The young flight attendant was standing at the top of the stairs, just outside the cabin at the front of the plane, checking Brose’s boarding pass. As Clementine walked across the tarmac behind the family with the girls and the Barbie suitcases, she counted the plane’s windows. Eleven. She checked her boarding pass. Seat number 11A—the last row.
She kept her face lowered as she handed her boarding pass to the attendant. Brose was squeezing past a man sitting in the aisle seat of the third row, to her left. She followed closely behind the mother and the girls as she sidled down the aisle, keeping her face right the whole time.
Boarding was delayed and then they sat on the tarmac for half an hour. By the time they landed in Goorinda, it was just after ten am. She waited in her seat, watched Brose disembark in the first flush of passengers, then followed a dozen or so others between them. In the terminal, he walked straight out the glass doors to the pick-up area. She watched from inside as he lit up a cigarette.
Down the far end of the road to the right in front of the terminal, was a single taxi, waiting for a fare. Good—she didn’t have a plan B for ground transport other than that. Of the remaining passengers, half a dozen or so dragged suitcases across the pedestrian crossing to the car park. She kept one eye on Brose and another on the cab. Nobody was heading towards it, but there was a man standing halfway between the passengers waiting for pick-up and the taxi rank. He wore navy work trousers and a crisply ironed camel-coloured shirt and was smoking like there was no tomorrow.
She waited. Ambrose sucked on his cigarette in deep draughts, exhaling hurriedly and then sucking at it again. Not much time to enjoy it, she thought. His pick-up will be here soon. The family of Barbie girls with their Barbie suitcases had been welcomed by an elderly couple. They all trotted past her and outside, the flock parting and streaming around Brose, reforming again as they crossed the road towards the car park. She looked to her right. The man in the navy trousers checked his watch, took another drag on his cigarette and sauntered towards a garbage bin over by the terminal about twenty metres from the cab. Shit, hurry up, Brose.
She saw Brose hitch his backpack over his shoulder as a late-model black van with smoked-glass windows slowed and pulled up in the pick-up lane next to him. She ventured through the glass doors outside, keeping her head down, and headed for the taxi rank. Brose opened the door of the van, took one last drag, stubbed out his cigarette on the pavement and swung himself up into the passenger’s seat. As the van rolled away, she started running towards the cab.
At that moment, the man in the navy trousers ground out his cigarette against the top of the garbage bin and began ambling towards the cab, towing his suitcase behind. He arrived before her, bending down as he passed the front of the taxi, catching the eye of the driver and pointing at the boot. The driver nodded, opened his door. As she rushed to get there, the man was approaching the boot, the cab driver with one foot out the door. She grabbed the handle, flung open the door, yelling, ‘Emergency! Hospital! Quick!’ and threw herself inside. The driver hesitated, but the man in the navy trousers waved him on. He drew his foot back inside the car, shut his door. She wound her window down and gave the man a wave of thanks as they pulled away from the curb.
The young cab driver looked at her confused as they cruised down the pick-up lane and out onto the road.
‘Ma’am, we have no hospital in Goorinda. Do you want me to take you to Quindalga? They have one there.’
‘No, no, it’s okay. I just want to follow that black van, please.’
He shook his head, tutted.
Her back was sweating against the vinyl seat. The driver turned up the air conditioning. They passed by farms with glossy-flanked cattle and row after row of knee-high leafy vegetables, green and vigorous in the gently sloping fields. The black van was about a kilometre ahead on the straight road out of the airport, with just two cars between them.
She asked the driver to close the gap on the car in front, then remembered her phone was still in flight mode. She switched it back on. Three texts and three missed calls. All the missed calls and one text were from Gerard: Call me. The two other texts were from Rowan:
You don’t sound good. call me
I’m on my way to Goorinda.
The surprise came first, then the relief—she was a long way from anywhere, she knew no one…Then the guilt: she could be leading him into danger. She hesitated a moment, typed in a message, deleted it, typed in another message—It’s all good, I’m OK. Please turn back—then bit her lip, her finger hovering over the send button. She closed her eyes and pressed send.
