The tourist

Ethan, Chrissy and Ruth were all appropriately dressed for the day, all sun protected and carrying expensive, lightweight day packs and water bottles as they moved along the hiking trail in a single file line. Bringing up the rear, Ethan was not a happy man. Several weeks ago he had almost talked Ruth, his current girlfriend, and Chrissy into having a three-way. Showing no small amount of guile, he instigated several key conversations about sexual relationships being porous and mailable. People should do what they want to do, insisted Eithan. After all, isn’t monogamy just some old fashion construct? Shackles. A definition of what physical intimacy should be like...imposed on us by society? Ethan really sold it. In his earnest appeal, he managed to make it all sound so reasonable. To increase his chances of success, he made sure to include the current buzzword 'polyamorous' whenever he could. Such an appealing word to the female ear: Poly sounding very much like a girl's name. Poly meaning many, as in there is something on offer for everyone at this new love buffet. And amorous? Forget it. Latin for love. Amour. That's poetry right there. Pablo Neruda. Lorca. The ladies lapped that shit up. The word projected a complete narrative. Poly, who represents females in general, is now being encouraged to explore all avenues of her sexual satisfaction. Viva la sexual revolution.

After much debate, Ethan fully expected to find himself in bed with these two women in the not too distant future. Ruth had come around, eventually, saying she would be open to the idea of experimentation. On one condition: having done all the groundwork, Ethan would need to leave Ruth and Chrissy alone to work out all the remaining details. So, although he didn't like it, Ethan would be forced to hand over all further negotiations to the two women. The women talked about the practicalities and emotional repercussions of exploring this new and exciting sexual dynamic. And the more they talked the less viable it all became. And Ethan's beautiful idea had fallen apart right in front of his eyes. The woman had talked themselves out of it. After all, they were friends and it was all too emotionally messy. Seriously: was it really worth putting their friendship at risk just to satisfy a man's desire for some silly pornographic fantasy? Ruth definitely had bisexual urges but not with Ethan breathing down her neck like some rabid dog. And not with her childhood friend.

Ethan made one last-ditch attempt, saying ladies, let's just concentrate on the physical mechanics of this situation. I say we must do ourselves the service of acknowledging these natural urges. The two women reacted with an incredulous lack of conviction and then Ruth had come back saying, alright then, Chrissy and I will have a go first, see if we like it. Yeah? How does that sound? No way, said Ethan, not without me at least in the same room. That would be akin to cheating. And that was it. Because Ethan had been caught out. All this talk of sexy polyamourous exploration went right out the window as soon as it didn't directly involve Ethan. The deal is off, said Ruth. You can get your jollies the old fashion way. Eyeballing hardcore pornography on a laptop.

Ethan was totally crestfallen. For fuck sake! He knew they should have acted while the idea was still exciting and fresh. Before they had a chance to second-guess themselves. With every bloody conversation, they had moved further and further away from this three-way becoming a reality. It was tragic. These negotiations had taken up weeks of Ethan's time. All for nothing. As things stood, they had all been demoted back to friends. How utterly devastating, thought Ethan as he watched the two women move ahead of him along the bush track.

The hike was a 10k loop. You get off at one train station, entered into the bush, walking along the track and then, 10 kilometres later, you would loop back, though the national park, arriving at the train station one stop down the line. Forty minutes after setting off, they stopped at the waterhole to rest. At this time of year, the water was too stilled, too murky to have a swim. Clouds of nats hung in the air. They sat on flat sections of large, overlapping stones surrounding by cascading bushland. From the surrounding mass of gum trees and spiky shrubs emanated a steady drone of insect noise. They sat in silence. Ethan was still consumed with how close he'd come to the golden chalice of the three-way when a man came down the trail and appeared on the edge of the waterhole. He was a middle-aged Asian tourist. He was dressed in grey and white schemed leisure clothing and lightweight shoes. He wore no hat. He looked far more suited for a day on the golf course. Although Ethan was absorbed with his own inner turmoil, and therefore only paying minimal attention, it did strike him as odd that this man was alone and so ill-equipped for the hike. The tourist paused for a moment, looked around and then continued along the path. One of the girls may have looked up at him and smiled but this detail was lost in a haze of unreliable recollections. The next time Ethan looked back, shielding his eyes from the sun glare, the tourist was gone. Ethan took another gulp of his water and returned his attention longingly to the scene directly in front of where he sat. The girls. One of the girls was down by the water, eating a tangerine, stacking the sections of peel carefully on the rock. The other was laying flat on her back, in the shade, swatting something away from her face. It might have been fatigue or wishful thinking, or a combination of both, but Ethan's mind began to get woozy with lazy erotic possibilities. Images of maidens shedding their clothing and sensually bathing each other in the waterhole overtook him for a time. Perhaps because of the setting, these fantasies assumed a corny ladies-in-the-lake pornographic theme with Ethan's swollen member as an obvious stand-in for Excalibur. Ethan had no special affinity for this kind of sword and sandals foolishness. He could care less about the latest season of Games of Thrones. Yet here he was, dreaming up sexy scenarios which centred around mythological humping in broad daylight. Why couldn't this happen in real life? It was so unfair. Eventually, Ethan's hot little fever dream was interrupted by the obtrusive reality of their situation. Ruth was calling him, Ethan. Ethan! ETHAN!
What? he replied.
We should get going. We still have a fair way to go. Are you coming?
Okay, okay, said Ethan. Considering he was still brandishing Excaliber beneath his beltline, this was going to prove easier said than done.

Ethan, Chrissy and Ruth resumed their hike. They were in no particular rush. They had hiked this trail a few time before so they basically knew what to expect. Sometimes the girls would stop and examine things along the way. The spiky head of a Xanthorrhoea. A particularly gnarled and beautiful ghost gum. The trail wound on through the bush, cutting through rocky gullies, across more sections of tabletop rock, occasionally breaking out into clearings which afforded views of the city in the far distance. The topography was consistently flat so these vistas were not exactly breathtaking, more a reminder that the city was never too far away. The main point of the hike was the 10-kilometre effort. Determined black flies zoned in on them like angry fighter pilots, seeking out the moisture in their eyes, mouth and ears. Occasionally a lizard would scurry across the trail, spooked by their approach.
Sometime later they came across a digital camera laying in the dirt. A nifty little piece of technology with a retractable telephoto lens. The sort of equipment that would appeal to someone who had photographic aspirations beyond the point-and-shoot capabilities of their iPhone. Ethan picked it up, brushed it off and turned the camera over in his hands. It was simple enough to figure out. He pressed the button that activating the display screen on the back of the device. The little machine chimed and the screen lit up revealing an image of some trees. Flick back and there were more images of Sydney. It was Chrissy who suggested the camera most likely belonged to the Asian tourist who had passed them back at the waterhole. They had seen no one else on the trail that morning.

