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When authorities fail to identify human remains discovered in and around Broome, Martin and Claire are despatched to the idyllic seaside resort to investigate. Little do they know their every move is watched, as they follow first one lead then another, until they are face to face with a ruthless enemy who is determined to end their lives.
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Prologue, Part I: James & Captain Newberry
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February 1942
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“But Cap’n Newberry,” James Planter’s exasperation coloured his voice, “I enjoy the life of a beachcomber. All I need is one lucky find... one juicy pearl an’ I’m set fer life.”
Gilbert Newberry smiled and handed his companion a tumbler filled with rum. Dressed in a white suit, matching shirt, navy cravat, and black shoes with white spats, Gilbert epitomised the English gentleman, more at home in a green, country estate than here on the edge of the brown, Australian desert.
“James,” he paused to squash a mosquito settling on his forearm, “nobody becomes a beachcomber unless he’s running away from something.”
The comment struck home. James lowered his eyes and turned his attention to his drink. Remembering his past, perhaps.
Gilbert smiled. Even on sweltering days like today, he appreciated the attraction of this isolated shantytown, far from home.
Situated on the rugged coastline of northwestern Australia, the rough-and-ready town had gained a reputation as the world’s largest supplier of mother-of-pearl, but the little gems inside the shells were the real draw. They had lured men from all over the world with their promise of instant riches, despite the one in a million odds.
Like many before him, Gilbert recognised the possibilities abounding in Broome. What he didn’t make from his fleet of luggers—harvesting pearl shell and the odd gem—he more than compensated for in his store. Through a combination of hard work, good luck and an astute business sense, Gilbert had amassed more money than he’d ever dreamed. Soon, he would have to return to all the trappings of civilisation he’d once thought he’d never see again.
Part of him would be sad to discard the lifestyle he’d established. He’d miss the aboriginal servants who tended his house and kept his suits immaculate despite the red pindan dust, the evenings spent dining with the elite of Broome society, and the respect accorded him as a successful businessman.
The weather, of course, he wouldn’t regret leaving behind.
During the wet season, temperatures hovered around ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit, but the heat was bearable. Coconut palms, long verandas, or the insides of dwellings provided shelter from the sun. However, no one could hide from the oppressive perspiration that refused to evaporate in the intolerable seventy percent-plus humidity.
“Cap’n Newberry, almost everyone livin’ in Broome today is runnin’ away from somethin’.” He untied his red bandanna and mopped the perspiration off his red face.
The interior of Gilbert’s store, a corrugated iron structure, offered no respite from the oppressive conditions. Despite the lateness of the evening, both temperature and humidity remained high.
Mosquitoes buzzed and zoomed, targeting the exposed skin of the two men sitting and drinking in the rear of the building. Huge moths darted and fluttered in ever-decreasing circles. Attracted by the flickering flames from two kerosene lanterns sitting on upended wooden casks, they performed kamikaze flights destined for only one ending.
If the drinkers noticed the unpleasant conditions, they didn’t show it. They accepted them, and the constant intermittent swatting of annoying pests, as an everyday occurrence. They conversed, engrossed in a heated debate about life in Broome, a favourite topic. A half-empty bottle of rum sat on an improvised table between them.
James raised the small glass to his lips and drained it in one gulp. He belched. Since he’d come to live in the remote pearling town, his manners and his dress had both deteriorated. This evening, the beachcomber wore his entire wardrobe—old, torn, salt-stained moleskin trousers, loose shirt, and sweat-stained bandana. All had seen better days.
“That may be true.” Gilbert recalled how he’d departed England in a hurry following a failed career in the Army. “But most of the people who live here work for a living.” He kept his voice impassive, not allowing any hint of how close to the mark James’s comment had come.
“I tried me hand on a lugger once. I was no good at divin’. No use when it came to mannin’ the pumps, an’ I cut meself every time I tried to open a bloody oyster.”
Gilbert sighed. He liked reasoning with James as much as he liked arguing with a piece of sailcloth. The beachcomber always gave back more than he received. Not for the first time, Gilbert wondered why he put up with the man. Then he recalled what James knew.
