Australian Secrets

But if she’d known she’d be traipsing up and down stairs she would have selected more sensible shoes – certainly not the chocolate Ballys with the five inch heels.

Oh well, too late now. Nicola sighed and brushed a few escaped blonde strands from her cheek.

There were a few sidelong glances from her fellow passengers: some admiring her well-turned-out presence; others trying to work out just where they recognised her from. Dark Gucci sunglasses kept her identity a mystery.

She wasn’t trying to be incognito; she still hadn’t sufficiently recovered from last night’s dinner – a fundraiser at the zoo – to contemplate naked eyes. And she certainly did not need crows’ feet spoiling her smooth television face.

After a few moments she was handed her suitcase from where it had been stowed under the bus. It was the only one; everyone else seemed to just have cabin luggage.

‘Now if you’ll just follow me, folks, staying within the yellow lines for safety,’ called the gentle, cheery voice of the baby-faced pilot as he led the way. His name badge read Mark.

Nicola glanced around. The little group made its way around the bus to where a number of aircraft, large and small, were parked. Pairs of yellow lines showed the way to each craft. Nicola looked along their particular set to see where they were heading.

Shit! It was one of the really small ones. Her heart began racing. Her feet stopped short and her mouth dropped open. Someone’s carry-on bumped the back of her right knee and she would have been sent toppling if a man hadn’t grabbed her by the elbow.

The other five passengers pushed past, bumping her like a buoy amongst whitecaps.

‘You okay?’ mumbled the stranger by her side.

Nicola lifted a long, lightly tanned hand and pointed a clear varnished nail. The solitaire diamond on her ring finger sent rainbow arrows across the barren pavement. She tried to speak but it was as though her jaws had locked open.

‘It’s … it’s … a Piper Chieftain.’

‘Could be, I wouldn’t know,’ was the reply.

‘Come on, folks.’

About fifteen feet away, the young, crisp-shirted pilot was efficiently ushering the other passengers up the flimsy foldout steps and into the plane.

Nicola’s four-hundred-dollar heels felt glued to the sweltering tarmac.

‘I know she looks small but, trust me, she’s solid as a rock,’ the pilot urged.

Nicola was damn sure she didn’t like the idea of a small plane being ‘solid as a rock’. The last thing she wanted was to be crossing two shark-infested gulfs strapped to a rock.

The pilot checked his watch. ‘Look, we really have to get going. You’re either coming with me or you’re not.’

Nicola pictured Bill becoming purple with rage upon hearing he’d lost an airfare from his already stretched budget.

‘You’ll be fine. I understand small planes are a lot scarier than big ones, but trust me, I haven’t lost one yet.’

Yes, but I lost both my parents in one just like this – and on the same route.

She felt like sitting down and having a good cry. ‘For Christ’s sake; it was four years ago, get a grip,’ she heard her inner voice say.

On the inside of the tiny bubble windows, the other passengers were twisting in their seats and peering out. They all had places they were trying to get to. And the poor pilot had a schedule to keep.

The coroner’s report on flight 519 had told of the enormous pressure pilot Matt Berkowitz had been under. One of the criticisms of SAR Airlines was their tight turnaround times; schedules which were at times barely possible to make without factoring in delays due to booking problems – another thing pilots were expected to deal with.

While the coroner wasn’t prepared to say these tight turnaround times contributed to the accident, it was stated that the young pilot of flight 519 took off almost eight minutes late.

Having already been raked over the coals for being late the week before, and threatened with losing his job as a result, he was under considerable pressure to make up the time.

Nicola had no desire to put that same burden onto this young man, who was probably the same age.

‘Right,’ she said, gritting her teeth and jerking her large trolley case forward.

She was sweating; soon her suit would be ruined.

‘I’ll take that – it’s too big to go inside,’ the pilot said, nodding at Nicola’s suitcase. Nicola pushed down the handle, left it where it was, and scrambled up the narrow steps. She half-expected him to pat her behind; he seemed that sort of guy.

The interior of the plane was even smaller than it looked from the ground.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered to her fellow passengers, waiting patiently to get to wherever they were going.