Ethan, Chrissy and Ruth pushed on. They assumed that they would catch up with the tourist shading himself under a tree or that he would return this way having discovered his camera was missing. Think about it now, it occurred to Ethan that the tourist didn't even have a water bottle. Ethan held the camera in his hand, expecting this encounter to happen within ten or fifteen minutes. They plodded on and eventually, Ethan put the little camera in his daypack. The women talked on, about the tourist, recalling that he really hadn't been dressed for such an arduous hike. Maybe, they speculated, he was unaware that the trail was 10 kilometres in length. He might have mistakenly thought this was more of a sedate walking track with regular bathroom facilities along the way. Maybe even a kiosk where one could purchase a cup of coffee. This was not the case. This trail needed to be taken seriously. Things could go wrong. Ethan was only catching snatches of this conversation. Even though he couldn't quite hear what the women were saying word-for-word, he understood the gist. Once again it occurred to Ethan that the tourist had been alone. Which was sort of strange. Ethan wouldn't want to generalise but come on....usually, tourists from Japan or China travelled in packs. Typically you would see them at the Opera house or at Bondi Beach being shepherded around by some company who specifically catering to their needs.

The trail snaked on through increasing rugged terrain, the last three or four kilometres becoming an uphill slog between dusty boulders and dried out branches that snagged and pulling at their clothes. They crossed a dried waterfall. The ground hummed with its own baked in heat. Later on, they passed the blackened ring of an old, extinguished fire pit. This was a sanctioned camping site. In the ashes, there were a few tin cans and beers bottles. With only a few warm gulps of water left, Ethan made a mental note to ration out the rest of his supply. He would probably grab a cold beverage from the vending machine on the train platform. The women were now chatting about various people they knew. About holidays. Places they wanted to go. Vietnam. Cambodia. Suddenly the trail ended and they came out of the scraggy drag of the bushland and onto a section of well-maintained gravel road. They had basically reached the end. They crossed several small, linked paddocks and arrived at the train platform: civilization appearing out of the spiky heat haze in the form of safety messages, corrugated tin roofing and train tracks. The well hammered vending machine swallowed Ethan's coins and spat out a cold drink. He'd been thinking about the healthy option, ie water, but fuck it. He decided he needed some sugar. The women had lulled into a silence and had slumped onto a bench to cool down and examine their phones now that cellular coverage had been reestablished. Ruth wandered over to swipe some of his drink. I'll buy you one, he said. I don't want a whole one, she replied. Yeah, but I do, he thought. He had completely forgotten about the camera in his bag.

Later on, Ethan was waiting for his coffee at his local cafe and he happened to flip open a newspaper, something he never ordinarily did. There was usual detritus of celebrity gossip, suburban hoon antics and dumbed down political coverage. In that order of importance. Even the international stories had a fairly provincial spin so as to establish relevance for the paper's national audience. Ethan was leafing through this happy bullshit when something familiar popped out. Later on, it would occur to Ethan that people get lost in all kinds of ways. In the media. In real life. On bush trails. They point is, they get funnelled down into obscurity. They drop off the face of the earth and no one knows where they end up. Sometimes you might catch one last glimpse of these souls just before they slip under. Sometimes not. On page 7 Ethan saw the tiniest of stories about a Japanese businessman who had disappeared last weekend. Apparently, this guy was a big deal back home in Japan. The head of a global tech company. Japan's answer to Mark Zuckerberg. The NSW authorities were just now scaling down their unsuccessful search. They had scoured the bushland south of Sydney on foot, on all-terrain vehicles and in helicopters, searching the locations where he'd last been seen. Nothing. Not a trace. Ethan took his coffee and reread the article. Instantly, Ethan felt in some minor way responsible for the man's disappearance. Or at least for impeding his rescue. The camera. The camera had been totally forgotten about and had remained at bottom of Ethan's backpack since last weekend. Seven whole days, for godsakes. They could have, should have, done something at the time but how were they to know? Thinking back now, the camera might have marked the spot where the tourist had wandered off the trail. Maybe. One thing was for certain: the trail was not clearly marked out in places and if you weren't familiar with the area, you could easily wander off in the bush and get lost. After getting his coffee, Ethan returned to his apartment and dug out the camera. What had he been thinking? He'd his head so far up his own ass that day he'd forgotten all about it. He turned the camera on and began flicking through the images, this time being more thorough, going back to the start of the memory card. And, as he scrawled back, the strobing images made a crudely animated movie chronicling events in reverse order.

37. An unintentional image. The tourist's squashed shadow on the dirt hiking trail. There seems little reason to take a photograph of this section of ground other than to capture his own shadow. It could be anywhere in the world.

36. The Waterhole. Ethan, Ruth and Chrissy reclining in the shade around the edge of the murky pool. Sunlight pricing through the surrounding tree cover. Ethan is caught in mid-motion, turning towards the camera. At that moment, Ethan has just become aware of the Tourist's presence and is pivoting around, shading his eyes from the sun, trying to see who is behind him. The women are positioned as Ethan remembers them. Although crisp in terms of focus, the shot looks off centre indicating it was hastily taken. In all likelihood, this is because the tourist is aware he was being voyeuristic.

35. Trees on the trail. Ghost gums against the blue sky.

34. The sign at the head of the hiking trail. Tourist information about the loop and the protected status of the flora and fauna in the area.

33. A monstrous lobster on a white plate. Claws limp, multiple legs dangling, dead eyes on stems. Metal devices for digging out the cooked flesh set up on the table next to the plate.

32. The tourist in a group shot. Men of different nationalities in a restaurant. Large fish swim in a huge, bubbling tank in the background, fins and claws scraping against the glass. The men sit around a large white-clothed table. They all face the camera, waiting for the photographer, who might be a waiter, to finish taking the shot. They all wear clip-on name tags. The sort you might see at a convention. Beers bottles and clean cutlery await.

31. The tourist in the bland, oversized interior of a convention hall, attendees and staff in the background. Tables and booths. The tourist is caught in front of his own camera, smiling little conviction, wearing a name tag that says, 光暖.

30. Similar to the previous image: people milling about at the same conference. This time the tourist is not in view.

29. Similar to the previous image: people milling about the same conference.

28. Bondi Beach. Distant waves tumbling into shore. The Pavillion. Tourists and locals on bikes and on foot. People walking through the shot carrying surfboards. Flags snapping in the breeze. Sun.

