Dark Water

By T W Lawless

Peter Clancy is back. Back in Queensland’s Far North, that is—the place he’s spent a lifetime trying to leave. Clancy couldn’t refuse his ‘uncle’ Sam’s insistence he ‘do something’ about the destruction of the family graveyard and the threat to the sacred sites of Sam’s ancestors from t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Campanile Publishing
• Release date: Mar 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9780994265159

T W Lawless

TW Lawless is the author of seven thrillers, six in the Peter Clancy series.

Book preview

Dark Water

TW Lawless

Publishing information

Published by Campanile Publishing

www.twlawless.com

© 2018 TW Lawless

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright 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.

This book is a work of fiction. All characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry has been created for this title.

ISBN 978-0-9942651-4-2 (pbk)

ISBN 978-0-9942651-5-9 (ebook)

Cover image from iStock. Cover design by Golden Orb Creative.

Text design and production (print and ebook) by Golden Orb Creative.

Edited by Linda Nix AE of Golden Orb Creative.

For Peter Murphy ( 1955–2017)

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter One

North Queensland, 1994

Sam Saturday Clancy’s battered four-wheel-drive ute lurched along a dirt road as familiar to him as his wife’s sweet face. He could have driven it with his eyes shut and never missed a turn. He’d gradually memorised its entire length, over decades spent driving along it since he was a boy.

Annie passed away many years ago, but there wasn’t a day that he didn’t miss her. The longing just never went away. Although she and the old Clancy cattle station, Cornish Downs, were just memories, they were both as sharp in his recollection as every rise and fall in the road. Even from the other side of the country, he could visualise the creeks, grids and gates, and remember the details of each station he’d pass along the way.

He hadn’t come back to reminisce. He would have preferred to have returned on his own terms but, this time, there was an urgency that made him push the old Toyota Land Cruiser ute beyond its limits. He kept one eye on the road ahead and the other on the temper­ature gauge, his ears tuned to the sound of the motor. If he broke down on this road, another vehicle might not come by for a day. Or possibly longer. He was a pretty good bush mechanic, but this still wasn’t the best place to blow up an engine: he hadn’t seen another vehicle since he had left Clarkes Flat two hours ago. It was fortunate that he’d had the foresight to bring two water containers along, since he had already replenished the radiator three times.

He didn’t really mind the forced stops: they gave him an opportunity to catch up with the country. This was the land of his forefathers: his people had belonged to this land since the Dreamtime. This was his homecountry. It was more than a trip home, it was a pilgrimage: a reawakening of a sleeping soul. As he travelled through the land, he remembered what he had left behind. With each passing hour, he was reuniting with relatives and friends—people whose names he dared not speak—and the grief of loss weighed heavily. He had been absent for too long. He couldn’t even remember when he had last been back. He was going back to Cornish Downs station and his tribal homeland at the worst pos­sible time under the most difficult of circumstances.

He looked at the sun. It was mid-afternoon, and he was still two hours away from Cornish Downs. With all the interruptions, he probably wouldn’t make it there until late afternoon or possibly dusk. He gulped down some water, had a piss and hopped back into the Toyota. He was barely conscious of the rumble in his belly. Food would have to wait until he got there.

As the ghost gums flashed past, Sam’s thoughts turned to the reason he’d come back. He felt uneasy that it had taken so many years for him to visit. He’d wanted to come back to his homecountry before he died, but he’d always wanted to do it with Peter. There were things he needed to share with him.

It was a newspaper article that had sent his head spinning. The moment he read that a multinational company was going to be mining coal on Cornish Downs, he’d packed up the old Toyota and set off. The coal mine was good news for everyone. Happy days were returning. The mine was tipped to generate jobs and export revenue for the Queensland economy. Shame was that nobody had asked him for his opinion; this wasn’t going to be a boon for him or for his homecountry. Investors couldn’t care less about history, sacred sites or what the land meant to his people over tens of thousands of years.

