The Reluctant Doorkeeper Trilogy

5. Day 24

Emma collected the transport – an ancient four-wheel drive Tesla held together with rust – from a field behind an abandoned farmhouse somewhere in the centre of the peninsula. Uncle Charlie dropped her off just before dawn, having driven her from the market in his slightly younger van. It had come as no surprise to learn that Charlie was involved in the delivery process, although both he and Cal had been tight-lipped about the mystery part’s function. Wrapped in a layer of thick green cloth and tied with string, the parcel resembled a large zucchini rather than a component for a vehicle or a machine.

The sealed road running south-east from Safety Beach had petered out several kilometres before the farm, so Emma drove with care on the pot-holed dirt track winding through sparse scrub. Directions to the camp had been supplied by Charlie, along with the odd-shaped parcel. The route took her further inland at first, then the track veered towards Bass Strait and began to follow the coast. The ocean enthralled her with its massive rollers pounding rock shelves at the base of high cliffs. Intent on savouring the rare experience of untamed nature, Emma slowed to a crawl, vowing to stop on the return journey, to stand on the edge of land buffeted by wild wind and salty spray.

A sharp turn away from the coast shelved all thought except the immediate task, as the track narrowed to little more than a car width. On either side, tangled bushes formed an impenetrable barrier and she wondered how Cal managed with his wide truck. There was no evidence of broken branches, so she assumed he travelled down here in the Tesla. Soon, hard-packed soil gave way to soft sand, but despite four-wheel drive, the car struggled to make headway, its wheels spinning as Emma tried to avoid corrugations. As Cal had indicated, there was no Auto-drive on a vehicle of this vintage – its dashboard comprising a series of empty circles – and the cracked steering wheel was slow to respond to her touch. She dreaded breaking down; without instrumentation, she could only guess the distance to the camp. ‘Come on, old girl, you can do it,’ she coaxed, more to hear the sound of her voice than encourage a ravaged machine. The vehicle pitched forward, slid into a bend and came to rest halfway up a steep bank. ‘Oh s**t!’ she cried, thumping the steering wheel with her fists.

She was contemplating whether to get out and walk when a stocky old man with more facial hair than Charlie came whistling down the track towards her. Opening the door, she slid into sand. ‘Can you give me a hand? I’m Emma, by the way.’

‘I kinda thought so.’ He lifted a hand to scratch his head. ‘Cal’s used to the track.’

She smiled by way of apology. ‘Is it far to the camp?’

‘Round the next bend.’ He gestured towards the lop-sided vehicle. ‘Don’t worry, the boys will turn it around while we’re having a drink and a bite to eat.’ He patted his stomach. ‘Young Jeff’s just made a batch of scones.’

‘Sounds lovely.’ Emma leaned into the vehicle to retrieve the parcel and pondered the age of the scone baker. According to rumour, Bay-enders were all well past their prime.

‘Hand it over when we get there,’ he said, squinting at the parcel. ‘My hands are a bit shaky these days. I wouldn’t want to drop it.’

Fragile, she thought, which explains the thick packaging. She scrambled down the bank onto the track.

Fragile,which explains the thick packaging.‘I’m Gerry,’ he said, as they moved up the track. ‘Registered as Gerard, but I dropped that along with my surname when I relocated. We Bay-enders use first names only.’

‘What brought you to such an isolated place?’ she asked, regretting the question immediately. ‘Sorry, Gerry, that was a bit personal.’

‘No worries, my dear,’ he said, reaching out to pat her free hand. ‘The answer’s simple – long-term unemployment.’

Emma flinched. ‘I’ve got twenty-four days left.’

‘Men only here, I’m afraid, but I could put you in touch with a women’s or mixed group elsewhere.’

‘You mean there are others living this way?’

‘Pockets of us up and down the country. It’s the only way to avoid the d….’ He looked down, flicked sand with the toe of his boot.

‘The damned authorities,’ she said, sensing his reticence to say more.

Gerry continued to study the track.

‘Thanks for the offer, but sorry to say, I can’t accept. I have a student son dependent on me for accommodation and food.’

Gerry raised his head. ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure we can think of something to tide you over for a few months until something permanent comes up.’

‘No need to concern yourself with my problems.’

‘We’re all in this together, Emma.’