27. Similar to the previous image: Bondi Beach.

26. A view from the top of a hop on-hop off tourist bus. Shops along the side of a busy road. People. Cars. Advertising.

25. The tourist in downtown Sydney. Buildings thrusting upwards into the sky, the exaggerated perspective caused by the angle and the camera's slightly fisheye optics.

24. A plane window. A downwards, compressed view of clouds, the plane's wing, the engine housing, as the plane descending into Sydney to land, flying over The Harbour Bridge. The harbour water a swath of dark blue, scored by the wake of an occasional boat or ferry.

23. Similar to the previous image: The plane landing, the ground getting closer.

22. A young woman in a sexually provocative position on a hotel bed. The tourist is engaged in a sexual act with this woman while operating the camera at arm's length. His body is elongated and unnaturally stretched by the camera's optics. Their bodies are both bleached by the harsh flash.

21. Similar to the previous image: more explicit, slightly different angle.

20. Similar to the previous image: more explicit, different angle.

19. The young woman in a restaurant, the table cluttered with beer bottles and plates. She is checking her phone which is sheathed in a plastic, bejewelled phone cover. She looks irritated.
18. The young woman standing on a cracked street corner, a marketplace in the background, dirty plastic yawning tethered to the side of a peeling building with mix-matching pieces of rope. Sunglasses conceal the young woman's eyes.

17. The young woman now laughing into the camera, not in a particularly friendly way, her teeth white, faint acne scars on her cheeks. She is sitting at a bar with a thatched roof, the tranquil blue of hotel resort pool in the background, surrounded by manicured landscaping, temple themed paving stones, a restaurant area spilling into the foreground. Staff. More tourists.

16. Similar image to the previous one, from a slightly different angle.

15. Similar image to the previous one, from a slightly different angle.

14. The young Filipino woman, looking quite beautiful, is naked on the clean white linin of the hotel bed. The starburst of the camera flash is caught in the black rectangle of the television screen. The woman looks hesitant, somewhat at uneasy at being photographed. A can of beer is evident on the nightstand. The woman wears luminescent contact lenses, an unnatural colour, perhaps only intended for the sake of fashion. The camera flash is reflected back in her lenses, making it seem as if white light is emanating out of her eye sockets. Her shoes, strap cork wedges, sit nearby on the tiled floor.

13. The ceiling of the hotel room (most likely an unintentional shot).

12. A white sand beach. The tourist sits by himself in a restaurant. A meal is spread out on the table in front of him. Several small lobsters or large prawns curled up on the plate in their pink-red shell. Garnish. The tourtist is now in front of the camera, smiling with grim determination, not making a particularly good show of it. Someone, a waiter perhaps or another guest at this resort, might have insisted on taking his photograph.

11. The same beach. A large sign made of cartoonish lettering reads welcome to El Nido, Philipines. White sand, rental umbrellas stretching off into the distance, roughly hewn deck chairs for hire. More tourists.

10. The same beach. Ragged palm trees and whimsical thatched buildings running along the distance curve of the beach. Tourists milling about, sunbathing, shopping and relaxing. People caught in middle step and mid-conversation. People drinking beer. Modified motorcycles with sidecars and muddy vans. Blue skies and equatorial sunlight smashing down on green limestone islands in the distance.

9. The bland decor features of the luxury seaside hotel suite with balcony. Flatscreen TV, minibar, decorative artwork, the corner of a bed. In the image, the tourist is caught partially reflected in the room's mirror, a black outline. His suitcase, complete with airline luggage tags, is on the bed indicating he has just arrived.

8. A seaport. Docks and Boats. Cranes in the background. A shed. People waiting. The ocean. Other people loading backpacks and luggage into a boat.

7. Passing landscape: vibrant green fields and telecommunication towers. Shot through a minivan window.

6. The tourist is in what looks like a tropical, third world city. This image was taken from a hotel balcony. Below an insane amount of traffic moves past on a mammoth causeway which crosses countless smaller streets. Each one of these streets is a universe unto itself with makeshift business, food stalls, people in doorways, plastic furniture, welding torches, open sewers, disassembled automobiles, roosters in cages, piles of garbage, exposed wiring, construction...etc.

5. A busy street in the same country. Broken pavements, lush vegetation creeping in through the cracks and hairy clusters of cable infrastructure and unfinished concrete construction. A city built a neck-break speed and without the money required to finished off the rough edges.

4. The interior of a plane, rows of seat backs receding off into the distance, bunching up in the nose of the craft. The back of other passenger's heads. Movies playing on tiny screens. Finding Nimo. Superheros. Romantic comedies.

3. The Japanese tourist with a woman and a little girl in a domestic setting. An apartment with quite a plush interior. Lots of glass and quality furnishings and expensive looking paintings. Obviously, the man would have been quite wealthy to afford something with this much square meterage in a major Japanese city. Judging from the casualness of the tourist, the woman and the little girl's interaction and the level of intimacy this was likely the man's wife and daughter.

2. Similar to the previous image: wife and daughter. Different angles.

1. Similar to the previous image: wife and daughter. Different angles.

It was nothing to do with Ethan, not really, yet being in possession of the camera slowly became a burden. It weighed on his conscious incrementally and over a long period of time. When he became aware of this gathering weight, Ethan wanted to throw the camera in the garbage yet for one reason or another, it remained in his apartment, conveniently out of sight in a drawer containing one giant tangle of brightly coloured electrical cords. Time marched on. Time was the problem. If they had acted on the day, if they had called somebody from the train platform, this whole situation might have been avoided. After all, isn't that what they say about finding people lost in the wilderness? Time is of the essence. You need to act quickly.

On those occasions when Ethan dug the camera out, he would look at the images and speculate about this man's life, trying to connect the dots. One night, when he'd had a few too many, Ethan erased images 15-21. He intended to sanitise the tourist's journey from Japan to Sydney via the Philippines. Obviously, the woman in the Philippines had been a prostitute. The plan was, after erasing the explicit, incriminating images Ethan would send the memory card back to the widow in Japan thus resolving the matter. At the very least Ethan felt responsible for the poor woman's lack of closure. For the unanswered questions. Sure, people just disappear. Everyday. But if you know something, you should speak out and not be indifferent. To throw the memory card away would be terrible. Ethan found himself looking at the remaining 29 images several more times before the camera's lithium battery died. He took the memory card out but never got around to finding the woman's address. In real life, it would have been a mission to get this kind of information. Where would you start?