He knew he was getting close to Cornish Downs when he saw three familiar trees bunched together near the road. The Clancys called them ‘The Trinity’— they were the Father, Son and Holy Ghost gums—but then the Clancys probably suffered from too much religion. The gums served as a totem: they were hundreds of years old. Their spindly, leaf-tipped branches cascaded like tresses and there was a feminine quality to the shape of their trunks. Sam preferred to called them ‘The Old Woman and her Daughters’. When his people were on this country, the gums sheltered them from the heat of the day. It was good to see them there still, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

After the trees, he knew there was a sweeping corner that was always heavily corrugated, followed by another straight stretch that ran for a mile. At the end of that stretch was a gate and the entry to the Cornish Downs homestead.

The Toyota nearly flew off the road when Sam hit the corrugations; they were deeper than they’d been when he’d last driven over them. He slowed down and crept along, but the Toyota still rose and fell like a boat in rough seas. After negotiating the corner, he knew there wasn’t long to go.

The Clancys were good people; he’d loved his time working for them as head stockman at Cornish Downs. He remembered Dick Clancy used to call the stretch after the corner ‘the home straight’. Back then, little Peter Clancy would call out with excitement whenever Dick said it, always looking forward to the arrival after hours spent driving. Nowadays, Peter had no time for Australia. Or Queensland. Or Cornish Downs. He was an ace reporter, busy chasing stories across America. Sam felt ambivalent about it. The only contact they had with each other was the occasional birthday and Christmas card. Sam was too old to hunt him down across the breadth of America, and it seemed like Peter wasn’t interested.

Thirty years ago, if he’d been coming back from town late at night, Sam would have seen the welcoming lights of the homestead blazing in the distance like a lighthouse on the ocean. As he’d drawn closer, he’d have heard the thump-thump-thump of the Southern Cross generator coming from the engine room near the homestead. There would be no welcoming lights or noise from the homestead tonight, no cattle or horses grazing in the paddock. It would be deserted. The only evidence of human activity was a sign attached to a tree near the gate saying, Private Property, Do Not Enter, Heavy Machinery Operating.

The sun was still just above the tree line, but the trees were casting long shadows across the bare paddock next to the homestead. There would only be another hour of light. He’d have to set up camp soon. Three bulldozers and a truck were parked near the homestead, but there were no workmen about.

As he slowed, Sam made out that part of the homestead had already been demolished. The section that had once housed the kitchen had been ripped apart. It looked like it had been devoured by an enormous animal that had moved on, leaving what was left of the carcass for the scavengers to polish off. He was glad that the Clancys weren’t here to see it. It would have been heart-breaking for them. His eyes followed a trail of torn timbers left to rot in the dusty garden beds full of dead shrubs. The towering Norfolk pine that had grown next to the homestead was gone. He had been a little kid when that was planted.

He stopped the Toyota and got out. He stretched his aching legs and took a look around. He was half expecting workmen to appear to tell him to clear off, but there was no one about. He thought that they must have camped down at the river. He pulled his swag, a torch and a sack of food out of the back of the ute and carried them to the front door of the homestead. He’d camp there overnight.

He stepped through an open doorway; the door had been torn off its hinges and it now also lay in a flower bed. The windows and walls were smashed. It looked like these workmen had enjoyed vandalising the place. He felt tears prickling his eyes. Cornish Downs homestead had once been the grandest house in the district. When he was a boy, he thought that it looked exactly like one of those English manor houses that he had seen in magazines.

He walked into what had once been the stockmen’s dining room, and dropped his swag on the cement floor. Many years ago, a table long enough to seat ten hungry stockmen at a time had stood there. He looked around and could almost hear them talking loudly over each other, smell their sweat and see Mrs Clancy and Annie serving up their meals, while little Peter ran around. Then a vision flashed into his head, one he had done his best not to recall.

It was as clear to him as if it had happened yesterday: Dick Clancy lying unconscious on the dining-room table with a bloodied towel covering his shattered head. Mrs Clancy’s cries still rang in his ears. He was reliving it all over again. I miss you, Dick, my brother, my mate. He wiped the tears away with the back of his hand. He wouldn’t be able to sleep in here.

