Shark Bay

By Martin Chambers

A year after the disappearance of her sister and two other kayakers, botanist Sara Wilton joins investigative journalist Bernard McKenzie on a trip to the remote and beautiful Dirk Hartog Island. The trip is both an opportunity to say goodbye to her sister and a chance to understand what may have happened.

They are accompanied by four others who are each in their own way seeking something. Bernie’s long time mate, the writer Richard Mawson, is trying to rebuild his life following the death of his wife Julie. There is Nathan, whose recent service in Afghanistan seems to explain his wandering off alone as a search for solace; and Cathy and Ian who appear a close couple merely seeking the outdoors experience.

They paddle along the island shores and camp under the stars, relaxing, discussing, telling stories and philosophising. Although there is no connection between them other than the love of kayaking there is a repetition of thoughts and themes in each of their lives and they share more than they know. One night, while discussing déjà vu, we realise that there is a similarity between this trip and the previous ill-fated trip. An attraction develops between Sara and Richard but each time they get close it falters as the past intrudes.

It becomes increasingly obvious that “death by misadventure” is impossible in this idyllic place. Then, when Bernie reveals his suspicion of drug smuggling having something to do with the disappearance a year earlier, the mood on the trip changes subtly, and when they see men landing in the dead of night they realise they may not be as alone as they had assumed. Is there a connection between the disappearances a year ago and the mysterious movement on the beach at night? Has someone been sneaking into their camp at night? Why?

As they paddle closer to their destination the past expands to engulf them. It also begins to include more than just the two kayak trips. At Cape Inscription Richard realizes one important parallel, that of Dirk Hartog and the plate he left as a signal to fellow explorers in the 17th century. Eventually they discover a coded message from the year before, describing the drug smuggling operation and a desperate plan to escape across the island.

When they discover the missing kayaks and a huge quantity of drugs hidden nearby, Nathan is revealed as an undercover police officer who has been sent on the trip in the belief that that one of them is about to recover the drugs. Ian is also undercover, but as an informer for the smugglers, who have all along believed that the disappearances had been faked and will do anything to recover their missing shipment. A fight ensures and Nathan is shot and the smugglers boat arrives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martin Chambers
• Release date: Sep 23, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466026780

Martin Chambers

Born in Perth, Western Australia, in 1957. Studied Veterinary science. Worked as publican, field assistant, ferry skipper, salesman, and white water rafting guide. Best job was Quality control at the Swan Brewery (true!). Lives in Perth with wife and two adult daughters. Writes travel articles, short stories, poetry and fiction.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The morning should have been one of those clear Sydney days full of the crisp air of new beginnings, one of those sorts of days that stretch slowly into forever from relaxed sleep-filled nights. Nights that come only when they are earned, in this case by both hard physical work and an argument with Nadine yesterday at lunch. Secretly Sara knew Nadine was right but she wanted time to think, so to avoid the admission she had worked the afternoon alone in the greenhouse, lifting heavy trays to the bench and then repotting all the seedlings from last autumns’ collecting trip near Port Augusta. By evening she was exhausted but ready to admit. It was time to get over it, time to move on.

As it was Saturday morning she made toast and tea and lay late in bed, resolving not to spend another weekend wearing practical clothes and pottering around in the garden. She would dress up a little, call Nadine and invite her to lunch. Perhaps together they would go into the city for some shopping. Shopping wasn’t really her thing but maybe the framed print she had seen in that shop on Regent Street and a hallway rug, one of those fake Persian ones that were always on sale, maybe these and some other small things would make the house feel more her own. She put on skinny-leg jeans with her red shoes and white cashmere top.

As she pulled back the curtains she saw it. A car was there, so clean and white that it stood out in the suburban gloom. Out of state; a hire car with a faceless man. Why now? Why again after all these weeks? She was shocked but stood for a while, watching. It was the same as the times before, a car parked innocently enough except for a man in the driver’s seat, just sitting there. She knew he was watching the house, watching her. She just knew it. Rather than remain trapped inside, she was compelled to leave, but thoughts of shopping fled too and soon she was driving, aimlessly at first, losing herself, and then ending up, as in previous times, at Kate’s seat.

