CHILD KILLER

By RAY STINSON

CHILD KILLER.

A Small boy who was in trouble from the day he was born.

He battled despite wrong diagnosis and medical incompetence.

Little TOMMY never had a happy day, was often in pain with numerous seizures, and other associated problems.<

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ray Stinson
• Release date: Apr 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9780645746976

RAY STINSON

Northern NSW Award Winning Author

Book preview

CHILD KILLER

A small boy’s fight for his life

RAY STINSON 

This book is a work of pure fiction.  

Names, places, characters, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. 

Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, or events or locations, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher Ray Stinson. Nor shall it otherwise be circulated in any means other than that in which it is published.

The moral and ethical right of Ray Stinson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the respective act.

Copyright © 2023.  

Raymond F.W. Stinson

Independently published by Ray Stinson.

Copyright © 2022.  

Raymond F.W. Stinson 

All rights reserved.

This book is an abridged version of Team Tommy which was first published in December 2022.

OTHER BOOKS BY RAY STINSON:

COLLECTED SHORT STORIES VOL.1

CHRISSIE  -  THE ENIGMA

ELECTION STEAL

TEAM TOMMY

Dead before he reaches five years of age, this is the future for Tommy.

No parent should have to bury their own child.

1

One hundred million dollars can buy you a lot. Maybe you would like a super yacht, float around the Caribbean, an enormous house on a hill overlooking the ocean, designer clothes to fill up your enormous walk-in robe, possibly your own plane. 

You can flounce into any restaurant in the world, buy a small fleet of cars, and feel that the whole world is jealous, because the money makes you ever so special.  

Twenty-million, well maybe not the super yacht or the plane, but the Bentley would be nice, and of course the large house with a view is mandatory. Anything really that makes people believe that you are exceptional, if not superior, to most of the other animal forms that wander aimlessly across the planet. 

Then again, maybe five million could buy someone a chance at life. 

Come on Tommy, here tap the ball, that’s right buddy, yes that’s it, great! 

They were in the park with no one around. It was early morning and warm, in a place called Port Douglas, away for five days, up from Melbourne.  

Harry Anderson loved his little boy, he was about the only thing he liked about his life. He’d grown to detest his wife, well seemingly, it was a good story, it was in his diary.  

The story, well she was a nagger, talked rubbish, spent hours ingesting cheap women's magazines and trolling social media. The usual meaningless nothingness. 

He thought this is what her life had come down to, and he believed she was dragging him down with her. 

Well, that’s what he put in his diary.  

He kept the diary hidden at home. What it mirrored was merely the story. Daily he’d written in his journal. Not much, a few words, thoughts, not so much what he did, only what he thought. Sometimes he wrote up a few days at a time, he needed to catch up. 

Harry backdated the diary, had gotten that current year, different pens for different days. But the theme had been the same, the drive down into depression, through overwork and neglect. 

Sadly, he would never be another Samuel Pepys. 

He wrote that his wife had become a lead soldier in bed, and one time she had fallen asleep when they were making love. That sealed it for Harry, according to the diary. 

There was nothing left, and he began to write about the ‘advantages of suicide.’ It was all piling up on him.  

In the diary, he wrote that everything they did together was difficult, because neither wanted to be with each other, but hadn’t the courage to speak about it. He believed she had a ‘friend’ somewhere, who would one day replace him. It was in the diary, so it must be true, because that was the story. 

Neither he, nor his wife, wanted to tear the rice paper fragility of their relationship, well not yet, because they had a son, and he was a beautiful boy.  

But the little boy had problems, many problems. There was very little hope of a future, and Harry was blaming it on himself. Most days there was a diary entry, full of self-pity, being sucked into the vortex.  

His wife, Jean, she knew about the diary, even gave him a few ideas, his creative writing skills were improving.

He worried about his work, the pressure was enormous, and had doubts about the manager, thought maybe he was ripping the place off, setting Harry up to take the fall. Everything in his life had been a little shaky, maybe would get shakier still, because he knew, and one day they would know as well.  

So, his life had hit the buffers, and he was going down. There was no escape. 

That was the story, encapsulated in the diary. It was possible the story would never be, the journal would be lost, it was merely another support mechanism. 

It could be the final one. 

But here Harry was, it was early morning, the sun hadn’t risen, a weekday, no one much around. He’d woken little Tommy, who was always ready to go!  

