Maralinga Part 20

She gave him a dazzling smile. 'Marilyn.'

Of course, he thought.

Marilyn turned out to be fun. 'You're a military man, aren't you?'

'How can you tell?'

'Easy. I always know. It's the body language. I'm a singer myself.'

'Really? Where do you sing?'

'Here.'

Five minutes later, the pianist beckoned her over.

'Do you mind if I take Bella some champagne?' she asked, picking up the bottle and her own full gla.s.s.

'Of course not.' He smiled. 'I'll get us another one, shall I?'

'Lovely.'

As she crossed to the piano, he signalled the waitress. The previous bottle would go missing, and Marilyn would probably empty her gla.s.s into the lavatory or whatever else the girls did to get rid of the stuff it was all part of the game. This was how the club made its money.

The rendition of 'Baby It's Cold Outside', which Marilyn sang as a duet with the pianist, was pure Monroe in every sense. From the breathy tone to the heavy-lidded eyes, the pout and the wiggle of the hips, Marilyn had her namesake to a tee.

'Sentimental Journey' followed in exactly the same vein, and then she returned to the table.

He applauded her as she sat. 'Excellent,' he said, and she beamed.

He poured her a wine from the fresh bottle the waitress had delivered.

'I'm sorry, I seem to have lost my gla.s.s,' she said.

'No matter, the girl brought you another one.' He toasted her with his Scotch. 'You're a very good singer,' he said. Presuming she wished to be perceived as original, he carefully avoided any reference to Marilyn Monroe.

'You'll like the next songs even more,' she promised. 'They're my specialty.'

The next songs turned out to be 'Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend' and 'The River of No Return'. There was obviously no need to avoid the subject of Marilyn.

'She's my idol. I based myself on her.'

'Yes, I had noticed the similarity.'

A breathy laugh of delight.

They talked and drank, and then they danced, and he bought her supper, and then they talked some more, or rather Marilyn did. She was an excellent conversationalist. It was her job, she said. First and foremost she was a singer, but she was also expected to entertain the customers. It would hardly be fair, would it, to scoff the food and champagne and not offer some form of conversation? She believed in giving good value for money. Marilyn's honesty was disarming. She was really Edie Smith from Mount Barker, she told him, but for show business purposes she'd decided to become Marilyn. 'I'm so good at it now that Marilyn's taken over and I've forgotten who Edie Smith is,' she said with another breathy laugh.

She was intriguing and amusing and Nick was enjoying her company. He looked forward to the s.e.x, but for the moment her presence was enough. He'd missed being with a woman.

Nick Stratton had made it a rule to avoid the complications of relations.h.i.+ps. He'd come close only once to marriage. He'd been stationed in Seoul, and she'd been a cipher clerk in the intelligence unit of the US army, a captain by rank. Theirs had been a pa.s.sionate affair. He'd wanted very much to marry Jennifer, or so he'd thought at the time. But, as it had turned out, they'd proved too alike. 'Face it, Nick,' Jenny had said, 'we're both married to the army.' She'd refused to give up her career and, when the war was over, she'd returned to America. Nick was rather grateful for the fact now. He'd had the odd casual affair since then, but for the most part he was happy to keep his s.e.xual liaisons on a cash basis. He found it simplified things.

'Do you want to come back to my hotel, Marilyn?' he asked as she finished the last of her creme caramel. The supper had run to three courses.

'My place would be better,' she said, 'it's not very far.'

'Fine.' He pulled out his wallet, about to settle the bill.

'I can't leave yet though. I have another bracket.' She smiled apologetically. 'Is midnight all right?'

He looked at his watch an hour to go. Of course, he thought, it would be a house rule that the girls stayed until midnight, ensuring the management sold its quota of suppers and champagne. It also explained why the place had suddenly become busy. Men purely after s.e.x had only one hour of club prices before leaving with the girl of their choice.

'Sure,' he said. 'Shall I get another bottle?'

'Lovely.'

In the taxi on the way to her nearby flat, she kissed him, sensually, provocatively, a promise of what was to come, and Nick was instantly aroused. It had been a long time.

As they undressed each other, he saw in the light of the bedside lamp that she was a good deal older than she'd appeared in the club late thirties, certainly. Not that it turned out to matter at all. The s.e.x was excellent. Just as Marilyn gave good value at supper, so she also gave good value in bed.

But when it was over, Nick realised they hadn't discussed what that value was. She hadn't quoted him a price, and he'd stupidly not asked. He lay looking up at the ceiling for a moment or so, recovering his breath, while she lay panting beside him. She had probably faked her o.r.g.a.s.m, he thought, but if so she was a very good actress. He could have sworn her pa.s.sion was real, which had made the experience so much more enjoyable.

