Out of the Darkness

By Robert LJ Borg

From the depths of darkness, a cry of distress leads Mark Lander from a world of violence to a place where romance awaits . . .

It’s January 1994 and it is proving to be another hot summer in Sydney Australia. During the early hours, lonely in his thoughts and strolling along the shoreline at Freshwater Beach, Mark Lander, a war correspondent home on leave, is distracted by cries of help from the surf and wades in to rescue a swimmer in distress.

Unbeknown to Mark his courageous action will make him an unsuspecting champion in the defense of the rescuee, Robyn Shelly. Inquisitive by nature, a requirement of his chosen profession, he teams up with his best friend, Detective Sergeant Jim Sanders. Their respective investigations will pull them deeper into a world of violence and mayhem.

Despite his personal emotional anguish, Mark finds himself captivated by Robyn’s beauty and gradually falls in love with her. However, although he gladly accepts the unexpected friendship, will the trials still to come dash any hope of romance and eventual happiness . . . ?

PUBLISHER NOTE: Mystery-Suspense with Romantic Elements. Full-length novel: 66,565 words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Luminosity Publishing LLP
• Release date: Apr 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370938445

Robert LJ Borg

Robert L J Borg was educated in London, England and has always held a passion for History and English Literature.Robert has been writing non-fiction, children’s fiction, poetry and adult fiction since the 1990s having been inspired by his mother, Viviane Elisabeth Borg, who is also a published author.Although he immigrated to Sydney, Australia in 1988 and became an Australian citizen in 1991, Robert has since relocated to Europe. He currently resides in Golfe Juan in Southern France.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The shrill of the cicadas seemed to drown the sound of the surf as I padded barefoot across the cool sand. I had jogged to the far end of the beach, and my running shoes were now hanging around my neck by their laces. Since breaking up with my wife, Gabrielle a few years ago, I hadn’t been able to sleep too well, so rather than lie in bed staring at the dark ceiling I preferred to be outside gazing at the stars. Tonight was sticky and humid. There was also an aroma of smoke emanating from a bushfire somewhere in the distance.

The peacefulness of my surroundings was rudely broken by the unmistakable throbbing of a powerboat moving away. Strange how I hadn’t heard it earlier, but then I was deeply engrossed in my own thoughts. With the motor fading there came the sound of thrashing in the water coupled by someone crying out from fear. It was a sound I was not unfamiliar with, so without hesitating, I threw off my shoes and entered the water, scanning with strained eyes trying to locate the source. Not considering personal safety I swam out to the person who was in urgent need of assistance. It was a young woman either unable or incapable of swimming, struggling to stay afloat against the undercurrent. I quickly assumed the rescue position and ignored her fingernails digging deep into my flesh as she panicked. I held onto her regardless and slowly started back to shore.

We staggered onto the beach, falling to our knees as the surf broke over our bodies. The water retracting back out to sea had that calming and hypnotic swishing synonymous with the tide. She spluttered and coughed up the salty water she had swallowed, her emotions coming to a head with a flood of tears as she bawled her heart out.

Are you okay? I asked stupidly, though with some concern. Why do we do that? It never fails to amaze how we always ask the most obvious of questions in predictable situations.

I’ll kill those pigs if I get my hands on them! she cursed venomously. Sorry, yes, I think so, she added slightly more calmly, rolling over and sitting on the sand, her knees pulled up to her chest as she gazed out towards the water.

 I scrambled to my feet and offered my hand to help her up. She seemed a trifle dazed at first as though wondering what she was doing there. It wasn’t surprising considering the ordeal she had just been through. She took my hand, and I gently helped as she stood.

I had better get you to a hospital, I said.

No, that won’t be necessary, I’m fine . . . really, she said unconvincingly. She paused to look about her, and then glanced at me as though she had just awakened from a dream and asked, Where am I?

She stood before me, a pitiful sight and my heart went out to her. Her clothes drenched and shoes missing, no doubt floating somewhere in the dark waiting to come in on the next wave, needless to say to the amusement of early morning fishermen. Her hair was like a mass of tangled straw. She wasn’t exactly beautiful, but she would certainly make you look twice.