They were entering an industrial area on the outskirts of town, big sheds, tall chain-link fences, yards arrayed with trucks and heavy equipment. They passed a sign, Goorinda—Population 1237, then a shed with a sign covering an entire wall: Clearham Technology & Services. She craned her neck as they went past.
They were only a few hundred metres behind the van when they entered the town’s sixty zone. The convoy of cars coming from the airport concertinaed together as they made their way past a succession of side streets lined with nondescript weatherboard houses shaded by gum trees, their roots bulging under the bitumen.
They crossed a bridge spanned with wrought-iron trusses and approached the town centre. She kept her eyes peeled for police stations but saw none. A man was sweeping the red-brick pavement in front of a low-slung weatherboard pub with wide verandahs and a green tin roof, its cream walls smudged with dust. The Royal Hotel commanded almost a whole block, the small end of its L-shape jutting around the corner into the side street.
The black van slowed up ahead. It swung sharp right across the road and into a car space directly in front of the pub.
‘Keep driving, please,’ said Clem. They passed it going the other way, a Mitsubishi Delica, the windows so dark she couldn’t see the driver or Brose. ‘Okay, do a U-turn, please, and head back up the main street,’ she said once they were out of sight.
She stopped him outside the hotel, about ten spaces away from the van. Brose and his driver were just outside the pub’s main entrance on the corner. The driver was tall and thin, wearing brown square-pointed cowboy boots, skinny jeans and a blue checked shirt. Brose had taken his leather jacket off and was sporting a red long-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned and flapping open. He looked up the street towards the cab, and she sank lower in the seat. Under his red shirt he wore a white T-shirt, his stomach protruding over the top of his belt. He pulled a grey baseball cap on over his bald head and walked indoors.
‘How much if I ask you to wait?’ she asked the cab driver.
‘Two dollars fifty a minute, ma’am.’
She searched for her credit card. It wasn’t in her bag. It wasn’t in her pocket. Shit. She must have lost it at the terminal or left it on the plane. The cab driver drove her around the block to an ATM. She used her mobile phone to withdraw as much cash as the machine would allow, two thousand dollars, and they drove back around to the pub. The black van was still there. She paid the fare and handed him an extra eighty dollars, told him to wait for half an hour and that if she didn’t come out, he was free to go.
She checked her phone—10.35 am—and got out of the cab. The man had finished sweeping out the front of the hotel and disappeared inside through a second, smaller entrance, about fifteen metres away from the corner where Brose had entered.
She peered through the second entrance cautiously, her heartbeat quickening. A few high tables with padded stools stood here and there on the faded green carpet; behind them was a long timber bar. A row of framed sporting memorabilia, mostly signed rugby league jerseys, adorned the wall above the bar. It was empty, except for the barman, who had his back to her, stacking bottles in the fridge. She could hear the sounds of a poker machine to her left, and distant voices to her right, beyond the bar, out of sight.
She stepped inside, her eyes adjusting to the dim light and made her way right, looked around the corner. More high tables with stools, and at the other end of the bar area was a door with a sign above it that said Bistro.
She jumped as she heard the main door directly behind her swing open. Two old men in crumpled akubra hats sauntered in, greeting the barman like an old mate. While they ordered, she slipped outside again and turned down the side street, sticking close to the wall. Peeping through the window, she saw two figures at a table near the back of the bistro, Brose and the skinny guy, two glasses of beer in front of them. She ducked out of sight, walked back up to the main street. The cabbie was still parked out the front, reading the paper.
Stepping inside through the door she’d originally come in, she headed left, passing a cluster of indoor plants that formed something of a screen. Inside the gaming room she saw a boy playing the machines—barely drinking age, surely—pasty white face, baby cheeks and a pink pillow of flesh spilling out over the top of his jeans. He pushed a button. Lights flashed, pictures whirred around and a garish tune chimed. He stared and pressed the button again.
Behind the squadron of poker machines were the toilets. She came back into the bar and sat on a high stool behind the indoor plants at the table in the corner furthest from the window. From there she had a good view of both entrances to the pub—she could see Brose if he came this way and would have time to slip into the poker machine room and hide behind the wall of machines or in the toilets.