'Oh, that was so good,' she said, stretching luxuriantly and sounding for all the world as though she meant it.

'It certainly was,' he agreed.

He climbed from the bed and started to dress. Discussing business was always more comfortable with one's clothes on.

She sat up, the sheet demurely clutched about her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and watched him.

'Thank you for the supper and champagne,' she said. 'I enjoyed your company very much. I really did.'

'The feeling's mutual.'

It was as if they'd been out on a date, he thought. She was making it very difficult for him to ask how much. Easier to leave a present, he decided he'd met women before who preferred to ignore any form of transaction had taken place. He took a ten-pound note from his wallet and slid it tastefully under the statuette of the ballerina that sat on the mantelpiece. He expected her to pretend not to notice, but she didn't pretend at all.

'How generous,' she said, as if it was the most unexpected gift in the world. 'Thank you,' and she blew him a kiss.

'My pleasure. Bye, Marilyn.'

As Nick left, he was vaguely aware that the evening had cost him close to a week's wages, but for some strange reason he didn't feel as if he'd been taken advantage of.

Edie Smith from Mount Barker played the game her own way. She vetted her clients with great care. Sometimes she told them an element of truth, as she had tonight, and sometimes she invented a whole new tale to keep a customer entertained throughout supper. But she only ever went home with those she considered gentlemen, and preferably gentlemen she fancied she enjoyed s.e.x. Edie was content with her singer's wage and club commission, she wasn't interested in chasing a trick a night. And she never quoted a price because there was no need. The standard 'short time' rate most of the girls at the club charged was five pounds, and her gentlemen invariably came up with twice that amount. She considered it extremely generous on top of the outlay they'd made on champagne and supper. But Edie knew she was worth it. She'd given excellent value for money. They'd scored Marilyn Monroe, no less.

Back at the hotel, Nick managed four hours' sleep before showering and catching a taxi to the airport. He felt a little seedy after too many Scotches, it was true, but he also felt a whole lot better.

Around the same time Nick's taxi arrived at the airport, Gideon Melbray and his team pulled up at Watson railway station. They'd left Maralinga before dawn to meet the train delivery that was due early that morning.

Gideon climbed out from the pa.s.senger side, ostensibly to stretch his legs, but really to escape the young private who'd been driving the Land Rover. He wished the transport corps had supplied him with Daniel. For G.o.d's sake, he thought, it's too early in the morning doesn't this boy ever shut up?

Nineteen-year-old Toby also climbed out still chatting away in his thick Manchester accent, but Gideon ignored him. Behind them, the two Bedford trucks pulled up and Gideon gave them a wave. He couldn't wait to be relieved of Toby's relentless company.

'Do you have any toilet paper?' As it turned out, Toby was seeking relief of his own although even a lavatory break seemed to warrant a chat. 'I should have gone at the barracks before we left,' he said, 'but I didn't feel the urge.' He caught the roll of toilet paper Gideon tossed to him. 'And I didn't want to cause any delay, what with the convoy and all '

'Shovel's in the back,' Gideon said.

Toby hefted out the shovel and slung it over his shoulder. 'I shan't be long,' he said and he headed off towards the clump of trees 100 yards or so away.

'Take your time.' Gideon called after him.

Barely twenty yards from the trees, Toby faltered. He was sure he could hear growling up ahead low, threatening growls coming from the mallee grove. Then he saw the animal emerge, a big, rangy, mangy, yellow roo dog one of the fettlers' beasts. It trotted clear of the trees with what appeared to be a hambone in its mouth and, just ten yards from him, settled down to gnaw at it. But as Toby watched the animal warily, he noticed that it wasn't a hambone at all. It was a human forearm, complete with wrist.w.a.tch.

He dropped the shovel. The bile rose in his throat, his whole stomach heaved, and seconds later his breakfast lay spewed on the ground. Then he was running back towards the convoy, yelling and gesticulating wildly. 'Oy! Oy!'

The men turned to see the gawky lad from Manchester bearing down on them, arms flailing ridiculously like a demented bird, the forgotten roll of toilet paper still in his hand. What the h.e.l.l had happened?

Gideon beckoned to one of the soldiers and together they raced to meet him. If it was a case of snakebite then the boy was mad to run like that it would only pump the venom more quickly through his system. But they quickly realised it wasn't a case of snake-bite. Toby was babbling something about a human arm and a dog, and he was pointing back where he'd come from.

