River of the Sun

by Patricia Shaw

Genres: General Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

River of the Sun celebrates the pioneering spirit of the men and women whose courage and ambition laid the foundations of modern Australia. Patricia Shaw's stunning saga is perfect for fans of Tamara McKinley and Tricia McGill. When Perfection Middleton catches the eye of Darcy Buchanan, all hell breaks loose. Joint heir to the vast estate of Caravale in North Queensland, Darcy's a catch all right, and far too good for a lowly housemaid. That's what his family thinks, anyway, and his brother Ben does all he can to prevent the marriage; a scheme that goes tragically wrong... Lew Cavour is very taken with Perfy, too, but he gets caught up in the gold rush and the race to stake a claim on the river of gold, as does Ben Buchanan, who is determined to buy out Perfy's share of Caravale. But their journey to the river is dogged by disease, madness and murder. Diamond, an aborigine girl, has a profound effect on all their lives. Too intelligent to be content as the menial slave to which her colour condemns her, too sophisticated to return to her tribe, she feels at odds with both worlds. What readers are saying about River of the Sun : 'I just couldn't put it down ' 'It kept me completely enthralled ' ' Absolute page-turner '

Release date: October 27, 2011

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 384

Sample

The big river sang and glittered in the sunlight. It toppled from the mysterious jungle heights of Irukandji territory down huge granite bluffs to hurtle life into the parched inland, tracking westward through the lands of the fierce Merkin tribe.

The people were proud of this river. It was known as River of the Sun because, becalmed after summer torrents, it was a delight to watch. In the mountain pools, in deep gorges, in crannies and crevices, and all along the river bed, far across the plains in drying creeks and billabongs, yellow stones reflected the sun. They glittered and sparkled and gleamed in magical array, littering the sandy shores, winking from the crystal clear depths.

High in their mountain fortress, at the headwaters of the river, the superior isolated Irukandji clans could see far to the west over the endless expanse of land but it held no interest for them. They preferred to look east into the morning sun, to admire the dramatic blue of the ocean and the ripples of the coral reef far yonder. Another river fed on the mountain torrents but this one rushed down to the sea. It was known simply as the Green River because it took its colour from crowding foliage before entering the sheltered bay. They did not know that a century before the time of which we speak a white sea captain had named this bay after his ship, Endeavour.

Irukandji people came down past the falls to fish in the sea shallows which were safer than the crocodile-infested Green River. Crocodiles were their only enemies these days. The reputation of this savage tribe had been well established over the centuries. None dared intrude into their territory without permission.

But now danger was looming. From time to time they had seen strange beings come ashore from big ships to take water from their springs. Stealthy watchers had allowed them to depart unmolested, secure in their ability to defend their tribal lands. But couriers and traders from other powerful tribes had brought disturbing news, that these strangers were creeping across tribal lands to the south, and though they didn’t look like warriors they were evil and dangerous.

Chief Tajatella conferred with the elders and a decree was issued to the Irukandji people that this menace would not be tolerated by the proud mountain clans. ‘No more!’ Tajatella ordered and his warriors stamped their approval at a special corroboree as the chant echoed through the hills. ‘Kill the evil ones! Drive them back into the sea!’

1862

As the schooner White Rose sailed quietly south down the Whitsunday Passage, Captain Otto Beckman could see the smoke from native camp fires in the hills but it didn’t concern him. There were Aborigines living all along the Queensland coast but ships were safe from them. It amazed this German seaman that Englishmen should choose to live in such wild outposts as Somerset, at the tip of Cape York. It was surrounded by impenetrable jungle and hordes of wild blacks, the settlers’ only contact with the world through the occasional visits of supply ships and passing vessels like the White Rose.

He shuddered and made the sign of the Cross. To drown at sea was a clean death but to be hacked to pieces by blood-thirsty heathens! Gott! They had to be mad to stay there. And yet John Jardine, formerly police magistrate at Rockhampton, now the official Resident in charge of Somerset, didn’t mind. He was determined his little settlement would succeed, claiming it would become another Singapore. With the help of grumbling marines, a medical officer and a few intrepid pioneers, he was busy building a township. He had constructed barracks, a hospital, and a fine Residency overlooking the lovely seaway known as Albany Pass. He was presently marking out streets on cleared land and surveying allotments for future citizens.