It was three months since she had moved into Kate and Matt’s house. After the burglary, while tidying the ransacked rooms, she decided she couldn’t bear to sell the house and discard the only substantial thing that was left of their lives. All that would remain if she did that would be some cardboard boxes in her shed and some pictures and trophies on the wall. In time the boxes would decay, spill their guts onto the floor and become food for insects and dust, or the trophies be sold at some op shop, the type of forlorn relic of other peoples lives she saw in windows along Regent Street.

When she moved in she had noticed the men watching the house, always men, ones and twos, haphazardly so it seemed; sometimes they parked for hours on end, at other times drove slowly by. Nadine had said it was probably just the estate agents wanting the listing, disappointed after Sara had cancelled the sale. But it was nearly every day and Sara suspected that wasn’t the sort of thing agents did. When Sara first reported them the police had arrived in a few minutes and had treated the report very seriously. The smooth young constable had talked to the driver of a car opposite; there was nothing suspicious, ‘just waiting for a friend’. The next time it was a different car and a different nothing suspicious; later the police didn’t bother to ask but just noted the licence plate, nothing suspicious. Later they came by reluctantly, didn’t even come to see her. Then the visitors became infrequent. There hadn’t been anyone for a few weeks until this morning but there was no point in calling the police, so she got in her car and drove, escaped, aimless, but as usual arriving at the cemetery to sit in a peaceful spot.

Now, grey rain gusted across the avenue to the chapel while Sara sheltered on a cold granite bench in the Anglican section. On either side of the lawn large trees swirled in the wind and between clouds shone their leaves in defiance of the dull day. She called this bench Kate’s seat. She chose it not because it was Anglican but because it was the sort of place Kate would have liked, one of the nicest gardens here. Recently someone had planted a tree in front of the seat so it naturally became a point of focus for those who sat and although it had certainly been planted for someone else, in Sara’s mind this was Kate’s seat and this was Kate’s tree. An Ironbark for an iron woman. Sara liked to sit with the tree to think about Kate, about what had happened to her She had adopted this tree as a memorial for her sister. It was the only memorial there was.

Sometimes, on collecting trips into the outback, Sara had slept under a field of stars and had dreamt she could understand the threads of connections between all things; sky and earth, rocks and trees. Threads linking now with a list of possible futures, linking past and present, people and plants, as though these threads were yarns in a fabric of foreverness. An un-speakable knowing from outside of herself that the elders would acknowledge just by smiling. The universe was alive with even the tiniest and seemingly most inconsequential things having a reason and a place. Then two years ago her sister went missing and it wasn’t just that the fabric was unravelling, it was as though it had never been. To say the world fell apart was wrong. It was all still there, each part and thing and time and action in its allotted place, where it ought to be. But there was no reason for any of it. And there was no reason for Kate to go missing.

She watched an elderly couple who shuffled past and continued up the hill behind the rose garden. She envied their certainty, the slow assuredness of their walk towards the rows of monuments where maybe they had a loved one resting. Dereliction haunted most sites but perhaps they were among the few who still came to tend the plots.

People began arriving, standing in black circles and milling around like pointless ants. After a time a hearse crept along the avenue to the chapel and they followed it and when it parked they swarmed inside the glass fronted building.

Two old ladies, umbrella’d against the rain and drops shaken from trees, supported each other as they walked. Sara watched slowly, following them with her gaze and pivoting in the seat as they continued across the road to the train station. One of them had on a red scarf that was the only scrap of colour among the cold, everything else was dark and sad. As they passed the coffee shop that even at this mid-morning hour had the feeling of an establishment about to close, Sara noticed a man sitting alone at a table. She had noticed him before, on other days she had been here. He was watching her.

As the mourners moved by the café the man got up and walked in front of them, in the same direction out towards the carpark. He was not in black like a genuine mourner and not even neatly dressed. A little unkempt, forgettable, just like someone who wanted to go unnoticed or to blend into a city crowd. Sara merged into another group coming down from the chapel, not really to hide, but for a moment it was just one big swarm of people as they caught up with those saying goodbye near the exit. Then just as quickly the crowd dispersed, some to the coffee shop, some crossing the road to catch a bus or train, some to cars. Suddenly it was just the two of them. She was standing next to her car and the man was getting into a 4WD parked right next to her.