There was a light dew in the park, but what the hell, so they got their feet wet. He knew his wife would roust on him, jokingly, something else for the record.  

Harry knew how important a diary can become, he was well versed with diaries. Yes, to whinge or to roast, that was his wife's forte, that was the story.  

Self-destruction, this could be his option, his final escape. The walls were closing in, hope was fading, the future was being choked with fear and self-hate, so told the narrative. 

Ok Tommy, we’ll get back now.  

Tommy made an unintelligible noise. He still had the ball, wanting to carry on, but his dad said they had to go.  

Come on then mate, let's get across this road. 

There wasn’t any traffic, nothing moves early in Port Douglas. They crossed over to the pavement opposite, which ran alongside the dense mangroves. 

Ok Tommy, there’s no one around, we can tap the ball to each other as we go, eh? 

The pathway was wide. That sounded like a good idea to the soon-to-be, three and a bit year old, future soccer star. 

Now don’t forget, a little tap, that’s all. 

There was an old single railway line that ran alongside the road, and the man and his son started walking alongside it, back towards town, tapping the ball to each other as they went. The young boy was full of energy, but restrained himself, it felt good to be with his dad. 

Yes, it was fun being on holidays, although he couldn’t tell anyone, no matter how much he tried. To Tommy, it was merely another place with his dad, he didn’t know what the word ‘holidays’ meant. 

Harry looked at the mangroves, they were part of the Dickson Inlet which flowed out to the Coral Sea, it was known as ‘croc country’. There was a small paddle steamer that ran trips up the inlet every day, spotting these smiling, sly, reptiles. They usually saw a few, especially at low tide, the ‘salties’ lying quietly on the mud banks, waiting and watching. 

‘Opportunistic crocodylidae!’  

It wasn’t a place to go swimming, that was for sure. 

Ok Tommy, we’ll soon be back, you know where we’re staying.  

The little boy mumbled, then made a strange noise in his throat. 

Good lad, don’t want to get lost, do we?  

Harry kicked the ball again, a little too hard this time. It bounced down into a culvert which ran from under the road, and deep into the mangroves. The tide was high, the ball hit a tree and landed in the dark green water.  

It sat there. Harry had to go down and get it. 

Now stay here Tommy, I’m going to climb down and get our ball, I’m not sure how deep it is. 

He carefully climbed along the edge of the murky causeway, the place was dense with growth, he could hear the mosquitoes, they loved the place, and enjoyed the taste of flesh.  

Harry would have to get in the water, the ball had floated away, just out of reach.  

It should be easy. He went in up to his waist, and was close to the ball now. Tommy had turned around, watching the train line, wishing he could see a train, not really sure what a train was. Harry watched him, a lovely little boy, a little kid who couldn’t express himself, and was lost and lonely in a world of frustration that milled around in his head.  

But if love is possible from a three and a bit year old, this little boy loved his dad.  

Sadly, no one knew, how could they know? 

There was a loud splash, Harry started shouting.  

OH NO, FUCK OFF YER BASTARD!  

TOMMY! TOMMY RUN AND GET MUMMY! GO GET HER. HELP HELP! BLOODY CROC, OH SHIT, GO RUN, NOW TOMMY, GO! 

Harry was flailing, the muddy water a riot all about him. His son looked for his dad, he could just see his head in the water. 

FOR CHRIST’S SAKE TOMMY, RUN AND GET HELP, GO GET MUMMY. 

The little boy looked at him. Confused. Then he took off, he wasn’t sure where he was, but ran with all his might towards town. He didn’t want to get lost, and started to cry as he ran. He hoped he was going in the right direction. 

Tommy didn’t know he was being watched. 

Few people were about, it was the ‘Off Season.’ An older couple, out for their morning walk, saw the little boy running towards them, it looked like he was crying. He stopped, looked around, then kept on running. They watched him get closer, he was upset, they couldn’t see a parent, only a woman on the other side, way up the road. 

Mary, I wonder what’s up? 

I can’t guess, looks like he might be lost, maybe got out of where he’s staying, and now can’t find his way back. 

The grey-haired dumpy lady stopped him. 

Hey there, little feller, where’re you going? 

Tommy pulled up sharply. He was upset, didn’t know what to do. Mustn’t talk to strangers, he knew that. But he’d no way to tell them, he didn’t know what a stranger was. 

He tried to run around them, the lady made a grab for his arm, he screamed and screamed. 

