Status:Presumed Extinct

By Lynda Osborne

Hugh Whitaker’s world is turned upside down–literally. His father, a veterinary oncologist, has accepted a work assignment to save the Tasmanian Devil from extinction, its numbers decimated by the fatal Devil Face Tumour Disease.
Soon after arriving in Tasmania he meets Connie Sampi, an indigenous Tasmanian. She is everything Hugh isn’t... tall, athletic, confident and a naturally inquisitive adventurer. They are thrown together by a camaraderie only two lonely youngsters can share, yet their relationship is built on more than mutual attraction. Hugh shares with her the biggest secret of his life. He is convinced he’s spotted a thylacine... a Tasmanian tiger.
Connie is torn between her loyalty to her grandfather, a tribal elder and local tracker, and her allegiance to Hugh, a surly, overweight loner from England. It was hard to believe this boy had seen a creature presumed extinct for decades, until she sees it herself.
Hugh’s nemesis, park ranger Spencer Tate, is a racist thug. He overhears the kids talking about their secret. If true he had to get his hands on the creature. It would be his ticket to a life of luxury.
The thylacine, the largest carnivorous marsupial of modern times had been hunted to oblivion during the early 1900s. Since then only tantalising, unsubstantiated sightings of it had surfaced, cementing the beast deep in Tasmanian urban legend. That is, until Hugh glimpses the strangest creature he has ever seen. That sighting leads Hugh and Connie into the adventure of their lifetime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pegasus Books
• Release date: Apr 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311065537

Lynda Osborne

Lynda Osborne lives in the English home county of Buckinghamshire with her dog and three cats, she has one daughter - Victoria. Status: Presumed Extinct is Lynda’s first novel.

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Status: Presumed Extinct

by

Lynda Osborne

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Pegasus Pony/Lynda Osborne on Smashwords

Status: Presumed Extinct

Copyright © 2015 by Lynda Osborne

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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ISBN - 978-1-941859-21-6

Comments about Status: Presumed Extinct and requests for additional copies, book club rates and author speaking appearances may be addressed to Lynda Osborne or Pegasus Pony, c/o [e-mail], or you can send your comments and requests via e-mail to [e-mail] or to contact us at www.pegasusbooks.net.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

To Mum, Dad and Victoria

Chapter One

Hugh Whitaker forced himself to run faster. He tried to ignore the stinging sensation as the long dry grass whipped his legs, leaving a flattened trail in his wake, a sign that even the most inept tracker could follow with ease. His heart pounded deep in his chest as he struggled to keep the amazing creature in sight.

Yes, it was insane, but he was sure he was following a thylacine—a Tasmanian tiger—last seen in the 1930s!

The creature moved through the undergrowth ahead of him with a grace that he himself sorely lacked. Its sleek, sandy-brown body, distinctive thick striped flanks and muscular legs glinted in the dappling light. Without warning, the animal changed direction, darting into the trees, its markings allowing it to blend into the shadows.

Damn! Hugh muttered, swiping his sweaty hair away from his eyes and pushing his glasses back off the end of his nose.

He was shattered, desperate to catch another glimpse of the creature—if only to prove he hadn’t imagined it. He had to keep going. His legs grew heavier with every stride. It was hard not to smile at the irony of the situation, as exercise had never been his forte—one glance at his physique was enough to vouch for that. He preferred reaching for a Mars bar or packet of crisps, with his nose in a book, to playing footie–after all, joining the football team was probably the last thing the thirteen-year-old had on his mind.

His old sports teacher, Miss Frobisher, would be proud of him. One month earlier, she threatened him with a week’s detention if she caught him walking the cross-country course again, but there he was—tracking (he used the term loosely) an animal as though his life depended on it.

Ha! His luck was in! The creature had doubled back, its nose to the ground, following a scent. Hugh’s mind raced as he tried to understand what he was witnessing. As a trickle of sweat ran down his face, he guessed he’d been gone for hours, but he wasn’t going to relent. With dogged determination, he forced one foot in front of the other as, once again, his quarry trotted off, oblivious to his presence.

