Blood Brothers

  Blood Brothers

  Charles Beagley

  Published by Classic Author and Publishing Services Pty Ltd An imprint of Jo Jo Publishing publishing

  First published 2015

  JoJo Publishing

  ‘Yarra’s Edge’

  2203/80 Lorimer Street

  Docklands VIC 3008

  Australia

  Email: admin@classic-jojo.com or visit www.classic-jojo.com

  © Charles Beagley

  All rights reserved. No part of this printed or video publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  JoJo Publishing Imprint

  Editor: Ormé Harris

  Designer / typesetter: Chameleon Print Design

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Author Beagley, Charles, author.

  Title Blood brothers / Charles Beagley ; editor: Orme Harris.

  Edition 1st edition.

  ISBN: 9780992590154 (eBook)

  Subjects

  Engineers—Western Australia—Fiction.

  Brothers—Australia—Fiction.

  Aboriginal Australians—Fiction.

  Other Authors/Contributors: Harris, Orme, editor.

  Dewey Number: A823.4

  Digital edition distributed by

  Port Campbell Press

  www.portcampbellpress.com.au

  Conversion by Winking Billy

  For my late wife, Glenys.

  This one is for you, dear.

  CHAPTER 1

  It was 3:30 am when the alarm on Martin Dexter’s mobile started vibrating under his pillow. He had no intention of disturbing his wife, Kate, at such an early hour and his expensive piece of technology did not fail him. He lifted the corner of his pillow, took out the mobile and reset it for another fifteen-minute sojourn. He felt he needed that to steady his nerves before his long flight into the Sandy Desert.

  It was the first week of December; the first week of the wet season in northern Western Australia, but Martin’s uneasy feeling was not to do with the weather. According to the meteorologist, the storm front that occupied his thoughts was not due until eight-thirty; plenty of time to get well out of its way. Martin and his family had lived in Broome this past five years and to date only one wet season had arrived early, all the rest having the good sense to stay quiet until January, allowing everyone to enjoy a peaceful Christmas.

  Martin lifted his head off the pillow slightly and looked over towards Kate snuggling under the doona. He smiled, wistfully recalling how Kate grumbled about the Australian Christmas. It was too hot, she would say. Not like the Christmas back in England when they would wrap up against the winter wind and cold snow; trudging through drifts on Christmas morning to church, struggling home with a real tree, and hot chestnuts on the open fire.

  The mobile vibrated again. He eased his body towards the edge of the mattress, made sure Kate was still asleep and rolled out of bed. He tucked his feet into his slippers, made his way across the room to the door and out onto the landing. He moved from a darkened bedroom into the faintest orange glimmer permeating across the landing from the staircase window. It was not quite sunrise yet; the sun was still struggling to climb above the Durack Ranges, but it was not far off.

  When Kate and Martin were choosing their house in Broome they were particular about its orientation – at least Kate was. The last house they’d had in England followed a line from east to west. It was a happy house; full of good luck; so she would settle for nothing less. Here the sun rises at the back of the house, is directly above at its hottest and sets at the front. This way they can sit on their bedroom balcony overlooking Cable Beach with a glass of riesling and watch the sun change into every shade of vermillion as it melts into the Indian Ocean.

  Martin continued on to the bathroom, where he had laid out his clothes the night before on the rattan chair in the corner, and closed the door. It was almost four o’clock, an unearthly hour by anyone’s standard, except for Mr Rudd, the newsagent. Martin could hear his old transit van through the open bathroom window, hopping from house to house with its door pulled back for the lad to toss the paper onto the front lawn. Martin hated looking for it amongst the flower-beds, and he was glad he paid extra so that Mr Rudd would wrap it in Clingwrap. Others not so lucky had to settle for an elastic band.

  After his shower, Martin dressed, went over to the bathroom cabinet mirror and wiped away the condensation. He stared at the gaunt image staring back at him. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ he questioned as he lifted the electric razor to his face. He paused and studied the forty-five-year-old reflection and wondered where all the years had gone. According to Kate he had been the catch of the café set back then.

  Martin managed to keep himself fit. He had to, climbing over giant mechanical contraptions designed to tear the heart out of the Australian outback. The last five years and the relentless climate had reduced his English complexion to no more than the texture of a burlap sack. At first the bushmen employed by AMINCO had laughed at him and cracked jokes at his expense, saying the Pom wouldn’t last five minutes in the outback. Yet here he was, five years later.

  He shook his head, attempting a wry smile when he saw his wife’s moisturising cream at the end of the bath. Right from the first day she’d had an aversion to the Australian sun. She would avoid it at any cost, lathering her face, arms and legs with a liberal amount of sunscreen and moisturiser, a wide-brimmed hat and huge sunglasses. When they were in England there was never enough sun; they would travel for miles on a weekend searching for a blue sky. And now she has it, she avoids it to a degree her Aussie friends find hilarious. Yet everyone always compliments her on the smoothness of her English skin.