Hey, hold on, what’s your name? 

Tommy stopped dead in his tiny tracks. He could hardly see, his eyes full of tears. The small boy was trying to speak, maybe it was mum he said, they couldn’t understand. 

Yes, we’ll find your mummy, but what’s your name? 

Mary had little Tommy firmly in her grasp, he wanted to keep running, but she couldn’t see anybody around, where on earth had he come from? Her partner bent down to Tommy’s height. He was a small man, nuggety, spiky grey hair, and shifty eyes along with a growing waistline, it was quite a bend for him these days, at the wrong end of middle age. A semi-retired entrepreneur, he believed he knew how to handle children, but he much preferred dogs.  

Hey there, my name’s Peter, what’s yours? 

Er…tilliminy ….mum, tillimy, dile, ddddd, clocy crocy 

It all came out in one long swimming sentence, through the tears, and the need to escape. Peter never guessed, maybe it was a game. Obviously, this little lad had difficulties. Mary kept hold of him. 

Who knows what’s happened? she said quietly. 

The little boy felt some comfort, he’d started to hold the older lady's hand, she was tiny and had a smile which she could easily switch on, confident, ingratiating. She knelt beside Tommy. 

Is your name Timmy? 

He looked at her, he was frightened, but maybe he might like this lady, she looked like his Gran, the one in the picture, he wasn’t sure what a Gran was, it was only a picture.

2

Standing on the street at seven am in the morning, these two people had come across a lost boy, one that had difficulty with speech. Tidily dressed, obviously distressed, and who wouldn’t be, with no parents in sight. He mumbled through the tears, making strange noises. It appeared he may not be able to speak at all, well maybe a word or two. The boy suddenly shrieked, and tried to pull away, he was dribbling, screeching for the whole world to hear, then he fell on his knees, shaking his head violently.

The chain of events would loop around the minutes, ticking away, whilst somewhere in the mangroves a man was seemingly fighting a losing battle, with something that had all the advantages, because the animal was in his own territory, would be hungry, and had ferocious weapons that could rip and tear flesh apart in seconds.  

Unravelling the scenario would take time, but the little boy thought he knew where he was staying. This was only the third day they had been in Port, but he recognised the place was white, and in town, it couldn’t be far away. For a small boy who couldn’t speak he had an unusually good memory. He didn’t know this of course, nor did anybody. The couple hoped he knew where to go, the little boy had no way of telling them. 

He started pulling Mary’s hand.  

Peter, he wants me to go with him. 

Yes, looks like it. 

Peter, ring the police. 

I’d rather not. 

Look, I haven’t my phone on me. It’ll be quite alright, just ring them, they won’t know who you are, and maybe there’s someone’s on duty. 

They were being watched, the watcher felt a sense of relief. The little boy kept pulling Mary along the street, stopping when they got to the marina. 

Peter finally found the number, the phone rang and a message bank picked up.  

Our hours of operation are eight am till six pm, in case of an emergency ring………..  

‘Yes, well, was this an emergency, well it soon would be.’ It was after seven, what, he wondered, should he do? 

Tommy still pulled away. He had slowed down, had stopped crying, and suddenly shouted. 

Dddddd. 

Then the screaming started anew. 

Mary didn’t know what to do, so she put her arms around him, gave him a hug, holding him tightly. She felt so much for him the poor little mite, and thought how hard it must be. He was a good looking lad, and obviously someone cared about him.  

‘But where to now?’ she wondered. 

They were passing the park, then suddenly he wanted to pull across the crossing, towards the main street.  

‘Did he really know where he was going,’ she bloody well hoped so. 

He stopped again, they stood outside the Court House Hotel. There was a short path to their right, little Tommy pulled away like crazy now, then stopped. They were at the entrance to the Mantra, this was the ‘White Place.’ 

The little boy pulled Mary inside the hotel, pointed to the lift, but how could he know, Mary realised he wouldn’t know the floor number, even if he did, he couldn’t tell anyone, he wasn’t tall enough to see the buttons. 

The receptionist was tired. Last night had been a bit of a night! She didn’t want this shit first thing, in fact, she wondered why she did the job at all. She knew of course, it was the money. The only fucking reason, and now and again she had let out the odd room for a friend or two, no charge of course.

Peter had been following them. He stopped outside the hotel and left another message at the police station. It was seven fifteen, he could do with breakfast, which didn’t look like it would be coming anytime soon, and the police, that could be a worry, hopefully they wouldn’t recognise him.

