The Shack

By Peter van Schie

Frank and Sean are two ordinary men who are mates. The two become involved in a series of events mainly because of an unquenchable curiosity and a penchant to expose themselves to life threatening situations. Sean, once a banker, now a commercial fisherman, owns an isolated shack in Stanley on the North West coast of Tasmania. The problems they encounter emanate from within and around the shack, but it is their meddling that leads to murder and suicide.
It is there they are confronted by a cuckolded businessman which results in a murder. It is there they meet Dominic Drogo, drugs importer and stand over man. It is there where they are in charge of a corpse after escaping an assassination attempt involving Sean’s fishing boat and as a consequence of their actions witness a conflagration of epic proportions. They flee, unable to confess their part in the debacle to the police, choosing a lifetime of coming to terms with their consciences instead.
Inspector McDermot who had initially been involved in the investigations of the earlier murders suspects Frank knows more and confronts him. Frank cannot outwit the canny cop and after being coerced back to the shack, he and Sean become part of the DI’s vigilante team. They unearth a plot to assassinate the Sri Lankan Minister for Education visiting the Ballarat University and target the spot where this is likely to happen, but on the day, McDermot acting as a lone gun, gets sprung by the man he despises, Chief Inspector Pool. Sean and his mate save the day unintentionally and inconspicuously despite the bumbling behaviour of the Chief Inspector.
Frank returning to the shack years later is in for a big shock.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melrose Books
• Release date: Aug 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781911280019

Book preview

Ambushed

There was a screwed up piece of paper in an empty stubby in the back of the cupboard in the shack. Sean opened it. Written on it was: Watch your backs, you’re next. J.

Jarrah! said Frank.

Their discovery sent a chill down their spines – Jarrah had been implicated in a murder only days before, and they connected the J in the note with him immediately. Frank had no misconceptions; it was unlikely someone else was after their hides.

What is that maniac doing, Sean – is he back to harassing us? Or does he mean to do something more sinister?

Sean agreed.

Can’t be Paul Waver, he’s been murdered; so it’s not him, and the other thugs who may have an interest in us have shot through back to the mainland.

Frank nodded. Yeah, and he’s doing it to put the wind up us again to get his kicks.

Absolutely! He’s been a thorn in our sides forever it seems and he just keeps hanging around! He’s a psychopathic, dangerous lunatic.

Yeah, that’s why he’s capable of anything: including murder! We better watch our backs as we are told.

Their worst fears were confirmed: the predator stalking them could be no one else but Jarrah, their parasitic nemesis.

They devised a plan, which was to lock themselves in the shack, keeping watch through the front and back windows. Sean had the front window vigil and Frank the back. It was not an easy task as both windows were glazed with salt from the spray of the nearby Bass Strait. Although the building was well back from the Strait itself, on windy days salt-laden vapours swept inland. The watch was made even more difficult with night approaching. Both men were tired from the sleepless nights previously, and the tension of the watch only increased their lethargy. A weak mist-covered moon was out, shining feebly on the yellow grasses surrounding the building. The open space around it was narrow, limited, but still afforded a view of a person, or persons, crossing it. Clumps of native grass gave cover of sorts if a stealthy approach was intended, but only if the marauder was prepared to slink from bush to bush on his belly, crawling like a lizard after prey.

It was around ten o’clock, with the two constantly nodding off, ready to give up, when Sean spotted something out the front window.

Frank! Frank! Someone’s creepin’ up to the shack! Come and look!

Now fully awake, Frank swept across the room as quickly as possible, and looked out the window. He spotted a figure crouched down, moving through the grass clumps, every so often stopping to camouflage their movements and to get bearings.

Not making a terrific job of sneaking up. He’s pretty easy to spot.

He’s makin’ his way round the back, Sean hissed.

Frank noticed the figure was cutting across to the side of the building, making quick progress as if haste would help with concealment.

What the hell do we do now?

We’ll wait for the prick at the back window and try to see what he does.