Ten minutes passed. No one had come in or gone out since the two old men, who were now sitting at the bar, beers in hand. She needed to go to the toilet, but she was afraid Brose might leave before she could make it back. She leaned forward on her stool to peer through the leafy screen in front of her, pulled back quickly when she saw a figure approaching the bar at the other end of the room. Brose. He ordered, waited, then walked back to the bistro with a packet of chips.
She sat for another ten minutes keeping her eyes on the doors, checking the window every now and then for the cab. It was still there. The barman came over, asked if she’d like a drink. She ordered a soda water and some peanuts so as not to draw attention to herself. A group of men sauntered in and then a bunch of women in polo shirts and visors. Golf or tennis group finished for the morning? She watched them laughing, sipping their gin and tonics.
She could not put off the toilet any longer. Passing the boy at the machines, she went into the ladies. On the way out, she opened the door a crack, peeked out into the poker room. No one but the boy.
She decided to check the bistro again from the street outside, make sure they hadn’t left while she was in the toilets. Peering through the window, she saw Brose’s driver sitting at their table, staring at his phone. There were two half-glasses of beer in front of him, but Brose was nowhere to be seen. A moment of panic, her eyes darting to the front door as she imagined Brose having left on his own in the van, just moments ago, and Clancy lost forever. She walked back around to the main street. The van was still there, and so was the cabbie, overstaying his half-hour, still reading the paper.
Brose might be in the gents or he might have gone to play the pokies. She almost ran to the screened area, snaked her head inside the pokie machine room. Just Poker Boy. Good, Brose must be in the gents’.
She started over to the wall of machines at the back of the room to hide before he came out. From the corner of her eye she saw movement, a door opening. A man emerged from the toilet, directly opposite her. Short, stocky, red shirt, white T-shirt, baseball cap. Brose. He looked up.
Clementine turned away, hurried for the ladies’ toilet behind the pokies. She pushed through the heavy door, forcing it closed to speed it up, slipped into a cubicle, slid the lock across and slumped onto the toilet seat.
Had he recognised her? Gerard would have told him about her, sent him a photo for sure. She’d been on the front page of the Valley News. But maybe he hadn’t even noticed her? Had she looked startled or had she managed to act casual?
She sat on the toilet seat, head in her hands. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She checked her phone. Eleven am. Nothing from Jen, a single text from Rowan: ETA 1 pm. He’d ignored her text.
She tried his number. No answer.
She tried to focus. Okay, she thought, assume the worst. Ambrose has recognised you. He’s not leaving the pub without you, no matter how long you sit in the toilets. Rowan’s still hours away. You’re on your own. Nothing untoward has actually happened and there’s been no sign of any connection with Clancy, so the cops won’t take you seriously. She thought of the cigarette burn and Pocket’s mangled leg. No matter which way she sliced it, she needed help. She needed Rowan, and she needed him to know where she was. If her hunch turned out to be correct, he was her best chance, maybe her only chance.
She pulled her phone out again, sent him a text to say she was at the Royal Hotel. It wasn’t enough, though. She needed him to know where they took her if she was captured.
Think, Jones, think. She stared at the floor. She could feel the cold blast of the air-conditioning vent directly above, chilling her neck. She stared unseeing at the blank screen of her phone, searching for some sort of a plan. It came to her suddenly.
She reached for the toilet roll, tore off a couple of sheets, scrabbled in her bag for a pen. Then she scrolled through the contacts list on the phone, copying numbers onto the toilet paper. When she was done, she folded the paper and tucked it into her sock. She tapped a few more commands into the phone and then left the cubicle, stopping to wash her hands and splash water on her face at the tiny sink in the corner.
She pushed the door open a crack and peeked out into the poker machine room. No Brose in sight. The boy-man was still there, pressing buttons and feeding coins into the machine. She hurried over to him, spoke urgently: ‘I’d like to buy your phone.’
He looked at her blankly. ‘What?’