Sympathetic smiles followed her to her allocated seat, not the arctic stares and exasperated sighs she expected.

She sat, snapped the heavy ends of her seatbelt together and pulled the strap tight. She then checked under the seat for the life jacket the coroner had insisted be added to these flights since the tragedy. Good. She sat back again.

Outside her tiny perspex window, the first engine spluttered and sneezed and finally the propeller flicked back and forth then became a blur of spinning metal. The second engine went through the same procedure. The whole cabin vibrated as the engines were revved. Talking would be difficult; Nicola could barely hear herself think.

Fighting to ease her gasping breaths, she looked across at her neighbour. The stranger beside her offered a sympathetic smile, then the sick bag, indicating her to put it to her mouth and breathe into it slowly and deeply.

The other passengers were busily inspecting safety cards and complimentary magazines, and seemed not to notice her.

She tried to listen to the safety instructions, but could barely make them out over the sound of the engines.

If she wasn’t so terrified she might have been amused at being told to keep her belt fastened when seated; there was no toilet to visit, and no aisle to stroll.

Sitting there in the same make and model of plane, waiting to fly the same route, and – shit! – at the exact same time, Nicola wondered how Paul and Ruth must have felt. But of course they were off on holidays; would have been chattering excitedly about what they expected to do and see. They wouldn’t have had a clue about their impending demise – thank God.

If only she’d insisted on leaving the office early to take them to the airport. But they hadn’t wanted to burden her; said a taxi was a lot less hassle. They had agreed to let her pick them up on the Sunday night, but of course it wasn’t to be.

Her last words to her parents had been: ‘Have fun, love you!’ She couldn’t imagine how people lived with the guilt of their last exchange with a loved one being a fight.

When Nicola heard about the anonymous letters the ATSB had received regarding SAR Airlines, she knew there was a major story to be told. While nothing would bring back Paul and Ruth and the other six who had perished, she owed it to them to at least learn the truth. If not, what was the point of having a journalist in the family?

She’d been prepared for Bill to refuse her request to lead the investigation, on the grounds that she was too close, too emotional, and not objective enough. Instead he agreed.

Had he seen something in her as a journalist or just understood that the best thing she could do for everyone was be at the heart of the story, no matter how painful? It no longer mattered.

It had taken all of her strength to sit and listen to the pilot’s transmissions, knowing her parents had done the same for a full five minutes before the eerily calm mayday call was issued. For weeks she’d had nightmares about them frantically searching under their seats for life jackets that weren’t there; being plunged into icy, shark-infested water at over two hundred kilometres an hour; and finally, the hopeless struggle to survive while calling to searchers overhead who couldn’t see or hear them.

Four years on, it still made Nicola shudder to think about.

As the plane jerked and rolled forward, she felt her neighbour’s hand give a squeeze, or maybe it was an attempt to regain some blood flow. She offered an embarrassed grimace and released the hand. To her further dismay, Nicola realised her good Samaritan was around her age and decidedly attractive.

Even more frigging embarrassing! Without making it too obvious, she snatched another look at the biggest, brownest eyes and possibly the longest lashes she’d ever seen. Wow, and those strong, tanned arms disappearing into rolled up blue and white striped shirt sleeves … Yum.

Jesus, Nicola, stop it!

She quickly stuffed the sick bag in the seat pocket in front, noting the length of his legs as she did, and set about studying the emergency card again.

Damn it; she could just kill Bill for putting her in this situation.

Maybe he thought she’d dealt with everything and had sufficiently moved on; perhaps he had no idea she was booked on a Piper Chieftain.

Or could it be his fatherly way of shoving her over the cliff to really get on with her life? Bill was perceptive when it came to human emotion – the main reason he’d been an award-winning journalist himself.

One thing was for sure; she’d definitely need a couple of weeks of massage and pampering after this.

Nicola watched the large jets taxi past the end of the runway while their pilot patiently waited, flicking switches, poking buttons and muttering into the headset in a tone that couldn’t be heard over the bone-penetrating drone of the engines.

Suddenly she wished she’d told Scott she loved him when she’d rung him to say goodbye; both rarely uttered the words these days. When had he last said them? When had she?