The thought struck Frank that the interloper might only be seeking refuge on the side of the shack. Perhaps he might head for the front door after all. Right now there had to be absolute silence so that both men could hear the movements of the person outside. They strained their ears to find out what was happening next, with Sean at the back window, peering out into the dark. The back of the shack was closer to the dense ti-trees, which gave cover for a more stealthy access to the building, but they formed an impenetrable barrier that ruled out an approach or hasty getaway through them. Frank grabbed Sean’s arm, pointing to the window. The intruder was making his way around to the back. The only point of entry there was the sash window, an aperture without a secure lock. It was a thief’s delight, in this case presumably Jarrah’s target. He would have known the weaknesses of the building’s security from the times he visited there. No doubt, this would have been how he smuggled the warning note into the stubby in the back of the fridge, knowing that beers would be the first things on Sean’s and Frank’s homecoming agenda.

A head and shoulders, darkened by the shadows of the building, suddenly appeared at the window. Both men involuntarily fell to the floor in a shocked reaction to the surprise apparition, their hearts beating rapidly. They continued to do so quietly, containing their breathing, not wanting to be the discovered.

There was a muffled knocking on the window. Then a voice whispered hoarsely, Frank, Sean, where are ya? C’mon answer, I know you’re in there. It’s Jarrah.

Sean shook his head at Frank, holding his finger to his mouth in a gesture of silence.

C’mon you two, I know you’re in there! If you don’t answer soon I’m goin’ to come through the window. You two’ll look a pair of dickheads if I get in, turn the lights on and see you hidin’ in the corner.

Shit, whispered Sean, generator’s goin’, he’ll know we’re around!

Frank watched Sean move to the side of the window, signalling him to do the same on the opposite side. He clenched his fist, punching it softly into the open palm of the other hand. Frank understood. They were going to gang up on Jarrah when he came through the window. A further sequence of gestures conveyed to Frank that he was to place a headlock on Jarrah while Sean was going to immobilise his legs. They waited nervously as Jarrah said, That’s it, I’m comin’ in. I did warn ya.

The window moved up from the sill, bit by bit, very slowly and as quietly as possible given the condition of the sashes and the frame itself. For some reason Jarrah was still using stealth, demonstrating care and caution.

The gap was finally open enough to allow the entry of a lithe body. Sean pulled faces at Frank, warning him to prepare himself. He himself got ready to fasten to Jarrah’s legs, expecting him to enter legs first. Instead, the intruder’s head popped through the gap to survey the scene. He looked around, failing to see the two hiding, who had pressed themselves flat against the wall in terror, under the window on either side. This made up Frank’s mind. It was now or never because Jarrah was bound to see them at any moment. He thrust himself up from his crouching position, launched himself at Jarrah, who that very moment spotted him. He placed a headlock on him, digging deep into the memories of his wrestling days at the Lindisfarne Primary school where he had taken on all-comers.

Jarrah pulled back in surprise, prompting Frank to yank him down hard to the floor. The captive came shooting through the window, legs and all, catching Sean unawares, who did not move for some seconds, staring at Jarrah’s threshing legs.

What’re ya doin’, Sean! grunted Frank, applying more pressure to the headlock. Jarrah’s eyes bulged under the pressure. He forgot to thrash his legs with the pain of it all. Sean dived on them, applying a debilitating grip of his own. After some minutes Jarrah signalled surrender by going completely limp. They carried him to the couch where Sean applied duct tape, stored there for that express purpose, to his ankles and wrists while Frank maintained the crippling headlock. Frank released his hold, stepping back from the couch.

Jarrah did not move. Sean turned on the light. Tears were rolling out of their prisoner’s eyes from the strain of the grip on his neck. It took him some moments to speak.

You bastards, he croaked. That’s the thanks I get for coming back to save your lives. You nearly killed me instead you bloody idiots!

He lay back, trying to compose himself, recover from the physical onslaught. He was obviously in quite a bit of distress from the attack, from the discomfort of his bound position, and from the humility of the belittling treatment.

Frank had doubts but pushed out any sympathetic thoughts he had for Jarrah seeing him in this pitiful state in front of him. The degrading act they had wreaked on this now defenceless person had been a necessary one.

Sean had no such qualms.

What would you have done to us, given half a chance, eh? In your own words, watch your backs! That’s exactly what we’ve done!

You dumb pricks! If I wanted to do something drastic to you I wouldn’t have given ya a warning. If I wanted to do that I’d have picked a better time. Being a suspect for Waver’s murder makes knocking you off a very poor strategy, he said sarcastically. No you dickheads, I was givin you a warning, ’cause I know there’s someone who is eager to see you both dead.

Yeah you, ya bullying maniac, Sean cursed.