Too late! He didn’t see the rock jutting out of the ground while focusing on the animal. Catching his foot, he stumbled, twisting his ankle in the process.

Shit! he yelled at the top of his voice, grimacing as he tried to stand on his damaged ankle.

There was no doubt about it, the ankle was swelling. Swearing did nothing for the pain, but it made him feel a lot better. Fighting the urge to remove his boot, all he could do was watch as the creature disappeared from sight. Without a camera, he didn’t have a hope in hell of proving what he’d seen… certainly no one would take the word of a Pommy kid who’d just immigrated to Tasmania. In the distance, a screech broke the eerie silence. Irritated, he looked around. So much for my skill as a tracker! The thylacine, or whatever it was, had gone. His ankle was so swollen he could barely stand on it, let alone continue the chase. He had no choice but to head home, but in which direction?

The euphoria carrying him along evaporated. In a moment’s stupidity, he’d charged after something that he thought was an extinct animal, but in the cold light of day, the creature looked no more sinister than a stray mongrel dog.

Damn, damn, damn! he muttered. How could I have been so stupid?

Even locals sometimes disappeared after losing their way in the outback—their bodies discovered days, weeks, even months later. And he had set off without food or water— in fact he didn’t have anything of any use. Brilliant! If his situation wasn’t so serious, it would be funny. He grimaced as he visualised the newspaper headline, Pommy Kid Missing in Outback. Gee whiz, how bright was that?

Unable to concentrate, he closed his eyes. The shaded clearing was eerily quiet—something was wrong. Cautious, he opened his eyes, squinting as he refocused. The hair on the back of his neck bristled, sending a shiver down his spine. Where were the birds? Even the incessant buzz of insects, which had been driving him nuts, was gone.

Cocking his head, he forced himself to listen. Clearly, there was something wrong. Moments later, the silence was shattered by birds screeching in alarm as the ground trembled around him.

God! An earth…

The thought went unfinished as he spiralled into the darkness, which had opened beneath his feet, before hitting the ground with an agonising thud. Grimacing, he came round, groaning as he tried to lift his head off the cold, damp floor. He had no idea how long he’d lain there, but at least he wasn’t dead. He hurt too much to be dead!

Again, there was no sound. He was surrounded by the ethereal silence that follows an accident, a silence broken by the sound of loose soil and debris trickling down the raw, exposed surfaces around him.

He shivered, having no idea where he was or how far he’d fallen. Where are my glasses? He tutted. Why was he bothered about his glasses? They didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

Little by little, the clarity of his thoughts disappeared as the blackness returned. The pain was gone, allowing his unconscious mind to relive the events of the last few days.

Chapter Two

Hugh rubbed his forehead in an attempt to ease the pain gnawing at his brain. Screwing his eyes shut, he tried to ignore the incessant drone of the plane’s engines.

Not much further now, smiled his father, without looking up from the copy of the Veterinary Record he was reading. The paper he’d had published in the latest edition, titled ‘Canine Transmissible Cancers,’ had been well received, and he was finding the dialogue in the Letters Page quite rewarding.

Hugh jerked his head in acknowledgment, frowning as the sudden movement accentuated his throbbing head.

We’ll be able to see land soon, his father added, his voice tinged with excitement.

In an attempt to be obliging, Hugh forced himself to look out of the window, staring beyond the reflection of the chubby, bespectacled youth peering back at him. It was almost thirty hours since they had left London, and at last, on the final leg of the journey from Melbourne to Devonport, he decided he’d had enough.

Contrary to his father’s assurance, the sea seemed to stretch forever. Its blue-grey surface was broken by the occasional choppy wave, its edge streaked with foam, like wild hair flying in the wind. Stifling a yawn, he continued to stare out of the window as he listened to his father telling him for the umpteenth time they were on the trip of a lifetime.

What a laugh! This might be the trip of his father’s life, but as far as he was concerned, the move to Tasmania was the worst thing ever to happen to him. So much had changed. It was hard to believe that only three months had passed since his father dropped the bombshell that he’d accepted a research post halfway around the world.