Nicola closed her eyes and gritted her teeth until her jaw ached.

And then the vibration beneath her feet ceased and her stomach did a weightless lurch. They were finally airborne. The houses got smaller and smaller below them and then they were suddenly out over water – Gulf St Vincent. The dark blue was littered with whitecaps.

The little craft bobbed and twisted, throwing them against their seatbelts.

‘Sorry folks, bit of a crosswind,’ came the voice over the loudspeaker.

‘See, not so bad, eh. All safe and sound,’ the man beside her said, winking.

As Nicola alighted from the hatch onto the first step, the pilot said, ‘Thanks for flying Air SA.’

Outside the plane Nicola’s legs were not cooperating. She stopped and tried to stretch the cricks from her neck and back before trying to walk.

She took a deep breath of the brisk, fresh air coming straight off the nearby sea. The salt was instantly noticeable in her mouth. It made her thirsty. She hated to think of what it was doing to her hair’s perfect body and shine.

Theirs was the only plane in the harsh white light of the terminal.

None of the passengers spoke and the only voice was that of the pilot uttering, ‘Watch your step – thanks for flying Air SA,’ as each passenger alighted behind her.

His voice had an obvious country drawl to it now, so different from the official tone reeling off safety instructions back in Adelaide.

Nicola, after a lifetime devoted to people-watching, recognised it at once. Pilot Mark might have been in the city at private school for a couple of years to get the grades for aviation and a plummy voice for the right circumstance, but he was never going to settle there. The lad was country country.

‘Thanks,’ Nicola replied. ‘I really appreciate it.’ She tried for a friendly smile, but was so intent on willing her legs to regain their feeling that it came out as a pained grimace.

‘Life’s too short – don’t stress so much,’ he offered kindly.

‘Too true,’ Nicola muttered, finally summoning the grin she was after.

They wandered the fifty metres over to the cream brick building where eager faces peered from backlit windows, searching for friends, relatives and business associates.

After settling into her room, Nicola planned to have a long soak in a steaming bath before ringing Scott – and this time she’d remember to say she loved him.

Standing by the counter of Brown’s Rentals, Nicola fished her mobile from her pocket and turned it on while absently watching the tarmac goings-on.

A short, fat attendant was hauling the trolley piled with luggage back towards the building, a small fuel tanker was driving across to the plane, and Pilot Mark was striding purposefully about, green clipboard tucked under his arm.

Suddenly her stomach grumbled, reminding her how little food she’d had that day and the unhealthy choices made since the awards night. What a whirlwind it had been.

She was a little disappointed – but at the same time grateful – that local media hadn’t turned up. She could just imagine the caption below an unflattering grainy black and white image: Nicola Harvey, Life and Times – Needing Her Own Makeover.

‘Someone picking you up, or can I call you a cab?’ Mark enquired, stopping next to her.

‘Yes, a Mister Brown from Brown’s Rentals. I’m driving to Nowhere Else – an hour away according to this,’ she said, reading from the printed itinerary Bill’s assistant had provided.

‘That’ll be Bob – he’ll be here any minute. We were a touch early. I’ll wait with you, if you like.’

‘Thanks but that’s not necessary – I can always call a cab or stay the night in town.’

‘Public phone’s out of order.’

‘That’s okay, I’ve got a mobile.’

‘Take extra care on the road; there are bound to be roos about – they graze at night.’

‘Okay, I’ll be sure to keep a good look out,’ Nicola said, thinking that she couldn’t take much more care than trying to navigate unknown dark country roads in an unfamiliar vehicle. She checked herself; she was being tired and snippy. He was just being friendly.

They lapsed into silence. Mark shifted from one foot to the other. She listened to the sounds of the country – the thick, eerie silence punctuated by the howls of dogs and hum of traffic on a distant highway.

‘This must be him now,’ Mark finally said, nodding to his right. She followed his gaze towards two sets of bobbing lights negotiating the speed humps and winding course of the car park.

The first vehicle to halt in front of them was a four-wheel-drive wagon that looked slightly outdated with its squarish profile. At least she’d have half a chance in an accident. A burly man in bulging workman blue overalls got out and strode over.

