station was not
telepathically sensitive. Not sensitive at all.
Clearing the bathroom of her stuff—she shared it with the whole floor—she dumped everything in her room before making her
way downstairs, looking forward to a meal, hoping India would be there already. She was so hungry that her stomach was groaning
away like her throat had been cut. Deep-fried oysters, here I come, she thought, feeling proud that she was doing a reasonable
job of keeping her thoughts upbeat. But she checked her mobile, just in case the power was running low. It wasn’t.
Outside, the National looked pretty with its wrought-iron balcony, but inside it was a different story. Nobody seemed to have
bothered with it since she’d last been in Nulgarra all those years ago. Paint was hanging in strips along the corridor, and
the wood around the windows was pitted. In the bar, the carpet was thin with worn patches and the walls a yellow-brown. The
aroma of cigarette smoke clung to the air. She was the only customer.
Above the bar was a sign saying, “Free bungee jumps for politicians—no strings attached,” and normally she’d have smiled,
but right now she had never felt less like smiling in her life.
The barman wore an oil-stained T-shirt that suggested he was a mechanic when he wasn’t working at the pub, and she ordered
a glass of wine and played with it for a while. Looked at her watch. Eight-fifteen. She ordered another wine. Played with
that one another while. No India. No call from Lee. Maybe she’d have to ring the Chens herself and arrange to swap the disks
Jon had given her for her mother. But would they really fall for a formula for the common cold? Tense as a bowstring, she
was sipping her third wine when India appeared.
“Jesus, sorry I’m so late.” She glanced at Georgia’s drink, then at the barman. “Same for me, Rog, but make it two, would
you? The first won’t touch the sides.”
Georgia watched the reporter light a cigarette, down her first glass of wine, then ease onto the stool beside her, fingers
playing with the stem of her second wineglass.
“Filing a goddamn report should be easier,” India grumbled. “I’ve been covering that murder I was telling you about, the stabbing,
but felt like I was back at school. Scotto was giving me hell, demanding links in my story. There are no goddamn links. Just
some poor bastard in the middle of a racecourse with his stomach slashed. No clues, no nothing. But your Sergeant Carter was
muttering it could be a gang killing and connected to the murder of Ronnie Chen, the man found washed up on our beach.”
She looked across at Georgia. “Anything to do with the Chens, do you think?”
Like India, she couldn’t think what it meant and shook her head. “Could it be an inter-gang fight? You said the Dragon Syndicate
were pretty pissed off with the RBG after Lee had stuffed them.”
India looked thoughtful. “Maybe. But Carter didn’t think so.”
Glancing out the window, Georgia saw Joanie wobbling down the street, a dog tagging along beside her. “Are you still on for
tomorrow?” she asked India.
“You bet.” India took a slug of wine that drained half her glass and set it back on the counter. “I take it you haven’t heard
from Lee.”
“No.”
“Shit.”
Long pause while India smoked her cigarette and Georgia checked her mobile. Nothing.
“Only thing for it,” said India, “is to get a feed and some sleep, and face what tomorrow brings. Jesus, I hope Mick’s isn’t
closed. Hick towns like this tend to shut up shop as soon as the sun sinks.”
The reporter downed the remainder of her wine, and with her cigarette in one hand, ushered Georgia speedily outside and down
the street.
“Thank God, he’s still open.” India flicked a quick glance at Georgia as they stepped inside the café. “You may not feel like
eating, but eat you will, even if I have to force-feed you,” she said. “What’ll it be?”
“A dozen deep-fried oysters.”
India’s face cracked into a smile. “Well, bloody hell, if I haven’t found my soul sister.” She turned to Mick. “Three dozen
of your best, thanks, mate.”
Despite India’s strength, her reassuring presence, Georgia found it hard to eat, and even more difficult to sleep. Lee should
have her mother by now.
Why hadn’t he called?
Next morning, brain fuddled and eyes gritty from lack of sleep, Georgia climbed out of the taxi and, when it had gone, slipped
into the rainforest. All was quiet. No traffic, nobody to see the taxi dropping her off just outside the Lotus Healing Center.