  Martin realised time was passing as he brushed his fingers sensitively across the greying stubble, inspecting yet another line in the craggy texture of his outback skin. Even his once-clear blue eyes were now beginning to lose their colour with the addition of fine veins gathering at the corners. His light-brown wavy hair had become a mixture of white and grey patches thinning on top at an alarming rate.

  Almost finished, Martin caught sight of his Dunhill cologne. Normally he avoided using any scented toiletry for fear the men on the sites he visited would acknowledge his arrival with a wolf whistle. In the early days his stylish English clothes caused such a stir that he began wearing the standard orange overalls. But today, for some inexplicable reason, he decided ‘what the heck’. He was sick of the smell of desert sweat, diesel fuel and burnt grease. Then the mine itself had its own individual smell, whether it was opencast or underground.

  Martin was still preoccupied by the ravages of time as he prepared his breakfast when he was distracted by a movement on the other side of the kitchen. He looked up just as Kate wandered through the door and stood for a moment inspecting him. She looked ravishing. Knowing how vain she was, he was aware she would have checked in the mirror before she came down; just as she always did even if it was no more an occasion than someone at the door. She would have wiped the moisturiser off her face, combed her hair and checked her appearance.

  “How do you do it?” Martin remarked.

  “Do what?” she asked as she sat down opposite him and poured a mug of tea.

  He shook his head. “Here I am looking like something the dog dragged in and you breeze in looking like you did the day we first met.”

  She reached across the table and touched the back of his hand before taking one of his pieces of toast. “Oh, how nice,” she said. “If I didn’t know you were about to fly off somewhere I�
�d think you were after something.” She stared into his puzzled gaze and bit into her toast.

  “I wish,” Martin acknowledged, finishing his toast and washing it down with the last of his tea.

  Kate sat back drinking hers and studied the mixed expression on Martin’s face. He was not usually bright and cheerful at this time in the morning, but there was something different in his manner. She could see he was preoccupied.

  She leaned forward and took hold of his hand again, “What’s on your mind?” she asked, squeezing his hand for an answer.

  Martin knew his twenty-five-year marriage to Kate had equipped her with an uncanny sense of knowing when he was telling a lie or exaggerating the truth; years of experience had alerted him to the signs. It kept him on his toes. It meant he had to be sure of his facts or face the consequences.

  Martin looked up and let out a long sigh, collected his breakfast dishes and placed them into the dishwasher. Then glancing at his watch, “It’s just this trip, Kate,” he finally answered. “Getting up at the crack of dawn, just to fly out to another godforsaken site in the desert; and what for? Just because some cretin has fouled up.” He picked up the checklist from the table. “You see,” he cried out. “I even have to make a list now so that I don’t forget anything.” He stared at the list. “Oh Hell…”

  “What is it?” Kate asked, picking up the paper Martin had dropped on the table.

  “I forgot to book the taxi.”

  “Is it too late now?”

  Martin glanced at the clock on the wall opposite; it had just gone five. “You’re joking…at this time in the morning? I’ll just have to drive myself and leave the car at the airstrip. I can collect it on my way back.”

  “No, you don’t…not in your mood,” she said, standing up and moving back to the door. “Give me five minutes to throw something on and I’ll take you.”

  Martin had no intention of remarking on how long her five minutes usually was. He just stood to one side as she passed him in the doorway.

  She stopped. “Why are you wearing your Dunhill?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I just fancied a change.”

  To save time Martin went out to the garage, hoping his faithful old SAAB would start first time. It did and while the engine was warming up he stowed his holdall on the back seat. It was still dark so he switched on the lights and changing into reverse, he backed the car out onto the drive. To his surprise Kate was waiting for him.

  She opened his door. “Come on…move over,” she said, leaving room for him to step out and walk round to the passenger side.

  “I could have managed,” he said, jumping in and fastening his seat belt.

  “I’m sure you could, dear, but I need you to relax before the flight.”

  “What on an empty road?”

  Kate reversed into the street and then followed it round to the main road running along Cable Beach. As Martin had said, it was empty and she turned right onto Gubinge Road to the first roundabout. Martin saw the right indicator light go on.

  “Not here…straight on,” he yelled.

  She shot him a savage glance, switched the indicator off and continued on.

  “I thought you were going to the airport,” she said, regaining her composure.

  Martin tried to stay calm, “No, dear. AMINCO has its own airstrip. It’s about nine kilometres north-east of Broome.”

  “I wish you had told me that,” Kate remarked.

  “There was never any call to. And in this rush I didn’t think.”

  She continued on for a few kilometres to the next roundabout, which would take her to the other side of the airport. Martin said nothing and waited, but she passed straight through and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I heard that,” she said. “How far now?”

  “Another few kilometres and you’ll come to a fork on a bend. Keep following the road left onto Broome Road. Then it’s a straight drive for fifteen minutes before you have to turn left onto Levesque Road. Another kilometre or so and you’ll see the airstrip lights on your right.”

  “Okay…I don’t need all that now. Just point out when I have to turn.”

  Martin settled back in his seat and tried to relax. When they’d left the house the sky on the Indian Ocean side had been still in darkness, but as soon as they’d crossed the last roundabout and turned east onto Broome Road the sky ahead of them began growing lighter. It was an eerie light. Traces of orange and gold seeped between the trees and suburban rooftops until they reached the outskirts of Broome, heading towards open country where it began to outline the undulating features of the distant hills.

