CHAPTER 19

Clementine looked back at the shanty as they sped away, the roar of the outboard and the pounding of the dinghy across the waves was deafening. A figure appeared on the back verandah. Jackson. Was Membrey dead? They’d as good as killed him. A blast of spray pummelled her back, soaking through her T-shirt and sending a shudder through her body.

Torrens sat beside her as the bow bashed up and down on the chop. He was clutching a tea towel against his shoulder and grimacing.

In the stern, Ralph Bennett gripped the outboard tiller, his face wet with spray and his eyes shining. The crusty old bugger seemed to be enjoying himself, squinting at the sea, his wiry hair standing straight on his head in the wind. He’d been surprised when she rang. Then he registered the terror in her voice and hadn’t asked questions. Just said he’d get the boat in the water straight away.

With the tide so high he’d been able to bring the tinny in close, almost to the backyard, and they were safely aboard and already twenty metres from shore when she heard the two gunshots.

Well clear now, she asked Ralph to slow up so she could hear herself speak, called an ambulance then tapped in the number for Sergeant Wiseman.

‘An intruder…yes…Then another man. We heard gunshots… No, we’re on Ralph Bennett’s boat. We managed to get out…’

She hung up. Wiseman was on her way to the shanty but it was a thirty-minute drive from Barnforth.

Ralph opened the throttle again. The bow reared high in the air then eased down again as they picked up speed. More bone-shuddering thumps across the chop. She gripped the gunwale to brace herself. A southerly was tearing up the channel, battering the angry waves, crumbling the peaks to fuming white froth. Her back was wet through. The wind was warm but she felt cold with shock, shivering. She thought about Pocket and Sarge. They had taken the safest option by locking them in the laundry. If they couldn’t get to Jackson, he would have no reason to hurt them. She hoped. Surely he’d have the sense to leave the door shut.

She looked at Torrens sitting next to her, his hair wet and dripping, the salt water washing pink streams of blood down his arm. He wouldn’t let her tend to the wound, told her to stop fussing. Ralph was taking them to the marina in Barnforth. From there they could get a cab to the hospital—Torrens was already refusing an ambulance.

What if Jackson was there, waiting for them? He would know they were in the boat, perhaps he’d guess they would head to the marina. She tried to force her brain to think of alternative options. Everything was foggy, slow. She couldn’t project beyond the current plan.

Ralph was gesturing to her, pointing over her right shoulder. She swivelled on the seat, turning her face, feeling the punch of the wind on her cheeks. Someone waving at them from a large yacht, white hull. It was anchored to the south of the point that stretched out from Piama towards K’gari. Ralph leaned forward towards Clem, his hand cupped in front of his mouth.

‘Doncaster,’ he yelled over the sound of the outboard.

She looked over at the yacht again. Yes—Andrew Doncaster. And he seemed to be beckoning them over. What the hell would he want?

Ralph leaned forward again. ‘Still twenty minutes to the marina. Let’s get the big fella onto the yacht. They’ll have a first-aid kit at any rate,’ he yelled.

She looked across at Torrens, his face was pale and he hadn’t said a word for a while. He looked smaller, as if the pain had diminished him. Perhaps he would be better off on the big boat. She tried to get her brain thinking straight but everything was muddled.

Ralph swung to port heading for Doncaster’s yacht. As they came inside the lee of the point, the wind disappeared and the sea was calm. She felt relieved, safer somehow without the pounding, as they sped across the sheltered bay to Doncaster’s boat.

‘What are we doing?’ yelled Torrens.

‘Gunna get you on the big boat, get you bandaged up,’ yelled Clem.

‘Nah, fuck that. Just keep going,’ he said. Then he spoke into Clementine’s ear so Ralph couldn’t hear, ‘The less people know about me and why I have a fucking gunshot wound the better.’

‘You look bad. You’re losing blood,’ she said.

‘No,’ he said, insistent. ‘Just keep going,’ he yelled at Ralph. But Ralph, waving him away, was having none of it. Ralph Bennett, President of the Piama Progress Association, was in command of this vessel.

Torrens spoke to Clementine again, ‘I’m fine, I’m going to the hospital and I’m not getting on that boat.’