‘You following me? Just stop it, tell them to fuck off. Just leave me alone. I don’t know anything and I’m not selling.’

Her voice trailed off a bit because the look he gave her seemed genuinely confused and she thought that perhaps she had made a mistake. After all, it wasn’t the car from earlier. She wrenched open her door, fumbled the immobilizer that always took two or three careful plugs, tangled herself in the seatbelt, then drove off awkwardly in her shoe heels. The man was still standing by his car. She couldn’t see his face, but at least he wasn’t likely to follow her. Did this mean they now knew everywhere she went?

Sara was furious. At him? At herself? At the world? At Kate? She drove without thinking, automatically, switching on the wipers to the renewed storm, only conscious of checking in the rear-view mirror to see that he was not following. Instead of going back to the house she drove the entire length of Regent Street. There were no other cars at all. She was not being followed. Was she just being paranoid?

She got caught in an unfamiliar wrong lane then stuck in traffic trying to turn an impossible right, took a wrong turn and ended up on the freeway. Back on the freeway in the other direction, she was still angry and before she thought about it she had driven back to her old house, the place she now rented to a group of students. She almost drove into the driveway, almost parked and walked into the front door before she realized where she was. She parked in the street and looked at the house, thinking that her misgivings about renting it to students were unfounded. They seemed to be looking after it well enough but the garden, the bit she valued most, showed early signs of neglect. She would call them tonight about some pruning, fertilizer for the azaleas, offer them help with mulch that she could get from work. Thoughts of gardening calmed her down and she sat for some time in the warmth of the car.

She sat with a pot of tea in an anonymous café. Window shopped. She bought a lunchtime pizza for $5.95 but only ate two slices. Wasteful. Walking back to the car she gave her change to a scruffy man who was collecting cigarette butts from around a rubbish bin. She wondered if she should go back to collect the leftover pizza to give that to him as well.

More slowly now she headed back home. Cresting the rise in Lawson Street she saw another car, a different car, parked opposite her house, a different car with two men sitting in it. Bastards. She turned around before they saw her and drove to the street behind to park on her back neighbour’s verge.

She knocked on the door but Enid wasn’t home. Sara did most of the gardening for Enid and knew her way through the backyard, into her own garden. Through the pickets on one side she could see one of the men snooping around in her shed. Quietly she jumped the fence on the other side and slid through her own back door. What to do? She didn’t know who these men were? What were they looking for? And why again now?

Sara watched through a slot in the curtain while these two walked away and then sat talking in the car. Half an hour and they were still there, they seemed to be sleeping. She had had enough. She wasn’t going to be made to feel trapped in her own house. She came onto the front verandah intending to march across to demand that they go, but as she passed the potting table for some reason she grabbed a handful of manure from her potting tub, thick juicy rotten cow dung. She marched across the street and flung it onto the windscreen before the two dopes had even realized she was coming.

‘Fuck off. Go on, Fuck off.’ She surprised herself with how forceful her voice sounded. She was feeling strong, invincible, carried by rage, or perhaps she was fragile beyond caring and that was what gave her the strength. The big one, the driver, was quickly out of the car.

‘What you doing?’ He was incredulous. But Sara was looking at the other one. It was the man from the cemetery. How dare he!

‘You following me?’ Not screaming. ‘Just leave me alone. Arseholes.’ And she turned to go. Sobbing. ‘Just leave me alone. Leave me alone. I’m not selling. Leave me alone. I’ve got nothing you want.’

She walked away quickly. The man from the cemetery stood dumfounded at the car door with the same stupid look he had earlier, but the bigger one, the driver, ran after her.

‘Sara. I’m Bernie. Bernard MacKenzie. I arranged to meet you today. About the kayak trip.’ But she wasn’t listening, was still walking away. He jogged up beside her. ‘Sara. What’s up? We talked on the phone. Who’s been following you?’

Sara was sobbing. He put his hand on her shoulder, to calm her, to slow her down. She swung around at him, slapping her muddy hands onto his arm and then his shirt. He put both his hands in the air so it was clear he was not hitting back, stood with his hands up while she slapped his shirt.