No – not me, someone else. Someone seeking revenge, someone who means to see you dead!

A multitude of thoughts raced through Frank’s head: who other than Jarrah wanted them dead? Waver was no longer a threat – he was murdered. He could not think of anyone but the person lying there.

Jarrah struggled against his bonds but gave up because it was futile and the two men were still hovering menacingly over him. He did not want another stranglehold applied.

Come on, are you going to untie me or not?

Sean laughed. You must be joking! How’s this for a bit of justice and retribution on our parts instead? We’ll get in touch with the cops and they can deal with you, you murdering bastard.

Jarrah shook his head despairingly.

You pathetic fools. Can’t you understand you won’t get to the cops because you’ll be craybait as soon as you step outta the door!

Both men went quiet as they digested what Jarrah had said. Was he bluffing?

Frank was about to ask Jarrah who it was he thought was a threat to their lives when a loud gunshot close by, metres away, reverberated around the shack. This was closely followed by the crashing sound of a huge impact on the door of the building.

Shotgun! Sean shouted out fearfully.

Another blast went off. Glass shattered from the window fronting the shack. Shards of glass flew around the room. The two mobile occupants had dropped flat on the ground after the first shot, covering their heads with their arms. Sean yelled out, Shit! Keep low! Stay down!

Jarrah lay on the couch, helpless. Then there was an ominous silence: a completely nerve-wracking silence except for an occasional gust of wind. All three continued to lie down, unwilling to move, rooted to the spot.

Jarrah broke the quiet yelling out, No more shots! We’re lying in here with no weapons. If you want us, walk through the front door.

You completely mad, Jarrah? We’re not going to let in a would-be killer! Anyway, the door’s bolted, and I’m not getting up to open it! Sean said.

Trust me, I know what I’m doing. You want more of the shack blasted?

Sooner the outside than the inside, including the occupants, Sean added lamely.

Trust me, Jarrah repeated.

Frank, shaking in his boots, said, Trust you? No way pal! How do we know you don’t have an offsider out there?

Another shotgun blast rocked the walls of the shack. The men inside cowered from the onslaught coming from the front of the shack.

Fuck! What are we going to do, Sean? They’ll completely blast the door down and then we’re well and truly stuffed!

Another shot went off, spraying the front wall of the shack. It sounded closer, the assailant obviously approaching the building.

Sounds like one person only, Sean, and coming towards the front of the shack.

Sean rolled towards Frank.

Yeah you’re right. Gotta do something; I have an idea, I’m going out. You stay here with Jarrah.

He crawled towards the back window and slid through it carefully. Outside, he moved along the wall of the back of the shack towards the tank stand. He grabbed a bundle of material from underneath the stand, threw it over his shoulder, and climbed on the protruding ledge of the stand. He hoisted himself on to the top of the corrugated iron water tank, lifted the bundle up on the roof of the shack and climbed up himself. He slid very carefully over the flat iron roof, making sure his weight was distributed along each row of roofing nails so that there was minimal movement of the corrugated iron underneath him. He reached the apex of the flat roof at the front of the shack and peered over. In the gloom he saw a shadowy figure, shotgun at the ready, menacingly approaching the front door.

He heard Jarrah inside shouting loudly, Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, we’re unarmed!

Sean carefully undid the bundle he had carried up with him. He spread out the thin netting carefully, holding on to two corners in front of him. He stood up slowly, eyes on the figure below. He swung the folded net behind him, then out and down towards the unsuspecting quarry standing by the door. The fishing net ballooned out parachute-like, descending at the rate of gravity minus frictional resistance, neatly over the shadowy shape who by this time had looked up, too late to avoid entanglement.

Sean watched as arms and legs thrashed around in a hopeless attempt to fight free of the enfolding mesh. A gunshot roared from below. He imagined he heard the pellets whistling through the air. He waited a few seconds to make sure the captive had not escaped. From inside he heard Jarrah shout, Stop shooting! Stop shooting!

Assured, he lowered himself quickly down the front of the shack, hanging by his fingers from the rounded roof edging. He dropped the rest of the way to the ground, landing next to the enmeshed intruder.

Open the door, Frank! It’s Sean!

Frank hesitantly opened it and saw Sean standing next to his prisoner in the dim light channelling through the doorway. He looked triumphant, self-satisfied.