Humouring his drinking partner was better than having him mention his suspicions to the authorities. “And what are you running from, James?” Gilbert directed the conversation away from himself.
“This an’ that.... More rum?” James licked his lips and extended his hand.
Gilbert sighed again but reached for the bottle and poured another tot. He needed to dole out the amber liquid with care, or the silly blighter sitting opposite him would drink his liquor supply dry. “Here’s mud in your eye.” During his years in Broome, Gilbert had adopted a few of the local idioms. “I’m about ready to turn in.... Big day tomorrow.” He hoped James would take the hint and leave.
His companion raised his glass and saluted. “Here’s to me findin’ that special tomorrow.” He gave no indication of departing before they’d emptied the bottle.
“You’re sailing north... just like you planned?” Gilbert took a sip from his glass. Unlike his drinking partner, he’d lost few of his manners and other affectations, despite the time he’d spent in the rough West Australian seaside town.
“Yep.” James gulped the rum and held out his glass again. “Gonna make a sweep of the northern beaches... see what’s been washed up in the last coupla weeks.”
Gilbert sighed and refilled the glass tumbler. “You’re not worried about the war?”
“The Nips? You must be bloody jokin’. The Japanese war machine’s never gonna come here.”
“Since they attacked Pearl Harbor, they’ve taken Malaya and Singapore. It’s only logical they’re heading this way.”
James drained his glass again. He wiped the back of a hand over his mouth. Like the rest of his body, it hadn’t been bathed for some time. “Nah. They don’t have the long-range fuel tanks for that kinda operation. I heard it the other day on the ABC.” He spoke with all the confidence of a man fully informed on the affairs of the world.
“So, you don’t think they’ll try to invade this country?”
He laughed and held out his tumbler again. “Nah. Australia’s as safe as houses. They’ll never launch an attack on our soil.”
Reluctantly, Gilbert refilled his drink. “I hope you’re right.” He poured himself another tot. “I’ve invested too much time and money in this business to risk losing it now.”
At the mention of money, James looked around. Gilbert’s eyes followed the direction of his companion’s gaze.
They sat in the back of the store, reclining in canvas chairs beside a large brick fireplace, the chimney of which thrust through the corrugated iron roof like a termite’s nest rising from the red pindan dirt. Of course, in Broome the nighttime temperature rarely dropped below sixty degrees, so it was an unnecessary addition built only to remind Gilbert of his homeland.
Behind them stood trestles and counters displaying the Englishman’s wares. In this one shop, every pearl diver, deckhand or lugger owner could outfit himself and his boat with any of the numerous items required for long stretches at sea.
In this modest establishment, Gilbert had amassed the bulk of his fortune, but it wasn’t his only source of income. His less-than-legal pursuits, which he tried to keep secret, represented a large proportion.
White women had always been a scarce commodity in the rough-and-tumble pearling town. Some wives tolerated the harsh conditions, but their status and the heat precluded them from menial labour. Single women—what few braved the harsh climate—worked as barmaids. With an eye towards remedying the imbalance, Gilbert had hit upon an audacious scheme. Once a year, he and a bunch of his deckhands sailed north to a remote beach. Going ashore, they’d acquire a cargo of young aboriginal women.
If the tribe co-operated, he purchased them with a bag of flour or a side of beef. If not, he took the women at gunpoint. If he killed aboriginals in the process, who’d object? Once employed as prostitutes or housemaids, the women received meals and clothes, and Gilbert collected their earnings for his trouble. Both illegal and immoral, but the offices of those authorities who might seek to remedy the situation were thousands of miles to the south.
“Mmm.” James returned his attention to his companion.
Does James’s interest lie in the clothes, diving suits or the other paraphernalia I sell? Or is it the legality of my business dealings that concern the beachcomber tonight? He preferred it when his companion’s fascination lay in the bottles of rum kept in cases behind his main counter.
“It’d be a shame to waste all this good product.” James held forth his glass yet again.