He introduced himself and went over the particulars of the vehicle, and then showed her how to flick the lights between low and high beam, how to adjust the mirrors, and where the horn was –’in case there’s a roo sitting in the road or something.’

God, how bad was the roo population? Was she even safe driving? Should she stay the night in Port Lincoln? No, she was expected in Nowhere Else; if she didn’t arrive tonight and someone phoned Bill – the other name on the booking – all hell would break loose.

‘Know where you’re going? Just follow the signs,’ he added. Not waiting for an answer, he pulled open the back door, tossed her suitcase inside and slammed it shut. He then gave her a wave and walked to the small hatchback idling behind.

As Nicola got into the four-wheel-drive, she wondered how she would manage this huge tank after her sleek little convertible. Feeling self-conscious with the other car still behind her, she searched for the seat levers and made herself as comfortable as she could.

A far cry from her leather seats, she thought, grinding her bum back and forth to get a better position. She adjusted her mirrors, pulled her seatbelt over her shoulder, put the vehicle in gear, and drove slowly from the curb.

Chapter Eight

Nicola was still chuckling at the Welcome To Nowhere Else sign at the edge of town when she came across the Hotel Motel. She steered the vehicle into the large gravelled parking area, turned it off, and got out. Her legs were a little stiff after the drive, and she was exhausted from concentrating so hard on the unfamiliar road.

Her Ballys protested at the gravel. She struggled to get traction, and with every step, cringed at the thought of what the sharp stones were doing to her precious heels. Damn not changing into something more appropriate for the drive; they were comfortable, but not that comfortable. If they were ruined, Bill would have to pay for their replacement, she thought with a huff as she finally stepped onto solid pavement and rounded the corner to find an impressive stone façade stretching above and away from her.

To the left was a door – the top half glass, the bottom half shiny aluminium. Across the glass in large gold letters were the words Front Bar. Surrounding the doorway was old red brickwork, and above that, carved into the stone, the date – 1883. There’s something really lovely about old stone, Nicola thought as she cast her eyes back over the building.

Now she saw the main entrance, flanked by large glass panels. The place had definitely had a nineteen-sixties makeover.

Oh well, the good with the bad; at least the sixties had seen ensuites added to most hotel rooms. The thought of traipsing down a long passageway to use a shared loo made her shudder.

Nicola tried to push the door forwards before realising there was a sticker saying Pull. She suddenly felt a whole lot more tired. The stress of the journey had obviously caught up with her; the sooner she got settled into her room and ran a bath the better.

She stood on red and black carpet in front of the reception desk. A label next to a plastic black and white doorbell read Press If Unattended.

It was unattended, but Nicola thought she’d give whoever it was a minute or two – she was probably being viewed on a monitor somewhere anyway.

On the wall behind the desk was a large blackboard with a menu scrawled on it in white chalk. Nicola’s mouth began to water as she quickly read through the list of entrees and light offerings and then the cuts of steak and varieties of seafood and fish – all with chips and salad or chips and veg.

She’d planned to call into a fast food outlet to break her journey, and wouldn’t have believed anyone if they’d told her there wouldn’t be one McDonald’s, KFC, or Hungry Jack’s along the way.

God, I’m starving, she thought, staring at the menu. I really should have something light – soup or a salad, or even the bruschetta. But her gaze kept being drawn back to the t-bone.

When she looked back down she found a lanky teenage girl with glossy but slightly limp mid-brown hair standing in front of her. The girl wore a navy blue polo top with an image of the building’s facade and the words Nowhere Else Hotel Motel printed in white over her small left breast.

‘T-bone, mushrooms, chips and salad – medium rare,’ Nicola blurted, barely giving the lass a chance to open her mouth.

The girl blushed. ‘Sorry, but the kitchen’s closed,’ she said.

‘It can’t be,’ Nicola whined, and had to consciously stop herself from stamping her feet in protest.

The girl, whose name tag read Tiffany, shrugged apologetically and said, ‘Kitchen closes at nine.’

‘But it’s only ten past,’ Nicola protested.

‘Sorry. You can get snacks and toasted sandwiches in the front bar,’ she said, pointing back towards the door Nicola had come in.