The more time that went by, the less important it all seemed. People get on with their lives, reasoned Ethan, even when something as tragic as this happens. That said, having the camera around still made Ethan feel anxious. It was that slow accumulation of guilt, incrementally weighing him down. Ethan was in possession of what amounted to a black box containing the final record of a human life. The tourist was dead: even though they hadn't located his body, that much was certain. As time passed, Ethan found himself in an impossible situation. He felt like holding onto the camera was eroding his good luck yet throwing it away would bring even worse luck. Moreover, he was scared that, for the first time in his life, he had become heavily invested in superstitious thought. How had this happened? How had he embued an inanimate object with what amounted to magical properties? For god sakes, he told himself, the soul of the dead tourist was not trapped in the memory card of this camera. That all sounded very reasonable when he said it aloud and in a firm tone of voice. Still, lingering doubts persisted. Before he knew it, Ethan had lost his girlfriend and things had become rocky at work. He was being performance managed. Another way of putting was, he was hanging by a fucking thread. Then he was injured in an electrical accident. He had been overseeing the viewing a rental property in the city and he had plugged his phone into an old wall socket. Zap! Old wiring. Completely illegal. He was badly burnt and lost part of his finger. When it happened, it felt like his skeleton had been hit by a large tuning fork. A cold vibration ran up his arms. His teeth were rattling and he could smell burning flesh. Later, lying in a hospital bed, numb on drugs and his arms heavily bandaged, Ethan was able to conveniently trace this shift in his luck back to the moment he found the camera. This is what the mind does under duress. It ties nice, neat bows on messy events.

One day, after being released from the hospital, Ethan returned to the national park. He walked the track until he found what felt like the right spot. And then he left the camera, complete with memory card, for someone else to find. If you could, you would move back from the precipice. It's only natural. It's human. You would back away from the thing that is going to kill you. But, there is no way of knowing so all you can really do is try to take the necessary steps to move forward.

Symbiotic relationships (1st draft)

Flynn was an uncomplicated guy, a country boy at heart. He liked the little translucent lime-green frogs that congregated around the plumbing in his latrine. There was a symbiotic relationship between man and frog that he could appreciate. He had built the latrine, providing shelter for these little creatures and in turn, they hunted insects for him. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Flynn liked to stand barefoot outside under stars at night. There was very light pollution in that part of the world so the night skies were always full of stars. He liked to think about the mathematical certainty that there was life on other planets. He had done his own research into these theories. He had read somewhere that in all likelihood, according to the laws of probability, there was another Flynn on another similar planet doing pretty much the same thing he was doing. There would be variables of course. This other Flynn or multitude of Flynn's perhaps, wouldn't be exactly like him. In any case, it was mind-boggling to contemplate. 

Fynn also liked his boat, a deep sea fishing vessel powered by twin outboard motors, a 25 footer with all the latest gadgets, which he kept docked down at the marina. He liked his construction company. Flynn built houses for the mining company. He would bid for contracts and then, once secured, he would tack new houses onto existing developments. Construction against the vast and harsh Pilbara landscape could be a daunting undertaking, each house a mere drop in the ocean. It was difficult to maintain the illusion that civilisation could actually take hold when considering the scale of the task. At times, you felt more like a beetle struggling under the cruel sun. Still, it was well-paid work when things went to plan. Once completed, each house would be occupied by an engineer or a geologist working for the company. Their families would follow. There was some small satisfaction in that. 

ln terms of scale, Flynn understood that all this importance placed on human activity was ultimately insignificant. Life up there functioned according to natural cycles. Both large and small. Even the machinery of the economic prosperity would one day grind to a halt when China's thirst for iron ore ran out. Flynn was conscious of how hippy-dippy it all sounded but....the economy was a manmade system. And all men, like blind tadpoles, had come from the muck. It all went back to cells splitting apart and things crawling out of the sea. All of it. Besides, Flynn had driven through other communities in the state which had once prospered but now had sand drifting through their open doorways and broken windows.   

Flynn liked his Indonesian wife and his little daughter. He liked the house he had built for them. Flynn prided himself on the fact that he kept things simple. It was a philosophy he always tried to live by. This approach informed his attitudes and perspectives, in both his conversation and his code of behaviour. He was a gentleman that kept things simple and cheerful. Flynn talked in a slow draw and often paused to look off into the heat soaked distances as if to extend the conversation or gather his thoughts. He used a lot of homespun wisdom and relied extensively on his own common sense. Flynn knew what he knew. Having said that, he never bragged about his limit repertoire of references. Not like some. He was humble. Flynn felt there was no point in complicating things for other people with a lot of elaborate 'what if's' and double-dealing masturbatory reasoning. This being the case, he kept his public persona and many of his private ideas separate. 

Flynn got a new construction crew on board. An Englishman and his American mate. They just turned up out of the blue one day. After a brief interview over instant coffee, they signed a contract to build one of the steel frame kit houses. A 3 x 2 with a carport out in the desert. 450 square metres. On that particular site, the roads had already been laid out, fresh black asphalt and concrete curbs, waiting for the construction of new houses to catch up. The framework construction was simple enough, sort like a giant Erector set held together by thousands of bolts. Having said this, you did need some construction experience to keep everything plumb and level. It worked out quite well with these lads. They were eager and ready for serious work. After signing the contract, Flynn got out of their way and let them at it, checking in only periodically to make sure everything was running smoothly. He could see they were committed to their work. 

Flynn wasn't opposed to having a few beers with these boys back at the yard once the working day was over. The new crew were just like all the other construction crews that had passed through. First and foremost, they were hungry for the big pay cheques. Their plan was to work around the clock, six or even seven days a week right up until Christmas. Go hard or go home. Flynn had heard this all before. The problem with this approach was that the working conditions out here would eventually wear you down. The heat and the flies and being so far away from your loved ones: it would all start adding up. And the drinking didn’t help either. Heavy drinking would quickly bring about the decline of an operation. No two ways about it. Right away Flynn could see that these boys had a thirst. At the end of each day, they wanted relief from the heat and their aching joints. A few beers in the shade would definitely do the trick. However, the consumption of too many beers, over an extended period of time would catch up with you. Dragging your hungover ass off to work in forty degrees heat was not a great long-term strategy. Evident from the mounting pile of empties in the yard's recycling container, these boys were certainly capable of knocking a few back. 