Freshwater Beach, I answered. Perhaps it was the time of night, or maybe the dreamlike events which had just unfolded that I hadn’t paid much attention to her accent until a few moments ago. As I concentrated it became apparent, she wasn’t local. The pronunciation of her words had distinctive British overtones.

Freshwater Beach? she asked worriedly. Where the hell is that?

Are you on holiday? Another stupid question, but I asked it all the same if only to try to defuse the predicament she was in. Let me take you to the hospital so you can be looked after. I insisted.

We walked towards the road as my house was across from the beach. Although small it was adequate for my needs. I had purchased it as an investment several years earlier. It was more of a pied-à-terre than a proper house as I spent most of my time overseas chasing one story or another. Right now, however, I was on some well-deserved rest and under doctor’s orders to take it easy. I had been working without a break for about eighteen months trying to occupy my mind following a messy divorce and heading for a mental breakdown in the process.

By the time we reached the house she was worn out and seemed to crumble under her own weight. She sank onto the steps leading up to the front porch like a rag doll. It was obvious she wasn’t going anywhere. I didn’t have the heart, or if I had to be honest, the energy to drive her anywhere.

I moved an old cracked flower pot on a window ledge to reveal the spare key and unlocked the front door. I then picked her up and entered my little cottage, made of weatherboard with a tin roof and wrap-around veranda. I carried her to the lounge room and lowered her onto the sofa, before switching on a table lamp.

I made my way to the kitchen and switched on the kettle, then picked up the phone and dialed triple zero. I gave the operator my details and reason for the call, requesting both police and ambulance to attend my premises urgently. As much as she said she didn’t want to go to hospital, it was obvious to me she was in a state of shock and was in need of some medical attention. As for involving the police, it seemed to me that one just doesn’t jump out of a boat for no reason. While the kettle boiled, I entered the bathroom and grabbed a couple of towels. I used one to dry myself off.

They say a good cup of tea always helps so I carried a tray with two mugs, a filled teapot, milk and sugar to the coffee table, and handed her a towel.

Thank you. Her voice was a low whisper.

How would you like your drink? I asked as I began to pour the tea into the mugs.

Just with a splash of milk, no sugar, she said, her eyes scanning her surroundings.

Sorry about the mess, but I wasn’t expecting any visitors. I smiled. It was difficult not to ask her any questions, particularly in my line of work, but I resisted.

Why is it, that in the middle of the night when there is hardly any traffic to speak of, emergency vehicles still feel obliged to have their very loud sirens blaring?

Is that for me? she asked, her eyes widening with surprise.

I nodded, then stood up and made for the door that I had left open to allow some air into the place, but also to remove any qualms she might have had regarding my intentions.

It didn’t take long for the darkness to be filled with flashing blue and red lights as the vehicles approached the house. I could see my neighbors’ blinds twitch curious to know what was going on in their street.

I intercepted the two paramedics as they started up towards the house, giving them the briefest of explanations and telling them where they would find their patient. I then waited for the two uniformed cops to emerge from their vehicle.

Mister Lander? one of the two asked.

I nodded, glancing at the name tag above his breast pocket revealing he was Sergeant Dave Love.

You told the emergency operator there had been a serious incident, he added.

I quickly explained about me fishing the young woman from the surf.

Did you question her about it? he asked.

No. I thought it was best to leave that up to you, I answered courteously.

Can we speak to her?

Of course . . . I stepped aside to allow the two men to enter the house. I followed them inside and flipped on the overhead lights, brightening up the room instantly.

The ambos had placed a blanket about the woman’s shoulders and were running preliminary tests.

Will she be okay? I asked as I led the two cops into the lounge room.

We need to ask her a couple of questions, Dave Love asserted, directing his statement at the more senior of the two ambulance officers.

The man nodded and backed off to allow Sergeant Love to approach the woman. The police officer sat on the sofa, a respectable distance away, while his colleague hovered nearby, notebook open and pen poised to jot down her answers.

As much as curiosity was burning a hole in my head, I stepped out of the lounge to give them some privacy.