Ralph slowed as they approached the stern. Torrens grabbed a dirty old towel from the bottom of the boat, threw it over his shoulder, covering the wound, wincing through his teeth as the salty fabric touched raw flesh.

‘Ahoy there,’ yelled Doncaster, smiling from the cockpit. He was dressed in white shorts and a navy polo shirt, his eyes concealed behind mirrored aviators. His pale face was covered in zinc cream.

‘Hello,’ she called as the wake overtook the dinghy, shunting the stern up and forward towards his boat in a last sigh of momentum. ‘What’s up?’

She recognised the yacht now. It was the Hermes—the one that had been moored behind Fullerton’s boat in the marina.

‘Saw you out there, got some good news for you. Come aboard, have a drink,’ he said, grinning and beckoning. He couldn’t see Torrens’ arm under the towel.

Torrens still looked bad. But it was her that Jackson was after, she thought—not Torrens. He would actually make it to the hospital better without her tagging along like a moving target.

She swivelled back around on her seat, facing Ralph, ‘You go on, get him in,’ she said, nodding at Torrens. ‘I’ll make my own way back.’

Doncaster heard her. ‘We’re heading back in ourselves in a moment, we can give you a lift then,’ said Doncaster.

‘No worries, Clem. We’ll catch you later,’ said Torrens, before Ralph could comment.

Ralph manoeuvred the boat alongside and she took hold of Doncaster’s outstretched hand as she stepped across onto the duckboard. A businessman’s hand—dry and warm. After the tinny, it didn’t feel like being on a boat; so big it was hardly even rocking. She watched Ralph and Torrens speeding off towards the point, towards Barnforth and suddenly felt very alone as the shock of the morning’s events washed over her.

‘Geez, you’re all wet,’ said Doncaster. ‘Looks like a rough trip.’ He ushered her towards the cabin, past a man in bare feet and cargo shorts standing on the deck. Thirties, thinning sun-bleached hair and the tanned, leathery look of a sailor or a fisherman.

‘This is Damien, my skipper.’

‘G’day,’ said Damien reaching across to shake her hand and opening the door into the cabin for her.

‘I’ll get you a towel,’ said Doncaster and went below.

She stood next to the expansive cream leather lounge inside the cabin, not wanting to sit down in her wet shorts. The air conditioning was blasting. She heard Doncaster’s voice downstairs. Was there someone else on board? No, it sounded more like a phone call. Finally he came back up with the towels.

‘Sorry about that, got a transaction happening in Sydney,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a beer on the go but there’s a chardy in the fridge… or would you prefer something hot?’ He handed her the towels.

‘Thanks, I’ll have a cup of tea.’

She spread a towel on the lounge and sat down, hugging the other around her shoulders while Doncaster switched the kettle on and found a mug.

Everything about being here felt wrong. A man was probably lying dead in her kitchen, shot by Helen’s murderer. He had been there, the killer, looking for Clementine—there inside the shanty. She shivered. The police would not have arrived yet and Jackson would be long gone by the time they got there. She wanted to be with Torrens, make sure he got to the hospital. She needed to speak to Wiseman again.

‘So, how’s it going with the turtle campaign?’ asked Doncaster.

The campaign seemed like something she’d done in another life. ‘Yeah, um, things are going well,’ she said, trying to focus.

‘Good, good,’ he said, taking a swig on his Peroni. ‘That’s why I called you over, actually,’ he poured her tea and brought it over with the milk, sat down opposite her. ‘It seems to me we need a burst of activity before the department makes its decision. So I’ve decided to make another donation. Fifty thousand.’

Clementine nearly dropped her mug of tea. ‘Fifty thousand?’

He nodded, but she struggled to process the information. It was crazy—here on this luxurious boat talking about a turtle while Torrens bled and Membrey lay dead in her kitchen. But fifty thousand. Shit.

‘That’s just…so generous…my goodness…I mean, thank you,’ she mumbled.

Doncaster smiled and his dimples appeared. She tried to concentrate—such a large sum of money; how encouraging it would be for the WAGSS stalwarts; what she could achieve with the funds—but her thoughts kept wandering. Why was he doing this? She just wanted to get off this boat, talk to Wiseman, check on Torrens.

