Three Sisters

By David Tooby

The scream carried on the wind,

long and shrill...

Then came a second scre

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shawline Publishing Group
• Release date: Feb 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781922444493

David Tooby

David Tooby was born in Scotland in 1964 and migrated to Perth in 1971. He left Perth to study in the eastern states in 1983, following a period of travelling and working in various design practices David and his wife settled on the North Coast of NSW. David has four adult children and has been a director of a successful design consultancy practice for over 20 years. David started writing later in life owing to undiagnosed childhood dyslexia. He suffered poor writing and comprehension skills, so much so he failed English at school. But David has always wanted to write, and he had one good high school English experience which stuck with him. More importantly, from that experience he never forgot the joy of writing with almost complete abandon. It wasn't until his late forties that David felt ready to cast aside his childhood handicap and try his hand at writing.

Book preview

Three

Sisters

DAVID TOOBY

Three Sisters Copyright © 2021 by David Tooby. All Rights Reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. 

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. 

Printed in Australia 

First Printing: FEB 2021

Shawline Publishing Group Pty Ltd

www.shawlinepublishing.com.au

Paperback ISBN-13- 9781922444486

Ebook ISBN-13- 9781922444493

Prologue

Monday, April 15th—Evening

The fish was bigger than most in the school. Its action had become increasingly animated in recent minutes as the moon stole light from the sun. It suddenly broke away from the school and swam toward the shore.

The water gradually became shallower then abruptly, forcing the fish close to the sand bottom and beneath the lift and churn of breaking waves. As it moved with the water coursing across the bank, the turbulence and foam dissipated and the light penetrated, setting its thick, blue-grey profile against the ruffles of sand. At the edge of the gutter between the bank and the shoreline the fish turned, its long, slender flank a ripple of shield-shaped scales, silver with hints of bronze, a blur of white spots chasing its lateral line.

For close to a minute, the fish followed the line of the gutter. Then, as the bottom fell away and the current strengthened in the rip out to the open sea, it flicked its broad tail, turned and began a methodical zig-zag across the bank, its belly scraping the sand as its glands pulsed scented balm. On reaching one side of the bank, it arced back and retraced its route, now swimming closer to the surface, its eyes hypersensitive.

The fish spied a long tendril, lured out of its hole, reaching up, searching, wavering in the current. It flashed across and down, smashed the sand, engulfed the sand and worm in one, expelled from its gills only the sand. It moved on, making several ambushes, some successful, some not. It was about to swim across to the next bank when it saw a worm floating over the sand, detached and lifeless, perhaps one it had maimed earlier but failed to capture.

The fish dipped and snaffled the worm, and as it swam on it felt an unfamiliar and burgeoning weight, a sideways pull, then a sharp pain in the lip of its mouth. It panicked and thrashed out over the bank; the weight becoming heavier, the pain more acute. It slowed and shook its head. The pain shifted higher on its lip; and instinctively it shook again, more frenzied this time, trying desperately to free itself. It felt a tear and release from the weight. Then nothing.

The fish flashed over the edge of the bank, under the breaking waves, and beyond.

Into the sanctuary of deeper water.

The man woke with a start and opened his eyes to a confusion of pinhole lights.

Where was he?

He heard crashing and fizzing and tasted a faint tang in the air. He lifted his head, felt the thin ridge of scar tissue as he wiped a film of damp off his cheek, then noticed sand sticking to his knuckles. As he focussed on the stars and the moon, almost full, the present flooded back.

He lowered his head back onto the sand and gazed up into the night sky. He had never been able to fathom its boundlessness or his place within it; it awed and baffled him at the same time and threw his senses into a spin.

His attention was drawn to a faint skittering over the rumble of the surf.

The hairs pricked on his neck.

He slowly lifted his torso and propped on an elbow but saw nothing. Just as he was about to blame his imaginings, a dark smudge moved out of his peripheral vision. He drew a quick breath, sat bolt-upright, eyes wide.

It was only when he craned his neck that he saw them: two long, sleek shadows, near to him, slinking bellies close to the sand, circling him, almost soundless. The shadows slowed as he rose steadily to his feet. One of the dingoes stopped, raised its head and sniffed the night air. Its eye glinted.