He picked up his swag and carried it into the adjoining room, the one they called the music room. That was where Dick’s mum, old Mrs Clancy, played her beloved upright piano. She only played whenever she had any spare time, which wasn’t very often. On Christmas Day, everyone at the station gathered in the music room while she played. Sam remembered how he used to sit up against the piano and watch Mrs Clancy’s feet dancing on the pedals as she played her favourites: Strauss waltzes and carols mixed in with Scottish and Irish ballads. He used to put his ear to the frame of the piano so he could feel the vibrations.

A sudden chill came over him and, for a moment, he thought there were ghosts about. He felt it again. He peered through one of the smashed windows towards the cattle yards. His concern was defined: he was searching for a familiar outline, but he couldn’t make out if there was anything there. He could have sworn he’d heard a sigh in the wind. Something wasn’t quite right. He had to check before he bedded down for the night.

He picked up the torch and dashed through the open doorway where there had once been a screen door. He sprinted towards the yards, only to pause doubled over before he reached the house yard gate, lungs burning, gasping for air. Age wasn’t just catching up to him, it was beating him at every turn. The gate still stood, although the fence had fallen over. He looked at the broken post and concluded it had been kicked over. The cattle yards were all but demolished. Someone had heaped the wooden posts and rails into a pile ready for burning, and the yards, which could once hold five hundred head of cattle in their heyday, had been reduced to splintered firewood.

He continued past the yards towards a small tree that he could only just make out in the growing darkness. He switched on the torch and shone it in that direction. The tree was leaning to the left—only slightly—but enough for his heart to jump. He hoped that he was wrong and that his seventy-year-old eyes were just playing a trick on him. He ignored the familiar breathlessness and the rising ache in his chest. This wasn’t the time for such things. As he crept towards the tree, he prayed that the grave under it would be still there.

‘You bloody bastards,’ he cried, as he ran the beam along the ground where the grave should have been. He sank to his knees, the torch falling from his hands and lighting up the torn earth. It was all gone. ‘How could these mongrels do this?’ He picked up a clod and held it to his chest. ‘I’m sorry,’ he spluttered. He just felt like lying on the ground and dying. ‘I should have come sooner. I’m sorry.’

As pain flooded his chest, he thought about dying then and there, but what was another dead Aborigine to them? They’d probably just dismiss him as an old drunk who’d stumbled onto the station and then they’d doze him into the ground. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a tablet and popped it under his tongue. He had almost thrown them away a few days ago. Tonight, he was glad he brought them. When the pain subsided, he swept away the loose soil with his hands, pushed down the clumps of dirt and slowly got to his feet. He couldn’t give up and die there. He was tempted to go to the workers’ camp and thrash them each within an inch of their lives and, old man or not, he would have gone and done it, if he thought he could get away with it.

He decided that he’d have to sleep in the homestead. It was too risky to drive back at night. If he ran into any stray cattle or kangaroos on the road, the Land Cruiser would be smashed beyond repair. He would leave at first light before anyone turned up for work, and drive back into town. There were dumb ways of dealing with people like these and there were smart ways. He needed help to fix up this mess and he knew there was one person who would be able to get these bastards back. The hard part would be finding him. He was pretty nifty as a tracker, but his bush skills couldn’t help him much this time. He’d have to rely on a different connection. Sam had to find some way of contacting Peter.

Chapter Two

San Francisco, 1994

Peter was flummoxed: the words weren’t tumbling out as he had hoped. He was constipated in the brain cells. The words had simply vanished into thin air.

He had been staring at his computer screen for the last two hours, hoping that he would be able to get past the first few sentences. It had started well when he had typed in capitals CHAPTER ONE, but it had raced downhill from there. Words, where are you? Why are you hiding from me?

He hammered out: My time as an investigative journalist has taken me to many dangerous places and put me in a few tricky situations. Have I ever been scared? Of course I have, but uncovering the truth always won over fear.

What he had written sounded corny. He sounded like a comic action-hero. He knew it was drivel. Deleting it crossed his mind, but, since it was the only paragraph he had written over the last two days, he changed his mind. This wasn’t going anywhere. The author-charade wasn’t working.

He stopped staring at the computer and took another gulp of the scotch that was lounging comfortably next to him. He thought that the scotches should have fuelled his imagination. Didn’t Hemingway always write drunk? But the scotches had failed, along with the copious amounts of coffee. All he was doing was getting pissed and anxious.