‘Leave me alone!’ she screamed, stepping into him and continuing to hit him, hard at first then slower. He stood there and took it all, let her hit him.

Eventually she stopped, simply turned and walked away into the house leaving the man shit-smeared and his companion standing by the car. Suddenly the street was silent and empty.

Chapter 2:

Richard bumped his car onto the road and drove in a daze, parked amid the crowds and suburban chaos of Bondi, then walked to the café. It was Julia’s birthday and he had gone to the cemetery to sit on the bench he thought of as Julia’s, but that girl had been there again, sitting, looking at his tree. Julia’s tree. Then she had followed him out to the carpark and swore at him, accused him of stalking her. It had all happened too quickly.

For the last two years the world had existed only at the edges and rarely did it intrude into him so sharply like that. Since the accident his life was a mostly solitary drift from work to home, and between, of shallowness. But the episode left him with the unsatisfactory feeling that there was more going on, not just with that girl, but as if he were in a dark house and someone pulled open the curtains momentarily to reveal a whole world outside. He ought to be more involved. With the world. With his own life. He ought to care more. He wanted to talk to her, explain, find out about her. Perhaps she too had lost someone? A pretty girl too. Who had she meant, ‘tell them’?

He was early but had nothing else to do, could not be bothered to fill in time elsewhere. He would be early, Bernie would be late, and Richard knew that by the time they met he would be becoming irritated not so much by Bernie being late, but by the fact that this always happened. It was one of those life spirals that you knew you were about to enter but failed to avoid. More than failed to avoid, he was willingly a participant, arriving early because he had nothing else to do and knowing he would be sitting lonely and alone for far longer than the time it took to drink a single coffee.

From the back of the café came the distinctive clunk of commercial crockery being stacked, echoing around a tiled floor in the pre-lunch lull. Staff voices back and forth like busyness to a radio music background. Outside, washes of weary rain and wind rushed up to the glass or peeked under the door and there was the occasional ssswish as a car punctuated the emptiness with passing tyres on wet road. The warmth of the café was shallow, uneven, and easily scared into hiding each time the door was opened. Reddish wood panelling, real upholstered timber chairs that promised to be deeply comfortable, but weren’t. The tables were corralled around a central pot belly stove crackling yellow light. There was a clutter of bottles and newspapers and framed prints of old masters along the wall above the dado line. Near the door, a table with posters and leaflets of arty performances. Display of cakes. Steam from coffee machine rising each time the staff girl stood behind it. As she stood she moved her head, little side-to-side movements; and noises came from there too, as if the noises were caused by the head movement. Noises like steam and froth and then banging, stirring, till taking money noises as she moved back and forth along behind the counter. Now she was a whole person again, tall slim and shapely, perhaps a student, black pants and apron. A collared shirt with DiMargo Coffee on the pocket. Name badge next to it that said Emma.

While waiting for Bernie, Richard passed the time drinking slow coffee and watching the people in the café. A group of three, one in a business suit and two, a man and a woman, neatly dressed. A meeting of some sort, not just work colleagues on break but perhaps a salesman. Real estate. The man and the woman were looking to buy a house and the business suit was the agent. Moving into the area, four bedrooms, one for each of the three kids, good schools nearby (private schools, of course). Quiet, safe neighbourhood, close to the beach and transport. Maybe they were the two employees of a small business, he the owner on one of his brief but regular visits to review sales performance. An internet based business, selling online and allowing them time off mid- morning. No other employees, not a big business. Perhaps he was applying for a job. He would never get it, overdressed, too old, trying too hard. The suit was doing most of the talking.

A couple, not by the window but along the far wall, intimate. Lovers certainly, but faithless? Was this a surreptitious meeting in an out of the way café? She had news. A positive test, baby due in April. Wouldn’t it be grand if it arrived on his birthday! Or a holiday. Either she was pregnant or they were planning a holiday. They had taken time off work, had just been to the travel agent next door.

A man was sitting by himself near the window, reading the paper. A metal stand with the number 23 on it was on the table and he had to pick it up and put it down again each time he turned the too-large page. A sandwich arrived to replace the 23 but the man continued to read and only ate the sandwich slowly. He would pick up the sandwich in both hands, take a bite, and put it reverentially down again to eat and read slowly. Minutes would pass before he took another bite. Richard, noticing this, realised he was hungry himself.