All three animals were measuring the situation. All were unsure.

The man reached slowly for the knife at his waist. It wasn’t there. He remembered unbuckling his belt before he lay down on the sand. He raised one hand to his head torch, then paused, his curiosity now beginning to override his fear.

The dingoes continued to circle, but at a greater distance. They worked as a team, one behind and one in front of him at any one time. He lifted himself on the balls of his feet and raised his hands above his head, making himself as big as possible. The dogs retreated further and moved skittishly. He lowered himself onto his haunches. The pair stopped, uncertain.

He waited, watched. So did the dogs.

They had reached a stalemate. Neither the dingoes nor the man wanted to move away, but as time went by there seemed little point in staying. One of the dogs was jittery, constantly looking across to the other for reassurance, a sign. The man sensed the calmer dog was as intrigued as himself. He smiled at the dog and wondered if it registered his demeanour.

The man decided it was time. He reached for his torch, pointed it at one of the dogs and flicked it on. Both dogs scampered, blurs of dusky red and white in the torch beam. He followed their retreat until they melted into the dunes.

He glanced back at his fishing rods. They hadn’t changed: both in the holders of the sand spikes, ten metres apart, the lines taut, the tips bending to the rhythm of the sea. How long had he nodded off? He looked up at the position of the moon then glanced at his watch, estimated half an hour. He switched off his torch, looked out over the moonlit water, then up into the night sky. It was a beautiful evening: cool, still; the beach deserted. A swell of weariness washed over him. It was time to go home.

As he packed his gear and started back to the car, the soothing sounds and smells of the ocean began to fall away, and the familiar tendrils of unease began to rise. For a time, he fought against the swelling tide of melancholy, trying to return his attention to the world that seemed so far removed from his own—a world without people and pressures, without expectations. But gradually his willpower caved to a flood of thoughts; of a loss too deep; of the weight of obligation; of the relentless toil of wading on.

And he descended into the numbing absence that was his only defence.

Chapter 1

Ernest Head—Friday, April 19th—Afternoon

‘Calm down, Dan. Try and breathe.’

‘Gotta say, Jim, telling me to be calm right now just isn’t cutting it!’

The two brothers were making their escape from the hospital in Jim’s car, Jim in the rear behind the passenger seat, Dan at the wheel, the windscreen wipers on full. The tension eased as the irate staff at the hospital entry passed from view, and Dan veered onto the main drag into town.

‘We’re good now,’ said Jim.

Dan sputtered with sarcasm, ‘Yeah, sure we are.’

‘Right at the next roundabout’.  As Jim finished saying this, he glanced at his brother’s broad back and neck and recalled a friend’s description of him years before—a big boisterous bear with long eyelashes and a longer temper. And he thought how very different Dan was to himself—whom he regarded as unassuming and unremarkable.

Jim shifted in his seat and winced as pain shot through his plastered leg. He pulled the handkerchief from the crook of his arm, and cursed lightly as a bead of blood welled from the catheter wound. He tried to ignore the nausea that came with the effort of reaching into his pocket and extracting his phone. Blood seeped more freely as he flicked to favourites and pressed his business partner’s number. Bending forward, he wedged the phone between his shoulder and ear and clamped the handkerchief back on the wound. He was about to hang up and try the office line when Sebastian answered.

‘Jim, my man, how are you? Had us all…’

‘Seb! Sorry, can’t talk, I’ll fill you in later. Got a big favour to ask. Here’s what I need…’

Five minutes later Jim and Dan pulled into the office carpark. A small, middle-aged man was waiting anxiously beside a vintage brown Renault, open umbrella in hand.

Dan helped Jim between cars as Sebastian moved across to cover them with the umbrella. Before he could speak, Jim said, ‘Thanks, Seb. We’ll bring her back in one piece, promise.’ Jim leaned against the bonnet of the Renault as Dan opened the door, one leg in a gleaming white cast from knee to foot, his head and arm bandaged, the handkerchief still pressed into his arm.

Sebastian exclaimed, ‘Christ, Jim! You don’t look like you should be going anywhere.’

