38

IN A harbour-side Darwin pub, I bought a few drinks and made a few friends. I bonded with locals buzzing with gossip about how Allyson Coleman had been dragged out of her Karmann Ghia and arrested. And I learned who to approach. I paid cash for a berth on a thirty-metre yacht, heading for South America. The rest of the money is now clean. I spent a long afternoon offering a twenty to various backpackers, who changed unremarkable amounts of Australian currency into US dollars at different locations around Darwin.

On deck, as a breath of warm air moved across my skin and the port of Darwin disappeared into the distance, I felt like Scrooge on Christmas morning, giddy and overjoyed. In a few weeks, a mere jaunt across the Pacific with some stops at tropical islands along the way, I’ll be in Concepción. I could stay there, or I could make my way to Buenos Aires. Acting on a whim is bang on trend. Fear is so last week. Everything is in flux. This crazy freedom is the fulfilment of a dream. In most versions of the escape fantasy, Brophy has been by my side. I have no doubt that, at some point in the future, once he gets clean, he will be.

Countries without an extradition treaty with Australia have become a new interest of mine. I like to picture Victoria Police sending Phuong to, say, Rio de Janeiro, to find me, and the two of us drinking mojitos at a beachfront bar. If that’s too fantasy-land, I’ll tell her about the rock climbing to be had in South America. The reality is, my best friend will probably only manage to swing over once a year, and that won’t be so bad.

My pocket vibrates. I swipe and put the phone to my ear.

Kylie launches into a rambling tirade. ‘Stella, what the hell is happening? The fucking farm is being pulled out from under me. I knew this would happen! It’s your fault. If you’d done things right in the first place, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.’

She draws breath, and I’m about to respond, but she keeps going.

‘You need to get in touch with Ben. You need to tell that idiot to stop the lawsuit. We can’t afford to fight it. Tyler’s talking about going back to shearing. I won’t hear of it.’

My hand moves almost of its own volition, taking the squawking voice magically away from my ear. I hold the phone over the water, relishing the exact moment I release my grip, and, a second later, savouring the satisfying plop as it falls into the sea.

My ears prick up as I hear a familiar name on the little staticky transistor radio propped against a deck chair. ‘And, in breaking news, beleaguered Victorian Justice Minister Marcus Pugh has announced he will not contest the upcoming election. In a short statement, the minister strenuously denied involvement in corruption of any kind and said recent accusations were a pack of disgraceful lies. He looks forward to spending more time with his family.’

I walk to the bow of the yacht and stand by the railing to watch the sun set over the sea. I did not deliver Tuffnell to Percy Brash, and I am pleased. I let her go, and I am sorry. But Tuffnell, wherever she is, will get caught, sooner or later. And that will be some consolation for Mrs Phelan and Merri. And for Joe. My feelings are decidedly mixed. If there is to be a Royal Commission into the goings-on at Athol Goldwater, everything will come out. And the truth is a kind of justice.

But none of that is up to me. The over-accommodating Stella Hardy no longer exists. I’m finished with all that.