Stella’s words of advice came flooding back to him. She told him that, after spending the best part of her lifetime in the newspaper industry and having steered the San Francisco Daily into pole position, she knew what she was talking about. She insisted that he take an extended break after he’d filed his report on the Ten Commandments Church—the report that had taken the Daily to number one and that had nearly claimed his life (again)—to write his autobiography. Autobiography? Peter had always thought that only has-been entertainers and crooked politicians ever wrote autobio­graphies in a desperate attempt to appear relevant. She disagreed. She said he had a high enough profile in California to be able to score a major publisher. High enough profile? He was a journalist, not a frigging celebrity. She also said she’d be able to use her network to get a good publisher. He was starting to think that he’d rather be an actor than a writer. It paid better and he wouldn’t have to write his own lines.

And what was the other gem of advice Stella had given? Writing a book will be a great way to relieve yourself of the stress you’ve been carrying for too long. You need to let go and move on, Peter, otherwise you’ll just become a sad alcoholic and die prematurely. As if they were his only choices. Did she really think writing a book about his experiences would really rid him of the vivid nightmares, the occasional hand tremors, the flashbacks and the need to escape humanity because it was entirely fucked? But Stella was forever the optimist and he was … the burnt-out realist.

Peter was glad he hadn’t signed anything with a publisher, al­­though an advance would have been a healthy injection into his dwindling bank account. He told Stella that he would only test the waters. If there was a good book at the end, he’d aim for a publisher. If not, he would beg for her to give him his old job back at the Daily.

It was now dawning on him that there wasn’t going to be any book to show for his time off. He knew Stella would be pissed off, but she’d come around to his way of thinking after a loud argument. Maybe. This author thing wasn’t bloody working. I need to get back to what I know best. And Mulroy’s been getting some great stories since my time off. That perennial sidekick is starting to steal my thunder.

As he had expected, great journalists didn’t always make great authors. Banging out entertaining sentences that headed towards a conclusion called The End was a concept that he, along with many journalists, either didn’t understand or quickly became bored with. For sure, there was a story-line to follow, but there was no adrenalin surge that came with chasing down a lead. Where had the interesting characters and the insurmountable obstacles gone? Sitting on his arse for months, attempting to hammer out a book, was like watching the television while having his teeth drilled at the dentist. Mind made up, he was going to have a hard word with Stella Reimers, Editor-in-Chief of the now prestigious San Francisco Daily, once she got back to work after her medically-imposed furlough.

Peter polished off his scotch as his finger hovered over the delete button. He lost heart at the last moment and instead pressed ‘save’. Where’s your courage, Clancy?

He got up from the chair and slipped on the shirt that was draped over the couch, and a pair of trousers that were spread on the table. He had thought he would write better in his underwear, like Hemingway did. Again, another fail.

There was a buzz on the doorbell. He adjusted his shirt and went to answer it. He wasn’t expecting visitors, although he was hoping that it might be Claudia dropping by for a reconciliation. He mused that that could be the answer to writer’s block.

He’d dreamed of Claudia overnight and the scent of her perfume lingered in his nostrils. He and Claudia hadn’t fizzled out in the way that so many of his other relationships had. They’d done it in style: a loud bust-up in a restaurant two months ago. It was all silly, really. He had been harmlessly flirting with the waitress when Claudia got jealous. She’d stormed out and he had followed her. She’d slapped him, jumped into her car and screeched off into the night. It was all dramatic, like a Mexican soap opera. He had tried to contact her without success. Then he spotted her in a late model Rolls Royce with an older man. As he had always suspected, Claudia would always take care of Claudia, and someone with deep pockets would be footing the bill.

Then there was that girl he had met in a bar a couple of days ago. What was her name again? Kathy, Karina, Karla? She had left her contact details somewhere around the apartment after she had stayed overnight. He had taken a quick look around, but they weren’t anywhere to be found. How am I supposed to remember her name when I only slept with her once? It looked like he would have to wing it.

The buzzer rang again.

‘Hold your horses,’ he called through the door. He was starting to open it when her name suddenly came back to him. ‘This is a welcome surprise,’ he exclaimed before he’d had a chance to see who was there.