Gilbert stood. Much taller than James, he carried himself in the manner of trained military personnel. He poured another glass of rum, and then made a show of replacing the stopper. “You might be right.” He relaxed. Tonight, at least, James had no interest in anything other than rum. “But I’ve got an early start in the morning. Customers to outfit, and all that. I’ll bid you good fossicking on the morrow, and may fortune smile upon you.”
“I’ll drink to that.” James rose unsteadily to his feet and swallowed the contents of his glass. He placed the tumbler on the upright wine barrel doubling as a table and turned towards the door.
Prologue, Part II: Lucky Jim
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March 1942
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The Miss Nancy, an old lugger with paint peeling like paperbark from its hull, decking and superstructure, glided over the smooth waters of Roebuck Bay. Despite the boat’s dilapidated appearance and the patchwork quilting of its three sails, the Miss Nancy returned James Planter in safety from his beachcombing tour of the northern beaches of the remote, uninhabited Australian coastline.
In excellent spirits, he reefed in the sails and swung the tiller towards land. He hummed a little ditty and turned his gaze towards the shoreline. As the boat rounded a bend and nosed into the mangrove-lined inlet leading to Streeter’s Jetty, his euphoria faded.
Something was dreadfully wrong.
For one thing, none of the pearlers sat at anchor beside the narrow wharf. As a rule, there should have been a hundred or so. As he contemplated the reason for this unusual event, something else came to his attention. He spotted no sign of life as far as he could see. Apart from the hotels, this was the busiest location in town. Sailing closer to land, he discerned clusters of ruined buildings, where a week ago there’d been solid structures.
Dread tied knots in the pit of his stomach as James brought the Miss Nancy bumping against the jetty and jumped over the side. Running beside her, he made fast to a stanchion and directed his feet towards the centre of town.
The closer he came to the main business district, the more damaged buildings he saw. As yet, he hadn’t sighted a solitary person. His heart in his mouth, he mounted the timber steps of the Roebuck Bay Hotel and pushed open the doors.
In the dim interior, he barely made out the shapes of twenty faces turning towards him from the bar. All drinking and conversation ceased. Hands holding glasses froze, half raised towards mouths. James scanned the faces before him, not seeing one he recognised.
“James,” said a voice from the deeper gloom at the far end of the bar. “Where the hell did you stem from?”
James turned in the direction of the voice. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he recognised Harry Potts, the postmaster. “Harry.” His relief at finding a familiar face was evident in his tone. “What the hell’s been goin’ on here? The place looks like a bomb’s hit it.”
Someone laughed. James turned, but he didn’t recognise the man who wore army fatigues. Then it hit him. All the men either seated or standing at the bar, except for Harry, wore uniforms.
“Let me buy you a beer, James,” said the postmaster.
James moved to that end of the bar.
“Where the hell have you been?” asked Harry.
“Beachcombin’, up north. Forget about me. What’s happened?”
“The Nips!” said Harry.
“Pull the other one.”
Harry laughed at the surprise in James’s voice. “No, seriously.”
“The Japs’ve been here?”
“Bloody oath, mate!”
The bartender pulled two beers and placed them on the counter.
Suddenly parched, Harry grasped one in his huge, dark paw while James snatched the other. “Cheers.” He raised his glass.
“Yeah.” James lifted his beer and drained half the contents in one swallow. “Tell me about the bloody Japs. When did it happen?”
“Just over a week ago, I reckon.” Harry drank again, his manner soberer than his companion’s. “They bombed the town twice.”
“Shit!” James started, almost spilling his drink. “I left here only a month ago.”
“You were lucky then.”
James thought for a moment. “Anyone killed?”
“Some.”
“How many?”
“A coupla hundred, maybe. Nobody knows for sure.”
“Jes-us!” James downed the second half of his beer in a single swallow.
“Yeah.” Harry continued drinking in a sedate manner.
“Where is everyone?” James glanced around at the strange faces lining the bar.
“Been evac-u-a-ted, mate.” Harry pronounced every syllable of the word with care. “Everybody who’s not considered essential’s been packed off to Perth. Pretty much just these army fellers left... and yours truly.”