‘Might take me a few days to get it organised and into the WAGSS account but I’ll get my accountant onto it first thing tomorrow,’ he said.

He was chattier than normal, and something about his manner was odd. She couldn’t work it out. What was it?

‘Yeah,’ he continued, ‘I’ve thought a lot about it since we last spoke’—he blinked twice. She felt her uneasiness growing—‘and, you know, I kept thinking how much it meant to Helen.’

It was then that it came to her…this huge donation, this sudden generosity—it was as if it had only just occurred to Doncaster, just at that moment as he’d seen her in Ralph’s boat.

She sat, her mind lurching, not really hearing what Doncaster was saying. She needed some space, time to think.

‘Um…excuse me…bathroom?’

‘Yes, yes. Damien, show Clementine where it is would you?’

Damien took her below. The space: it was like the Tardis—bigger than Fullerton’s whole boat. He showed her down a corridor towards the bow and opened a door to the left. She stepped inside, thanking him, and latched the door closed.

It was hot and stuffy in the toilet, no air conditioning. Shower, vanity unit, everything white and pristine apart from the timber trim. She sat, elbows on knees, the warmth welcome on her back, forcing herself to think.

It was too early to ring Torrens, too soon to try Wiseman again, but at least she could just breathe for a few minutes, collect her thoughts. What the hell was up with Doncaster?

She heard the engines start—a low, pulsing chug from the stern. Then a loud rumbling noise, a chain grinding. Was it the anchor coming up? Doncaster had said they would be heading back to Barnforth soon. Good.

She pulled out her phone, unlocked the screen, checking to make sure it was still on silent. A couple of texts, both from Hamish Doncaster.

You made an impact on the old man. Intrigued to hear we’d met. And! You’ll never guess…found out the randy old bugger was seeing your friend Helen! Ha!

Clem felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She rushed on to the second text.

Btw, spoke with a mate who’s still inside the business. Big Red’s resort plans: not Whitsundays, Turtle Shores! Thinks he can bust the covenant. Call me.

She read the messages a second time. The truth of it all, what it meant—it formed a solid mass behind her eyes. Doncaster had a relationship with Helen. He’d bought Helen’s home to develop—level the trees, pour concrete over the river banks. He believed he could contest the covenant or buy his way out of it, or something. Beautiful Turtle Shores, prime waterfront, spread across three acres. The realisation was taking her down like steel boots, she felt sick, her hands began to shake.

Her thoughts were racing now, lining up in sequence: Doncaster had tried to win Helen over, groomed her with sex and whatever else—probably made an offer for Turtle Shores. Helen would’ve refused the offer, ended the relationship. Then she must have instructed her lawyers to set up the covenant. Even changed her will to include that silly stat dec—easily circumvented, but specifically designed for Doncaster, an attempt to keep him away from the auction.

And unbidden, from within Clem’s sorrow, came frustration and rage. Helen! Why didn’t you tell me what was going on? I could have helped…we could have dealt with it together. So stupid. She squeezed her eyes shut, took a long breath.

No. Not stupid. Embarrassed. Mortified. Ashamed. Alone. And just as fast as it had ignited, the rage was snuffed out.

She sat there on Andrew Doncaster’s toilet and forced herself to read the texts a third time. She recalled the conversation as she sat at his kitchen bench, drinking his wine, eating his prawn salad, telling him how she thought Helen had been murdered. He was probably already contemplating getting rid of her right then—as soon as she’d opened her big mouth. And now he knew she’d met Hamish. Whatever plan he’d already hatched would have been accelerated, so he’d be rid of her before she heard about the resort.

Her heart began to pound. She tried Hamish’s number. No answer. Her mind was filling with fear. The phone call Doncaster had made earlier—was it to Jackson’s handler? Jackson could be coming here, to the boat, already on his way. It would be easier to kill her if she was on board, captive—they could dump her body at sea.

Her hands were trembling as each piece fell into place. Her throat felt swollen, she couldn’t swallow.

Get off the boat. Get off the boat before Jackson gets here.

She heard someone calling. Doncaster.

‘You all right down there?’

‘Yes, all good thanks,’ she called, her voice thready and feeble.