‘Is it?’ a familiar voice replied.

He opened the door all the way. It was Stella.

‘Who the hell were you expecting?’ she asked as she pushed past him.

He closed the door after her. ‘A friend. What are you doing here anywhere? I’m writing a book. I need total peace and quiet.’

‘That’s right, you’re feeling a little edgy, aren’t you? It’s all over with Claudia. Please, don’t tell me you’re taking it hard. I couldn’t bear to watch you suffer again.’ She was grinning from ear to ear.

‘Don’t rub it in. That was weeks ago.’

She sniffed. ‘Well, I didn’t like her much, anyway. She had gold-digger written all over her in large, glittery letters.’

Peter frowned. She was right. Stella was always right. ‘I think she quickly worked out that there wasn’t going to be any gold in these here hills.’

‘Glad you’re over her. You’re not expecting visitors, are you?’ she asked as she followed him into the living room.

‘No. I met someone the other night. I thought she might pop over.’

Stella stopped in her tracks, looked Peter up and down and glanced around the apartment. ‘She’s not here, is she?’

‘Why?’

‘You’re half undressed.’

It was then that he noticed that his shirt was unbuttoned and, worse than that, his pants were still unzipped. ‘I was writing. I sometimes get distracted. Sorry.’

Stella frowned. ‘Do I need to know this? Are you sure no one’s here? I wouldn’t want to interrupt anything.’

‘Shit, Stella, for the last time, I just didn’t bother to get dressed today.’ He paused for a moment to allow his message to sink in. ‘Can I make you a coffee? I’ve got doughnuts to go with it.’ He zipped up his fly and headed into the kitchen.

Stella followed and handed him a disc.

‘What’s this?’

‘A gift. I thought it would help with the writing process.’

He looked at it disparagingly and tossed it on the kitchen bench.

‘I can tell by your look that you don’t like my gift,’ she remarked.

‘How is Stephen Covey’s Seven Habits of Highly Effective People going to help me?

‘It will motivate you.’

‘Really. I don’t really want to be motivated to go out and sell washing powder to unsuspecting people,’ he scoffed.

‘Peter, this isn’t about pyramid selling. You have to get with the times.’

‘Go and take a seat while I make coffee, okay? You’re doing my head in.’

‘Fine. I don’t feel like an argument. Listen to it, don’t listen to it, it’s up to you. I buy you a present and this is what I get in return.’

Peter sighed heavily. ‘Okay. I’ll listen to it.’

She smiled and then went and sat on the sofa.

Peter came out five minutes later with the coffees and some doughnuts on a chipped plate. She was looking at his computer screen. ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he said as he placed the cups and the plate on the coffee table.

‘That’s it?’ she asked. ‘How long did that take you?’

He took a sip of coffee before replying. ‘Longer than I thought.’

‘But I see you’re making good progress with the whisky,’ she smirked, noticing the nearly-empty bottle on the computer table. ‘How many whisky bottles per page will it take to write your book, Peter? ’

‘That’s the only one … so far. I’ve had two beers also.’

‘At this rate, you’ll definitely have liver failure by the time you finish this book—if you finish it. I can’t believe that’s all you’ve written.’ She had a sip of coffee and then picked up a doughnut. ‘And what I’ve read is … well … it’s …’

‘It’s shit. Total shit. To be honest, I’m no author. I just can’t get into it. I can’t get inspired.’ He sat on the sofa next to her and took a large bite out of a doughnut.

‘You have to persevere. The words don’t just fall out onto the page. And you need to have an outline for your book. You can’t just make it up on the run. You can do better than what I’ve just read. To be blunt, it’s terrible. I expected better.’

‘Well, how many times can you say it’s shit and how many times can you say that I’m a lousy writer?’

‘You just said it yourself. Don’t go all thin-skinned on me. I’m just being honest.’

‘I feel like a drink,’ he snapped. ‘Want one? It might calm you down.’

‘No thanks. You know it’s only ten o’clock in the morning.’

‘I don’t clock-watch while I drink. I don’t think there should be any time restrictions on when you should have a drink. That’s my word of advice.’ He got off the