“Where’s all the luggers an’ their crews?”
“The Army made the owners burn the boats or sail ‘em south. The Japanese divers have been interred.”
“Jesusssss!” James drew the word out in a long, sibilant hiss. Then, after a moment’s reflection, he added, “My shout!”
Harry raised his eyebrows. “Have a bit of luck up north, James?” He eyed his companion with more care, and James made note of the curiosity on his face.
“Bit a luck. You better bloody believe it!” He reached into the pocket of his salt-stained trousers, and his hand emerged holding a metal caddy. Old and sporting a multitude of blemishes and scratches, it had clearly once contained Bushells’ tea.
“Sorry, James.” Harry grinned. “Tea’s not legal tender here.”
“What? Oh.... Ha! Ha!” James sneered. He opened the container and tipped it forward.
Harry craned his neck to see what tumbled out. He gasped but said nothing. In the dirt-smeared palm of the beachcomber’s hand, gleamed numerous round, lustrous stones.
“Whattaya think of them babies?” James grinned from ear to ear.
In seconds, everyone had left their seats and crowded around, making for one of those rare occasions in an Outback pub where curiosity took precedence over beer consumption. Questions flew from every direction.
James held up a hand and silenced them all. “No questions, no lies, fellers. This is just between me an’ the Nipponese Air Force.” He threw his head back and laughed. “Anyway, I’ve got more of these than I can spend in a lifetime. The beer’s on me!”
Cheers and laughter echoed out into the hot, deserted Broome street.
***
That evening, James strolled to Gilbert Newberry’s store overlooking Roebuck Bay. Harry had informed James that, as soon as the second raid ended, Gilbert had packed his belongings, loaded several of his luggers, and set sail for safer environs.
Although saddened his drinking partner had deserted the town, James had another reason for visiting the captain’s place of business.
One night, as they sat talking and drinking by the fireplace, Gilbert detached a loosened brick and levered it free with his fingers, revealing a hole gouged in the brickwork behind. “I don’t believe in banks,” he’d said in reply to James’s questioning glance. “It’s much safer to secrete my valuables in this homemade safe. With the brick and mortar returned to their former positions, no one can tell they’ve even been disturbed.”
A part of James wondered whether Gilbert had left his stash behind. Another didn’t care. He simply wanted to use this secret place—to have somewhere safe to hide his pearls. He didn’t distrust the men in the pub, not even the ones he didn’t know. He dreaded the thought of police intervention.
If the authorities paid a visit to the town and investigated the source of his sudden wealth, James would be in trouble. By then, everyone would know he’d come across a lugger, shot up and run aground in a bay to the north. Burnt almost beyond recognition. No sign of survivors. Knowing where he’d acquired the pearls was one thing. Taking them away from him was quite another.
The door of the deserted building was unlocked. He opened it and entered and was struck by the strangeness of the now empty, forlorn store. Without the trader’s benches and merchandise, it no longer possessed any allure.
Although the only illumination to the room came from moonlight streaming in through the windows, James walked straight to the fireplace beside which he’d spent many hours drinking and chewing the fat with Gilbert. Squatting, James prised the brick free and reached inside. The hole was empty. He smiled to himself as he extracted his own treasure from his pocket.
He opened the tea caddy and emptied all but a few jewels into his hand. From another pocket, he took a white Vegemite jar. Into this he deposited the bulk of his pearls. He replaced the lid of the caddy and tucked it back into his pocket. Then he sealed the jar and inserted it into the space behind the brickwork. When he’d replaced the outer brick and the mortar, he stood and dusted off the knees of his pants.
As he left the building and strolled down the main street to the pub, James pursed his lips and whistled. From somewhere his mind had plucked the song, ‘I’m Sittin’ on Top of the World’. Al Jolson had made the tune popular in the late ‘20s, but James couldn’t recall when he’d last heard it.
It didn’t matter. His thoughts focussed on his fantastic luck. He’d never need to work again.