  He pointed out the left turn into Leveque Road and within a short distance Kate was turning into the lighted AMINCO airstrip. She pulled into the car park close to the main building and switched off the engine. They got out. Martin grabbed his holdall and they walked over to the double doors of a single storey weatherboard structure. This was all new for Kate. Martin preferred saying his goodbyes in bed or like this morning, after breakfast.

  Just as they were about to enter the building there was a sudden gust of wind that shook them on their feet for a moment. It was followed by a few heavy drops of rain and Martin pushed Kate through the doors. Inside they shook the rain off and Martin led Kate across the main foyer, past the unmanned desk and left down a long corridor lit only with emergency lights. He had made this trip so many times before it was like a second home. At the bottom of the corridor he turned right and right again into a room full of easy chairs and coffee tables. It was just as dim, lit only by a couple of lights: one next to an exit out onto the airstrip and the other over a small kitchen set-up in one corner. According to the red light on an apparatus on the bench, coffee was percolating.

  Kate walked over to the glass wall with the exit sign. She could see the runway and a small single engine plane standing out in the open. Two men were doing something under the wing while a third was heading in their direction.

  She turned to Martin, who had dropped his holdall on an easy chair. “That’s not the plane you’re flying out on…is it?”

  He didn’t look happy. The expression he’d worn in the house had returned. “That’s the plane,” he replied.

  “What happened to the Lear Jet?”

  “It appears our mighty American boss has commandeered it.”

  Kate turned around and threw her arms around Martin. “So that’s why you were looking so glum. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “There was no use two of us worrying.”

  At that point the man walking across from the plane pushed open the doors and started brushing the rain off his leather jacket. “I was hoping it would hold off until we were in the air,” he said, in a distinct Australian accent.

  “What would hold off?” Kate remarked.

  “The wind and rain,” he replied. “I’m Joe Cirano… your pilot. “There’re usually a few gusts of wind and some rain before the storm front comes through,” he continued, removing his baseball cap and knocking it against the doorframe.

  “Storm front?” Martin exclaimed, looking nervous.

  “Do you mean to tell me you’re about to take off with a storm about to hit?” Kate interrupted, looking as if she was about to throttle the pilot.

  “Hold on,” he said, putting his cap back on, “I assure you, Mrs Dexter, I’ve just been briefed by the meteorologist that the storm front isn’t due until 0:830…that’s eight-thirty.” He glanced at the massive watch on his wrist. “That’s at least two hours away. We’ll be at the site by then.”

  While Kate was arguing with the man who was about to take her husband’s life in his hands, Martin’s mind had slipped back a step. In the Lear Jet he had noticed the aircrew, two pilots and a steward, wore smart, light-blue shirts with epaulets for their insignia, dark-blue trousers and matching peaked hats. But glancing across to his pilot on this trip, Martin thought he looked more like one of those flyers that spray crops. His only reference to the company
that employed him was a large round badge on the breast pocket of his leather bomber-jacket. And all that had was the word AMINCO across the middle. There was other wording radiating around the circumference, but that was too small for Martin to read.

  Kate looked at Martin’s dismal expression. “I suppose that’s not so bad…is it, Martin?” she said, turning her attention back to him.

  Joe grabbed Martin’s holdall. “Come on, Mr Dexter. If you want me to get ahead of this storm, I must take off now.”

  Martin turned to Kate and putting his arms around her, he gave her the most passionate kiss he could muster. He could feel the chemistry between them. He had a feeling that this kiss might have to last her for some time.

  As Martin stepped out into the morning chill he could sense something was different. This morning was the first time Kate would see him off on the plane. It would be the first time he’d flown in a Cessna, and his first experience of a storm front chasing his tail.

  Martin was becoming a little paranoid. He sensed the runway was alive. The trees at the end of the airstrip were swaying violently; the very trees the small plane would be flying over on its way south-east to the Sandy Desert. He stopped to watch them. Joe noticed and stepped back to take his arm and urge him on.

  “Don’t worry, Mr Dexter; we’ll be well out of the way when it comes through.”

  Martin turned back to the plane. It was standing on a concrete apron close to the buildings. A gust of wind caught it, lifting it on its wheels like a young bird about to take its first flight. This was Martin’s first real sight of the complex. Usually he was driven directly to the Lear Jet standing out on the main runway and missed all the detail. With the glow from the rising sun lighting up the eastern side of the AMINCO outbuildings he could see, other than the new glass extensions protecting the passage from one building to the next, the company had spent little on improving the tin-roofed hangars and operations buildings.

  Joe was waiting for Martin beside the open door on the passenger side of the Cessna. He had already placed his holdall on the two rear seats, firmly strapped down with the harness. He helped Martin up into his seat and as soon as he was comfortable, he hooked up his harness and snapped the buckle in place, stepped back out and shut the door. Martin heard Joe lock the handle, which Martin had to try as Joe ducked under the wing on his way around to his side.