As Dan lowered Jim into the back seat he said, ‘Don’t think I haven’t tried to stop him, I have. Stubborn old bastard.’ He closed the door and folded into the driver’s seat, adding, with a nod and a wry grin, ‘Dan by the way, his brother. Nice to meet you.’

‘Likewise, Dan. Though I’m not sure about whatever it is you’re up to.’

‘Don’t ask.’

‘Oh, by the way, the first aid kit and the Panadols you asked for are on the back seat.’ Jim lifted a zip-case and alfoil strip, then flicked up his thumb in acknowledgement as Dan eased the car out of the space.

Ten minutes later they spilled from the donut interchange onto the northbound lanes of the coastal highway. Dan reached into the pocket of his jacket and tossed Jim a bread roll he’d collected from the food tray beside his bed before they’d left. ‘Get this into you! Don’t want you passing out on me.’

Jim pulled the handkerchief away and examined the wound. Convinced the blood had clotted, he discarded the handkerchief and reached for the roll. A police car passed at speed in the opposite direction, lights flashing. Dan clenched his teeth, Jim said, ‘Just drive normally. If they were on to us, they’d be looking for a different car, right?’ He took a bite out of the roll.

Dan said uncertainly, ‘Suppose. Hope so! Hey, what about at this town we’re headed for? What’s it called, Ern…?’

Jim interjected with a lump in his cheek. ‘Ernest Head.’

‘How far up the highway?’

‘Another twenty or so minutes to the turnoff.’ He added between chewing, ‘Can’t imagine they’ll be too interested in cars going in, especially not from the direction we’ll be coming from. Anyway, we’ll know soon enough.’

Dan cursed before saying, ‘And now it’s pissing down—just to make it even more interesting.’

Drumming rain and tyre noise filled the ensuing silence.

Jim popped the remainder of the roll in his mouth and reached for his phone; it had buzzed three times in the last five minutes. His daughter, Lexy, had tried to ring twice, Phil once. He wondered which would draw the greatest ire from Phil—betraying his trust as a senior police officer or as his oldest friend. He dropped his phone on the seat and turned his thoughts to Sal.

He grimaced with a pang of guilt.

He was the cause of his friend’s perilous situation. In their brief phone conversation from his hospital bed, Sal had assured Jim he was okay. But Jim could tell he was masking pain. It can’t be too bad though, surely? He tried to assure himself, before switching thoughts to Sal’s kidnapper, Stan. Did he still pose a danger? To Sal? To himself? He scratched his stubbled jaw and peered out the window, his mind ablaze.

Moments later he caught his brother glancing at him in the rear mirror. With a nervous inflection, Dan asked, ‘Been wanting to ask. How was it? Last night, I mean. Hell of a thing to have to do.’

Jim gazed out of the side window again as he said, slowly, ‘Don’t know, Dan, just don’t know.’ Images shuttered from the eyes that bulged in shock and confusion, to the mouth that opened and wanted to speak but couldn’t, to the final spasms of passing life; before fixing on the cold, unearthly still that followed. He added belatedly, ‘Shocking, I suppose. Surreal definitely.’

‘Hey, are you alright?’

‘Yeah, I guess.’

Dan glanced at Jim again, frown lines marking his forehead. ‘Well, you get some sleep if you can. No arguing.’

Jim didn’t. He leaned his head back on the seat and focused on the passing tree canopy through the top of the window. He let the blurred tapestry of green and the whooze of the pain killers meld together to lull his senses. When he closed his eyes, the events of the night before lingered tenaciously: the drug induced madness, the adrenalin charged escape, the confrontation and aftermath; the senselessness of it all. God, he thought, what a crazed, bloody mess. He wondered whether Bonny would pull through, and if she did, whether she would ever be the same.

He wondered if he would ever be the same.

Jim’s mind was wrestled back to consciousness by his brother’s voice. ‘Jim, Jim. Wake up! Road-block ahead.’

Jim struggled to open his eyes, then to focus. He followed Dan’s gaze through the windscreen, the wipers now swiping intermittently. About fifty metres ahead, a white utility u-turned at the head of a line of cars. The road into Ernest, he confirmed to himself.