Chapter 1: Aftermath
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Thursday, April 27, 2000
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Cyclone Rosita had raged for several days. It stood out to sea and buffeted the coast with howling wind, horizontal rain and towering waves. It lingered, hovering, as if waiting for the right moment to strike. When it finally headed for land, it unleashed its full fury on the desolate northern coastline of Western Australia.
Gusts up to two hundred kilometres per hour raced in from the Indian Ocean. Huge breakers hurtled with astonishing force against the dunes, rocks and mangroves lining the shoreline from Port Headland in the south to Derby in the north. Rain, driven by the all-powerful wind, lashed both sea and land. Assisted by savage gusts, the torrent tore fronds from palms, paint from exposed buildings, and tiles from roofs. Structures that hadn’t allowed the elements access for many years succumbed to the terrible onslaught.
All of the shoreline suffered, the beachfront along Cable Beach and further south of Broome bearing the full brunt of the ferocious onslaught.
***
“I’d swear this was the strongest, wildest cyclone ever to batter these shores,” said Maude Rowley one morning, a week after the hurricane passed. “I’ve lived here all me life and never seen anything like it.”
“If you ask me,” said Heather Fochs with authority, “there was nothing natural about it.” She plonked down onto one of the aluminium chairs outside the Boulevard Café and massaged her arthritic joints, wincing in pain.
“The way it stayed out to sea for so long, sort of waiting.” Velma Garden had coloured her white hair bright blue, and her faded eyes appeared almost colourless next to it. “I mean, to be so powerful and yet do so little damage in the town.”
“It’s almost as if it was directed by some entity... something evil, maybe,” said Heather, following up her first train of thought.
Maude’s high-pitched giggle was out of control. “You and your evil spirits. You were going on about things like that in the days when you used to tell fortunes. Next, you’ll be telling us Mildred’s been abducted by some wicked spirit.”
“Where is Mildred?” Heather’s voice showed sudden concern. “She’s usually the first to arrive, and she did suggest this place.” She looked around the shopping centre, distaste evident on her weathered face. “Although why, I’ll never know.”
“I’m here, my dears. I’m here. Never fear.” Mildred Jones stepped from the doorway of the chemist shop, where she’d been watching her friends and listening to their conversation. She pulled up the last vacant chair and sat. “What’s all this nonsense about spirits?”
“We’re just talking about the cyclone.” Maude laughed again. “What have you heard?”
“They say,” said Mildred in a conspiratorial tone, “that Cable Beach’s been washed away.”
“The whole of the beach?” Heather always took everything literally. Even after seventy-one years, she hadn’t yet learned the art of small talk.
“Nah,” said Velma, “just the sand from the area near the access road.”
“Access road? What access road?” At eighty-two, Maude suffered from a mild case of Alzheimer’s, and today was one of her vague days.
“The four-wheel drive access road, you silly old bag.” Velma’s tone was scathing. She was a sprightly sixty-seven-year-old, and everyone knew she didn’t suffer fools lightly, not even her best friends.
“Someone said the end of the road’s suspended.” Mildred leaned forward and stared at each of her friends in turn. “Must be... oh... two metres above the level of the beach.” She ran a hand over her hair, although there wasn’t a strand out of place.
“I’ll bet that made the papers down south.” Maude suddenly emerged from her vague spell. “They’ll be mightily pissed to learn their favourite holiday destination’s been.... What’s the word I want?”
“It’s not a word, it’s a new bloody brain.” Laughter tinged Velma’s tone. “Honestly, you’ll be forgetting your own name soon.”
“Leave her alone, Vel. She can’t help it.” Heather prided herself on sticking up for her friends. “You might end up like her one day.”
“I bloody hope not. I couldn’t think of a worse fate than losing my memory. I’d kill myself first.”
“Ah well, we can’t please everyone.” Mildred waggled her fingers in front of her face, swatting at non-existent flies.
The others stared at her.
“Jesus, Mil. Are you losing your marbles as well?” asked Velma.
“We wouldn’t be human if we didn’t have something to complain about,” Mildred continued as if Velma hadn’t spoken.
“She’s lost the plot.” Heather sighed. “Perhaps Mil got hit on the head during the cyclone.”