She didn’t want to alert Yumuru to her presence, still less the reason for it. Mist curled around the trunks of the trees
as she followed an animal track into the gloom of the forest. The sun was still low, the atmosphere moist and permeated with
the smell of rotting vegetation. She heard nothing but the whine of mosquitoes, the sound of leaves brushing against her,
the faint squelch of her shoes in mud. It was so still that she could almost hear the moisture oozing from the forest.
A rustle behind her. She spun around, heart thudding. Nobody. Just a lizard she’d disturbed, maybe a snake.
Georgia brushed her arms and face free of sweat and insects, longing for Dutch’s Deet; she’d been bitten so many times she
wondered the mozzies hadn’t drained her of blood.
She passed the small waterfall on Lamb’s Creek where the rocks were smooth and shiny from years of turbulent currents fed
from the mountains, and the bark of trees was covered in moss. A huge cycad loomed skyward, a primitive, slow-growing fern
barely changed in two hundred million years. It was astonishing to think how many plant relics had survived, by sheer fortune,
for eons in this rainforest.
Gradually the sky, seemingly distant through the closely knitted canopy of leaves, brightened, and sunlight beamed like yellow
flashlights through the trees. Georgia recognized an old fig tree bristling with birds’ nests and basket ferns and knew she
was nearing the healing center.
All was quiet when she came to the parking lot. The sun had cleared the treetops and the temperature had risen several degrees.
Georgia hunkered behind a thick clump of silver tree ferns and willed herself not to scratch her bites. A week ago she wouldn’t
have done this, she realized. She would have believed in Yumuru and felt an urge to protect him. Back then, however, she hadn’t
known what was at stake.
The first car belonged to a uniformed nurse, the second to Florid-Face from the pharmacy. Both greeted the other—“Good morning,”
and “Isn’t it hot already?”—and went inside.
By nine-fifteen the lot in front of the clinic was filling quickly, and people of every age and description were climbing
out of vehicles, grabbing pads of paper and pens, slinging handbags over shoulders and gripping briefcases, heading for the
seminar building.
Excellent, thought Georgia. It’s Friday and obviously one of Yumuru’s designated healing weekends. He should have finished
his rounds by now and would be well out of the way.
Quietly, after the parking lot had emptied, Georgia headed to the pharmacy, rehearsing her speech as she went. She intended
to convince Robert about what was going on, and work out a way he could get her a sample of Yumuru’s vitamins. She was in
the nursing wing and nearing the pharmacy when she heard footsteps ahead of her.
Coming around the corner, head down, was Yumuru.
Georgia lunged for the nearest door and quickly shut it behind her.
“Hey, Georgia!”
Hell. She was in Tilly’s room.
Yumuru’s footsteps approached. Georgia hurriedly positioned herself next to Tilly’s beside table. Her breathing stopped when
the footsteps slowed, the door opened, and Yumuru stepped inside.
Standing tall, she tried her best to look nonchalant.
“What the . . . Georgia!”
Yumuru was blinking behind his little gold glasses, looking surprised. He was wearing his white coat and held a little aluminum
bowl and a syringe. Her gaze latched onto the syringe, then away. A sudden thought gripped her: What if she could snatch it?
He walked across and carefully put the bowl and syringe onto Tilly’s bedside table. Then he came to her, his brown eyes warm.
“How’s the finger?”
Georgia concentrated on giving him a smile. “It’s fine.”
“You up for a therapy hug?”
She let him fold herself into his arms and tried to relax, but her body felt like a board.
“You are so tense!” he exclaimed, leaning back and peering into her face. “Are you sure your finger isn’t bothering you?”
“It’s fine, honestly. I’ve just had a rough couple of days, that’s all.”
His expression clouded. “Not anything to do with . . .” His voice lowered. “That training session we had at Helenvale, I hope.”
“Oh, no. Nothing to do with that. Other stuff.”
He raised a hand and brushed aside a stray strand of hair from her forehead. “If you need any help, I’m your friend. Call
me anytime, day or night, I’ll be there for you. Any capacity you choose. Doctor, car mechanic, ex-soldier. Okay?”