They could see the dog. Gideon told Toby to return to the convoy, and he and the soldier went forward to investigate. Sure enough, it was true. The dog was chewing on a human arm. The limb was white and in the early stages of decomposition, but Gideon was pretty sure he knew whose arm it was.

Beside him, the soldier gestured towards the trees up ahead, and Gideon nodded. He, too, could hear the sound of growling. He picked up the shovel and held it at the ready as they walked towards the grove of mallee trees.

The sight that greeted them was a gruesome one. Three roo dogs were feeding on the remains of a human corpse. Dingoes had exposed a shallow grave during the night, and in the early hours of the morning the dogs had picked up the scent and come in for their share. The animals were displaying little aggression towards one another the growls were more a warning to outsiders. A clearly established pecking order existed amongst the fettlers' dogs, and each knew its place. The pack leader was feeding on the carca.s.s at the graveside, and the two subordinates were well clear, with a limb apiece.

The dogs didn't appear to find the humans a threat, or perhaps they were too distracted. The leader of the pack growled as Gideon walked forward to look at the grave, but it was merely a warning not to touch the carca.s.s. Gideon had no intention of doing so. Between the dingoes and the dogs, what was left of the body was barely recognisable as human, but the animals had shown little interest in the head. And the head remained distinctly that of Pete Mitch.e.l.l.

So Harry Lampton did murder him, Gideon thought. In the eight days since Pete's disappearance, Gideon had pondered the matter and only two scenarios had sprung to mind. Either Pete had run off with Ada, who'd been conspicuously absent of late, or Harry had found out about the affair and killed them. It seemed the latter was the case, although there was no sign of Ada's body perhaps she'd been spared.

Gideon hadn't bothered to share his suspicions with the military police he hadn't even mentioned Ada's name. He had no desire to become embroiled in a police enquiry. Now, however, with Pete Mitch.e.l.l being rapidly devoured by roo dogs, it appeared unavoidable.

'I'll radio the MPs while you and the men clear the dogs away,' he said to the soldier.

The sky is clear and the moon is bright. It is the hour before dawn, and Djunga is giving birth. She has left the mission at Yalata and has crept out into the desert with two women in attendance. Her husband's younger wife, Mundapa, is not present, for Mundapa is too inexperienced - she has yet to give birth to a child of her own. The women tending Djunga are not of her clan, but this does not matter - at such times all women are sisters.

The two stand either side of Djunga, their hands clasping each of hers tightly, supporting her as she squats and pushes with all her might. She has been pus.h.i.+ng for a long time now and, although the night is chill, she is sweating from her efforts. Never in her three previous births has she had to push so hard or so long. In the past, birthing has been an easy process so easy that within hours Djunga has been going about her everyday duties. But in the past, her babies have helped her. They have been eager to come into the world, and she has barely needed to push. This baby does not wish to come out. This baby is not helping at all.

Djunga remembers when she last felt her child kick hard in her belly. It had been several days ago, and the baby had kicked so forcefully she thought her time had come. She had been prepared to go with the women out into the desert that very afternoon, but the moment had pa.s.sed. Since then, the movement in her belly has become weaker, and now, as she pushes, she tells herself that this baby is lazy. She is cross with this baby for not wanting to come into the world. But even as she tells herself this, she is fearful, for she knows that something is not right, and she dares not think of that which she most dreads.

She pushes harder and harder. Her teeth are clenched, her head is thrown back, and the tendons of her neck are taut ridges under the skin. She is close to exhaustion and, although she has not once screamed with the pain, rasping sounds now come from the back of her throat.

Then the baby's head appears, and the knowledge that the final moment is upon her lends Djunga renewed strength. Minutes later, with her last vestige of energy, she pushes the child from her body.

The baby slithers into the waiting hands of one of the attending women, and Djunga slumps to the ground. She rests on her b.u.t.tocks and watches as the second attendant kneels between her splayed legs and sets about cutting the cord. But there is no sound from the baby. The woman smacks its tiny body. But the baby does not cry out. The baby is dead.

Many women in Djunga's clan have lost children, particularly during the lean drought seasons. Malnourished themselves, they cannot feed the babies in their bellies and the children die prematurely or are stillborn. But this is not Djunga's way. Djunga has always given birth to healthy babies.

Now, in the first light of dawn, as she looks at the tiny body, Djunga hears the click-click-click of the mamu sticks. It has been nearly three weeks since her terrifying ordeal and, although she has been unable to erase the memory from her mind, she has been rea.s.sured by the healthy life she has felt in her body. But during these past several days, as the baby's kicks became weaker, she has lived in dread. Now all her fears have proved true. The mamu did indeed cast a spell upon her. This child was destined to die from the moment they ran their evil sticks over her belly.