The others laughed.
“The town was lucky,” interjected Velma.
All except Mildred turned their attention towards her.
“Anxious to change the subject, Vel?” asked Heather. “Can’t stand the thought of getting old?”
“Time to cross that bridge when I get to it.” Velma’s cheeks flamed. “I just can’t believe nothing more than a few trees was uprooted. The wind was the strongest I’ve ever known. And I’ve lived here all....”
“Wind? What wind?” asked Maude.
The other three erupted into new gales of laughter. Their chortles had barely subsided when a teenager appeared beside their table.
“Take ya order, ladies?” she asked through a wad of chewing gum. She was rather pretty in a punk sort of way. Her rainbow-coloured hair stuck out at odd angles, detracting from her pleasant features.
“Thank you, Carmel.” Mildred prided herself on knowing everyone in town. “We’ll have four teas, thank you.” Her tone was soft and melodic, designed to seduce.
“Will ya have somethin’ to eat with that?” The waitress scribbled on her notepad.
“Some of those chocolate éclairs in the display would be nice.” Velma’s voice thickened, as if the mere thought of the treats made her drool. Her blue eyes gleamed, now the same shade as her hair. “That all right with you, Maude? Like an éclair?”
“What’s an éclair?” asked Maude.
The other three laughed again.
“That all?” Carmel chomped a few more times. Her mouth opened and closed like a cow chewing its cud. She kept her eyes hooded, guarding schoolgirl secrets.
“Thank you, dear,” said Mildred.
Carmel turned and walked away. Her hips swayed seductively, and her hot pink panties were visible below her hemline.
“Bloody dress. It’s too short.” Maude’s voice was almost an inaudible murmur. “Should be a law against it.”
This time, all four women burst into laughter.
“How do you know that girl, Mil?” Maude was the first to recover from the fit of cackles. “I can’t keep track of the youngsters, meself.”
“I know her mother.”
The others leaned forward and hung on her words.
“She’s related to someone famous from Broome’s past, I think,” Mildred added, as if this explained everything.
“Trust you to know that.” Velma turned down her mouth in a contemptuous sneer, displaying her well-known jealousy of Mildred.
“Anyway, between the four of us, I’d bet no one knows as much about this town as we do,” Heather rejoined the conversation.
“Or about the cyclone,” said Maude.
“Or the cyclone,” the others chorused.
They laughed again, and their chuckles continued until their beverages and cakes arrived. Like vultures, they grabbed their éclairs and thrust the flaky pastries into wrinkled mouths.
“What about Eco Beach?” Mildred’s mouth was partly filled with food.
“Eco Beach?” Velma’s words were barely distinguishable over the cake crammed into her mouth.
“You know, the tourist attraction south of here, where the turtles struggle ashore to lay their eggs.” Mildred’s tone was patient, like that of an adult explaining something to a child. She’d stopped eating and watched her friends.
Velma spluttered and choked, dollops of cream and large crumbs of pastry spattering across the surface of the table. She extracted a handkerchief from her dress pocket and coughed into it. “No, you silly old bag,” she said, once she’d recovered from her hacking fit. “I know where Eco Beach is. What happened there?”
Mildred seemed not the least bit offended by the name-calling. “Oh, I heard it bore the full brunt of the cyclone.”
“And...?” Heather prompted for more details.
All three ceased stuffing food into their mouths. Their eyes were expectant. What did Mildred know that they didn’t?
“It’s been decimated.” She looked from one to the other, enjoying being the centre of attention.
“Decimated?” said Maude.
Mildred couldn’t decide whether she’d lapsed into another vague spell or she simply sought more information. She decided on the latter. “There’s nothing left. The buildings, the sand dunes, the beach... all gone.” She studied the reactions of her comrades. Their eyes grew rounder with each word. “The whole bloody area’s been stripped clean back to the bedrock.”
“Shit!” Heather took another bite of her éclair.
“I don’t believe it.” Maude picked up her cup and sipped her tea.
“Is that all you know?” Velma tried to eat, drink and talk at the same time.