Nicola wanted to beat her fist on the faded West End bar towel and tell this kid just who she was – none other than Nicola Harvey – yes, the Nicola Harvey of Life and Times and Walkley fame.

‘Is there another restaurant in town? Maybe a café, hotel?’

‘No, this is it. Hey, you’re Nicola Harvey, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am,’ Nicola grinned, suddenly brightening. So the girl did recognise her.

‘Was beginning to wonder if you’d show.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I’ve got you in room eight …’

Nicola realised she’d forgotten all about checking in.

‘It’s all paid for; just sign this and I’ll take you to your room,’ Tiffany said, pushing a clipboard under her nose. ‘Just the date and your signature is all we need.’

Nicola fleetingly thought Tiffany should be asking for an imprint of her credit card for mini-bar purchases too – a bag of chips in her room for tea was looking likely – but didn’t have the energy to point out her error.

‘Where have you parked?’

‘In the car park around the side – is that okay?’

‘Perfect. Where’s your luggage?’

‘Still in the car – I can get it later.’ The words were half-hearted; the last thing she felt like doing when she finally got settled into her warm, cosy room was to have to come back out again. Where was a porter when you needed one?

‘We can do a bit of a detour and collect it on the way if you like – save you the extra effort.’

‘Thanks, that’d be good,’ Nicola said, beaming at the girl and feeling a wave of gratitude.

Tiffany came out from behind the counter, strode to the front door and held it open. It took Nicola a few moments to catch up.

‘I can’t walk in heels – well, not ones that high,’ Tiffany said, staring down at Nicola’s feet.

‘I don’t seem to be able to either now,’ Nicola said with a pained smile. She was suddenly aware of just how sore her feet were – the soles were burning and she could no longer feel her toes.

Nicola followed Tiffany outside and around to the four-wheel-drive as quickly as she could, grateful for the girl not showing the least sign of frustration with her slow pace.

Tiffany didn’t let out so much as one exasperated sigh when Nicola spent ages fossicking in her handbag for the keys, only to realise she’d put them in the pocket of her suit jacket. Finally they wrestled her suitcase from the back.

‘Round the back here – you can also get to your room through the pub,’ Tiffany said, leading the way.

They rounded the corner of the hotel and Nicola stopped when she saw that surrounding her were not quaint old stone outbuildings but something that looked more like the concrete ablution block in a caravan park.

Two things told her the expanse of beige concrete was in fact motel accommodation: the black plastic numbers on a series of regularly spaced mission-brown doors, and the net curtains visible in the aluminium framed windows. She was careful not to show her disappointment; it wasn’t Tiffany’s fault – it was bloody Bill’s!

At least it didn’t look like the building was made from asbestos; thank God for small mercies. And the way she was feeling, she didn’t care what the bed felt like as long as she could take these bloody shoes off and get out of the suit that was now starting to feel stifling.

Anyway, it’s what’s inside that counts, Nicola reminded herself, wheeling her suitcase along the concrete path.

‘Here we are,’ Tiffany said, putting the key in the lock beside the number 8 and throwing open the door. Turning back she added, ‘You can get back into the pub from that door over there – see?’

Nicola followed her pointing finger and nodded.

‘Breakfast is from seven to ten. I’ll leave you to it.’

Nicola watched her make her way towards the back door of the hotel, which she now noticed was almost identical to the entrance at the front.

She closed the door behind her, dumped her bags and looked around the room. It was like the set of a low-budget porno: a sagging bed covered with a faux patchwork quilt, a white vinyl studded bedhead, and a dusty plastic floral arrangement glued into a vase on the TV.

Her nose twitched. The obnoxious scent of cheap rose deodorising spray unsuccessfully masked the odour of stale cigarette smoke.

She summoned the courage to check out the bathroom, and with fingers crossed, slowly pushed the sliding door aside.

Vitreous china, the colour of caramel, was the only plain colour amid a sea of cream tiles with a fancy geometric design that was probably meant to be floral but to Nicola looked more like fuzzy monsters top to tail with their mouths open, screaming. God, she’d go mad if she stared at that too long!