Personally, Flynn kept the drinking to a minimum. When he showed up at the cabin, the place where he housed his crews, a room with a few beds, a microwave and an AC, he always brought his own beers. Mid-strengths. Barely any alcohol in them. He simply couldn’t drink the way he had as a young man. Time and time again, he saw men his age pounding down the grog in the pubs like there was no tomorrow, their eyes dull, their lives a disheartening redaction of who they had once been. Again, not a great long-term strategy. Not if you wanted to make it make something out of yourself or for that matter, make it to Christmas in the Pilbara. Liver, wallet and mental outlook....it all suffered.  

Despite the fact that Flynn didn't really want to cast doubt on something that seemed to be working, at least in the short term, one night he did attempt to give these boys some advice. He told them to go easy on the drinking and basically take care of themselves because the environment was harsh and brutal and working at such an accelerated rate would only lead to premature burnout. He also requested that they not leave beer caps around in dirt because inevitably he was the one who would have to pick them all up. 

The new crew decided to bring in additional subcontractors to speed up the process and receive a bigger piece of the pie. Mark, the Englishman was cagey that way. Undeniably he had an entrepreneurial streak and he was interested in growing his end of the operation. Flynn had no problem with this whatsoever. Why would he? The more houses they finished, the more money for everybody involved. Sure Flynn's end would be slightly reduced but so what? When it meant he didn't have to organise the other trades to come in after the framework had been put up. It was preferable for Flynn to have less moving parts to worry about. The simplification was worth the money. And if they could sign off a house every two weeks, as Mark had promised, they would all be doing okay.

During the working day, Flynn worn clean King Gees work clothes and an Akubra hat. He spends the majority of his time in his office, at the yard, making calls and dealing with emails from the mining company and suppliers. Sometimes he would have to troubleshoot, driving out to the building sites, speaking with the foreman but generally, he could run things from his office. He had another business as well. When he had time, when things were slow in the construction game, he took Japanese and Chinese tourists out on the Indian Ocean in his boat. He knew all the good spots. Spanish mackerel, cobia, tailor, a variety of tuna species, drummer, blackfish, groper, kingfish, and even marlin. These visiting sports fishermen paid top dollar for the experience of hauling in a big fish. They also wanted to eat and drink well. One client flew his own chef in on a private plane from Osaka. Back home this client was some sort of industrial giant. In Australia, he was perpetually shadowed by a toadie interpreter. The chef he flew in was a good bloke. A Malaysian dude. He had been the one who had first introduced Flynn to the idea of sashimi. Some fish you could just cut open and eat raw, a dab of wasabi, a little soy sauce, absolutely delicious. 

Mark, the Englishman, brought on a welder, a burly Australian named Bill, who came into town in a smoking white Land Rover. Bill was a bit broken down himself but basically a good guy. Then another dude showed up. Conner. Conner was a character alright. And like all interesting characters, Conner had a number of personal problems that soon came to the surface. For one thing, he's done serious time. And he'd left a broken family in his wake; a wive and kids who were now protected from him by a restraining order. Although he swore otherwise, Conner had ongoing alcohol and substance abuse issues. It became apparent almost immediately that Conner's sense of humour put people on edge. He seemed to enjoy causing riffs. Conner was the sort of man who thrived on disharmony because he saw social cohesion as something that ultimately would exclude him. Commonality and the rules required to maintain it made him paranoid and angry. Conner was a hard-luck story told over and over again. An outcome and attituded endlessly validated by the psychological wounds Conner himself kept tearing open.  

Seeing all this from the sidelines, Flynn continued to maintain his distance. Crews often came apart because of personality clashes. It really wasn't his problem. Not at first. Then, one afternoon when they had knocked off early, he experienced what Conner was like first hand. The boys were out in the yard drinking, listening to music, sitting around on plastic chairs, and Conner just walked into Flynn's office, planted himself in a chair and kicked back, putting one foot up on the desk. A dust caked boot. Flynn looked up and smiled. Obviously, Conner felt a chat. It was also glaringly evident that Conner liked to dominate situations, putting the people he interacted with in the subordinate position. Maybe even unknowingly so. Maybe this was just part of his nature, an unconscious response, something he had learnt in prison. Top dog and all that. 

I have been watching you mate, said Conner. I gotta say, you have a pretty good life here. A business, a nice wife. House. The whole package. And correct me if I'm wrong but....while we are out there...slaving away in the heat. You spend most of your time sitting around in this comfy office. The air conditioning blasting and the fridge full of beers. Is that right? 

If you are asking me.....do I run my business from this office then....yep....that'd be correct mate. You're right. I spend quite a bit of my time in here. Absolutely. 

And Flynn proceeded to tell Conner about the emails and phone calls. The logistics and shipping orders. And as he rattled on, Conner glazed over, leant back in his chair and started looking around, at the framed business licences on the wall, at the photos of people holding up big fish. At the Chamber of Commerce business award. It was apparent that Conner wasn't listening because he didn't give a shit. One day, he interrupted after belching loudly in the middle of Flynn's drawling speech, I want to be on the other side of this desk. You know? Why can't I be the fat cunt who sits there all day, running the show with clean hands? I mean it's impressive...all this....shit you've acquired, you know? The business, your little Asian wife, the boat...all of it. Very impressive. Probably through hard work but who knows? Maybe you just inherited it all? Anyway...let's just cut to the chase. Let me ask you, straight from the horse mouth....do you think you deserve all this? And he gestured towards the wall of photographs, a bemused, incredulous smirk on his face indicating that he had doubts. 

"Do I think I deserve all this"? repeated Flynn.

Hello? Hello? Is a fucking parrot in here, laughed Conner, forming a pretend phone out of his thumb and pinkie, jamming it against the side of his head and speaking into it. A bit of improvised comedy to either break or intensify the tension. 

I do..." deserve all this," Flynn continued. And he kept talking as if he were unaware that he was becoming the butt of the joke. Just a simple country boy. It was fine. He was taking a passive role in this exchange. For now at least. Conner maintained his pressurised and hostile badgering for another ten minutes or so. His game was peekaboo, show and tell with his barely masked aggression concealed beneath a stupidly friendly veneer. As if he were happy to speak down to Flynn in his own native tongue, the language of the simpleton. Flynn played his part, answering accordingly as if he were slightly out of his depth. A simple country boy running up against a character he had not encountered before. It was okay. For now.     