‘You should buy one, Beckman,’ Jardine had said. ‘You can have a superb spot with a view for twenty pounds. A bargain, what?’

A bargain? Beckman didn’t believe the tiny port could survive, despite the optimism of this tough, resourceful man, but he could not afford to offend Jardine. While it lasted, Somerset was a convenient port of call. The trade route between Batavia and Brisbane was lucrative but dangerous, especially around the Torres Strait. Murdering Asian pirates preyed on slow-moving ships that travelled tenderly to avoid reefs, and shipwrecked sailors on isolated islands were at the mercy of wild blacks, if they didn’t die of thirst on white-hot coral atolls. Jardine had saved the lives of many seafarers by putting to sea in his own rig, with his marines, to fight off the attackers. He was an extraordinary fellow. Best of all, Somerset had good, clean, fresh water.

‘Thank you, sir, a bargain indeed,’ Beckman had replied, ‘but I have a house in Brisbane, my home is there.’

‘Never mind. Time to think about it. I believe your wife is on board White Rose this time. You must bring her ashore to dine with us this evening.’

‘Unfortunately this is not possible. Mrs Beckman got a sickness in Batavia.’

‘Batavia? Filthy place. Would you like our doctor to visit her?’

‘No, thank you. She is over the worst but left with an indisposition and does not wish to leave the ship.’

Jardine had stared at him and then grinned. ‘I see. Got the trots, has she? Yes, embarrassing for a lady. Embarrassing for any of us. Flour and water does the trick, bind her up. But get rid of that bloody Batavia water, tip the lot in the drink. Nothing for them to have dead animals in their wells. You must come to dinner though, Captain. Stay over at the Residency. We don’t often have visitors, we’ll make a night of it.’

A night of it? Beckman’s head still ached when he recalled Jardine’s hospitality. Gussie had been disappointed but dared not venture ashore. Poor Gussie, this voyage had been a disaster for her. With her husband at sea so much she had become lonely living in Brisbane. A good woman and an excellent housekeeper, she wasn’t much at making friends and the rowdy, raucous neighbours, many of them former convicts, terrified her. She missed their son. Frederick had intended to migrate to Australia with them, but his wife had changed her mind at the last minute. Gussie missed her family and the orderliness of their lives in Hamburg. She had become so listless and despondent, Otto had finally agreed to allow her to accompany him on this voyage. He had reminded her that she was prone to seasickness but she was too excited to care.

But she’d been seasick all the way, and instead of recovering her strength on solid ground in Batavia she had found the sodden air a further trial, her nostrils assailed by the stench of harbourside refuse mixed with the sickly perfume of exotic blooms. Finally she had succumbed to a tropical illness that weakened her so much she had to be carried back on board.

Beckman sighed. That dinner party with the Englishman! After listening to Jardine’s tales of countless attacks on the settlement by Aborigines whom Jardine had airily identified as Yardigans and Goomkodeens, Otto had not slept well. They sounded more like fierce goblins to him and the screeches of night creatures in the dark, looming bush were constant reminders of danger. He’d wished himself back on the ship. Rum, wines, port – Otto hadn’t drunk so much in years.

When the dawn finally came, and he lay hot and sweating on his bed, he noticed movement in a dim corner of the room. His eyes were pools of pain as he tried to focus, then suddenly he was up and on his feet. Comfortably overweight, like Gussie, he had slowed down over the years but his reflexes were still sharp. As the huge snake uncoiled from its night’s rest, Otto grabbed his clothes and fled naked from the house.

That morning he was in a foul temper, railing at the shore crew to get aboard, shouting at his first mate Bart Swallow that they’d sail on the early tide. He took hurried leave of his host, and with relief sent the White Rose bucking into the southerlies, fresh winds beating a cool tattoo on his reddened, overheated face.

And now, a week later, as he stood at the wheel, he knew but would never admit that he had been over-hasty in bringing forward the sailing time.

‘Say again, Mr Swallow!’ he roared.

‘We’re nearly out of water, sir.’

‘And why are we nearly out off wasser?’ His tongue was thick with rage.

‘There was a mix-up at Somerset, sir. The men emptied the casks of Batavian water and refilled one. They meant to fill the others the next morning but they were overlooked.’