‘Shit!’ Dan muttered, before lifting his voice for Jim. ‘Seen cars going the other way. Must be turning everyone around.’

Jim screwed his face as Dan slowed to a stop behind a station wagon. Ahead of it and another car were barriers and a number of police in high-viz.

‘See that? They’re letting one through,’ Dan said, as he tapped the steering wheel.

Two policemen had opened the barriers to the car in front of the station wagon and it was driving through. Jim shifted gingerly across the rear bench-seat to the driver’s side, belted in and wound down his window. Dan twisted around and looked at him questioningly.

Jim said, at first as much to himself as Dan, ‘The town’s probably in lockdown, but they’re letting some cars through. So, I’m thinking some parts of the town are okay, probably been searched already. But the back sections, the hill, that’ll take longer—and that’s where he is…’ He paused before adding, ‘I’ve got an idea.’

Before Jim could say any more, the station wagon turned around and a burly police officer in lime green waterproofs approached their car.  The officer bent down and said to Dan as he lowered his window, ‘Sorry, sir. You can’t go on, for public safety reasons. You’ll have to turn around and go back out.’

Jim steeled himself, then leaned out of the window and said, ‘Excuse me officer, what’s happening?’

The policeman turned to Jim. ‘Can’t say too much at this stage. Only that there’s a door-to-door search going on for someone and it’s not safe.’

Jim frowned. ‘Really? We just saw you let someone through… And I need some pain medication, badly. We were going to the chemist.’

He concentrated his efforts on maintaining the ruse, displaying the full extent of his injuries and a pained expression as the policeman peered into the open window.

The policeman looked puzzled and didn’t respond for a moment. When he did, Jim could almost hear the relief whistle from his brother’s mouth.

‘Looks like you’ve banged yourself up pretty well. How’d you do that?’

‘Mountain bike, big rock jump, not acting my age. Say no more, eh?’

‘Yeah, right,’ the officer said, with a half-smile. ‘You just want to go to the chemist, then?’

‘Yes, just the chemist.’

‘Right-oh, we’ll let you through. But don’t go any further than the town centre, then come straight back out. Okay?’

‘Sure. And thanks.’

The policeman tapped the windowsill as he straightened up. He turned toward the barrier and raised his voice, ‘Let this one through.’

Jim looked back through the rear window to see the barriers being put back in place and the burly policeman approach the next car.

Dan breathed audibly. ‘Impressive! Or stupid! What now?’

‘Centre’s a kilometre or so. There’ll probably be another road-block at the end of it.’ Jim thought fast and added, ‘There’s another way up the hill, a back way, a dirt track. We’ll have to risk it.’

Dan frowned uncertainly as Jim continued, ‘Turn right just up here! See, where the substation is.’ Dan slowed into a turn as Jim leaned forward and pointed over his shoulder. ‘That’s it, go around the back of the fence, the track starts there. See it?’

Jim glanced through the rear window again. The police were still visible, but distant and too busy to watch them: he hoped!

The track followed the edge of a thick swamp forest before it wound up the hill. The gravel turned to sand at one point, and Dan had to accelerate to avoid getting bogged. He struggled to maintain control of the vehicle as it slewed from one side of the track to the other and narrowly missed a tree.

‘Jeezus, Jim, can you make this any more challenging? How do you even know this way?’

‘Used to come up here surfing in my uni days with Phil and another mate who lived here. Used this track a couple of times to avoid the RBT.’

Dan didn’t say anything, but Jim detected a slight shake of his head.

The track became steep and windy, and longer than Jim remembered. Eventually they came out onto a bend on a narrow bitumen road.

‘Shit, police!’ Dan tightened his grip on the steering wheel as the road straightened into a long street. The police car disappeared into another street about one hundred metres along. ‘Didn’t see us?’

‘Know soon enough if they did,’ said Jim.

The street hugged the contours of the steeply sloping terrain and serviced tiered housing on generous bush blocks. The weathered timber houses, of mainly nineteen-sixties and seventies era, nestled comfortably within the wind-raked tree canopy. Jim saw one parked car. The police car didn’t reappear.

‘I’m sure this is the street,’ Jim said, as he leaned forward and started to look for letterboxes.

