The Reluctant Doorkeeper Trilogy

7. Day 22

When Emma reached the boardwalk, waves were washing over worn timber. In her haste to confront Cal over the hacker’s identity, she had arranged a meeting without checking the tides. Forced to remove her sandals, she stepped gingerly onto the slippery boards, using the handrail to steady herself. No way could she risk a fall; at this time of year, high tide could engulf the entire boardwalk as well as inundating the beach at the far end. Earlier that morning, she’d checked both her wall-screen and wrist-band to see whether the video and plaque remained online. They did; second viewings increasing her unease, as well as eroding her confidence in either Will or his friend Sandra’s ability to take down the latest example of cyberbullying.

Halfway along, she paused to survey the incoming tide, making sure to stand with her legs slightly apart and toes spread for balance, as the handrail was loose in that section. A stronger swell rolled towards shore, breaking waves sending a welcome shower of spray over her overheated body. Looking down at her dampened blouse, she hoped Cal would appear before the flimsy cotton adhered to the outline of her breasts. Charlie’s compliment might have pleased her, but she had no desire to flaunt her wares.

A cry dismissed foolish thoughts and she turned her head, expecting to see Cal approaching from the southern end. There was no sign of him, the deserted boards seeming to mock her need for company. Shivering, she twisted around and, with eyes fixed on her feet, began to walk towards sand and safety. A second and a third cry saw her head jerk upright, but a glance in both directions revealed no one sharing her sea-soaked walk, so she scoured the bay for seabirds. Nothing rode the waves or flew overhead; she must have imagined the sound, her nerves getting the better of common sense. Irritated by her lack of control, she set off for the beach, determined not to be caught out by the tide and forced to return home via the longer route.

* * *

Emma had almost reached her apartment block when a man emerged from a side street, his head bowed against the wind that funnelled incessantly between the tall buildings. He appeared not to have noticed her, so she stepped aside, pondering the urgency of his gait, the thin arms moving back and forth like clockwork, the scruffy canvas shoes slapping the cracked concrete. As he passed by, she glimpsed a weather-worn face and an expression of grim determination. A man with a single purpose, oblivious to the built-up environment and the presence of another citizen.

On an impulse, she decided to follow him, setting off at a moderate pace to leave a reasonable distance between them. He kept to the main walkway that skirted the apartment blocks, looking neither left nor right when faced with the intersection of concrete path and dirt tracks. When he reached the old coast road marking the end of the residential area, he stood staring at the sea, stepping from side to side, as though unable to still his long limbs or the feet encased in soiled canvas. Windblown sand had formed a yellow skin on bitumen worn thin and potholed from frequent inundation, while beyond the ruined road, huge boulders tipped into the bay to form a barrier between land and sea, presenting an unsightly profile. In places, foaming water surged between gaps, evidence of nature’s power over a species that once believed they ruled the planet.

Hidden behind a windswept bush on the overgrown footpath, Emma wished she could see the man’s face to gauge his response to ravaged Safety Beach, a favourite peninsula playground in decades past. Distress would indicate he was a stranger to these parts; irritation would confirm he had made a mistake and no longer knew how to reach his destination. The decision to approach him took seconds; she had nothing to lose by asking if he needed assistance. At worst, her friendly overture would be ignored.

Sun and wind had completed the drying process begun the moment she’d stepped off the boardwalk. Stiff with salt, her clothes chafed her soft skin and the new sandal straps rubbed her damp heels. Still keeping her distance, she called out a greeting before moving level with the restless walker.

‘Hello there, are you a local?’ he asked, shading his eyes with one hand.

‘Yes.’ She walked towards him, taking care not to trip over bunched seaweed. ‘Can I help you?’

He licked dry lips with a flick of the tongue. ‘I’m looking for an Emma Cartwright. I was told she lives around here.’

‘That’s right. Is it about a job by any chance? I know she’s looking for work.’

‘Do I look as though I’m from the PCB?’

Emma inspected his clothing: scruffy shorts and a faded check shirt. ‘I guess not.’ She decided to play the nosy neighbour. ‘What do you want her for then?’

‘I have a message from a mutual friend.’

‘I can deliver it if you like. I live in the same block.’

‘Thank you but no. My instructions are to communicate only with Emma. If you could just point me in the right direction.’

She brushed a stray curl from her cheek, looked into his face and smiled. First glance had not deceived – sagging, sun-damaged skin, brown age spots, deep wrinkles around the eyes – the walker was much older than he’d appeared when striding along a footpath. ‘Are you acquainted with Barry, Gerry or Jeff?’ she asked, trying to recall if she’d seen him among the morning tea crowd at Bay-enders Camp.

‘Do you mean Young Jeff?’

‘Yes. The maker of delicious scones.’

‘That’s the one. I’m Old Bill, his brother.’ Age-pleated lips parted in a grin. ‘And you are Emma Cartwright.’

you‘The same, so I suggest we adjourn to my apartment. It’s not far and I’m sure you could do with a cold drink.’

‘Thanks. I’ll give you the message as we walk. It’s safer that way.’

‘Why? No one will bother us here.’

‘Only fools, or those up to mischief, would spend more than a few minutes in late morning sunlight.’

‘I assume the message is from Cal?’

Old Bill nodded and turned his back on the shimmering sea.

* * *

Long after Old Bill had left the apartment, Emma sat in her living room, mulling over Cal’s peculiar instructions. A second visit to the camp would be most welcome – she was determined to challenge Barry about the hacking – but she questioned her ability to convince a trader to sell her such a scarce commodity as print-quality paper. Recycled or not, paper was reserved for those in government, hard-copy still considered a necessary back-up where parliamentary matters were concerned. As a businessman, Cal seemed better placed to approach a dealer in rare goods, unless Dugald had become suspicious and was monitoring his brother’s movements during working hours. Sending a message via Old Bill might explain Cal’s non-appearance on the boardwalk, but Emma still couldn’t fathom why the Bay-enders needed a ream of paper. Printed notices protesting the portal’s continuing downtime would be a waste of money, as ever-vigilant police were bound to remove them from apartment block walls or the concrete poles that once supported power lines, soon after they appeared. Hand delivery would work if the notices were intended to incite civil disobedience, although word of mouth seemed a better option, there being nothing tangible to conceal or destroy. No one could risk setting fire to combustible material in a landscape that burned on a regular basis, while indoors, shrill alarms reacted to the slightest wisp of smoke.

Emma thought of the voucher Old Bill had added to her wrist-band to cover the cost of the paper – data created, she presumed, inside a recycled beach box by Barry or another elderly man experienced in file manipulation. An excellent forgery, he’d assured her, but did she possess sufficient courage to allow a dealer to scan her GAUP-infused wrist-band?