‘Okay. We’re going to head for the marina,’ he yelled. Then movement in the corridor. Was he listening outside the toilet? She couldn’t risk a phone call. She sent a text message to Sergeant Wiseman:

Doncaster hired Helen’s killer. He’s going to kill me. I’m on board his boat in the bay near the point. Hurry!

It sounded ridiculous. She could imagine Wiseman rolling her eyes. She copied the text to Torrens and Hamish.

She was sweating profusely in the cubicle. She stood up, turned on the tap, splashed some water over her face, glared at the face in the mirror. It didn’t look like her: taut-skinned and panicky. Pull yourself together. Think!

The boat was already moving. On its way out to sea, she assumed. Jackson was probably stealing a boat from the marina now. Torrens’ phone was probably on silent or he hadn’t heard the text over the outboard. Who the hell knew what Hamish was up to. And even if Wiseman took her seriously, would she send someone? She had a single constable, and a town to police.

Clem had to assume Jackson was on his way out to the Hermes and no one would make it in time. She could rush upstairs and dive into the sea. They would chase her, pull her back on board. What if Doncaster had a gun? Would he shoot her dead in the water? He’s waiting for Jackson though, isn’t he? Perhaps he doesn’t have one—men like Doncaster don’t have guns do they? Damien might, but not on board, surely?

She looked above her. There was a perspex hatch opening out onto the foredeck. She could climb out, but she’d be in full view of Damien seated at the helm in the pilot house. She crouched down, looked through the vent at the base of the door. No sign of any movement in the corridor. Her hands were trembling as she unlatched the door, opened it a crack. No one there. She slipped out and up into the master cabin in the bow, closed the door behind her, looked around, hoping for a hatch that opened to somewhere discreet. There were two small ones above the bed but they would open directly onto the deck in front of Damien.

She opened the door, moved quickly down the corridor, checking the other two cabins. Neither had hatches opening anywhere other than in full view of Damien.

A droplet of sweat trickled down the side of her face. She was conscious of the seconds ticking by. Doncaster would wonder what she was doing down here. She peeked out into the corridor, noticed a small, low door leading aft. She crept towards it, edging sideways around the far side of the stairs that led up to the saloon, the noise of the engine building as she got closer. She levered up the arm on the door and pushed it open. A deafening noise and before her a huge engine, in fact an entire engine room. She stepped over the raised threshold and stooped under the doorway, closing the door behind her.

The space was about the size of a small home office with a walkway all the way around the engine, which sat squarely in the centre. To her left was a storage area with a big open box of tools, a scuba tank in a frame affixed to the wall and a wetsuit hanging above a plastic crate full of goggles and flippers. In the corner was a broom and a boat hook or something, partly obscured by the wetsuit.

Her thoughts were coming fast now. She should disable the engine so they couldn’t come after her, then make a dash for it. But how? She knew nothing about engines. She looked around the room, staring at pipes and metal bits—no idea what function any of them performed. Was there an off-switch? But that wouldn’t stop them following her—they’d just switch it back on. She needed to do the kind of damage that would stop the bastard in its tracks. She did a full circle around the engine and found herself staring at two glass cylinders filled with a yellowy-green fluid, swirling inside. Fuel? Perhaps she could stop the supply to the engine. She had to try something.

She went to the toolbox, grabbed a spanner the length of her forearm and steadied herself in front of the closest of the cylinders. Feeling the rock of the waves and picking her moment, Clem took an almighty swing, smashing with all her might. There was a low thwack but the cylinder remained intact. She swung again, losing her balance with the tilt of the boat into a wave, the spanner slipping ineffectually off the rounded surface. She steadied and swung again. The edge of the spanner crunched into the glass—a tiny crack opened up. Another blow, grunting with the effort. The crack opened wider and fluid began spraying out in fine jets. It smelled like fuel but there was no change to the rhythm of the engine—thundering on relentlessly. She swung hard into the second cylinder as the stream of fuel from the first one collected on the floor, smashing at it again, and again, swinging like a woman possessed. Another crack appeared, one more full-bodied blow and fuel was squirting from the second cylinder…everywhere, all over her clothing, running down her legs—but the engine still roared on. What the hell?

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 clutched 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.