She nodded, her thoughts turning to the grey vans prowling neighbourhood streets during pre-dawn hours. When insomnia struck – a frequent occurrence in recent months – she would stand by her bedroom window watching the sleeping suburb. On several occasions, she’d observed citizens being taken from adjacent apartment blocks and bundled into a van by men wearing khaki uniforms. Were they government agents tasked with rounding up the non-compliant?

Beside her, Gerry pursed his lips to give a loud whistle that culminated in a bird-like trill. The answering sound resembled a seagull’s screech.

Gerry winced. ‘Must be bloody Barry on duty today. Tone deaf, that one.’

Around a sharp bend, they came face to face with an ancient fellow sporting a handlebar moustache that stretched almost the width of his cheeks. He wore a patched pair of shorts, a faded shirt and a hat similar to Charlie’s. ‘Morning, Emma. Follow me.’ He gestured towards a group of small wooden buildings arranged in a semi-circle.

She hurried after him. On closer inspection, the huts resembled the quaint beach boxes that once dotted peninsula beaches and foreshore. Painted in a variety of colours, some decorated with seascape murals, they had been prized possessions when Melburnians spent summer holidays and weekends at the beach. Since the advent of forty-plus temperatures for months on end and rising sea-levels, most beach boxes had broken up during storms or fallen on their faces, pushed from behind by crumbling cliffs. How had a group of old men acquired these faded relics and managed to reassemble them far from their original positions?

‘Old beach boxes,’ Barry confirmed when she caught up with him. ‘They serve us well, plenty of room for a single guy.’

‘Is this the extent of the camp?’

He shook his head. ‘Plenty more in the scrub.’

‘A bit like those tiny-house villages the government erected before all the high-rise.’

‘It’s a camp, Emma, not a village. We never know when we might have to move on.’

‘An offline existence can’t be easy,’ she acknowledged.

‘Offline? Where did you get that idea?’

‘Rumours abound in the suburbs.’

Ignoring her comment, Barry ran over to a lop-sided shack positioned in the middle of the semi-circle. After bounding up several wooden steps, he stood in front of a battered screen door, arms folded. ‘Welcome,’ he called as she approached.

‘Thank you.’ In the absence of a handrail, she ascended the rickety treads with care, the parcel cradled in her arms like a baby.

Barry ushered her into a single room furnished with a narrow bed, desk and chair. Clothes hung from pegs on the rear wall, a shelf ran along one side. Above the desk, a window provided light and ventilation.

‘Made the bedspread and curtains myself from market remnants,’ Barry said proudly. ‘Brought them from home years ago.’

‘Where was home?’ she asked without thinking.

‘You ask too many questions, Emma Cartwright.’

Troubled by his use of her surname, she murmured, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,’ and held out the parcel. The sooner she was on her way, the better.

‘Good man, Cal. He never lets us down.’ Barry placed the package on the desk in front of a grey oblong box. ‘I’ll take you to morning tea now.’

‘Thank you. I could do with a drink.’

‘Best tea on the peninsula.’

* * *

Barry led her to a grassed area where an assortment of old logs had been arranged around a fire pit. A group of old men stood outside the circle chatting, mugs in their hands, while others sat on logs munching scones, pausing now and then to take a swig of tea. Young Jeff the Baker – ninety at least – was bent over an enormous camp oven perched on a metal rack over glowing coals. ‘Got a good one for the lady?’ Barry bawled into an aged ear.

‘Lady?’ Bones creaking, the baker slowly straightened up and turned around. Rheumy blue eyes peered short-sightedly from a wizened face. ‘Fruit or plain?’

‘Fruit, please.’

Young Jeff turned back to the camp oven, lifted out a large scone with rusty tongs and handed it to Emma. ‘Jam’s on the table over yonder.’ His thin neck jerked sideways.

‘Thank you, I’ll enjoy this.’

‘My pleasure, Emma Cartwright.’

Her smile faded. Did the entire camp know her full name? She walked over to the table, positioned beneath a faded awning that was tied to surrounding trees with frayed rope. Although littered with scone crumbs, the surface appeared clean. Coloured spoons, one for each jam pot, stuck out of small clay containers; a plastic bucket held used knives. There was no sign of butter or plates. Emma bent to pick up a clean knife.

‘I got you a plate,’ a breathless voice said behind her, as a battered enamel dish landed on the table.

She looked up, noting Gerry’s red face. ‘Thanks, much appreciated. I hope you haven’t worn yourself out?’

He shook his head and continued to gulp air through a wide open mouth.