The women help Djunga dig a hole and she buries her baby. Then the three of them return to the mission.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

The discovery of Pete Mitch.e.l.l's body became the talk of Maralinga. Word spread about town that he'd been shot through the head, and further word quickly spread of his affair with the fettler's wife. The men found it a novel experience having something to gossip about. Infidelity, jealousy and murder were permissible topics of conversation, eminently more open for discussion than the arcane affairs of Maralinga.

The topic was under even greater discussion at Watson.

'Yeah, it'd be Harry Lampton all right. He's got a record you know been inside. He's a bad b.a.s.t.a.r.d, isn't he, Mave?'

With the police enquiry now firmly focused on the small railway settlement, Tommo's att.i.tude had changed. He was going out of his way to be helpful, and so was his wife.

'Rotten to the core,' Mavis agreed. 'And Ada's no better. She's a right little s.l.u.t that one. She was the one caused the trouble, I'll bet.'

'Not that we seen anything, mind.' Tommo flashed a look at his wife. 'Just a feeling you get, you know?'

Interviews with the fettlers' wives proved much the same. They all agreed that it had to have been Harry, and that Ada slept around. But there wasn't a witness to be found amongst them.

The military police now had their prime suspect, however, and a description of Harry Lampton, together with the details of his criminal record, was widely broadcast. The hunt was on.

Once again, the news spread like wildfire, and two days after the discovery of the body Gideon Melbray was running a book on where and when Harry Lampton would be apprehended. The bets rolled in. It seemed that in death, Pete Mitch.e.l.l was proving the perfect all-round distraction for a towns.h.i.+p of bored and restless men. Neither gossip nor gambling was conducted in the presence of Daniel Gardiner, however, for the men could see that he was taking Pete's death very much to heart. Dan's grief was understandable, they agreed the two had shared a donga, after all; they'd been friends. Well, as much as anyone could be friends with a loner like Pete Mitch.e.l.l.

It was true Daniel was tormented by Pete's murder. But his torment did not lie so much in the death of a friend the news of which had not surprised him as in the cause of death and the perpetrator. For the past week, he had steadily convinced himself that everything Pete had told him the night before his disappearance had been the ramblings of a drunken man. Now, he was plagued with doubt. According to the reports, Pete had been shot through the head. To Daniel, the coincidence was chilling.

Jesus Christ, I could cop a bullet through the brain for telling you this ... He could hear Pete's voice. They're a ruthless bunch your employers, Dan. He could see Pete's face as he raised the whisky bottle in a toast. Here's to the army, mate, yours and mine. A pack of b.a.s.t.a.r.ds every one of them.

Over and over the words echoed in his mind, arousing in him a terrible suspicion. I could cop a bullet through the brain ... Was Harry Lampton a scapegoat? There were those who knew Pete had been having an affair. Murder by a jealous husband would be the perfect set-up if his death had been planned. But precisely who would have planned it? They're a ruthless bunch your employers ... No, Daniel told himself, such a conspiracy was not possible. Here's to the army, mate ... A pack of b.a.s.t.a.r.ds ...

For two long, sleepless nights Daniel agonised over his suspicions and all they implied. If Pete had been deemed a threat to military security and disposed of, then everything he had said that drunken night must have been true. An Aboriginal family had been irradiated, their deaths had been labelled top secret, men had been threatened with charges of treason if they talked ... The whole story, every facet of it, seemed to Daniel implausible. Pete Mitch.e.l.l had been a disturbed man, he'd been heavily drunk that night his death was surely coincidental. But coincidence or not, Daniel knew he wouldn't rest until he'd discovered the truth. There was just one problem though. Where was he to turn? Who was he to ask? If there was a conspiracy, then he was in the thick of it, and he dared not risk the same fate as Pete.

He would make no enquiries amongst the military, he decided. Not yet. Not until he felt it was safe to do so. He would start with the fettlers. They might well know something they weren't telling the police. Fettlers were renowned for avoiding any involvement with the authorities.

Early the following morning, before breakfast, Daniel popped into the transport office. He went directly to the front desk where he greeted the day duty sergeant, a beefy c.o.c.kney in his mid-thirties.

'Good morning, Norman.'

'Morning, Mr Gardiner, sir.'

'Put me on detail for the lunchtime run to Watson, will you.'

'No can do, I'm afraid, sir, you've already been a.s.signed.'

'Really? Well, un-a.s.sign me, there's a good chap.'