Hugh grimaced as he remembered the elation he had felt when his father asked if he fancied a trip to the antipodes. He’d jumped for joy, thinking they were getting the holiday promised for the last two years. His excitement faded to anger when he realised the trip, as his father had described it, was really a work contract, lasting a year. Talk about artistic licence! He knew he was acting like a spoilt brat, but he felt as though his life was falling apart.

Okay, if Tasmania’s such a great place, tell me something good about it, he’d fumed.

Well, his father, Andrew Whitaker, said with cool deliberation, his expression clouding as he ran his fingers through his hair. Ah! I know Errol Flynn was born there.

Errol who? Hugh asked with a frown. He had no idea who his father was on about.

You know— urged Whitaker, pretending to clash swords with his shadow. He played Robin Hood in that old black and white movie we watched last week.

Oh yeah, Hugh lied, a knot of apprehension forming in the pit of his stomach as it dawned on him Tasmania was on the other side of the world.

If the best thing his father could think of to ‘sell’ the place was an actor who’d been dead for years, Hugh couldn’t help but wonder what they’d be letting themselves in for.

But we’ll be leaving Mum, he complained.

Andrew Whitaker let his arm fall to his side, his imaginary sword weighing a ton as the fun disappeared from his game.

Mum left us a long time ago, son.

I know. I was just thinking out loud, Hugh snapped, softening his abrupt tone by forcing a smile. Annoyed, he’d let his guard down.

Anyway, I’ve… um… I’ve got some homework, he muttered, desperate to leave the room before he started to cry. The last thing he wanted was to look like a baby, on top of everything else.

From the corner of his eye, Whitaker watched his son leave the room as an expression of guilt flashed across his face. He had before him a fantastic opportunity as a veterinary oncologist—both to further his career and improve their lifestyle. He’d never get the chance to work on such a high profile issue again. Hhe thought for a moment, pressing his hands together, as if in silent prayer.

I know, he said in an undertone. I’ll buy him something nice when we get there. Yep, that’ll sort it.

The plane banked, jolting Hugh from his daydream. Beads of cold, clammy sweat formed on his forehead as the plane started its descent.

Tasmania!

Whitaker uttered the word with reverence upon their first glimpse of the island.

Hugh closed his eyes, unable to bring himself to respond. Just as he was getting used to the idea that the move was a temporary arrangement, he saw a letter, hinting that the yearlong contract could be made permanent if it proved mutually suitable to both parties.

He was convinced his father would fall in love with the godforsaken place as soon as they landed. As a vet, he’d be getting the best of both worlds—a research post and the chance to start a small veterinary clinic in Warragul National Park. Hugh shivered, fearing they would never leave the island. I might as well be moving to Mars!

He chewed his thumbnail as he contemplated his future. Moving to Tasmania did have its advantages. Unlike Australia, the school year was similar to that in Britain. And with less than three weeks before the end of term, Whitaker had agreed he could enroll after Christmas. His father hadn’t realised that this was the summer break, so by the time he enrolled, he’d have been off school for nearly three months.

The last to retrieve their luggage from the carousel, father and son shuffled to the front of the queue at passport control. With their documentation checked and stamped, they were free to leave the confines of the airport.

Where are we going now? Hugh whined, running to keep up with his father, the wheels of his over laden suitcase squeaking as he dragged it.

Whitaker strode off, ignoring his son’s attempt to keep up and side-stepping a couple arguing over who should have brought the passports.

Even though Christmas was a fortnight away, the airport was packed. A tall Christmas tree dominated the concourse, its multi coloured lights doing little to brighten the drab, single-storey building.

Hugh watched as some passengers rushed into the arms of friends and relatives, while business associates greeted one another with a firm handshake. Over the general buzz of conversation, the public address system gave a final departure call for ‘Barnard and party,’ the words thick with the Australian accent already so familiar to him.

All of a sudden, he realised he’d lost sight of his father as a large group of excited, holiday-makers engulfed him. Fighting the sense of panic threatening to overwhelm him, he stood on tiptoe. Although stocky in build, Hugh was short for his age. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d been told that he took after his mother, but it was difficult to remember. She’d been gone so long. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing he had his father’s height.

