Bernie couldn’t see a thing.

He was hiding in the back of the strange car. It was a cross between a limousine and a van – long, wide and with a large storage compartment instead of a boot.

The car had arrived at midnight to whisk his mum off to her suspicious new job. Feeling the need to protect her, he’d had the brilliant idea of sneaking into the back of it. So here he was, wedged between suitcases and boxes in the dark, straining to hear the voices from the front of the car.

His mum was peppering the driver with questions.

‘So . . . which island am I going to?’

‘What’s the name of the ship?’

‘I don’t suppose you know if they’ve hired any other palaeontologists?’

‘I really couldn’t say,’ was the driver’s standard reply. He eventually put on some loud music, obviously to shut Mum up.

It wasn’t long before the music began irritating Bernie. It was too loud. It made it difficult to think. He tried sticking his fingers in his ears, but that was uncomfortable.

Eventually, about half an hour later, the car stopped.

‘Mist Finder!’ Bernie heard Mum talking again. ‘That’s an odd name for a ship, don’t you think?’

‘I really couldn’t say,’ answered the driver.

Bernie couldn’t believe it. Mum wouldn’t answer his questions back home, saying she wasn’t allowed to. And now here she was asking lots of questions that the driver seemed intent on not answering.

‘It’s quite large, isn’t it?’ continued Mum. Bernie smirked. She was never any good at taking a hint. ‘What’s all that stuff they’re loading onboard?’

‘I really couldn’t say.’

‘Of course,’ said Mum, with a sigh. ‘Thank you for the scintillating conversation. Such a shame we have to part company.’ There was rattling sound and then Mum spoke again. ‘Why is the door locked? And don’t you dare say that you can’t say.’

‘Apologies, Doctor Bailey, but access to the dock is restricted,’ explained the driver. ‘They don’t like people wandering about on foot. As soon as the loading is finished, I’ll drive aboard and you can get out of the car. Until then, I’m afraid that you’re stuck with my scintillating conversation.’

Bernie could hear the sarcasm in the man’s voice. And then the music started up again.

The wait was excruciating. Bernie’s leg muscles were beginning to cramp and his back was sore from being pressed up against boxes. And the music kept going and going. It was so loud! Maybe following his mum hadn’t been such a good idea after all. But what else could he have done?

Everything that had happened was just too weird.

 

Two weeks ago, his mum had been fired from her job at the university because of a paper she’d written about the need for the serious scientific study of cryptids – mysterious animals that most people didn’t think existed. Bernie still couldn’t understand how she could lose her job over something like that. But she had. And there’d been all sorts of stuff in the newspapers and online about how she couldn’t be a proper scientist if she believed in creatures like the Loch Ness monster, the Yeti or Big Foot. But that was the thing . . . she didn’t believe in their existence. She believed in the possibility of their existence. Surely a proper scientist should investigate the possibility of these animals? Bernie wanted to be a scientist when he grew up and he definitely wanted to go in search of hidden animals.

Things hadn’t looked great when his mum suddenly got a phone call from a research centre offering her a job. They said they needed her ‘unique skills and perspective’. They said it was for a ‘confidential research project’. They said she had to start immediately and she had to live at the research centre. As a result of all that, she was leaving him with his Aunt Millie and heading off.

Bernie thought it all sounded super fishy.

‘What exactly is this new job?’ he asked, as him mum packed.

‘I’m not one hundred per cent sure,’ his mum answered evasively, as she threw clothes into her suitcase. ‘And I wouldn’t be allowed to tell you anyway. I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Which means I’m not supposed to talk about the job with anyone.’

‘I’m not just anyone. I’m your son.’

‘Yes, I know that, dear. But I still can’t talk about it.’

Bernie decided on a different question. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Offshore research station.’ His mum was now shoving down on the contents of the suitcase, as if that would somehow make more room.

‘What does that mean?’

‘A research facility on an island.’ She didn’t even look up as she spoke.

‘And where’s this island?’

‘In Bass Strait.’

‘Which island?’ demanded Bernie. ‘King Island? Flinders Island? Clarke Island? Cape Barren Island?’

‘I don’t know. None of those.’ She sighed as she finally snapped her suitcase shut and looked at her son. ‘It’s a small island. I don’t know its name.’ She quickly held up her hand before Bernie could ask anything else. ‘I’m a zoologist, not a geography teacher, kiddo!’

She grabbed the second suitcase and carried it off to her study. Bernie followed. He knew all about Bass Strait and its islands. And he also knew about the Bass Strait Triangle. It was an area of water between mainland Australia and Tasmania, where many ships and planes had mysteriously disappeared over the years. The British warship HMS Sappho disappeared in 1858. The SS Ferdinand Fischer in 1906. Planes such as the Miss Hobart in 1934 and numerous aircraft during World War II. And the most famous one of all – the case of Frederick Valentich, a pilot flying a Cessna light aircraft to King Island, who radioed in a report of seeing UFOs, just before disappearing in October 1978.

The Bass Strait Triangle wasn’t as famous as the Bermuda Triangle (which was near America) and most people didn’t know about it. But Bernie did! And it worried him that his mum was going there. He didn’t want her to disappear. And why would a research centre be there? What could they possibly be studying in the middle of the Bass Strait Triangle? A chill went up his spine.

‘Well, why can’t I come with you?’ asked Bernie.

‘No children allowed, I’m afraid. Not to mention the fact that you have school.’ His mum opened the case and started to load it up with books and papers and files from her overcrowded desk. He noticed that she was packing material on dinosaurs as well as cryptids. What was this job?

‘Do you have to leave tonight?’ asked Bernie, his voice starting to take on a whiny note.

‘It’s a condition of the job,’ she answered patiently. ‘Immediate start. They’re sending a limo to bring me to the dock.’

‘But, Mum –’

‘Bernie, listen.’ His mum stopped packing and came to stand in front of him, putting her hands on his shoulders. They were face to face. At 165 centimetres, Bernie was on the tall side for a 13-year-old and his mum was on the short side for a grown woman. They both had sandy blond hair and light freckles, although his mum’s hair was in a neat bob while his was short and unruly. ‘I need this job, honey. I’m behind on mortgage payments. Electricity, gas and water bills are about to arrive. And then there’s food and school and all sorts of other stuff. Given all the publicity when the university sacked me, other job offers are not going to be rolling in. And . . .’ Her face brightened. ‘This job is very well paid.’ She paused to smile at her son. ‘I know this is difficult. The secrecy. The short notice. The extended time away.’ She paused for a moment to frown, and Bernie hoped that she might come to her senses. But then she continued. ‘And I’m going to miss you. But let’s just make the best of it. I promise I’ll ring every day and message all the time. And send emails and memes and . . . you’ll probably be sick of me by the time I get home.’ Then she gathered him up into a hug.

As Bernie hugged her, he heard her sniffing back a tear.