Half Moon Bay (3 page)

Ellie reached the top of the sand track, the air in her lungs raw, her thighs burning with exertion. The pain always brought relief from the sadness that could still overwhelm her.

She stopped, looking down along the almost deserted stretch of white sand, the dog a small black dot chasing seagulls. She felt her heartbeat steady, her breathing ease and her mood lighten. Dropping onto the grass bank, with her back to the weatherboard cottage perched on the edge of the beach, she turned her face to the rising sun. The early morning sea breeze lifted the heavy fall of hair from her damp neck.

Home. And part of being home was this view; a view that travelled the world inside her head. Two years and nothing seemed to have changed. The rhythm of the seasons brought the flooding summer rains and the towering storm seas, followed by winter’s gentle sun and the timeless northern migration of the dolphins.

The memories crowded in on her: people, faces, Saturday-afternoon barbecues, memories of her family, complete and whole, her world in balance. Memories of a warm pair of hands that scooped her up and held her tight, stuck bandaids on knees shredded from sliding down sand dunes. Familiar hands that turned the pages to admire photographs which, even on the old Polaroid camera, showed promise of the talent to come.

Now she was here alone and the old house gave its own comfort, the sweet fragrance from the frangipanis as they shed their last flowers before the chill of autumn. The creaking of the iron roof as the day warmed and the sun sprang the nails in the capping. The feel of polished boards, old before she was born, now worn to the pattern of footsteps that had echoed over them for three generations.

The dog loped up the dune towards her.

‘Hey, big fella.’ She scratched his ears as his tongue lolled out the side of his mouth. Shadow had come tumbling into the house with tan paws ten sizes too big for his shiny black body. He’d grown into a Doberman who’d almost flattened her when she collected him from the Whitakers just a day ago.

‘Just you and me. I’m home. Sometimes there is only one place on earth a person needs to be. Right now, it’s here in Half Moon Bay.’

The dog flopped down next to her, presenting his tummy for scratching.

‘We’ve got work to do before Dad gets home in a few weeks.’ Her father, Tom, was somewhere on his own voyage of personal discovery on the other side of Australia. Ellie understood. After all, two years ago she’d fled back overseas to hide her grief and only now was she able to return and face the reminders of a life well lived.

If her mother had still been alive, then it might all have been so different. She brushed the thought aside.

Her mother was a calming memory, gilded by time into a soft, warming blanket that she drew around her when sorrow seemed too heavy to bear. Hers was a golden memory made of equal parts love and laughter, with soft blond hair, crystal blue eyes and room in her heart for the world, a gentle memory shaped by a child’s eyes.

‘Cuppa time, mate.’

Ellie pushed to her feet, feeling the damp of dew still on the tough buffalo grass, the green line holding back the fine white sand.

The wooden steps up to the front verandah leant gently to the left. They always had. Tom had tried to fix them, but they seemed to prefer that angle, as though the house decided how it sat on the land, not its occupants.

She stopped and felt around in the sagging canvas folds of the squatters chair for the house key, though she wasn’t sure why she bothered locking the place. The curtains billowed in the draft as she opened the door. She skirted around the white couch, past the shelves crammed with books and photographs and headed to the kitchen. Shadow’s claws clicked on the amber floorboards as he followed.

She flicked on the kettle and ran her hand over the bench top. The aging laminate had softened to a creamy shade of yellow. It didn’t look so dated any more. The cupboard door stuck a little as she hunted for a mug. Her dad had been painting again. No new flat-pack kitchens for him. Another fresh coat of antique white paint fixed everything. He was pretty good at knocking down walls as well, hence the open-plan living–dining area that led to the front verandah. With all those support beams missing it was amazing the place hadn’t fallen down around their ears.

Ellie smiled as she poured hot water into the little white porcelain teapot. The sharp aroma of peppermint rose to meet her. A week ago, she’d been sitting in a vibrant café in downtown Johannesburg sipping tea, wondering where to head next, where to hide her pain. The email from Ron and Mavis Whitaker had come as a relief.

She flipped open her laptop and re-read the message.

Ellie straightened up. These were the people who’d helped shape her life, who’d supported her family. She’d jumped on the first flight out of South Africa and headed back to the northern New South Wales coast. By the time she arrived in Half Moon Bay, Ron was convinced there was also a tie-in between suspected drug running in the Port Newel fishing fleet and O’Sullivan. Disillusioned with the local authority’s lack of response, Ron wanted Ellie to investigate.

She had to agree Ron’s evidence was compelling so she’d already started calling in favours. Contacts were a journalist’s most prized assets. Now was as good a time as any to put them to work.

It was good to be home amongst friends again, but confronting as well. Everything reminded her of Nina. Ellie couldn’t stop the deep sigh that left her feeling deflated.

Two years ago she’d taken a fashion shoot job back in the UK, against her sister’s wishes, and left Nina working alone in Kandahar. If she hadn’t made that choice, would Nina still be alive?

Ellie knew she had to stop looking backwards and turn her face to the future. She’d never been brave enough to discover what it was that made Nina take such a senseless risk in Kandahar. Never had the courage to open her sister’s laptop and look. Maybe it was time to put the ghosts to rest.

She pulled a face at Shadow. ‘Time to roll the sleeves up, rip off the gloves and see what’s really hiding out in Half Moon Bay.’ Far easier to fight other people’s battles than confront her own demons.

The dog’s tail thumped on the floor.

Reversing the planning board’s decision was achievable with a lot of hard work. Proving corruption was a tougher agenda. Tracking drug running and maybe money laundering? She was still deciding where to start.