Overall Conner caused so many problems in the crew that eventually  English Mike had to drum up the nerve to kick him out. Conner was a gnarled and imposing figure. Life had chewed him over. Predictably there was a big confrontation. Conner certainly didn’t like being fired. Not in the least. He hung around camp and won't leave, making things incredibly awkward. After that, sometimes he'd show up at the gate in his truck, just sitting there behind the wheel, engine rumbling as he watching them come and go behind the compound's cyclone fence. It was a public road. The was no law against it. And at other times he'd turn up at the building site. Things got stolen, vandalised. Then he instigated a fight in the pub. Then another one the following weekend. From Conner's point of view, they still owed him money. And not just for the work he'd done but also for the work he'd been promised. English mark was out of his depth. The stress was appalling. He'd never encountered such a viciously disgruntled employee. Usually, they faded away sooner rather than later. Conner didn't seem to be going anywhere. He was dug in. Maybe this was the battle he'd been waiting for. English Mike had no idea how to deal with a bad apple like Conner. 

What fascinated Flynn was the patterns and control behind all the seemly random events in this life. Everything was connected in ways most people could not see. Or would not allow themselves to see. This was how reality worked. And he understood it. The connections. How this creature eats the next and so on. How a person or even a supposedly inanimate object can travel through time and space to be in just the right place. To fulfil a specific purpose. What people sometimes referred to as destiny. It was strange and wonderful in its predictability and order. Flynn had been aware of these patterns throughout his life. Nothing was left to chance. Even as a child he'd understood how the universe worked. As a child, he had been withdrawn, introspective, especially after the car accident that killed his older brother and his drunken father that evening out on the highway. Flynn had been stuck inside the smashed up car, pinned under all that twisted metal and blood, waiting for someone to pry him out. Hours he spent in that position, leaning against his brother. Long after the gurgling in his brother's throat had subsided and the life had drained out of his eyes. Flynn was in shock for what seemed like years after he'd been rescued. They called it grief. They expected it from him. A simple label stuck to your chest. Hello, my name in grief. Becoming a simple definition made the world itself a simpler place in which to exist. On the outside, uncomplicated expectations were promised and delivered. This was the camouflage he had perfected. You knew where you stood with an individual like Flynn....or at least that is the way it seemed. Internally speaking, he was much more like his father than he would ever let on. He shared his internal life with no one. Well, almost no one.

The last person had been back in 2008. The woman hired to run the boarding house in Karratha. She was a friendly little blonde with big opinions about life. She ran a tight ship. She hadn't done anything that especially warranted her demise but that was beside the point. She slipped away with a look of complete surprise on her face. The gurgling and drainage of the spirit from her eyes occurred. Same as his brother. The face retaining that expression of cold wonder. There were the two in the 2000's. A young guy, quite arrogant, who kicked a dog down at the beach. Then another man was just wondering along the side of the highway trying to get to his court appearance in Karratha. In the finals moments, they had gone down without a peep. There had been a woman in 1996 whose face he couldn’t even remember anymore. Flynn never intentionally tortured any of these people or used them in a sexual way. He just snuffed them out. And usually as quickly as possible. They came to him out of the blue. He had learnt to have to read the signs, the things that pointed you in the right direction, right to the crucial moment where everything just clicked into place with aching certainty. Rather than take pleasure from these acts, he saw them simply as natural's culling. He was merely the agent of this culling. An employee. If it wasn't him it would be something else. A cyclone, a disease or a traffic accident. He knew when the time was right because what people referred to as 'fate' placed the weapon in his hand and the victim at his feet. When most people found themselves in this position, they would move back away from the precipice and rejoin the herd. They would play by the rules. Flynn was different. Whatever these opportunities present themselves, he took them because he was just another part of the larger scheme. Just like a mountain plays its part in the natural order. Or a frog. Or a cloud, Flynn had a role. He's read somewhere that, some men in his fraternity could go years without succumbing to their impulses. Other adhered to a more bloodthirst schedule. They usually got caught. Some of them even desired getting caught. Flynn just waited for the signs. Sitting in his car, looking at the vast expanses of the Pilbara, he understood he was part of the cycle of creation and death. Nothing more, nothing less. 

All told, Flynn had done five over the course of his life. Conner was probably next and he didn't even know it. There was no need to plan. At first, Flynn wasn’t even sure how it was going to happen. This was usually the way. He did know the method of disposal. It was either the desert or the sea. Two options. In this case, Flynn got the boat ready. Then it came time for his wife to go home, back to Jakarta with their daughter to visit her relatives. Again, Flynn found himself being nudged into the executioner's position. This was one of those years that Flynn was not required to accompany her. When he dropped the ladies off at the little airport, unloading their luggage, he began to get that sensation, the buzzing clarity of mind, as if things beyond his control were lining up, getting ready to deliver Conner to him. Neither of them had a choice in the matter. They were both passive agents, actors being led through the darkness, onto an elaborate stage where they would be asked to perform their parts. 

One night Flynn found himself driving along the highway without a clear destination in mind, just driving, insects smashing against the windshield as the headlights ate up the cracked blacktop. It was like he was being drawn down the highway into a dream. Then he saw a figure standing on the side of the road next to a broken down vehicle. It was Conner. Of course it was. Conner turned and raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the approaching headlights. They had barely talked since that afternoon in Flynn's office. Flynn pulled over, got out and ambled back. Conner had the same shitty, arrogant attitude as before even though Flynn was there to help him out in his moment of need. As always, it seemed like the world owed Conner something. Flynn just went with it, the cheerful country boy that he was. Then Conner was down on one knee, trying to figure out why the jack wasn't working properly, why the scissor mechanism was frozen, cursing under his breath as he worked the iron. And Flynn was standing over him holding the torch, one those heavy Mag lights like American cops carry around, a tube full of thick batteries. 

When Conner regained consciousness was bound and gagged. He seemed to be inside some sort of large plastic box, dirty water pooled at one end, sloshing about. It was an ice chest. A very large one. He could also feel the low vibration of an engine and the chop of the bow breaking over the occasional wave. Eventually, the engine was cut and the lid of the ice chest was lifted, and there was Flynn looking impassively down at him. Conner was completely confused. He had no idea what the hell was going on. It was still night. Flynn yanked him out of the box and dumped him hard on the deck. Conner had a terrible headache. He could taste blood in his mouth. Conner managed to wiggle around so he could see what was happening. Flynn was working, spilling the contents of a white bucket over the side of the boat, talking on in his drawl, explaining how, mathematically speaking, there was another Flynn and another Conner out there, walking around on a different plant. And maybe that Conner, on that other plant, was doing something useful with his life. Not making it hard for other people to live. And maybe that Flynn didn't have the ghost of his ancestors in his head. Maybe he is just a normal guy and not part of the scheme. Which could be a burden at times. Maybe he was the one who died in that car accident with his father and not his brother, Flynn mused with genuine wonder, some of the blood from the bucket spilling on the deck, getting on his rubber apron. This might be of comfort for you...in these final moments, he said thoughtfully. 