3

The receptionist called herself Chloe, only because she liked it, it wasn’t her real name. She changed it because, after all, who the fuck would call their daughter Mavis (after her bloody grandmother, she was told).

Mary persuaded her to check the register. Peter leant across the desk, trying to be polite, but wouldn’t be moving until she had. There were only two rooms where three people were staying. 

Ringing the first, there was no answer. ‘Probably out, asleep, or soiling the linen,’ she thought. She rang the other room, a gruff sounding man answered.  

Yes. He sounded foreign. 

Good morning sir, sorry to bother you (which she wasn’t, he sounded like a prick). I have a little lost boy here, I was wondering…. 

Well, he ain’t fucking mine, I don’t have any fucking kids. He slammed the phone down. 

‘NOICE.’ Chloe thought. 

Tommy held on to Mary’s hand. Looking around he was quiet now, he knew he was safe!  

It was a Tuesday, there were few guests in. Why she had to start at seven Chloe never knew. Yes, she really loved her job. 

Peter asked if she would give him the room number, but of course she wouldn’t, would she.  

Privacy you know. 

Yes, always bloody privacy. ‘Fuck to privacy,’ he thought.  

She tried the number again. It rang and rang, she was about to cut off when a tired sounding voice answered. 

Hello. 

Good morning. Sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if you have a little boy who could be staying with you?  

Jean Anderson had got up far too early, but it had to happen. She looked around the room, her husband and son had both gone out, she knew that.  

Er, yes, I have a son, Tommy. He’s out with his dad.

Chloe whispered to Peter. He turned around and called out gently.  

Tommy.  

The little boy turned around, yes he was Tommy right enough. Chloe smiled, well a little, cracking through her heavily made-up face, fake eyelashes fluttering.  

He’d gone out with his dad, apparently. 

His dad, eh, answered Peter. He bent down to the little boy. 

Tommy, where’s your daddy?  

He hadn’t expected a response. Tommy thought, then looked at him, Peter was a weird creature in his eyes. 

Cock, glot, cock glot! 

‘Hell, what does that mean?’ thought Peter. Chloe was still on the phone. 

Yes, we’re pretty sure it’s your son Mrs Anderson. 

Where’s his bastard of a father then? 

Sorry Mrs Anderson, I think you’d better come down. 

Give me five minutes. 

She dropped the phone. Jean had watched Tommy from across the road, just to make sure, it was a little cruel, but all for a good cause. 

Peter’s mobile rang. He looked at the screen, it was the police, responding to his earlier message. They were only two minutes away, nothing was far from anywhere in Port Douglas. 

The lift dinged, and Tommy’s mother walked swiftly out through the doors. Tommy looked at her, then ran up and pushed his head into her skirt. She rubbed his hair, vigorously. 

Oh Tommy, what’s happened? 

D,d,d,d,coc.dd cok, he answered. She looked at the others. 

Where did you find him? 

I’m Peter, this is my wife, Mary. It had been a difficult morning! 

Oh sorry. Yes of course. I’m Jean, Tommy’s mum of course.  

She spoke quietly, a tear forming in her eyes, holding the hand of her little boy. The three of them stood there, immobile, conversation stunted. 

I’ve called the police, mumbled Peter.  

God, I wonder what’s happened, maybe he, well I don’t know, can’t guess. 

There was a noise. Two police officers appeared at the door. 

He was running along the pavement, down past the marina. We were walking back home, usually go that way.  

Mary was telling Jean what had happened. The sergeant stepped forward. 

He was tall, slender as a pole, mid-forties, with the assertiveness that time in the force can give you, short cropped hair, confident.  

Good morning, everyone, I’m Senior Sergeant Curtis Morris, I’m here with Constable Noemie Francisca. I believe sir you must be Peter Forrester, you left a message this morning. He turned looking at him, a little too closely for Peter’s liking, he had an aversion to uniforms. 

Er yes, yes I did. It was about seven I think. 

So, sir, this little boy, you and your wife found him down Wharf Street, is that correct? 

Yes, he was running towards us, he sort of stopped when he saw us, nearly ran into Mary.  

Jean Anderson stood in the background, arm around her boy, this was a crucial day.

Any sign of my husband at all? She butted in. 