‘Looks deserted,’ said Dan.

‘Outside holiday season. They’re mostly rentals, Airbnbs, expensive… Sixteen here. Keep going, it’s on this side.’ Seconds later, Jim said, ‘There, twenty-two.’ He pointed to a small letterbox in a tangle of fishbone fern.

They pulled up in front of a pole house perched on a steeper section of the hill. It had recently been renovated: new cladding and corrugated roofing, fresh white painted eaves and a timber deck meticulously sculpted around the gnarled trunk and limbs of a mature rose gum. Jim caught a flicker at the edge of the venetian blind in the sash window adjacent to the door recess.

Dan helped Jim out of the car and across to the deck. Jim said to Dan as he took the crutches from him and reached for the rail, ‘Thanks, mate! But I think it’s better I go on alone for now. Don’t want to spook him, eh?’

Dan hesitated, then said, ‘Right-oh. I’ll hang by the car until we’re sure he’s here. Then I’ll drive back up the road, hide it and come back.’ He moved back to the car.

‘Good idea. And bring the first aid kit.’

‘Sure.’ Dan turned back as he neared the car. ‘And Jim, don’t do anything stupid.’

Jim nodded, then shuffled across to the door and tapped.

A muffled voice came from the other side. ‘That Jim?’

‘You know it is, Stan.’

The door half-opened and the large face that peered out was battered and wary. Congealed blood and knotted hair caked a pronounced lump above his left ear.

‘Nasty,’ said Jim.

‘Don’t look so crash hot yourself,’ Stan said, pushing his head out of the door. ‘The other bloke your brother?’

‘Yes. And like I said, he’s good. Can I come in?’

‘He’s not then?’

‘He’s taking the car up the street a way. Trying not to draw any more attention to this place than we have to, right?’ Jim lifted his eyebrows, seeking affirmation. Stan held Jim’s gaze for a moment before dipping his head and pulling back the door. Jim added as he reached forward with the crutches, ‘He’ll be back shortly. He’s had some first aid training—he’s here to help too. Maybe leave the door unlocked.’

Clasping the door in one hand and a rifle with a scope in the other, Stan scanned the street.

Jim tried to ignore the rifle as he hobbled in.

Once he had crossed the threshold, he turned and fixed Stan with a stare. ‘Tell me my friend is still okay?’

Stan stiffened. ‘He is.’

‘Good. Where is he?’

Chapter 2

The Feast—Christmas 1984

It was a still, hot late morning on Christmas Day. The beige Ford Falcon wound its way up onto Collaroy Plateau from the coast, salt infused air and shuttered vistas of sea giving way to jutted sandstone slopes and gnarled vegetation, and the incessant drum of cicadas. The two young men on the bench seat of the car had their windows down and their arms crooked over the sills, trying to draw as much relief from the passing air as possible. They were the postcard image of Sydney surfers—lean and bronzed, with thick sun-bleached hair. The driver sat a couple of inches taller than Jim and had tight curly hair, whereas Jim’s was wavy. They were the same age, nearing the end of that indeterminable hiatus between boyhood and manhood. They were often mistaken for brothers.

As the car pulled to a stop at a red light, Jim turned to the driver. ‘Hey, Phil, thanks for inviting me to Chrissy dinner.’ He added quickly, ‘Just in case I forget to thank you later.’

Phil flashed a toothy smile. ‘No problem, mate. More like I was dragging you up here mind.’ The light went green and he accelerated through the intersection.

‘Yeah, sorry about that. It’s just that…’ Jim reached to his scalp and scratched. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve had a family Christmas dinner.’

‘Really!’ said Phil, in genuine surprise, before he caught himself. ‘Oh, of course! Sorry.’

Jim waved his hand in dismissal. ‘Nah. Don’t worry about it.’

Whooshing air and the hum of the engine filled the cab.

Phil said cautiously, as he looked through the windscreen, ‘So, how long has it been?  Since you were, what… Sixteen or so?’

‘About then. Just turned fifteen, actually. And no, not with a big group, anyway.’