‘Overlooked! What sort of blubberhead word is this? Overlooked! Do we overlook to cast off? To set sail? I wager you neffer overlook the rum, you hear me?’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

All around them the men on deck had slowed to listen, eyes flicking from one to another, slow, mean grins spreading to hear the captain bawling out the first mate. Beckman turned on them. ‘You listen good to me, you scabby lot. You laugh. You think we get to port easy with one cask of water. You’re fools.’ He waved an arm angrily at the placid, sapphire-blue waters. ‘You think this is a pretty place, a safe passage from the great oceans, but under us are reefs ready to cut the heart out of my ship. God forbid that happen, but if we smash up aground on a reef, we could die of thirst. In this heat it don’t take long. So I don’t sail no further without plenty water. You hear me?’

‘Yes, Captain,’ voices hissed.

‘A flogging it should be for you, Mr Swallow, but instead you go for water. And you take with you the water men. Who were they? Who else neglected their duties?’

Swallow licked his lips. ‘I take full responsibility, sir.’

‘And can you row the longboat, and carry the casks all by yourself?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then give me the names.’

There was a rustle of curiosity and the men looked around them to see who would have to go ashore.

‘Billy Kemp,’ Swallow began, ‘and George Salter and Dutchy Baar.’

‘Good. We’ll drop anchor at the mouth of the Endeavour River in the morning. My charts show fresh spring water can be had there, close to shore. You four will get us water.’ He sniffed the air, nose wrinkling. ‘What’s that smell?’ And then he shook his head in despair. ‘You again, Gaunt!’

The cabin boy was standing gawping with a foul-smelling bucket of slop. No need to guess where it came from; Gussie had been vomiting again.

‘Get rid of that,’ Beckman shouted, ‘or I’ll throw you overboard with it! And scour the bucket too.’ He turned away in disgust. How he’d let that old rascal Willy Gaunt talk him into signing on his dim-witted son he’d never know. ‘Gawping Gaunt’ was a damn good name for him, always standing around waiting for someone to tell him, again and again, what to do. Nothing seemed to sink in. Fortunately he had one saving grace: he was kind to Augusta. He didn’t seem to mind looking after her, cleaning up after her, running up and down with cups of coffee and biscuits, and he did her washing as well as any Chinee laundryman. Gussie liked him, that was something.

Beckman went back to his charts to study the coastline around the Endeavour River outlet. He couldn’t afford to miss it.

Willy Gaunt had his son’s career all mapped out. Edmund would begin as a cabin boy, spend years before the mast, save money, obey orders, be brave and upstanding, and promotions would attend experience like sure steps up a clear path, until he reached the pinnacle where he would be issued with the precious ticket to master his own ship.

This idea had come to him in a flash of enlightenment. It was the first real idea Willy had ever had and it was such a beauty, even now he could hardly contain his excitement. Until that day, Willy had tumbled with the fates, no more in control of his life than a stone rattling down a cobbled street. In the dark Liverpool slums where he lived, locals had to compete with hordes of starving Irish immigrants for a slice of daily bread. Theft was essential. A competent thief was admired, envied, talked about. Willy was neither a good thief nor a bad one, he simply laboured at the profession, never thinking of himself as battling to survive because he had no conception of the war.

When the prison gates clanged on him, like the closure of winter on the thin, wailing populace, Willy was among his mates. They shuffled, sneering, through the cattle-yards of the courts, while magistrates, like auctioneers, shouted their worth to the only bidders, the colonies.

Willy was indifferent to the fact that he’d become a world traveller, led through Sydney Town and on to Moreton Bay prison, walking past the graves of other convicts to exit with a ticket-of-leave to labour in Brisbane. He lost count of time until a bored clerk advised him that he’d been a free man for more than a year.

His convict wife, Jane Bird, assembled the necessary ten guineas to buy a proper house in which to rear their son. By this time Willy had become accustomed to labouring so he just kept on, prospecting here and there and, from habit too, dealing in stolen goods.

Being free meant a lot to Willy. He’d never been able to appreciate ‘free’ as a lad because the concept hadn’t occurred to him, but now he had a paper to prove it. And he had a son who had a chance to become an important person. A boss even.