The flounder net, Frank. Remember? Good for catching other fish as well it seems.

Frank laughed nervously, still somewhat traumatised by the turn of events.

"Good one Sean. The old flounder net trick, eh. Guess someone is floundering in the middle of it."

From behind him Jarrah whinged, You gonna untie me, you pricks?

Frank looked at him. Are we safe to do it, Jarrah?

What do you think, you drongos? Come off it, stupid. I came to warn you, not to harm you.

Frank picked up a shard of glass and sliced through Jarrah’s bonds. Jarrah got up, walked to the door, looked at the figure in the net and said matter of factly, Think you got a female in your net mate.

Sean Lynch

Six weeks earlier.

Sean stumbled out of the pub and towards where he’d parked the car. He was a wiry man of medium height with coarse hair set like steel wool on top of his craggy face, lined from years of exposure to cold winds and salt air. His hands were calloused from hard, menial work, hauling in fishing nets and handling fish caught in them. He tended to be laidback, letting stress and worries pass over him as the grey clouds did when he was out in his boat early in the mornings. He was not his insouciant self at the moment, and had not been for the last week. The alcohol had settled his nerves for the moment and the thought that he shouldn’t be drink-driving never occurred to him. He reasoned, like most drunks do. Sure, he’d had a few, but he was quite capable of getting himself home in the car. The local cop, Harry, would not be a worry, and would be tucked in bed with his latest floozy from the caravan park. The caravan park could be a bonanza for Harry with adventure-seeking single women sometimes on the loose looking for romance and adventure. Sean’s mindset was clouded by alcohol and self-pity: he’d not long ago split up with his wife and he was still licking his wounds. He found solace in getting on the grog down at the pub with his fishing mates; a bellyful, and then, less mindful of his plight, returning pissed to an empty and lonely home.

He searched for his keys in his pockets, turning out useless paraphernalia in the process of examining all items with the unseeing eyes of a drunkard.

A blow from behind sat him down on the ground, his ears ringing.

What ya searchin’ for, numbnuts? Your dick?

Sean recognised the voice and the menacing overtones.

Not you again! You’re a bloody nuisance you bastard, Jarrah! Can’t you leave me alone! Fuck off why don’t ya!

He turned towards his adversary, peering through the gloom of the night and alcohol-affected vision.

His assailant towered over him menacingly.

No way man! What does it feel like to worry about your life and what could happen to you?

You already stuffed it up! Haven’t ya done enough? You and your threats and stalking have split up me and my wife and made my life a misery.

This irritating character had shadowed him for over a week, but his predatory actions tonight had stepped up another notch.

He stood up and threw a punch at the figure annoying him, who moved out of the way effortlessly and planted another ringing blow to the side of Sean’s head. He grabbed hold of the legless man’s shirt with both hands and shook him so hard that his head jumped back and forward like a rag doll.

You just remember the pain you can cause when you open that garbage trap you call your mouth, shit for brains! A lot more hurt than what I’m doing to you now.

He pulled Sean’s head up close to his and eyeballed him menacingly. But I haven’t finished with you yet!

He let go of Sean and pulled a revolver from his pocket, brandishing it towards the reeling man in front of him, but Sean had revived to some extent from the shaking and was in no mind to put up with any more roughhouse tactics from his attacker: his hand already firmly gripped the neck of a stubby he was taking home for a traveller. As the gun was levelled at his head, he pulled the stubby out of his pocket and swung down hard on the wrist of his assailant. There was a grunt of pain, shortly followed by the report of the weapon going off. The attacker dropped the gun like a hot cake either from pain, shock or both. Sean had sobered up quickly, the explosion of the gun near his face hastening the process. He turned and ran past his car, over the gravel of the car park and into the fringing ti-tree for cover. He tensed the muscles in his neck and back as he heard from behind, I’ll get you, ya loser! But there was no following shot – must be scratching around for his pistol.

He headed home, leaving his car in the car park of the pub. He did not have too far to go and half-jogging, half-walking, he arrived more quickly than he anticipated. He was completely out of breath, the air rasping from his lungs, his chest feeling as if it was on fire. He could think of nothing but the safety of his home and made his way, gasping, to the front door. And then it hit him like a jackhammer: that bloody lunatic could be waiting for him inside – standing in the dark just waiting for him to open the door so he could pick him off.