Bernie arrived in a rush of fresh outside air and the room seemed suddenly brighter. Emma smiled behind her machine as Bernie expanded into the room, waved his arms to greet Richard and at the same time taking in everyone in the room as though they were all there to see him. His big hands enacted a little pantomime of drinking coffee and just in case she didn’t understand, he asked for a long macchiato as the hands continued to point at the display fridge. Bernie looked and smiled at Richard, who was still just working out the words to ‘Hello’, and added, ‘Two of those chicken and avocado bruschetta. Toasted. Thanks Emma.’ It was as though Bernie had read his mind.

Time had started again. Richard realized that while he had been waiting, the café had become a little hiatus off the regular path of time. Without time, the room had no chance to warm. Sound had nowhere to go. Conversation dried, people forgot to keep eating. The group of three were now laughing, shaking hands warmly. The couple were talking, carefree. The man had finished the sandwich.

Bernie finished paying and flirting with Emma. ‘Richard. How are you? Good to see you.’ He sat down.

‘Yeah, fine. Long time. You back for a while?’

‘At least six months. You looked pretty forlorn when I came in, sure you’re OK?’

Richard sighed. ‘Yeah, Slowly slowly. I’m OK. Her birthday today. That’s all.’ He paused, Bernie taking him in. ‘And some madwoman at the cemetery accused me of stalking her.’ He laughed.

Bernie knew how to light up a room and when to be quiet. He was quiet now for a while. All he said was, ‘Two years,’ and then let Richard say the next thing. It took some time.

‘So, what’s next? You finished the Nepal thing?’

‘I’m here for a while now. My next assignment is here, I want to tell you about it later. Still got to write it up some of the Nepal stuff, but now that the Maoists are in charge…. Maybe even a book in it but Sam wants another feature first. Royalty is really topical at the moment, particularly how democracy works within countries, or doesn’t work. Finding out what is the role of royalty, that sort of stuff.’

‘People seem to need it. Something like royalty, or religion. Someone to worship and then take the blame. And all the pomp and ceremony. Fills a need. I’ve been reading all your pieces, by the way.’

‘So you’re the one!’

Richard laughed. ‘I’m sure you’ve got more than one reader. The paper is rubbish mostly, I don’t read most of it now.’

Bernie paused, thoughtful. ‘We all need some sort of ritual. So anniversaries are important, even sad ones.’

He went on. ‘In fact, many of the things we celebrate began as sad events. The death of a king. All the war stuff. Anzac day. We celebrate loss more than we celebrate success. Or we just celebrate loss as a success.’

‘Any excuse for a party?’

‘That maybe. But also it is important to remember. Remembering is celebrating. Getting dressed up, playing music that remembers as well. But probably we do just want a reason to party, and there are for most of us many more losses to celebrate than wins. If you won all the battles in a war you would have already won the war long ago and it would have been called a skirmish. So you have to lose lots of battles before you win the war.’

‘Why not win-win? That’s what the modern day guru would say.’

‘Ha. Then there’d be no war. No war, no celebrations, either wins or losses.’

‘We’d have to have a love-in.’ Richard was warming to the conversation. That was one of the things he loved about Bernie. And missed about Julia. Many times the three of them had solved all the world’s problems, over a bottle, around a pizza, or in the car on the way to a gig.

‘Ha! They tried that in the sixties. It got to be dull, and all the factions started bickering. Small wars broke out. Those not on one side or the other got bored, took drugs. Most of the wars were over control of the drug trade anyway so ultimately everyone was involved at some level. Still is. I mean, still is everyone involved at some level and still is control of the drug trade, or control of world oil.’ He paused, as if to let Richard catch up. ‘Some of these countries I get to, you should see it, what we call corruption, it is just the way they live. If they didn’t get the cash from a drug crop, you know?’

‘Drugs or oil. Could be water next. Power, really. Shit you can get so serious. What should we do about it?’

‘Have a party. Happy unhappy anniversary.’ The coffees had arrived and Bernie raised his glass in toast. ‘To absent friends.’