What are you talking about? moaned Conner, straining against the nylon ropes that bound his wrists and ankles. Flynn threw the remaining blood and offal into the ocean. The sky was just beginning to pale now as several black fins broke the surface of the water, drawn in by the cloud of chum. 

When Flynn got back to the marina, he hosed the boat down with a beer in his hands and then he drove home. He was dog tired, his eyelids heavy. He dropped his car keys on vanity and slept for the rest of the afternoon, waking up sometime after dark, the blinds drawn pointlessly against the night windows. 

A couple weeks later there was someone else sitting in his office. A young police officer Flynn had never met before. Immediately Flynn understood that his young man was sharper than the other cops he knew in the area. The young man had just been transferred up from Perth. He was sitting in exactly the same place Conner had sat several weeks before. They had found Conner's truck abandoned on the side of the highway. Where he'd gone was a complete mystery. 

He worked for you, didn't he? the young copper asked. 

He worked for one of my contractors, said Flynn. So he didn't work for me directly. 

I see. Now I understand there had been some problems? Prompted the young cop. A disagreement? Can you tell me what happened? 

Flynn put on a face that indicated his serious consideration of this question before continuing. Mainly I leave the men up to their own devices, he said. I try not to get involved. It’s better that way. Now from what I understand, from what I have heard, he didn't fit into the group. So yes, he caused problems. He wasn't a team player. 

I see....but didn't you also have...issues with the Conner? 

I wouldn't say I had a problem with him, said Flynn, putting just a little edge into his voice. Most people get a bit testy when they are questioned by the police. You want to avoid just sit there, looking too collected, too detached. You end up drawing suspicion displaying that kind of behaviour. 

A few days later, Flynn sent up his new drone, his latest toy, high above the industrial estate. He could see it all unfold and spreading out below, on his laptop screen. Amazing what you can do with technology these days, he thought, as he toggled the craft, increasing altitude. He was sitting in his office, flying a tiny plastic aircraft, looking down at all the rusted chain link fences, the tin roofs, the sheds, the weed riddled lots and in the distance, the refinery, a tangle of metal platforms and tanks, all of seen through the drones hi-def camera lens. And then he noticed a white vehicle in amongst all this rust and earth, a cop car sitting on the next street over. He moved closer, hovering above it, but still, he couldn't see who was behind the wheel. You had to wonder though, didn't you? Why was the cop there? Was it the new kid? It seemed likely it was. Who else would have come out all this way without a specific reason? Maybe the boy was trying to crack the big case? Was that it?  

One hot afternoon, Flynn caught up Murray in town. The street was crowded with miners in high viz gear, all going to the bank to deposit their wages. Being the most senior officer in the area, Murray was a stable influence because he was corrupt in a number of different ways so he tended not to want to disturb the status quo. You would quite literally need to show up at Murray's front door holding a severed head for him to get off his fat arse. Flynn asked how the big investigation was going and what was up with all the questioning. Yeah, sorry about the kid's gusto, said Murry. He's just a bit overeager, just trying to cover all bases. And this was the way the conversation concluded. Nothing to worry about. Just following procedure. All good, assured Murry. Okay then... if that was the case, why was Murry unable to met his eye? Why was he backing away, attempting to untangle himself from their exchange while they were still in mid-conversation? 

They invite him down to the station for another little chat. They sat on the other side of the desk, with their arms crossed, looking at Flynn. The questioning had become more directed. Forceful. Flynn answered as he had before, gauging his responses, introducing a slightly defiant tone as if he were nervous but also annoyed at having his privacy invaded and his reputation tarnished. This is how normal people behaved, he reminded himself. The key was to show emotion in the way a person under these conditions would. He could sit there for hours if he wanted to, cold and introspective, unaffected by their staredown tactics, but he knew what kind of impression that would leave. He didn't feel like he was in any real danger of discovery yet the young lad was closer to the reality of this situation than anyone had gotten in years. Interesting. 

They came around to examine his boat, his truck and look through the compound but there was nothing to find. Still, the boy cop just wasn’t ready give up. Maybe it was a case that he wasn't buying Flynn's brand of bullshit? Although it was a rare occurrence these days, Flynn did run into exceptional people from time to time. The kid was very intelligent and clear-headed in his approach to his job. Flynn did a little digging himself. The boy had completed a masters in forensic psychology down in Perth yet here he was working as a police officer in this remote town. It didn't make sense. 

A week later Flynn flew down to Perth to pick up a consignment of fishing equipment, Shimano reels and rods, and to go shopping for his wife. He could have had these items shipped up north but he wanted to get away, have some time to think. He had a beer at the airport before they called his flight. The younger copper had a wife down there in Perth. She was pregnant. It made Flynn wonder why she wasn't up in the Pilbara with him. Did they not usually house the wives of these cops? She lived on a small street in a suburb near the city. She was blonde and good looking. Athletic. After the baby was delivered, Flynn suspected she would bounce right back to work. Young people had that ability these days. 

When he got back to Port Headland, he went to Murray's house, showing up unannounced with a bottle of whisky. He got Murray drunk out by the pool and then the truth came out. Conner had finally become the important man he'd always suspected himself to be. He was a witness in a case against some powerful people the state government wanted to be put away. They had relocated him up here, away from the city. All he'd need to do was stay in the house they had provided, keep a low profile and he'd be fine. After a week, the idiot had gone AWOL. And they needed him back. The conviction hung on his testimony. Hence the wonder boy and his probing questions. 

Flynn was out at the tidal pool with his family. There were other people down there. Off-duty mine employees having a good time, trying to relax, drinking beer and listening to music. They swam off the sandbank, their eskies close at hand. Flynn was kicking back, working on a six pack of light beers and some of the turkey sandwiches his wife had prepared. His daughter was in the water, on an inflatable object purchased from Target. A giant colourful doughnut. At a certain point, Flynn noticed a glint of light up on the hill, the sun bouncing off metal, amongst all those red boulders that resembled oversize coffee granules. He knew the area quite well. On that particular headland, there was a lookout, a place where the road ended with enough space for three or four cars to park. Teenagers usually drove up there to drink and screw. Flynn caught the glint again, a hot burst of light. He got up and stood at the edge of the water. Sometimes sharks got stuck in these tidal pools, cut off from the ocean. Was he like that? Being unknowingly cut off? Was there something out there, trying to hem him in. He told his wife that he needed to piss and went off behind some bushes. Once out of sight, he began to quickly work his way through the underbrush, keeping himself concealed from view, tracing the line of mangrove trees that bordered the water before cutting sharply up the hill. He passed a pile of guts and bones on the shore, a large fish that had been butchered, probably the work of a croc. Then he was scrambling up through the brush, over rocks and loose sediment, his breathing hard but controlled in his chest, his clothes already drenched with sweat. He could feel his heart rate getting faster. When he turned to check his progress, he could now see the min employees and his own family, down below in the place where he'd just come from. He was making good progress. Only four minutes to get this far. Form this point on, he made sure to keep the noise of his movements down to a minimum. 