My home was two-bedroomed, but I used one of those rooms as a study. The lounge-cum-dining room with adjoining kitchen was so tiny you wouldn’t be able to swing a cat. The bathroom was smaller still but was adequate for my needs. I walked to the bedroom and removed my wet clothes, then after drying myself properly, I put on a clean T-shirt with a fading logo and a pair of tacky shorts that I keep meaning to throw away, but somehow never do.

I returned to the kitchen, absent-mindedly switching on the radio and fiddled with the dial until I heard some sound. It was a melody from the sixties that I recognized but couldn’t remember the song title or the singer. It was not long before the presenter came on air with the usual mindless banter which no one ever listens to, but then came the time check. It was four in the morning.

Do any of you want a tea or coffee? I asked, poking my head into the lounge room.

Thanks, but no. We need to take her to the hospital for a thorough examination, the senior paramedic said.

I caught a hint of anger in his voice and wondered how many such incidents he had been called out to deal with over the course of his career.

Where are you taking her? I asked with genuine interest. For some unexplained reason, I felt as though I was obligated to make sure she was safe.

The Royal North Shore, he said flatly.

Over his shoulder, I saw the two police officers help her stand and start for the front door. I stood aside to let them pass, but she made them stop to face me.

I just want to say, ‘thank you’ for helping me. She smiled weakly, extending her hand. My name is Robyn Shelley.

Taking it in mine, I gently squeezed. I am Mark Lander, I told her, and watched as she was led from the house.

As they exited, Sergeant Love turned to regard me. We will require a full statement from both of you later today, he said handing me his business card. Any time after three this afternoon at Manly Police Station should be fine.

Of course, I wasn’t going to leave it just like that. As soon as they all left, I went into the bathroom for a quick shower. The shave would have to wait. Feeling somewhat human again I stepped into the bedroom and slipped on a pair of jeans, shirt, and canvas shoes. Then while running the comb through my wet hair, I grabbed my watch and wallet from the kitchen bench, snatched up the car keys which were on a hook by the door and headed out. I sat in my Suzuki Sierra, switched on the ignition and sped off quickly to St Leonards.

CHAPTER TWO

I sat in the hospital’s emergency department waiting area for some news of Robyn’s progress, literally twiddling my thumbs — I have never been a person to sit still for too long. I had already enquired at the desk for any news about three times during the two hours I’d been there without receiving any satisfactory answer.

The wall clock behind the clerk was displaying six-thirty, and I instinctively glanced at my own watch as though to make doubly sure. There was no way I was going to have another cup of coffee from the vending machine, so instead, I stepped over to the payphone, picked up the receiver and dialed.

The line rang a couple of times before it was picked up. A female voice answered, Mosman Police Detectives’ Office, can I help you?

Is Jim Sanders available please?

Sorry, he’s not at the moment, she replied. Can I take a message for him?

Would you ask him to call Mark Lander, please as soon as possible, I urged. It is extremely important. He’s got my phone numbers.

Just as I hung up the phone, I saw Robyn emerge into the waiting area looking utterly bewildered, wearing a pair of those unflattering blue shoe covers they make you wear as an inpatient whether you have shoes or not. I stepped over to her quickly and was rewarded with a smile.

Have you been waiting here for me? Her question sounded strangled, as though the words choked as they left her mouth.

I nodded. I was concerned for you and wanted to make sure you were okay.

I’m fine. They just wanted to run a few tests to make sure, she told me as she lowered herself onto one of the plastic chairs.

I sat down next to her; my brain still screaming wanting to know the reason why she had ended up in the surf.

Do you want to tell me what happened? I asked, curiosity finally getting the better of me.

I told those police officers everything already, she said tiredly, but then leaned back in the chair and continued, We were out last night at a club in Manly, me and my friend, Marilyn. The music was great, and we were enjoying ourselves when a couple of guys approached us. They seemed nice enough.

I’m not naïve not to know what those guys would have really been after. I frowned and was about to say something when she continued with her story.

One of the guys boasted about having a rich uncle who had a boat at the marina. He suggested we go out in it, Robyn said, the words seeming to stick in her throat. We powered out towards the mouth of the harbor, but when he turned the boat out to open sea, Marilyn and I both panicked asking them to take us back to Manly.