Mildred leaned forward, one conspirator to another. She opened her eyes wide and held their stares. “I did hear,” she whispered across the plastic tablecloth to her rapt audience, “that the bulldozers clearing the site for reconstruction found a skeleton buried there.” She sat back and devoured the looks of disbelief on her cronies’ faces.
Chapter 2: Dreams & Reality
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Wednesday, May 3, 2000
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Claire Elizabeth Jennings had dreamed of making love on the world-famous Cable Beach for a long, long time. She couldn’t remember a time in her life when this fantasy hadn’t been one of her favourite sources of sexual imagery. The pearling town of Broome held a special fascination for many people from the southern states, none more so than she.
An air of mystery had always surrounded this remote, tropical location. She’d thought of it often, especially when daydreaming or when emerging from slumber. Something pulled at the innermost secret places of her mind and body. Some siren song seemed to say she’d never be complete until she’d explored and satisfied her fantasies on the white sands of this remote paradise.
Dreams and reality were about to collide.
Claire and her partner, Martin George Mitchell, had driven to the Cable Beach Inter-Continental Resort to breakfast at the Boardwalk Café. Martin had arranged a special indulgence to celebrate their recent arrival at the pearling capital of the world.
They’d dined on freshly cooked pancakes, with chocolate syrup for Claire and blueberry sauce for Martin. As they satisfied their appetites, they took in the magnificent panorama of Cable Beach. They completed their repast with black coffee and cigarettes.
Claire turned to her partner. “Thank you, darling. That was beautiful.”
“Glad you enjoyed it.” Martin’s green eyes twinkled. “But the fun’s not entirely over. Fancy a walk?”
“Whatever you say.” Claire smiled. “You’re the tour guide.”
They walked, hand in hand, from the resort to the beach. The tide had receded, already on the turn. The sun shone from a brilliant blue sky, the temperature already at twenty-eight degrees Celsius. The sand sparkled in the early morning light, and the faintest of breezes tugged at their hair. They were happy and in love, and they didn’t care who knew.
Claire had donned a maroon silk shirt for the occasion. She’d left it open at the neck and tied the ends around her waist. Old blue jeans with ragged holes in the knees and backside clung to her buttocks, a hint of red panties showing through.
Martin had chosen a white t-shirt, screen-printed with an image of a crocodile and the words: TRUST ME. His old, cream-coloured jeans hugged his backside.
They walked barefooted and talked about the times they’d had together and what they hoped to achieve in Broome. A cyclone had raged through the town almost a month ago. All the debris had been cleared away, leaving nothing to show of its path. They laughed and joked, very much enjoying the simple pleasure of each other’s company. At this moment, the reason for their presence in Broome drifted far from their thoughts.
As they strolled, Martin relinquished his companion’s hand. He reached behind her and trailed his fingertips over her perfectly moulded bottom, toying with the tear in her jeans. Claire laughed and ran away from his touch, teasing him. But she didn’t run far.
She stopped and bent over to pick up some cuttlefish washed ashore by the tide. There she waited, secure in the knowledge he’d be unable to resist the temptation of her rear pointing towards him, tantalising him. Martin caught her again and played with her arse while she stood motionless. She feigned interest in what she’d discovered, but she couldn’t hide the gentle quiver of desire coursing through her body.
As they reached the water’s edge, they continued in this manner, full of the zest of life and this wonderful magical world around them, each content in the knowledge that, before this morning grew much older, they would make love on this very beautiful and famous beach.
While they walked, they searched for a spot somewhere relatively private, yet not hidden away from the sky, the sand and the sea. At this hour of the day few people wandered down by the ocean, and they had this stretch of beach to themselves. They sought some place hidden from prying eyes but not somewhere to hide.
Soon, they reached a location where they couldn’t be observed from the resort, yet they remained on the beach with the sea before them, the sky above and the sand all around. A scattering of rocks screened them from casual eyes.
The fresh, salty tang of sea air, the lapping sounds of tiny waves breaking on the packed sand, the rustle of the gentle breeze ruffling their hair, and the warmth of the tropical sunshine all added to the surreal sensation this time and place generated.