It was a challenge Nina would have revelled in. She had almost been expelled in the last year of school for protesting against cuts to health funding which saw the local hospital slated for closure. She’d bailed up the unsuspecting health minister and demanded the decision be reconsidered. She probably shouldn’t have sworn at him and she definitely shouldn’t have tipped red cordial all over him. As a thirteen-year-old, Ellie didn’t know whether to be proud or embarrassed by her older sister.

Mrs Bell suspended Nina, whose punishment was to write an essay arguing the case for keeping the hospital. It was published in national newspapers and Nina’s career never looked back.

The sharp pang of loneliness made Ellie shift on her feet, the ache in her heart a physical hit. The house seemed so suddenly empty. For a fleeting moment, her resolve faltered. She was sorry she’d come home. Sorry her father wasn’t here to hold her tight and tell her they’d be fine, that the two of them would survive, that Nina was watching over them.

Ellie sipped the tea and opened the local paper. The page-three lead story focused on the development. She examined the photograph heading the article. Good composition, although the light was a bit bright. Lord Mayor O’Sullivan at his overweight best with two, no four, double chins. She gave in to a wry smile. The contrast with the figure next to him couldn’t be greater. Nicholas Lawson, the engineer for the property developer. Imposing physique, well-cut suit and a killer smile, which had apparently melted every female heart in the vicinity.

‘Damn him for being so good-looking. Harder to fight him.’ Her words echoed in the empty kitchen as she read the story outlining the development proposal and the fanfare of the Lord Mayor’s announcement. No mention of the community’s outrage, or how the developer had gained almost overnight approval for a beachfront development that would change the face of their town forever. All without a shred of community consultation.

Shadow scrambled to his feet and shot outside, the rumble in his throat changing to a growl. Ellie folded the newspaper, begrudging the disruption to her early morning peace. Who would call at this time of day?

The sun had blinded him for the half-hour drive into Half Moon Bay, leaving him nowhere to hide except behind his sunglasses. It cut through the bone-deep weariness, but did nothing to ease the ache behind his eyes.

Ex-Major Nicholas Lawson gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and squinted. It would have been easy to say no to this gig. Hand over the information and let someone else deal with it. Too much at stake if he got it wrong, too many old wounds about to have their scabs ripped off. Too many lives turned upside down again.

But he’d said yes.

No one could ever call him a coward. Ice-cold arsehole, grim over-achiever, perhaps, but his courage was never at issue. He’d always assumed he’d have to finish this job one day. He had no choice but to follow it through.

First stop had to be Tom Wilding. He deserved to know trouble was marching his way. He couldn’t tell him everything, but he could give him a heads-up. It was the least he could do.

Nick drove up the main street at the regulation fifty k’s. The town hadn’t changed much in two years. A couple of shops had new names and a few extra trees were scratching an existence on the kerbside. Graffiti daubed over a newly painted toilet block proclaimed Half Moon Bay to be fucked. The pub on the cliff top had changed colour. Mediterranean pink didn’t cut it for him.

He turned right at the T-junction. The road meandered along the coast, rising and falling with the land, giving him glimpses of a washboard-like silver ocean. He glanced in the rear-vision mirror at the nose of his surfboard poking over the back seat. Whatever else happened in the next few weeks he was going to make time to ride the right-hand break that curled off the nearby headland. Angourie was legendary.

He pulled into a lay-by a kilometre or so from the house. The car beeped as he locked it. The chain-linked boards slipped under his leather soles as he walked through the cutting in the dunes. Stopping short of the sand, he shoved his hands into his pockets and breathed in, the tang of salt air a tonic for fatigue.

The surf was a clean one and a half metres, building on the sand bar and curling over in a green tube. Half a dozen early risers were jockeying for position. Away to his right the next headland jutted into the beach. A dog was chasing seagulls along the curve of sand.

Could it be Shadow? The Doberman he recalled was no doubt pushing up daisies by now somewhere near Tom’s house. From this vantage point the beach shack was almost hidden by the low trees. His phone chirped in his pocket and he sighed in irritation. Couldn’t they leave him in peace, even this early?

He pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head and swore as he read aloud: ‘Public rally tomorrow. Can you be there?’ He sighed. ‘Of course I’ll fucking be there. Who else can talk the locals around to support this development? Not the fucking mayor who’s sold them out.’ The man was a fool. It would do their scheme no good if he came within a fifty-kilometre radius of the place without minders.

He kicked off his shoes and dragged his socks off. Fuck it! No point fronting up in this mood. He needed to clear his head before he saw Tom.

Three minutes later he dived through the first line of breakers. The surfboard could wait for another day. The need to swim, burn off anger, was an urgent compulsion.

Goosebumps rashed up his body. The sinuous slide of cold water over his skin instantly dropped his irritation by half. The salt stung his eyes, but he ignored it as his feet found the shifting sand of the bottom. A set was building one hundred metres out and he stroked hard to position himself for the second wave. The pull on his muscles, the rhythm of his kick, put the world almost back on kilter. As he launched himself down the face of a glassy wave, kicking to stay ahead of the white water, he felt his anger dissipate, replaced by the adrenalin rush of bodysurfing.

Half an hour later, hair sticking on end and board shorts low on his hips, he dragged a long-sleeve tee down over his chest, feeling invigorated.

No more delaying action. It was time. He glanced at his watch. Maybe Tom would cook him breakfast. The man knew how to fry eggs and bacon almost as well as an army cook. And Nick had brought coffee with him, dark rich New Guinea Gold that brewed like treacle.

He parked the car by the gate and slung his backpack over his shoulder. Apprehension slithered across his abdomen. It was no certainty that Tom would welcome him. The situation last time had been a little different.