Bill Anders swore and thumped the top of his office desk in frustration, slamming the telephone down with a clatter. It was three months since the broadcast of his documentary. He was still fielding telephone calls from the public, asking if it was safe to visit Emerald Hills, or from local lunatics hailing him as some messiah, and would he next do a documentary on alien abduction. He answered the first type of call with a polite referral to the local Emerald Hills shire council office. The latter was harder, he knew that what was recorded in Emerald Hills was true, yet he didn’t want to give the nutters more oxygen or any more reasons to pester him on the phone.
Already he had lost his job over the documentary. Three short weeks after it had aired, he, Trent, and Deven were quietly shown the door from Channel Eight. Management had cited staff reductions due to a worsening economic climate, but Bill would have none of that excuse; it was clear that the network had been intimidated, and their jobs and reputations were the necessary sacrifices.
Any other man would have accepted his fate and moved on, learning a hard but necessary lesson. However, Bill was furious and bloody-minded, and with his very substantial payout, decided to create a small and independent media company dedicated to investigating the paranormal. Deven had come on board immediately; and Trent, after trying and failing to get another job in the industry, made the decision to join Bill as well, preferring a semi-regular paycheque instead of the dole queue.
Bill had called his company ‘Paranormal Oz Media,’ and within a few short weeks of its creation he already had hired a new production assistant, Olivia; who had expressed a keenness to get on board the operation, and who some suspected, had the hots for Deven. He also had hired a retired television producer, Mark Lacey, who evidently had grown bored with retirement and decided to have a last media fling with POM.
Although POM was in its infancy, they already had two gigs lined up. One was down in Tasmania investigating paranormal occurrences at infamous Port Arthur. The other gig was at St Piran’s, a prestigious school in Bathurst, New South Wales. Bill had received reports of sounds of children running through deserted halls, loud footsteps echoing through empty buildings, and even a ghostly assault upon one of the tutors who claimed an invisible assailant had punched them.
In the background, of course, was the ongoing mystery of Emerald Hills.
Bill had attempted to trace the numberplates of the cars hired by the mysterious eastern Europeans that he had seen on the night of the explosion. It was easy enough to track down the car hire firms, but he had hit a brick wall in finding out the identities of the hirers. Most of the companies that refused to cooperate cited privacy laws, but the one that seemed more amenable, searched fruitlessly for their paperwork on the hire contract, only to return apologetically empty handed.
Bill ran his hand through his closely barbered, grey streaked, brown hair, and stared morosely at the telephone, almost willing it to ring again so he could give the caller a piece of his mind. Instead, Trent popped his head around the corner of the door and grinned at him.
“I heard the phone, Bill, more loons?”
Bill nodded, “Some idiot called, said he had the location for Atlantis, said he had absolute proof that it was located off the coast of Byron Bay.”
Trent chuckled, “Byron...within drumming distance of Nimbin,” and then he raised his fingers to his mouth as if smoking a joint. “Too much happy weed I reckon.”
Bill smirked.
“We’ll continue to be cursed with the whackos until we get legitimacy,” Trent added, “That will only come with serious research.” He frowned and scratched at his mop of wavy dark hair, “I thought we had dotted all of the I’s and crossed all of the T’s with the documentary, but the experts still tore it apart.”
Deven appeared at the door, his short-cropped blond hair sticking up in spikes, “Experts?” he interjected dismissively, “Government mouthpieces.” He curled his lip in disdain, “They wouldn’t know a phantasm from protoplasm...”
“Yet still, they shut it down,” Trent interrupted. “I still can’t understand why the Government would be interested in paranormal phenomenon.”
“I can,” Bill stated morosely, “We’ve had this conversation numerous times, Trent. Governments like to be able to control their population, if the populace knew that there were actual real live monsters, fairies, and goblins in the landscape then there would be panic on the streets.”
Trent leaned against the doorframe and studied the older man, “So if the Government is simply going to shut us up each time, why then are we here?”
Bill stood up, resting his hands upon the wooden office desk, “You know the reason! Because I hate being told by jumped up petty bureaucrats what stories I can and cannot cover.”
Trent nodded, “Well, someone in influence is supporting us. That cheque for half a million dollars that arrived a fortnight ago is nothing to sneeze at. Did you find out who it was from, Bill?”
Bill shook his head, “No, the bank is close mouthed, just said that it was from an anonymous benefactor, and that they couldn’t reveal anything more than that.” He looked at both of them, “Be grateful guys; it means we can do some proper research without having to put the begging bowl out.” Then he flicked his hand at them both, “Now shoo, we’ve all got a heap of research to do before we head down to Bathurst next month.”
With rueful grins and waves, the other two men vanished back to their respective offices.
*