PROLOGUE

He sat in his car, high above the Portsea back beach, near the very tip of the Mornington Peninsula, watching the waves rolling in off Bass Strait, a single bead of sweat on his temple. His was the only car at this end of the car park. Behind him were scrubby dunes, and before him was an endless stretch of ocean. The summer sun, now high in the sky, blanched the scene like a faded polaroid. He held the large knife loosely, bouncing it gently in his right hand, happy with its weight. He turned it to and fro, glinting the sun’s rays off its silver edge. Twelve inches long, the knife had a series of black dots on its handle, making it easy to grip.

When he’d been a young boy, his mother would take him to the bayside beaches a few kilometres north, across the peninsula, where the water was calm enough for him to paddle about. He could only remember his father taking him to the beach a couple of times, and it was always here, on the wilder ocean side, amid the saltbush and wallaby grass that clung tightly to the dunes.

‘Tasmania is out there. Can you see it?’ his father had asked, pointing.

He’d squinted and lied that he could.

He shook his head at the memory. Despite himself, he looked up at the horizon and stared again.

Out beyond the break, teenagers sat on surfboards, laughing and calling to one another. He’d been parked for ten minutes, watching them ignore one perfect wave after another. He knew what they were thinking: that there were plenty of waves, and there always would be. He remembered thinking the same thing. That everything lasts forever.

As a wave broke to his left, he traced his knife through the air, following the slice of white water across the deep blue.

Through the open window, he caught the tart scent of green apple. He turned sharply, staring for a long moment, an impossible expectation filling his mind. Then the perfume was gone, leaving a memory in its place.

It was time.

He returned the knife to his backpack on the passenger seat, and stepped out of the car. He walked around it, checking that the number plates were screwed on tight. Then he took a few steps towards the sea and breathed in as he watched another wave forming. When it started to break, he exhaled until the wave petered out near the turquoise water close to shore. He did this several times. It calmed him. He was in control. He had no other choice.

Shutting his eyes, he sucked in one last deep breath. He got back behind the wheel and eased out of the car park, pulling his baseball cap down low. He kept under the speed limit, as the road curved through dunes, passing a row of drooping sheoaks and clumps of green tussock grass. After a minute, he turned left into Latham Drive. As he’d expected, the street was empty. It was too hot for gardening and everyone would have walked their dogs earlier. People would either be inside staying cool, out back by their pools, or at the beach.

He took his foot off the accelerator and let the car glide the last thirty metres into the empty driveway.

After checking the rear-view mirror, he grabbed the backpack, opened the door silently and stepped out. Using the door as cover, he slipped the knife into the back pocket of his jeans, before letting his shirt fall back over the handle.

He felt good. He could hear the orchestra’s drums thumping, racing towards a crescendo. Soon, it would be over.