She could hardly bear the gentleness of his voice, or his tender gesture, and she smiled stiffly, her emotions at war, wanting
to trust him, but unable to. “Okay.”
He stepped back, face still troubled. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”
“I’m just a little tired, that’s all. I was passing the gates and thought I’d pop in and say hi to Tilly.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“It’s amazing how well she is,” Georgia added. “I can’t believe she’s the same person I saw last week.”
She was smiling a bright false smile and was sure Yumuru could see right through her. She glanced at the aluminum bowl and
syringe on the bedside table; she was unable to think how to grab the thing without him seeing.
“She’s a strong patient,” Yumuru said, watching her guardedly. “Determined too, which is a big asset in a case like hers.”
The door opened, and Georgia’s stomach gave a lurch as Yumuru swung his head to look at whoever was coming in. Before she
could think twice, she had taken a step and snatched the syringe and thrust it behind her back at the same time as Joanie
stepped inside.
“Hey, if it ain’t Georgia Parish,” said Joanie. “How’s it going?”
Heart tripping, she said breezily, “Good, thanks.”
Joanie said measuredly to nobody in particular, “Another shipload of immigrants slipped through the net.”
“Not again,” said Tilly.
“Yup. Definitely a tip-off. There’s talk it’s a cop.”
“A
cop
?” Tilly was agog.
Georgia had the syringe at her side and was walking for the door.
“Yeah. Don’t know who, yet,” Joanie responded, “but my mate at the station says whoever it is gets twenty grand for each boat
of illegals that makes it. Not just illegals either; apparently the bugger’s tipping crims off about police business all over.
When they catch him, they’ll string him up for sure.”
Tilly and Yumuru were riveted by Joanie, barely noticing Georgia as she murmured a vague excuse about needing the restroom,
she’d be back in a sec . . .
Georgia hit the corridor and ran for the pharmacy. She held her breath as she banged on the door, exhaled when the lock clicked
and the door was opened. She pushed inside.
Florid-Face reared to one side, face alarmed.
Robert was just ahead, measuring white pills shaped like bullets into a plastic bag. Georgia forced herself to slow. Robert
looked up, startled.
She carefully raised the syringe, showed it to him. “I need to put this on ice. I’ve got to take it to the police. Do you
have a container I can use? I know I’m out of context here, but I really need your help. It’s to do with your colleague Suzie
Wilson. Her plane was sabotaged. My plane. Someone wanted to kill Suzie and I think I might know who.” She held the syringe
high. “Put this on ice, and we might find an answer.”
Robert blinked.
“Please, Robert! I’ve got to find out what’s in this syringe. I don’t think it’s vitamins. I think Suzie created a new antibiotic
and Yumuru’s pretending his healing is curing patients.”
“You’re joking,” he said, his tone pitched high with disbelief.
She leaped when a hand brushed her arm.
Florid-Face was extending a small blue polystyrene box toward her. “There’s dry ice in here, but if it’s what you say it is,
you won’t really need it. It’ll last a couple of weeks, even in the heat.”
“Really?”
“Yup. But for safety’s sake, let’s hedge our bets and protect that needle.” He took the syringe from Georgia and tucked it
neatly into the box, locked the lid, and passed it over.
Faintly she said, “Thanks.”
Florid-Face said, “Go for it, but for God’s sake don’t tell Yumuru I helped you,” and then she turned and was tearing across
the pharmacy, box gripped tightly in her hand, and she was through the door and in the corridor, belting along and past reception
and bursting into bright clean sunshine, into the parking lot.
Have to hide, she thought. Yumuru will be going mad looking for me, for his missing syringe.
Sprinting for the cover of the trees, Georgia hunched down behind the broad stubby trunk of a sago palm, box at her feet.
She called a number on her mobile, and heard a monotone: “We have been unable to connect you, please try again.” She tried
again, to receive the same message. Third time lucky. She held her breath.
When it was answered she said, “It’s me. I’m in the parking lot.”