No, we didn’t see anything, I thought he may have gone to the toilet or something, and Tommy here had run off, but I don’t think so, not now. Mary mumbled. 

Two more people came into the reception, it was getting crowded. Chloe, forever concerned about Chloe, wondered who the new bastards were. She’d bought a double shot latte at Sparrows, a daily routine, and looked forward to it when she got in, but now it was getting cold, she hated cold coffee. 

Look, we’d better continue this at the station, the quicker we can get on to this the better. Tommy and his mother can come with us. The car’s outside, you know where the station is don’t you, Mr. Forrester? 

Yes, of course, we’re locals, we can walk over. 

Ok thanks, see you there. 

With that, the young female constable gathered up Tommy and his mother. It was her first month out of college, what a bloody great posting, it was like winning the police transfer lottery.  

Noemie was beginning to enjoy life, Noemie, the French variation of the biblical Hebrew name Naomi, which means ‘good, pleasant, lovely, winsome’. She had changed her name a little, she was now French and not Jewish, yes she liked it better that way.  

Now this could be interesting. At last, real action for this small, stocky, young, and inexperienced, woman. She was feeling very important inside the uniform, weighed down with hardware, which she hoped she never had to use.

4 

At the station they sat in the one and only interview room. Tommy was unusually quiet. He could be a noisy child, and he sat with his mother whilst taking it all in, wearing the senior sergeant's hat which hung over his eyes. He was asked questions by the female constable, but all they got was,  

D,d,d,cloc,cock. D d d d ba cloc cok cuk. 

That’s something about his dad, maybe a ball? They usually take the ball with them, it helps tire him out, Tommy, that is.  

Jean was looking smart in her Lorna Jane training gear.  

Noemie jumped up and went out to the other room, she brought back a small soccer ball. 

Tommy’s eyes lit up! 

Baaaaabaaaaabaa. 

That means ball, said Jean. 

Baaaaaabaaabaaa cod cod croc co….. 

What did he say then, Mrs. Anderson? 

Well, nothing, just the ball….. 

Could he have meant croc? 

Cwok ccccwok, baaaabababab kwoc. Shouted Tommy. 

Maybe, he does try to imitate speech, but surely you don’t believe it could be a croc? No don’t say that! 

I doubt it Mrs. Anderson, but of course I don’t know what’s happened, and well, where did Tommy come from? Did he run away?

But why, why would he do that? Jean was sounding a little exasperated. 

I have no idea, but what we must do is find your husband. Anything could have happened, but here in Port, this time of the day, hell, normally there’s not much happening. 

Peter and Mary were sitting in on the conversation. Peter was trying to avoid eye contact, he just wanted to piss off out of there! 

Hey Mary, did you hear someone shouting, I think I did, thought it might have been at the marina. Her husband was staring at her. 

Yes, maybe, it sounded like one person. It may even have come from a boat in the Inlet. I’m really not sure, it sounded a fair way away. 

That was where Tommy was running from when he ran into you wasn’t it, down the yacht club end of Wharf Street. 

That’s right, the poor little fella was pretty puffed when he got to us. 

Thank goodness you were there, Jean jumped in. 

He wouldn’t normally run off would he Mrs. Anderson? asked the sergeant. 

No more than any other kid I suppose. 

And his dad often took him out in the morning? 

Yes he did, most days when he could. 

Noemie, get onto the Mantra, make sure that receptionist calls us if Tommy’s dad turns up. She probably wouldn’t think about it otherwise. 

I’ll do that now, sir. She left the room, and was getting a little excited…drama at Port! 

You know Harry would never leave his boy alone, not unless he had no choice. This is really bizarre, said Jean. 

Ok, not his usual behaviour. I mean he’s never done anything like this before, your husband I mean. 

No, never, he dotes on Tommy, doesn’t he Tommy?  

Jean looked across at him, tiny under the large hat. Tommy acted as though he’d never heard a thing, possibly hadn’t. 

If he hasn’t made it back to the hotel, we should take a quick drive around town. Maybe he got lost, had an accident, or whatever. If we don’t find him we’ll have a walk along Wharf Street, and take Tommy with us, that could help. 

Noemie came back into the room. 

Sorry sir, still nothing at the Mantra. There’s only one way in, and that’s through the reception. There’s no sign of him, sir. 