‘I’ll give you a thousand for your phone, but I need it now.’ She hoped his phone was nothing fancy and this would be enough, but she had another grand to play with if she needed to haggle.
‘Eh?’
‘One. Thousand. Dollars. Cash. For your phone.’
‘A thousand? What the…Who are you?’
‘Listen, I don’t have much time. I really need a phone. You could take your Facebook off it, whatever—I’m not interested in your personal stuff. I just really need a phone, urgently.’ She pulled out her wallet, glanced over her shoulder at the main bar, turned back and began counting out the cash.
‘Yeah? You for real?’ His eyes were following the notes as she riffled through them.
‘Yes, yes, a thousand.’ She was glaring at him, her eyes wide with impatience. She noticed his acne. God, he was just a kid.
‘Deal?’ It was more a command than a question. She glanced over her shoulder at the bar again. It was starting to fill with men in fluoro gear—smoko or early lunch. No Brose in sight.
‘Hell yeah.’ He reached for his back pocket, slid out his phone. An old model Samsung with a cracked screen. Could have offered less, she thought.
‘Do you have a password?’ asked Clementine.
‘Yes, 3232,’ he said as he started tapping. ‘I’m just deleting Facebook and Instagram. There’s nothing much on here anyone would want anyway.’ She could hear excitement in his voice now as he started to believe his good luck.
‘You on prepaid?’ she said.
‘Yeah. Just topped it up on Thursday. Fifty bucks. You gunna give me extra for that?’
‘Fuck off. I’m giving you everything I’ve got,’ she lied. ‘What’s the number?’ He told her the number and she typed it into her own phone.
‘Here you go.’ She passed him the cash and he gave her the phone, taking the money with a wide grin.
Clementine locked the screen, then tested the password. Bingo. She checked over her shoulder again and hurried to the toilets, ducking behind poker machines along the way. The door to the bistro was obscured by the growing crowd in the bar.
She locked herself in the same cubicle again, took out her phone and used it to call the boy’s phone. When it rang, she hung up, then turned both phones to mute. Then she downloaded an app on the boy’s phone and sent texts to Rowan and Jenny: This is my new phone number in case you can’t get me on the old one. To Rowan she added: I’ve been spotted. There’s a chance I’m about to be kidnapped and taken to wherever Clancy is. Two guys. I’m sending you a link to a phone tracking app. Download it and add this number so you can find me. Hurry.
She lifted up her shirt, shoved the phone inside her bra above the underwire and beneath her left breast.
Standing at the basin, she washed her hands again. In the mirror her face was pale, her hair still messy from a night sleeping in the car. She took a step back from the mirror and inspected herself. The phone in her bra was uncomfortable but invisible, no protruding corners to give her away.
She hurriedly dried her hands on a paper towel, opened the door a crack, checked the poker machine room and crept out towards the bank of machines she’d chosen as a hiding place. She crossed the no-man’s land between the toilet door and the machines, Poker Boy in the other corner, turned into the aisle between the two rows of machines. And there he was. Red shirt, white T-shirt, baseball cap, legs spread wide and a newspaper resting over his right hand.
Brose nodded, as if he’d been expecting her, his eyes dark and unsmiling. He moved quickly and assuredly, stepping behind her, his right hand behind her back. She felt the cold metal muzzle of a gun against her spine. ‘You’re coming with us, Ms Jones,’ he whispered in her ear. His breath smelt of beer as it brushed the back of her neck. ‘No drama, just walk out casually and I won’t hurt you.’
As Brose nudged her forward, Clementine glanced at the boy playing the poker machine. He hardly even looked up.
Out on the pavement, Brose opened the sliding side door of the van and gave her another nudge. She climbed in and sat facing the rear. He climbed in after her and sat facing the front.
‘Okay, my little lady, first things first then, eh,’ said Brose. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to hand over your phone. We can’t have you texting all your friends about the grand old time you’re having up here on holiday, can we?’ He sniggered, enjoying himself.
She pulled her old phone from her back pocket and handed it to him. The van pulled away from the kerb and as her body rocked back into the seat she felt a pinch under her breast as the boy’s phone wedged itself up against the underwire.