Just as he was about to give up and make his way to the information desk, the crowd parted, allowing him a brief glimpse of his father’s blonde hair.

Dad! he shouted, hurrying towards the vet before he had the chance to move.

Aha! That’s where we need to go! Whitaker called over his shoulder as he pointed ahead.

Hugh looked in the direction his father was heading. Several people, holding placards with names or company logos emblazoned across the middle, stood on the other side of a barrier. Whitaker moved towards a short, thick-set man, dressed in the uniform of a park ranger with sunglasses perched on his shaved head, his suntanned skin scarred with pock marks left from chronic teenage acne.

Spencer Tate, the park ranger assigned to look after the Whitakers on their arrival, gripped the cardboard placard as he licked his lips. He was way off his home patch, and the last thing he needed was to be stuck in an airport for two hours, waiting for the new bloke and his kid to arrive. Time was ticking, and he had to get back to take delivery of his latest consignment of goods.

He’d worked hard to establish a safe transport network to his new supplier. Now, he had to make good on certain promises he’d made to set it up. Puffing out his cheeks, he exhaled. Gee, I hate kids! They were always poking their noses into other people’s business. He had too much going on at the moment—with his own business and with it being the busiest time of the tourist season. The last thing he wanted to worry about was playing nursemaid to some foreign brat!

Hugh watched as the ranger’s piggy eyes scanned the faces of the passengers making their way towards the exit. He couldn’t help smiling as he noticed that their surname had been misspelt—that was bound to annoy his father, who was a stickler for detail.

Mr. Tate?

Spencer Tate nodded, eyeing the new arrivals with interest. Hugh held back as his father extended his hand in greeting.

I’m Andrew Whitaker; this is my son, Hugh.

Hugh raised his hand in acknowledgement, pretending to scratch his nose as the ranger ignored him.

G’day, mate. Call me Spencer, said Tate, gripping Whitaker’s hand with more force than was necessary.

Whitaker returned the pressure, their eyes locking as the men sized each other up, like two cock birds squaring up for a fight.

Hugh looked away. He knew he was guilty of making snap decisions about people. This time, he wanted to get to know Tate a little before making up his mind.

The bloke looked amicable enough, after all, and they’d be spending a lot of time in one another’s company. They had to get along, even if was just for his father’s sake.

How long will it take to get to the house? he asked.

Bungalow, you mean, replied Spencer with a grin, breaking eye contact first. Guess it will be a couple of hours.

Two hours? You’re having a laugh, retorted Hugh with more venom than he intended. Couldn’t we have landed closer? he grumbled.

His father smiled, it had been a journey interrupted by stopovers and delays.

Don’t forget it took almost that long to get to Heathrow, Hugh.

Yeah, that’s because you got lost. If you remember—you programmed the wrong postcode into the Sat Nav!

Tate laughed, but the sound was empty.

You’ll have to get used to travelling distances here, son. This isn’t London. You’ll be living in the middle of nowhere.

Hugh’s eyes flashed with indignation as he bit back his response. Sometimes it was better to keep his mouth shut.

Anyway, Tate continued, his expression darkening. The sooner we get going, the sooner I can be dropping you off.

Hugh watched as Tate steered the Land Rover onto the intersection and accelerated away, with Devonport Airport disappearing behind them.

By the way, this area is known as the Australian Market Garden, Tate nodded towards an orchard as it flashed by. We grow around forty percent of the island’s fruit and veg around here.

Whitaker glanced out of the window.

Goodness! he said, I didn’t realise that.

Hugh shuffled in the rear seat, resting his head against the window as he stared back towards way they had come. He wasn’t interested in listening to their banal conversation. For a while, he amused himself by trying to spot a kangaroo, wombat—anything to prove he was in Tasmania. But it was obvious that motorway driving was the same across the world—dead boring. It wasn’t long before he found his eyes growing heavy.