Just ten minutes ago this would have sheared Richard through. Now, in the bright warmth of the café there was loss and there was future. Bernie had a way of being deeply serious and flippant at the same time, following directly from one to the other. It made those who could keep up with his flow of conversation know, perhaps even without realising it, just how pointless all the seriousness was. ‘To Julia.’

Bernie was looking at Richard and it was Bernie who was closest to crying. He had known Julia as long as Richard, and it only now occurred to Richard that his friend was also shattered by her death. ‘What music do we play?’

‘K.D. Lang. I still can’t play it at home. If I do, and I sit there and bawl my eyes out. Funny thing is, I don’t even say it’s her favourite, it’s just that it means us. It is the two of us.’

The food arrived. Between mouthfuls, Bernie introduced his new project.

‘Got any time off due? I want to do a sea kayak trip at Shark Bay, halfway up the WA coast. It’s a desolate place, but beautiful too. The bay itself is mostly calm, no swell, long sandy beaches, limestone headlands. Easy stuff. Dugongs, dolphins, turtles. Largest seagrass meadow in the world.’

Knowing Bernie as he did, Richard knew there was probably a hidden agenda here. He had heard of Shark Bay and it was definitely a place he would like to explore by kayak. Even if this was just a ruse by Bernie to get him doing things again, Richard couldn’t think of a better place and a better friend to do it with.

‘World Heritage, isn’t it?’

‘Yep. We can paddle along the shoreline mostly, camping on beaches, right up to Turtle Bay on the north end of Dirk Hartog Island. That’s where the turtles come ashore to lay their eggs.’ He paused, assessing Richard. ‘Thing is, I want to follow another trip. It’s sort of for work.’

Richard stopped eating. Here was the ulterior motive. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Remember about two years ago three kayakers went missing in Shark Bay? I covered the original story, one of them was the son of Steven Morrison, the foreign affairs minister, it was a big deal at the time. Well, they still haven’t been found, and Sam thinks there is more to the story. I was doing some background research, checking the police files and inquest, stuff like that. Last week I rang the sister of one of the girls in the group. It turns out the sister is a paddler as well, and wants to go there, and I got to thinking, why not? Great story in that, even if nothing else. Son of the foreign minister, mysterious disappearance, the sister goes to say goodbye. Anyway, Sam has agreed to fund a trip there, four weeks in the sunshine on glorious beaches all paid for. What about it?’

It did sound good. The warmth from the pot belly failed in a way that a long clean sunny day could not. An extra gust of wind shook the door and screamed at him, Do it! Do it! He could easily get time off work.

‘Yeah, I do remember that. When? Knowing you, your car’s already packed outside.’

‘Not quite. It’s still winter. In a few weeks, mid September. I figure a small group, four weeks paddling.’

Bernie’s version of a small group for four weeks would probably mean film crew, a bus and twenty paddlers of all ages and abilities. He shook his head. ‘Let’s keep it small. I don’t feel up to an epic.’

Bernie smiled again, his expansive salesman’s smile that those who didn’t know him mistook for a crocodile trap. He was wasted as a journalist, thought Richard. Bernie ought to be selling multimillion dollar real estate, or luxury boats, cars. Snake oil. Anything overpriced that required guile, tact, charisma and quick thinking. Richard imagined Bernie pitching the idea of an all-expenses-paid paddling trip to Sam, who was diamond hard on editorial funds. The immovable object meets the irresistible force.

‘Sure. Let’s keep it to the four of us.’ This meant he already had others.

‘Who else?’

‘Well, Sara of course. That’s the sister. She’s sounds great. She’s a botanist.’ As if that would confirm it. ‘And Nathan, who rang me a few days ago. Not sure how he found out I was planning this but Sam and I have been talking to quite a few people about it. I don’t really know him but he sounds OK on the phone. We’re going for a paddle before work on Wednesday. Come along. I’ll see if Sara can come too.’

Richard and Bernie had paddled many kayak trips together, ski-ed backcountry for weeks on end, walked the Kokoda trail in a group of about 150 - clients, porters, guides, cooks, interpreters. Always, always, they agreed, the best trips were small, four to six people, where you knew the people