His first instinct was to scarper, do a runner and put some distance between him and the house. He slid behind the paling fence on the corner of his property, sitting down to collect his thoughts. His best escape was on his fishing boat: go out to sea where he was out of reach from this hood, somewhere he couldn’t bugger up his life. But he needed some things from inside: more money, some food and clothes, a bottle of scotch. He was just being paranoid thinking Jarrah was in there. No good fleeing empty-handed on the off chance that he was waiting in ambush.

He crept over to the house, listening for telltale sounds, looking for open windows, doors ajar. After a period of time reconnoitering he moved silently to the shed and searching in the dark in one of the corners, emerged brandishing a pickaxe handle. He made his way to the backdoor and tried the door handle – it was locked. The front door was the same so he unlocked it gingerly to mask the sound of the mechanics. Pushing it open just enough to slide through, he entered the house and then stood silent for some minutes listening, peering. Encouraged, he walked quietly through the house, now convinced there was no intruder. He started to gather the things he needed for his escape on the boat. He was gaining in confidence by the minute and was about to turn on a light to assist him when he heard a car pulling up outside. He heard a car door shut and footsteps in the still of the night. Without hesitation, he gathered the bundle of necessities he had accumulated, opened the back door, climbed the back fence into a neighbour’s yard and hastened towards the waterfront and his fishing boat.

His boat, a modest steel-hulled vessel with a cabin towards the stern and fishing rigging towards the bow, was moored along a jetty further around the bay from the marina. He had moved it deliberately to thwart his harassing shadow, who wouldn’t leave him be and who might very well have raced down to the marina to catch him there. He congratulated himself on his foresight but stopped to rigorously survey the jetty to check if he had indeed outfoxed an unwelcome, waiting visitor. Ten minutes went by without a sign of a telltale movement. Sean decided to board and moved swiftly onto the jetty and into the boat. He hastened to undo the hawsers from the wooden bollards and pushed the boat away from the pier.

Not much sense hanging around in case the interfering creep was waiting in the dark onshore somewhere, biding his time for an ambush.

He had to admit to himself that he was freaked out by his earlier attack; the dark, moonless night a deterrent to settling his nerves and fears.

Now he had drifted far enough away to start his inboard diesel engine. He did so and motored away to the heads of the bay and eventually out to the open Tasman Sea.

He turned north towards Binalong Bay, where he planned to moor the boat and row his dinghy into a sheltered beach. He could spend the night on the boat before doing so and then hitchhike to his destination in Stanley. He was not in a hurry to go home: he needed time to get his life together away from any interference from other sources, especially the likes of Jarrah. He wanted a safe haven, somewhere he could lick his wounds in peace now that he had laid a false trail, and he knew of just the right place.

Frank Vanners

Frank Vanners, as a young teacher, had become friendly with Sean, who at that time worked as a bank clerk in Ulverstone. Frank’s time teaching on the North West coast of Tasmania before he and his family moved to Ballarat was quite a happy one, everything considered. The young family was always desperately poor, living on just his salary, and they moved from one rented place to another as Frank was transferred to different schools along the coast. It was over the course of this time that he made friends with Sean who was working in the local bank and was passionate about fishing and woodwork and the occasional game of golf. Frank met him at the golf club and admired Sean’s craftsmanship, evident amongst other things in the restoration of the upholstery, walnut-panelled dash, accessorised interior and steel silver exterior of a Bristol car.

Sean’s fishing techniques suited Frank as well: the pair would set off in Sean’s outboard-motorised dinghy and throw out a couple of lines in a spot of Sean’s choosing. No fish in five minutes, the pair would pull in the lines and move somewhere else until the fish were biting and hauled in one by one, sometimes two, on a two-hook line. King flathead, mullet, sometimes salmon were brought up fighting and gutted by Sean, who would then proceed to dole out the sandwiches, oblivious of his bloodied hands and the fishy smells he deposited onto the bread. The fish would be taken home to be eaten and distributed amongst friends, or sometimes sold to the pub if the catch was bounteous. When Frank had been transferred away from the coast he lost contact with Sean. Then, when he and his family moved to Victoria where his wife Shirly got a job that promised a future, their stay became permanent, further severing the ties he had with his friend.

