‘Good. So you’re at a loose end?’
‘Lot to be said for that, Max.’
‘I’ve got wind of a big story. A cracker. I could do with your help.’
Martin hesitates before responding; he still feels residual guilt for his part in Max being stripped of the Herald’s editorship. Liam has plopped back onto his bare arse and is splashing about in the puddle. Since when would Max need his help? ‘You don’t mean just a feature, do you? You wouldn’t need me for that.’
‘It’s early days, but this could be huge. An investigative series. A book as well.’
‘What is it?’
‘Not on the phone. You in Sydney anytime soon?’
‘I wasn’t planning to be.’
‘Well, see if you can make it down. Don’t wait too long.’
Liam is standing again, taking a few unsteady steps towards the sea, apparently intent on paddling.
‘Okay. But don’t take it for granted I’ll come on board.’
‘You will when you see what I’ve got. We’re not talking about a few pissy murders here, son. We’re talking grand conspiracy. I promise you, you’ll want in.’
‘Okay. I’ll talk to Mandy, see what I can do. Sorry I didn’t pick up first time.’
There’s a pause. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Wasn’t that you ringing just a moment ago?’
‘Not me.’
‘Okay. I’ll be in touch.’ Martin ends the call and checks his phone. Sure enough, the two previous calls were from Mandy: his partner, Liam’s mum. Unusual for her to call; she usually texts. Liam is heading towards him now, holding up a seashell.
‘Mumma,’ says the lad.
‘She’ll love it.’ It’s something Mandy and Liam do together, collect shells on the beach below their house.
Martin looks back at his phone; she’s left a voice message. He opens it, holds the phone to his ear. But it’s not words, it’s a scream: one long shriek, full of desperation and danger, ten seconds long. It cuts through the tranquillity of the day like a blade. It doesn’t finish; instead it ends abruptly, as if cut off.
‘Fuck,’ says Martin.
‘Fuck,’ says Liam, the irrepressible mimic.
Martin is already moving. He lifts the infant and starts running towards the stairs behind the beach, leaving everything else behind, taking only his son and his phone, nothing else matters.
Almost instantly the boy is crying, shocked by the rough handling, but Martin doesn’t care, not now. He reaches the steps carved into the sandstone, leading up to their clifftop house, starts bounding up, the boy squirming and wailing. Up they go. Ten metres, twenty. Martin is breathing hard, slowed by Liam’s weight. The steps finish at a zigzagging path. He scrambles along to the start of another flight, wooden stairs this time, suspended from a near vertical rockface. He doesn’t hesitate; up they go, the boy becoming sullen and silent.
The stairs end. They’re close now. Another couple of switchbacks through the rainforest, the rise not as steep, and the house appears through the foliage. He stops again. He can see nothing wrong, nothing unusual; he can hear nothing other than the noise of his own panting and the now distant sound of the surf … No, wait. There. Just visible around the corner of their home: a white car. Shit. Someone is in the house. He pauses, torn. Mandy’s scream is still reverberating around his skull, but he can’t take Liam in there, into possible danger. Shit. Then he knows what to do.
‘Drive, Liam.’
He jogs up to the house, hoping no one is watching, still holding his stepson firmly. Ducking down below the windows, he moves along the building’s side. He pauses at the corner, peering around it to where the unfamiliar car is parked. An SUV. New. Queensland number plates. A rental? He steps quickly past it to Mandy’s Subaru, sitting unlocked in the shade of some trees. He places Liam in the booster seat and fastens the belt.
‘Drive!’ enthuses Liam.
‘Soon. I’ll be back soon. You wait here, okay?’
‘Mumma?’
‘Yes. I’ll get Mumma.’
Liam looks uncertain, but there is no time to reassure him. Leaving the car door open—even in winter, a locked car can grow dangerously hot—Martin scuttles to the house, sheltering below the kitchen window. He looks back: the open door is out of sight on the far side of the car; Liam is silent and almost impossible to see. Martin turns his full attention to the house. He can hear nothing unusual; just the wind, the surf and birdsong. How can the birds be so insensitive? Didn’t they hear her scream?
He eases the kitchen door open and slides inside. There is no sound, a stillness has settled. The door to the dining room is open. Again, nothing. No: there is, there is. On the table: her phone. The one she screamed into. She must be here; she wouldn’t leave her phone.
He moves through the room, looks around the open doorway into the living room … And sees a man in a suit face down on the floor. Adrenaline hits him, and his already surging heartbeat accelerates. He tries to listen for the sound of an intruder, but the blood in his ears is too loud; that and the memory of Mandy’s scream. He takes a breath and edges forward, knowing he’s exposing himself, knowing he may be walking into danger. But she’s in jeopardy; standing still is not an option.
Nothing happens. There is no one else. He moves to the body, squats, feels for a pulse. It’s there, in the neck, strong and consistent. The man is alive. Martin can hear him breathing: a little ragged, but steady enough. There is blood seeping from the back of his skull, out through his hair. There is no other sign of injury. Someone has king hit him from behind, laid him flat. Did Mandy do this, knock the man unconscious? Where is Mandy? Martin needs to get upstairs, explore the rest of the house, try to find her. But first he rolls the man onto his side, into the recovery position. He’s a dead weight, showing no sign of waking. Only when Martin has him