A few favours and winks down at the Brisbane wharves had led Willy Gaunt into the presence of the German, Captain Beckman, master of the White Rose, a coastal clipper. The eagle-eyed Willy had soon made a judgement: Beckman was a good fellow, a man to be trusted. It took some fast talking but eventually he persuaded the captain to give his boy a chance, and Edmund joined the crew of the White Rose as a cabin boy.

Jane had died when the boy was ten, begging her husband to see to the lad, and Willy had kept his promise. He loved his son and was proud of this boy who could read and write as good as any squire. Now Edmund’s life as a sailorman had begun.

Three nights a week it was Edmund’s turn to mind the watch, to stand by, run messages, check the lanterns, be another set of eyes.

‘Young eyes,’ Captain Beckman had said. ‘Half the time they don’t know what they’re looking for but at least they’re not dulled with stolen rum.’

Edmund sat high on a spar, eagerly surveying the calm, moonlit seas of the Whitsunday Passage. He was feeling better now, safe from the heave and surge of the open ocean. While everyone else on the ship feared the thousand-mile stretch of coral reefs that lay off the Queensland coast, Edmund was grateful for its protection, allowing the White Rose smooth sailing and keeping his stomach in balance.

From the minute the ship had sailed out of the Brisbane River into Moreton Bay and headed north into open ocean, Edmund had been violently seasick, made worse by shock and humiliation. It hadn’t occurred to him that he would be sick, let alone be reduced to such a cringing mess that he expected to die. He had begged to be allowed to crawl into his canvas hutch under the longboat but Mr Swallow would have none of it. ‘Get away with you, lad. If you throw up enough there’ll be nowt left to throw. Get on with your work and don’t be sick on the deck or I’ll have your hide.’

Only the captain’s wife, Mrs Beckman, felt sorry for him, because she too had been sick, vomiting into buckets that Edmund had to empty, apologising and commiserating with her fellow sufferer. Once they reached the Whitsundays they had both revived and the voyage north to the little settlement at the tip of Cape York had been uneventful, but now, on the return journey, the captain’s wife was sick again. At both ends.

Knowing that Mrs Beckman was a poor sailor, the crew laughed and made dirty remarks. Edmund thought they were cruel but they hoped she would learn her lesson and stay home. They didn’t want a woman aboard, let alone a fat German frau. It was bad luck, they said, an ill omen. They were always talking about ill omens, every second thing that happened was an omen of some sort. Not that Edmund was a disbeliever, by no means. Their stories scared him shitless and he was anxious to learn how to keep safe. He bartered his rum ration, gave it to Billy Kemp every day in exchange for a shark’s tooth which now hung round his neck. That was a good bargain. If you wear a shark’s tooth and you fall overboard or get shipwrecked, no shark will come near you. ‘They’ll take off faster than a whore’s drawers!’ Billy had said, and that was a real comfort. Edmund was terrified of sharks.

Movement below startled him from his dozing and he slid down to the deck, feeling the welcome chill of a pre-dawn breeze. The sea was pink right across to the horizon, real pink; it never ceased to amaze him that seas could have such colours. The sky over to sun-up was streaked with rosy grey far off into nothingness. He wondered what was on the other side of the ocean.

‘Don’t just stand there, you great galah, lend a hand here!’ Billy Kemp shoved Edmund towards the longboat. ‘Get it free. The lads are bringing up the casks.’

Billy was like that, always giving orders. You’d think he was an officer, not just an ordinary sailor. Edmund fumbled with the ropes but other hands were faster and the longboat was swung overboard. The ship was busy now with helpers and watchers, and the casks were brought up. Edmund prayed they’d find water, he didn’t want to die with a swollen tongue too big for his mouth; that’s what happened when the thirst got you, so he’d been told.

The captain was standing watching, not a peep out of him and hard to tell what he was thinking with that bearded face. When his mouth was closed, all you could see were those steel-grey eyes of his. One day, Edmund promised himself, he would have a beard like that, neat and clipped. It would be like wearing a mask.

Mr Swallow had a gun, a revolver. Edmund shuddered. He was glad he wasn’t going; they were a long way out from the shore but the land looked a creepy place.

Mrs Beckman came puffing on to the deck hitching her hefty skirts out of the way to see the shore party rowing towards a tiny strip of white beach.

‘Can’t we get any closer?’ he heard her ask the captain.