‘Wow! Alright then, I get it.’ Phil glanced at Jim. ‘Well, I can’t say my family is going to make it easy for you—big, Catholic, boisterous. Might have to carry you out in a body bag.’ Jim drew a worried expression; Phil laughed, before adding, ‘Well, at least you’ll know one other person. My sister, and she’s delighted you’re coming.’ A lopsided smile sculpted his cheeks.

‘Oh, right, Rosie! At the beach the other day.’ Rosie flashed in Jim’s mind: Lithe and very pretty in an unconventional way. And, he recalled, unusually forthright for a younger girl.

‘Yes. And she likes the way you surf.’ Phil gave Jim a sideways glance, still smiling, eyebrows lifted.

‘Not liking the way you said that!’

Phil coughed a laugh and said, ‘Her words, not mine.’ Then he changed the subject. ‘Anyway, we’ll be there soon. And just remember, you’re very welcome.’

Jim broke their silence a minute later. ‘So, you’re all Catholic then? Anything I need to know?’

‘No, all the Hail Mary’s are done with at morning mass. There’s grace before we start dinner—just follow along. Most of the presents have been opened and all that.’

Jim smiled. ‘And all that made you miss a fabulous surf.’

‘You just had to rub that in, didn’t you? Bastard!’ Jim held his smile and looked ahead as Phil continued. ‘So then, what about you? Agnostic, atheist, or, shock-horror, are you actually aligned?’

Jim stalled in thought before responding. ‘I went to a stuffy Anglican school… so that pretty much cured me of Christianity. But I wouldn’t say I’m agnostic, or atheist. I do think there’s something out there, somewhere, certainly a spirit. Paganism… Maybe, but I’m not convinced. Haven’t spent much time thinking about it, to be honest.’

Phil gave a slow nod, his brow creased in reflection. ‘A Pagan. That makes sense. You’re always staring off into space, at the sea, whatever. It fits. It’s you.’

Phil and Jim were unlikely friends. Phil was a rookie cop with strong roots in the city. Jim was drawn to Phil’s enthusiasm for life—he was bold and gregarious, and the party metronome. Jim also thought he was unusually curious for a policeman; he was genuinely interested in other people’s experiences and views. He was convinced Phil would go far.

Jim was in his final year of Architecture at Sydney University. He also worked part-time in an up-and-coming practice in Manly. When he’d first come over from the west coast, he was introverted and circumspect. But over time study and college living opened his mind to a world of possibilities, and his self-esteem and social life blossomed.

The two had met over a year before through a mutual friend. They discovered a shared love of surfing and all things relating to the sea, and after a couple of weekend surf trips to the south coast they became inseparable. Phil liked to draw Jim into debate, sometimes for hours, occasionally for days; not even the most mundane propositions were safe. Phil would agitate in rapid-fire discourse; Jim’s responses were measured, often delayed. It became evident to Jim that Phil was more interested in the contest than the outcome, though he also felt the underlying intent of Phil’s probing was to reach his own reasoned position.

Minutes later, the Falcon pulled up beside a red brick Federation house perched handsomely on a thick sandstone ledge. Phil had told Jim on the drive up the house had recently been refurbished and a driveway and lean-to carport added.

Phil called over the roof of the car to Jim as he slung his door shut, ‘Don’t look too closely at the detailing, the old man did it himself. Not sure if it’ll be up to your standard.’

‘It looks fine to me,’ Jim said, and he meant it. Whether by design or good fortune, the carport sat back from the front of the house and didn’t erode its street presence: the flamboyant stone staircase spilling off the deep front veranda, the thick, white timber posts perched on bold stone pillars, the steeply pitched corrugated iron roof, and all the associated fretworks and motifs—still held the eye.

Jim reached back into the car and collected a bottle of sparkling wine. As he shut his door, Phil joined him on the nature strip. ‘Just before we go in, Jim…’ Jim looked at him uncertainly as he paused. ‘I’m the first of my brothers and sisters to leave home, so there’ll likely be a lot of interest in my new flatmate—especially from my mother.’ He looked up at the house then back at Jim, gesturing with his free hand outstretched and palm down, ‘My mother can be a bit, er, let’s just say, overzealous at times… But she means well.’

Jim frowned. ‘Bloody hell, Phil! Anything else you want to tell me?