Thanks Noemie. We’re going for a drive around, I want you to stay at the station. Mr. and Mrs. Forrester, thank you for all you’ve done, you have been most helpful. I will let you know if anything eventuates. Oh, and before you go, would you mind leaving your details, that would be great, thanks. 

Of course officer, pleasure to be of help. Smiled Peter. 

‘Leave their fucking details, which bloody ones, certainly not the real ones?’ Peter had been keeping a low profile for the past year in Port Douglas, renting a beautiful, high priced, property. Except for the morning walk he seldom went out. 

When they left Mary turned to her husband. 

A bit weird, eh. I mean, what could have happened? Surely you wouldn’t get a croc in those mangroves would you? 

I’ve heard it’s their mating season. Apparently they get aggressive, move around a lot chasing the girls, but up by the road, I doubt it.

But don’t they catch the bigger ones and remove them? Still, a small one could do some damage, I suppose. 

Possibly, but not much I wouldn’t think. 

I felt sorry for that little boy. I wonder what’s wrong with him? 

Who the fuck knows? 

Peter’s name wasn’t Forrester, but it was close. He’d been concerned, but surely, no way he would be recognised, it had been too long. With that, they decided to call into Fresq for a coffee and something to eat, there had been too much excitement for one morning.  

Peter wondered if it could be time for them to be moving on, although he did like being in Port, it was a bloody good place. Still if they recognised him, he would need to disappear, and quickly.

5

The drive around town brought them nothing, so Curtis went and parked in the Yacht Club car park. They got out, Jean still clutching Tommy’s hand. 

Mrs Anderson, do you think Tommy could have meant croc, you know, back at the station. Tommy looked up at his mum, with a questioning look. 

You know Harry is terrified of crocodiles, I doubt if he’s even seen one, mind you he seems terrified of a lot of things. 

"Well, there’s too many far-fetched stories around, you really have Buckley’s chance of ever getting near one, or it getting near you. There would be no more than a few attacks in a year, and that’s usually way out bush.

But there are Crocodiles in the Inlet, they take a tourist boat up that way, don’t they? Asked Jean. 

Yes, but the crocs are quite small, I suppose it’s possible something bigger has moved into new territory, but I doubt it. 

It’s possible though isn’t it? Insisted Jean 

Yes, it’s certainly possible, but unlikely. 

The four of them walked out of the carpark. The young constable had come along, it was more excitement, and didn't happen too often to virgin Noemie.  

They walked out towards Wharf Street where the mangroves started. It was unusual to have them so close to a footpath, they were extremely dense, and loved their location. No one in their right mind would go in there, why would you?  

Tommy started pulling at his mother's hand, he was becoming agitated, and when they got close to the culvert Tommy started shouting out,  

Cockk cok clock mmmmmm clk. Jean looked at the police sergeant. 

The mmmmm that’s mummy. 

But I wonder what he saw, if he saw anything, certainly something may have happened. 

They got to where the water ran from under the road then into the creek, feeding from the drainage channel that ran along the other side of the road. Tommy stopped pulling. 

Daaaaaaaaa!!!!. He started screaming, Daaaaaadaaaaaaa!!!! 

They stopped and stared at the water, the tide had dropped a little, it was an eerie place. The channel disappeared in amongst the growth, and lying there, sitting on the water, was the remains of a ball. 

Oh shit, that ball belongs to Tommy. 

Now Curtis had a real problem, and that was the Rhizophora Mangle. It was bloody thick, muddy, waterlogged, and full of things that were out to get a bit of flesh. What the fuck should he do, what a bastard of a way to start a day, but he knew, and had to go down and retrieve the ball at least. But climbing down there amongst the water, the mud, and the undergrowth, he would be eaten alive, and would end up a mess. What he needed was a long-handled pool scoop, and knew where to get one. 

Curtis gave Craig a call at the Mediterranean Resort. He answered straight away, the man was never out of sight of his mobile. He asked him if he wouldn’t mind shooting down with his scoop, and hurry if he could, the resort was only a couple of minutes away. 

Craig thought it was unusual, but he was a friend of Curtis, they had ‘similar interests.’ 

He was there within seven minutes, a pool scoop eh, really, he wanted to know what was going on, Port Douglas was still a small town after all! 

The sergeant carefully made his way down the bank, the ball was tangled up in a couple of branches, he would have to cop the mozzies for now.  

In the end it wasn’t too difficult, he didn’t have to go into the water, and easily got the ball, it was half deflated. Dragging it back up to the pavement Tommy was watching intently. There was a 10 centimetre rip in it, tooth maybe thought Curtis. 