Finally, he came out of the bush and crossed a dirt road, perhaps thirty metres downwind from the lookout. Careful to make sure he was still concealed from view, he plunged back into the bush, moving along in a semi-crouch, hooking up and over the top of the lookout. He came in from behind, down the slope, his feet dislodging little pebbles. It couldn't be helped. He snapped a look at his watch, his heart beating violently from exertion in the heat. Pretty good for a man his age. He had been away from his wife's side for just over seven minutes. A long time to take a piss but not so long that you would be missed. Down in the lookout area, he could see a lone white car and there stood the young cop. The wonder boy. He was lending against the front bumper of his vehicle, his back to Flynn. The young cop had a pair of binoculars pointed down in the direction of the sand dune, presumably hunting for Flynn. He had no idea Flynn was standing directly behind him. Flynn could have crept up on him. A voice in Flynn's head said this is not ideal. This is not the right time. Flynn retreated, moving back the way he'd come. 

An open window around the back of the house. Silent rooms traversed in clean work boots. Something very bad, a chemical, a neurotoxin, was introduced into the young policeman's life without his knowledge. It was odourless and tasteless. It was mixed into milk. The milk in the plastic container that resided in the door of the young cop's fridge. A hand sheathed in blue latex did this, using a small syringe to squirt the liquid in. The whole thing took only a couple of minutes. The tainted milk carton sat there for days and might have reached its expiration date and been chucked out but this was not to be. The carton waited patiently. The young cop would feel no pain. On his last day, he came in, dropped his car keys on the hall table and made a beeline to the fridge because he'd been out in the heat all day. He opened the fridge door, felt the cold air. Drink me, said the milk. The cop didn't even hesitate. He took a long, deep slug directly from the container and then wiped his mouth. Then another. The cold, creamy liquid worked its way down into his gut. Milk was not an ideal thirst quencher but the fridge was almost completely empty. He dropped his belt and gun on the kitchen counter with a thud, and then he went to lie down on the sofa, to looking at his phone. Ten minutes later a wave of fatigue like he'd never experienced came crashing over him. In a distant part of his mind, he began to panic because this wasn't normal. Mercifully the fatigue was so overwhelming that it also began to soothe him even as it pulled him down. He was gone before he even knew it. 

After the investigation had settled down, Murray put in for long service leave. He packed up his house, disconnected the batteries of his two cars and then, one morning, caught a taxi to the airport. It had been some bad business, that young investigator from Perth dying so unexpectedly. He was the pain in the arse but you wouldn't wish that on your worst enemy. A pair of senior detectives had flown up. They had gone into the house after the boy had been discovered. They found him in the living room. He was in a bad state: the heat had got to him. They scoured the place, top to bottom, concluding that things had been tampered with, evidence had most likely been removed. The wonder boy had been working in isolation so whatever he's documented electronically would have been on his laptop, which was now gone. 

They asked Murray a lot of questions. There were a few hairy moments when Murray actually felt a bit uncomfortable. As if he might get pulled into this mess. It benefited him greatly that he did not need to work hard to be perceived as a bumbling and mainly incompetent cop.  

For a couple of weeks after this had happened, Murray was jumpy and nervous of his own fucking shadow. For a long time now, he had the ghost of a theory about the true nature of certain individuals in his jurisdiction. What these individuals might be capable of and what they have done in the past. The trouble was Murray was too wound into his own compromises to ruffle feathers. How long had he known? Suspected? For all these years? it was amazing what you picked up without trying. Yes, he was an effectual cop but even a stopped clock is right twice a day. He avoided town while he waited for his leave to be approved. The whole time that ominous feeling just would not subside. The shadow moving over you. The predator. Once in the taxi, heading to the airport, Murray felt like he could finally breathe a little easier. He was going to Bali for a month and then back to visit with his daughter in Perth. He would reassess the situation from there. He knew he was done with this part of the world. He was only travelling with a small bag. He would pick up what he needed along the way. 

When he got to the airport, once he had checked in his bag, he went for a beer at the bar. This was part of the ritual. A holiday didn't feel like a holiday until he saddled up to the little-overpriced bar and had a few cold ones. He wished there was a straight run to Bali but that wasn't the case. He would need to go down to Perth then bounce back up to Denpasar. Something materialised in his peripheral vision, became solid. A face. He thought maybe it was a miner also on his way out but it was Flynn. Happy-go-lucky Flynn. Flynn who he'd been avoiding for a while now. Murray tried to keep cool, to be casual but within seconds he was having a physiological reaction, his heart beating too hard in his chest, his blood pressure up, his mouth gone dry. Flynn was Looking at Flynn's face he saw the deep acne scars and the dead eyes that were usually so good at counterfeiting life. And once again Murray knew the truth. What he had suspected for quite some time now. How long had he been turning a blind eye? 

Flynn said he was there to met someone but that sounded like bullshit. They were playing their old game, pretending everything was alright, skirting around the obvious topic, chatting away, just two acquaintances at the bar. You'll have to send me a postcard from Bali, said Flynn. Where are you staying? 

Nothing booked yet, Murray replied.

Playing it by ear, are we?

Yeah, I like to move around.

Murray knew this was the last time he would see Flynn. It angered Murray that, right up until the very end, he needed to reassure this fucking monster of his complicity, his loyalty, in these matters of community secrecy. Because that's exactly what he was doing, wasn't he? Signalling that the status quo would be maintained. Murray didn't want to know what he knew but there was no going back. During their conversation, which was about nothing and everything all at the same time, Murray opted to leave his full beer untouched. Then, thankfully, it was time to board. They shook hands because that was the thing to do. I'll see you when I get back, lied Murray before he went through the gate and boarded. He was up in the air about twenty minutes later, the plane banking over the desert, pivoting the sun through the cabin and trailing a small shadow across the red earth far below.