Frank was a short, stumpy, well-built man – but lean. As a person who enjoyed physical activity, he always prided himself on his fitness, although he was not fanatical about it. There was a time though when undergoing a jogging regime it became too extreme and one day, looking in the mirror, he decided he did not want the body image this programme was leading to. His kids told him he was starting to look like skeleton man. Other activities replaced the running and up to quite an old age he remained a constant 75 kilograms, made up of the ideal percentages of lean to fat body weight. His children always chided him for his Pritiken diet when he dished up his lean fare of meat, which was steamed first to remove the excess fat. The truth is, Frank told them, that his diet was just low fat and was aimed at being nutritious. But it was a principle his children could not come to terms with; not a surprising attitude considering they were developing young adolescents. Pies, pizzas, doughnuts, Kentucky Fried chicken (no fried food), McDonalds and any other form of fast food was a no-no. His outlook was anathema to them as they loved any sort of junk food. Frank never stressed they should not have any: as a family they just did not frequent these places as most other children did. Naturally, later in life, when his kids had their own families, much of what Frank had held dear came back to haunt him. He was constantly defending himself from statements that labelled him as Pritiken mad, and someone who always got the family lost on walks. On the upside, he noted that many of his habits and quirks had been adopted by his children as parents and was now part of their routine with their family.

Twenty-five years of marriage later, he and Shirly divorced and he began a happy relationship with Margaret. Part of their earlier romance was visiting Frank’s elderly mum on a regular basis in Hobart, where she languished in a nursing home. The romantic part of the trip was turning it into a holiday of discovery, with the couple exploring all corners of this scenic state. Spending more time back in Tasmania was also a good opportunity to catch up with Sean again – he intended finding him on their next visit. There had been many years of non-contact and he was keen to renew acquaintances. After making enquiries he discovered Sean had moved on from banking in Stanley and had disappeared to some place unknown. Frank had a hunch that he had become a commercial fisherman, considering his passionate love for fishing. He looked in the local telephone books of the different districts along the coast for Sean’s name and found an S. Lynch in the St Helen’s directory.

Now in his 50s, he and Margaret caught the Catamaran, car and all, over from Melbourne to George Town, and drove to St Helen’s along the North Eastern coast one day in summer. Tonight, he thought, he would go to the pub down by the waterfront where the fishing boats were berthed and ask after Sean. If he was one of the local fishermen, some of his mates would most likely be drinking there and point him in the right direction and then he could look him up to renew acquaintances.

It was Friday night and the pub was lively and cheery, filled with locals enjoying a meal or just having a drink. No one took any notice of him and Margaret as they slipped into the lounge and grabbed a table. They were just two more faces in a crowded, hospitable room. People were socialising, flushed with drink, garrulous with alcohol. Conversations were on fishing, farming and local gossip. The pub was typical of many Tasmanian country hotels, with a lounge and a bar of tiled, greasy walls and wooden floors lit by fluorescent lighting. The lounge and dining area had floral carpeting and smelled of frytol from the kitchen nearby.

Later in the night, standing at the bar waiting to be served, he thought he’d mention Sean’s name. He turned to a group of three men nearby.

G’day, I’m looking for a bloke called Sean Lynch. I think he might be a fisherman who works in this area. He and I are old mates, but we haven’t seen each other in ages.

The three men just looked at him curiously, suspiciously.

He used to work in the bank, but loved his fishing.

Not one of the men spoke.

Worked on the North West coast in a bank in Stanley.

Frank could tell by their body language they were not going to be friendly. They were turning away from him and moving closer together, subconsciously forming a more formidable postural defence. Was this the reflex action of men with small town mentalities opposed to strangers, or had he hit a raw nerve?

Look I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, but I really want to find Sean.

One of the men finally spoke.

Yeah, Sean’s a fisherman here, but we got nothin’ to say about him. Don’t know him that well.

With that they all turned away and moved further up the bar.

Ok, thought Frank, at least I know Sean is a fisherman in this town.

He became aware of someone who had more to say on the subject. He had been standing nearby listening – this individual seemed quite keen to pursue the matter.

You want to know more about Sean? I can tell you something about him if you’re interested.

He looked around the room, making sure they were out of earshot of the others. He was a young, swarthy individual, weight pumping build, probably in his mid-thirties; handsome, in a hard, rugged sort of a way, with a prominent nose and sharp, piercing eyes. Frank thought there seemed to be something familiar about his face, but reasoned he was not particularly someone to go rushing to for friendly company.