A few people had walked past, it isn’t the Australian way to stand and gawp, although they did love to sticky beak, and help if needed. 

Tommy was still holding his mother's hand, his eyes lit up when he got the ball. 

That’s the one isn’t it, Mrs. Anderson? Curtis was coated up to his knees in mud, it could have been worse. 

Mrs Anderson, er Jean, you’re here for a holiday, that right? 

Yes, only a few days, we’re staying until Friday. Harry, my husband, has to get back to work for the weekend. 

Look, obviously we don’t know what’s happened to Harry, there may be a simple answer, we don’t know, but we’ll go looking, I’m sure we’ll find him somewhere.

Curtis, he would never have let Tommy out of his sight, he truly loves our little boy, it’s bloody odd that’s all. 

Ok, I’ll give the Habitat a call, that’s a wildlife centre as you come into Port, those guys know this place better than I do. I’ll get started as soon as I can, then we’ll go in there and look around, you never know. 

Oh thanks, I really cannot guess what’s happened, and poor Tommy, thank goodness those good people found him.  

She looked down at her son, he stared up at her. 

Dddddd,coc,ddbbbbl,cos. His mother only wished she knew what he wanted to say. 

Although she could hazard a guess.

6

Senior Sergeant Curtis Morris was in a dilemma, he had to search the Mangroves, but would have to be careful, what if there was a croc around, unusual though it may be there was always that possibility. One thing he did know for sure, he couldn’t just go blundering in there, it was going to be a nightmare, and what if they found the man, or bits of him. It wasn’t worth thinking about, yet Harry Anderson had to be somewhere, the bastard wouldn’t just disappear, or would he? 

The search didn’t get underway until midday. 

Mangrove forest occurs in many of Australia’s coastal regions, and more than half of the world’s mangrove species are found in Australia, all he knew was that they can be more than a bastard. Curtis wished they weren’t in Queensland at all, because they are a real shit if you have to go in them, full of boot clinging mud, with thick tenacious roots growing in and around each other, entwined like lovers. 

They were also a haven for mosquitoes and other unknown bities, as well as enormous hungry and angry mud crabs, and this goes along with the odd crocodile or two.  

Being a cautious man, and through years of experience, Curtis wasn’t going anywhere without professional assistance, and proper clothing. The people from Habitat were only too happy to oblige, they were the local experts, at least that’s the impression they gave.  

The search team consisted of only the three of them, including Curtis. Word had gone out to the boats and fishers to keep a lookout for the man, or a large crocodile, it would be all over town by now amongst the pleasure seeking locals.  

By lunchtime the tide was a lot lower, it would make life easier, but they were all a little nervous about going in, especially as there was the remote possibility a killer croc was about. Curtis remembered a time ago when he was working out bush, the dying screams of a young Aboriginal boy who was missing a leg, as well part of his stomach, they tried to save him the poor bugger, but by the time the chopper got to him the loss of blood did him in. It was something he would never forget." 

7 

Jean had given Curtis a picture of Harry from her phone, clean shaven, smart, no tatt’s, it was from their wedding, he looked a little different now, but Curtis wasn’t aware of it.  

Tommy and his mum walked to the ice cream shop. Ice cream always seemed to calm Tommy, no medical reason, he merely loved ice cream, and if you’re going to die before you’re five why not have it when you can, because that is all the time they had given him at the very most, he could well be dead before he even reached five. 

They were sitting outside, a beautiful sunny day, which wasn’t unusual for Port Douglas. Harry and Jean had become used to avoiding people, no one ever tried to understand their little boy, he was difficult yes, but he shouldn’t be treated as a pariah. She sat watching him, he was smiling, his face covered with strawberry.  

Oh Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, she whispered,  

If only we can save you.  

She had started to cry, and wondered how many times she’d done this. Once upon a time she had never been a crier, and Joan wondered about fairness in the world, and knew there wasn’t any, not really. She had been in a depressive fugue ever since the day Tommy had been born. 

‘Thank you, God,’ she’d murmured more than once, she knew there wasn’t any God to help them, or Tommy.  

It was all up to her and Harry, and Harry was missing.

8

Nice day for a search eh, Curtis? 

Rory, the so-called Croc expert, was waiting at the car park. He’d worked at the ‘Habitat’ for many years,