Somewhere in the distance, he could hear his name as he shifted position on the back seat of the Land Rover. Squashed between their luggage and Tate’s equipment, it had been an uncomfortable journey.

His father tapped on the window.

Come on son, we’re here.

Hugh stretched as he looked around, taking a moment to remember that his father hadn’t just driven into their suburban driveway. He felt his jaw drop as he saw the dilapidated building that Tate had chosen to be their home for the upcoming year. As he examined the paint peeling off the walls and the rotten window frames, it was difficult not to think of the three-storey town house they had left behind.

Look at the size of the garden, Whitaker enthused, as if reading his son’s mind. Bet we can have some great games of footie after work.

Hugh didn’t say a word; his expression said it all. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done anything with his father, let alone play football. His father was always too busy.

Okay, I know it looks a mess, but we’ll be fine. We’ll sort this place out together, Whitaker added.

Hugh remained silent. His father’s words, although well meant, were hollow. There he was, dragged half way around the world and dumped, in the words of Spencer Tate, ‘in the middle of nowhere.’ On top of that, their new home was little better than a pigsty!

Even though he was not the most socially astute person, it was difficult for Spencer Tate to ignore the Whitakers disappointment as they surveyed the bungalow. He told them he could recommend some people—reliable people who could do with a few extra bucks—if they needed help to straighten the place. He explained that he’d been given a couple of weeks’ notice of their arrival, and the bungalow was the best he could do under the circumstances.

Whitaker nodded.

Thanks for the offer, Spencer, but we’ll be fine. Remember, I don’t start work until Monday. That’s plenty of time to get started here.

Hugh shook his head as he pulled the screen door, its rusty hinges creaking as he dragged it open. It was clear it would take more than a dustpan and brush to clean the place up.

He was just about to go through the door when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Spinning round, he saw a flash of colour as someone disappeared into the trees at the end of the garden.

Who was that?

Spencer glanced over his shoulder.

Dunno. What’d they look like?

I saw them for a split second, that’s all. Anyway, you’re looking in the wrong place, it was over there, Hugh said, pointing in the opposite direction.

Well, Tate shrugged, his tone matter-of-fact, there’s no one there now. But don’t worry—this place isn’t haunted… at least I don’t think so.

Gee, thanks for that, Hugh retorted, mimicking Tate’s accent.

Hugh! That’s enough! his father rebuked, glaring at his son.

Hugh lowered his eyes.

Sorry.

No worries, Tate replied, dismissing the boy as he returned his attention to Andrew Whitaker. I know this place is pretty basic, but as I said, I didn’t have a lot to choose from. But there’s water, and the electricity generator’s on—at least it was when I was last here.

He crossed the room and flicked the light switch, illuminating the dusty, naked bulb, suspended from the ceiling.

Good, still works.

Hugh groaned and rolled his eyes.

Great, the light works. Let’s not worry about the paper peeling off the walls and the leaves all over the floor, blown in through the gap under the door!

A blood-curdling screech shattered the uneasy silence that had fallen over the room.

W…w…what was that? Hugh stammered, the colour draining from his face, reassuring himself that the place wasn’t haunted.

Tasmanian devil, the ranger answered, the name of the creature rolling off his tongue as if it should have been obvious.

He knelt to re-tie his shoelaces, turning his face in an attempt to hide his amusement. The kid’s face was a picture. Devils were renowned for their screeches. The sound could unnerve the biggest bloke when heard for the first time, but Tate had no sympathy for the kid. The little snot has been trying to get my back up ever since we met— ungrateful little sod!

Tate hated change. If he made the effort, he could be an excellent ranger, but he was lazy—always cutting corners in order to chase a quick buck. He had too much going on in his private life to have strangers poking their noses into things. Okay, he could handle the vet, but the kid would be a different matter.

In an effort to establish some rapport with the boy, Tate explained that the Tasmanian devil was the largest carnivorous marsupial left on the planet.

And no, he added with a wry smile, careful to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, They don’t spin round and round like the cartoon character.

Hugh grinned at the thought as Tate continued.

"It’s unusual to hear them this close to people during the day. They must be squabbling over something. They might look cute, but they