***
Claire halted by a cluster of rocks and, giving Martin a coy glance, shook the large white towel she carried. She spread it on the soft sand three or four metres from the water’s edge. Martin smoothed out the sides and sat, looking up at her, silhouetted against the sky. Her impressive height was magnified from his vantage point. He reached up and took her hand. She smiled down at him and lowered herself to his side.
He reached across and ran his fingers over the smoothness of her cheek, marvelling yet again at her beauty. He wondered, not for the first time, why she’d chosen him as her partner.
Somewhere in the distance, they heard a transistor radio. Martin recognised the Beatles singing, ‘Do You Want to Know a Secret?’. Although he scanned the length and breadth of the beach, he failed to locate the source.
They kissed—slowly at first, then with hunger as the fires of lust raged, their tongues seeking and finding each other.
Martin applied gentle pressure to his partner’s shoulders, and she sank onto the towel. Their lips were still entwined, and his body melded to hers. After they divested themselves of their clothes, their hands and mouths explored each other’s bodies. Soon, nothing mattered but their pleasure.
When Claire climaxed, Martin watched her tremble for what seemed an eternity. Moments later, he joined her in a mutual orgasm.
While they lay regaining their breath, the tide came in and caressed their feet and legs. The water felt warm and sensual, and they didn’t move.
At length, a wave broke over them, ending their embrace. They scrambled along the sand, intent on keeping their heads above the tide. During their lovemaking, they’d rolled off the towel onto the sand. Where the incoming tide had wet their bodies, fine particles clung in irregular patches that gleamed like tiny pearls in the sun.
He found his cigarettes and lighter on a rock just above the high tide. He lit two. He inhaled with pleasure and passed the other cigarette to Claire. They sat on the sand, smoking in silence, and took in the scene around them.
Martin glanced towards the horizon and pointed at several seagulls hovering and diving, making raucous calls to one another in their endless search for food.
The birds watched the two humans from afar, beady little eyes wary, yet alert, lest the humans discard some morsel of food for probing beaks to snatch up.
There wasn’t another soul in sight on this lonely, lovely stretch of northern beach to witness Claire and Martin in their quiet, perfect haven.
Martin finished his cigarette, turned to his lover and grinned.
Claire squinted, the brilliant sunlight illuminating her finely chiselled features. Her hair, damp and untidy, hung in thick clumps down the sides of her face and past her shoulders, not quite reaching her breasts. She’d acquired a slight trace of redness on her cheekbones and nose where the hot morning sun had kissed her. She took a last drag of her cigarette and responded with an answering smile.
Martin dropped onto all fours and crawled towards her, oblivious to the sand clinging to his arms and knees. He focussed on his partner’s body.
Claire’s laugh was magical, filled with joy and the promise of still-hidden depths to her sensuality.
They embraced, and the kiss was long and smouldering. A new song drifted on the breeze from the unseen radio. Frank Sinatra’s unmistakable voice informed them of the perils of ‘The Tender Trap.’ Eventually, they broke the clinch and climbed back onto the rocks.
Still naked and not caring who saw, Claire lit two more cigarettes and passed one to Martin. They sat and smoked, enjoying this moment of pure enchantment. The tide reached its peak, filling numerous pools of water in the rock hollows around them.
“Tell me this isn’t a dream, my darling.” Claire’s voice was whimsical. “And if it is a dream, may it last forever.”
Martin turned to her and smiled. “No, my sweet. This is no dream. Welcome to paradise. Welcome to Broome.”
***
Atop a not-too-distant dune, hidden from the lovers by tall grasses, a shadowy figure watched and smiled. One hand clutched a small radio, while the other held high-powered binoculars. When the lovers departed, walking hand in hand along the sandy shore, she snapped her fingers. The rocks that had concealed the duo from all eyes bar hers vanished.
Let the games begin. Now that I’ve lured these interlopers to this remote location, they’ll soon learn not to interfere in the affairs of Wanda Jean.
—-End of Special Sneak Preview—-
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