The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, and groups were busily involved in drinking and talking.

The newcomer spoke confidentially, almost conman like.

I’m a fisherman meself, ya know, so I know Sean reasonably well. But… here he paused to give effect to his words, I don’t know all the facts, only what I’ve heard. Pretty quiet bloke you know, wouldn’t harm a fly. He’s been a professional fisherman for some years. Won respect from other fishermen by thorough and hardworking attitudes and practical skills.

Yep, that sounds like the Sean I know, agreed Frank.

He leant over conspiratorially. In the last few months, things changed. Quieter and withdrawn, you know what I mean? He still enjoyed his few beers at the pub, but inclined to be moody and touchy and quick to get home after the first round was over. People speculated he was havin’ problems with his marriage, but apart from the moodiness no one really knew.

He took a large swallow from his glass, draining it and put it on the bar for a refill. He looked solemnly at Frank and said, sotto voce, Few days ago he sailed out to sea to set and gather in nets as he had many times before, but he never came home that night. His wife Pam’s also gone, but nobody’s raised the alarm or bothered to worry that there might be something suspicious.

He paid for his beer and took a large mouthful.

After all, he looked at Frank for confirmation, people do go off for holidays and so forth don’t they?

Frank nodded. So is there any other news?

The fisheries department notified the marine police here that they’d spotted Sean’s boat moored in a small sheltered cove just down from the Bay of Fires. Seems it’d been there for some days and each time they inspected it there was no one aboard. Radio calls to him were ignored and they suspect foul play.

He wiped the beer froth from his mouth and belched loudly.

Shit, that’s better.

Frank scratched his head, his brain working overtime.

What sort of foul play are we talking about for God’s sake? Sean minded his own business and was always pretty straight I thought! Are we talking drugs, contraband? Illegal immigrants? he added facetiously.

Dunno, as far as I know the cops found nothing. No Sean, no family, no foul play! Cops got in touch with rellies, friends here and in Ulverstone, but found nothin’ other than he disappeared without contactin’ nobody.

How long ago are we talking here?

Oh, maybe one, goin’ on two weeks.

So only just recently, eh?

Yeah, that’s right.

There was not much more forthcoming of anything new that had already been said. To Frank it seemed plain what information had been given was as the man had said: general facts passed on through gossip and the local news.

Well thanks, said Frank. Sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.

Jarrod, Jarrod Zygor. My friends mostly call me Jarrah.

Okay, Jarrah, thanks for filling me in.

He chuckled inwardly at the Australian custom of bastardising names – like Smithy, or Johno, or Baz for Barry for instance. Australian men’s way of being more intimate with their mates, he guessed.

Jarrah sipped silently for a while, staring around the room. You know him a lot better than you’re lettin’ on, don’t ya?

Yeah, well, Sean was a friend of mine some years back. He always seemed squeaky clean as far as normal guys go.

He laughed, Unless he diddled the bank to set himself up in the fishing trade I don’t know much else that would cause him to disappear.

If he did want to do a disappearin’ trick, where would he go I wonder? said Jarrah, looking at Frank questioningly.

What makes you think he wanted to disappear, wife and all?

Just a thought I had, said Jarrah. He looked past Frank at the wall. Why leave your boat moored in an out-of-the-way cove, for instance?

Frank nodded, seeing some logic in Jarrah’s argument.

C’mon, you know his past, where is he likely to go?

There was something about the sudden urgency in the other man’s voice that made Frank feel apprehensive. For someone who had only heard the general gossip and had feigned only a casual interest, Jarrah now appeared to be exceedingly inquisitive. Or had he had a few too many drinks? He looked at him in a new light, withdrawing himself somewhat from his earlier enthusiastic approach. Jarrah noticed the change in demeanour and he himself became less passionate and more nonchalant.

Look, what do I care? He’s probably gone off on a holiday with family and that’s all there is to it.

Frank nodded, and said without warmth, Sean’s the last person I see as being involved in some intrigue. Besides, his kids have grown up and no doubt have left home, leaving only him and Pam the wife. I really have no idea where he is.

Jarrah looked a bit edgy and made his leave rather hastily, placing a half-finished beer on the bar. Sean turned to the barman, a skinny, pock-faced individual with hair slicked down. The pores showed on his sallow face, shiny from soap as if he thought looking squeaky