They didn’t though . . . I said more to myself than to her, but she nodded in agreement.

The next thing I remember was they had entered a small cove, and the engine was switched off. I could hear the surf breaking on a beach up ahead. Before we knew it, they were all over us. Hands like tentacles touching places they shouldn’t have.

She shuddered at the memory, and I could feel my blood begin to boil. The thought of this lovely person being abused by a couple of creeps . . .

I wasn’t going to let them rape me, Robyn whispered. Tears had begun to trickle down her cheeks.

I reached into my pocket and extracted a handkerchief, handing it to her. She smiled as though embarrassed by her weakness. I was so tempted to place my arm around her shoulders to give her a comforting hug. However, contact from any man at this time would be the last thing she needed, or I suspect, wanted.

So, you jumped from the boat? I finished her sentence for her.

She nodded.

What of your friend? I asked in a concerned tone. She too might be in danger.

Her! she exclaimed indignantly. Some friend she turned out to be? It was her idea to go with those creeps just because they boasted about their flashy boat. Later, when I was trying to free myself from their clutches, laughingly she said to stop messing about and enjoy myself. Yuk! How could I? They made my skin crawl. She seemed to like them. I expect she’ll be fine. Damn her!

She had worked herself up, and the anger which had welled up inside seemed to overflow with each word. I stood and looked down at her. Perhaps I should take you home, I said offering my hand to help her stand. She ignored it, removed the uncomfortable sockets and stood up without assistance reinforcing my earlier assessment of the situation, and making me glad that I hadn’t tried to console her.

We walked in silence to the car, each engrossed in our own thoughts. I opened the passenger door and let her slide in before getting in behind the wheel.

We drove off heading towards Manly. The silence between us continued as she gazed out of the side window. It wasn’t long before she started to sob and tears were streaming down her face. We were halfway to Manly, but I turned off the main road and stopped at the car park of the Spit West Reserve that was opposite the Middle Harbor Yacht Club.

She turned towards me, placing her arms around my neck. Marilyn, oh dear God! What has happened to poor Marilyn? she sobbed.

I was speechless. She certainly changed her tune toward her friend. She buried her head in my chest. I could smell the scent of sea salt in her soft hair as it stroked my chin. It was a nice feeling; the circumstances were not. All the same, it was arousing, and although inappropriate, I could feel an erection coming on. I felt powerless, not knowing what to say, so I just stroked her arm in an attempt to offer comfort. Fortunately, the car phone rang saving me from making an utter arse of myself. I answered it quickly.

What’s up, Mark? announced the voice at the other end.

Hi, Jim, thanks for calling back, I said. There is something urgent I need to discuss, but not on the phone. Can we meet?

I’m pretty busy, Mark. A girl was found on rocks off Middle Head early this morning by some fishermen.

Jim it’s important. I wouldn’t be so insistent otherwise, I emphasized.

All right, I’ll do a compromise. Where are you? he said giving in.

I’m heading towards Manly.

Okay, why don’t we meet at The Spit at noon and you’re buying lunch, he said hanging up.

Robyn straightened and wiped her face with the handkerchief I had given her as I put the car in gear and drove off. As we approached the outskirts of the suburb, I realized she hadn’t told me where she was staying. It must have dawned on her at the same time as she said, I have a room at the Cliff Hotel in Garden Place.

Not knowing where it was, she gave me directions until I was stopping the car in front of the building.

Before you go, Robyn, can you let me have Marilyn’s last name and address? I asked her.

It’s ‘Wright’ she lives at home with her family. They only have a small house, she said almost apologetically. That is why I chose to stay at a hotel, and besides it gives me more freedom this way. It was actually Marilyn’s mum who recommended it and booked it for me as it’s not too far away from their house.

What’s the address?

Henry Street, number fourteen, she said. I hope she reached home all right.

So do I, Robyn, I said agreeing with her. I will return for you at about two-thirty this afternoon, so we can go to the police station as Sergeant Love requested.

I watched as she got out of the car and walked to the hotel doorway. She half-turned giving me a quick glance and then disappeared into the darkness of the lobby. Before setting