‘There’s something I don’t understand,’ she said, spreading jam on the two halves of her scone. ‘You told me Bay-enders use first names only, yet both Barry and Jeff addressed me by my full name. Why?’

meGerry shuffled forward. ‘It’s their way of saying you check out, so you’re welcome here any time.’

‘They’ve accessed my file?’

‘Barry will have. I can’t speak for Young Jeff.’

She decided to risk silence or a reprimand. ‘So, that grey box on Barry’s desk is a computer?’

Gerry nodded.

Confidence swelled like an oven-baked scone. ‘And Barry’s an expert hacker?’

‘Most likely. He does have six decades of IT experience.’

‘What about the others?’

A stream of warm breath tickled her skin. ‘Not my business.’

And even if it were, you wouldn’t let on, she thought, lifting the scone to her mouth.

And even if it were, you wouldn’t let on,* * *

Despite Gerry’s assurance of a warm welcome, Emma left the camp immediately after morning tea and drove straight to the farm – no stopping to admire ocean views – hoping Charlie would appear before too long. The heat was already intense and the vehicle’s original position now in full sun, so she parked on the slope behind the farmhouse in the shade of a dilapidated corrugated iron shed lacking doors, before calling Charlie. He promised to collect her before too long. Fortunately, he’d supplied her with a large bottle of water so she didn’t have to worry about dehydration, and given the size of the scone, she wouldn’t need food for hours. The final stretch of track was clearly visible from her elevated position; she would have a few minutes’ warning should someone turn up to check out the property. Reminiscent of southern Peninsula farms, the place appeared to have been abandoned for decades, but she thought that could be a deliberate ploy to avert a thorough search.

Hours passed. Emma considered seeking shelter in the farmhouse but quickly dismissed the idea; enclosed by walls, she would have no means of escape. Instead, she risked leaving the vehicle for short intervals to explore the surrounding area. Behind the shed, tangled bush stretched as far as she could see, while to one side a few scrawny apple trees struggled to survive. She envisaged an orchard, neat rows separated by grass, ripening fruit protected from heat and thieving birds by hectares of shade-mesh. A rustle in dry undergrowth alerted her to the possibility of snakes; she beat a hasty retreat to the safety of the Tesla.

Charlie arrived soon after, in a cloud of dust that enveloped the ancient car and sent Emma into spasms of coughing. Loose metal panels rattled as he clambered from the van with the speed of a much younger man. ‘Get out of there!’ he yelled, waving his arms madly. ‘We’ve gotta get going now!’

In her haste to exit the Tesla, Emma slipped and had to grab the doorframe to keep her balance. Racing down the slope, she skidded to a halt in front of the van’s rear doors before moving to access the passenger door. Charlie failed to acknowledge her presence, his attention focused on a recalcitrant engine. At last, the van shot forward, almost collecting the branch of a tree in its haste to reach the track. ‘What’s the hurry?’ Emma asked, when her breathing returned to normal and Charlie had managed to slow the van.

‘Bloody Dugald Ritchie. Sneaking up on me and asking questions about his brother – as if I know what Cal’s up to every minute of the day! Couldn’t close up the stall till he’d gone.’

IDuring the journey back to Safety Beach, Emma tried to pump Charlie for information about the camp and the old farm, but he refused to be drawn, muttering something about needing to concentrate on his driving, so she retreated to an interior world where conjecture ran rife. If Cal Ritchie owned either or both properties – a distinct possibility, she believed – what went on behind boarded-up windows and inside former beach boxes? Clandestine activities to undermine the government? Processing and storage of prohibited goods? Emma favoured the first, but whatever Cal, Charlie and the Bay-enders were up to, it was clear they had no intention of letting her in on the secret. Her courier role had been a one-off, the result of an appointment Cal couldn’t alter.

When they reached the market, Charlie told her to get in the back of the van while he checked that Dugald hadn’t returned. An understandable precaution, but Emma didn’t relish the thought of more hours stuck in a hot vehicle, so tried to argue that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Charlie’s atypical reaction – grabbing her arm and threatening to drag her out of the passenger seat – convinced her to obey and she scuttled around to the rear doors like a frightened rabbit. Luckily, he returned within minutes and, after apologising for his behaviour, handed her a box of premium quality vegetables.

* * *

Back home, she found a message flashing on her screen, advising that the Employment Positions Portal remained offline due to technical problems. The information validated her suspicions. Emma was now convinced that the green parcel had contained a vital electronic component for Hacker Barry’s computer.