‘Too risky. We have to stay out here in the channel. You’re looking well this morning, my dear.’

‘Yes. It is a good time of day before that brute heat starts.’

‘You should stay up here in the fresh air. It’s much better for you. Get the lad to make you comfortable and bring your morning tea.’

Too late. They had spotted him. Miserably, Edmund dropped down to the galley. This was supposed to be his bunk time, he’d been on watch half the night, but once the cook grabbed him he’d have to help serve the crew, then do the cabins and every other bloody job that got foisted on him. He’d be lucky to get any sleep before nightfall.

The shore party stared nervously at the forbidding green mountains that loomed behind the coastline, their peaks swathed in mist like a huge grey shawl as the steam rose with the sun from the sweaty jungles below. Hard green mangroves waded into the sea at the mouth of the river but on the southern side a glittering white beach had cut a swathe into the relentless green.

Billy Kemp was first into the boat. He was thirsty. Beckman had refused to allow any of the culprits a drop of water since they’d found the dry casks. So now, surrounded by inviting but undrinkable water, Billy was anxious to get going. He was already shaping up an oar as the others dropped in beside him. ‘Get a move on,’ he snarled. ‘The sooner we’re in and back, the better.’

‘Take an oar, Dutchy,’ Bart Swallow ordered.

Dutchy grinned at Billy. ‘Pull hard, lad. We’ll be first to the water and drink a bellyful.’

But George Salter was worried. ‘What if we can’t find any water?’

‘Ah, shut your gob, you Limey bastard,’ Billy said. ‘Mr Swallow knows where the water is, don’t you?’

Swallow nodded uncertainly. ‘I think so. Captain Cook beached here for three months.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ George said. ‘That was a hundred bloody years ago!’

‘I know that,’ Swallow snapped. ‘He was the one who first found water here, but there’ve been plenty more since. Reports say there’s a trail of marked trees to the springs.’

‘Any trail’d be well overgrown now,’ Billy commented. ‘In this climate the bush grows like wildfire but it don’t matter, the wet season’s just finished, that great bloody hill’ll have creeks and gullies runnin’ down it like ribs.’

‘How would you know?’ George asked.

Billy ignored him, enjoying the challenge of keeping pace with the big Dutchman who was as strong as an ox, his brown sinewy arms making light of deep-dipping strokes that were sending the heavy boat skimming fast for the shore.

How would he know? He knew about water, but he bloody knew more about no water. About droughts and the godforsaken stupid bloody farm the old man had bought. Free settlers, too, with the world at their feet, no taint of crime in the Kemp family, no scars of the whip or the chains. His parents had come smiling ashore with their two little sons and been conned into buying a postage stamp farm on past Bathurst. Madness! Billy could tell them now, too late, that you had to buy big in this country or not buy at all. But his Ma and Pa had had their dream of a farm and of maybe one day getting bigger and turning into squatters. Fat chance.

Their desperate little sheep farm never had a hope. Out here you needed a monster spread and an army of sheep, but they’d battled on. Dingoes grabbed the sheep. Crows picked their eyes out. And Billy had watched his parents disintegrate along with the lonely little farm. When his young brother died of snakebite, his mother became wildeyed mad, always wandering around searching for the dead boy, calling out for her Harry so often that the crazy mimic parrots had taken up the call. Little budgies hopped about crying ‘Harry! WhereareyuhHarry’ in their squirrelling pippy voices, and smart-arse cockatoos had latched on too, doing better. Tame as hens, intrigued by humans, they swung in the trees and clomped in the dust by the house with a chorus of ‘Harry! Hello, Harry! Come home, Harry!’ as clear as a bloody bell! It was enough to send anyone out of their brains. And rain? They never saw rain. They forgot what green looked like, everywhere just dust and more dust. And when the last of the sheep died, the old man went down to the dried-up creek and shot himself.

‘Steady now,’ Bart Swallow said, ‘and keep your eyes peeled. The place looks deserted but you never know. The tide’s on the turn, keep well clear of those rocks and make for the beach. Steady, take her quietly in.’

‘Do you reckon there’ll be blackfellers in there?’ George asked.

‘We’re not staying around long enough to find out,’ Swallow told him.

They heaved the boat up the beach, and lumped three casks ashore. ‘I’ll mind the boat,’ Billy said. He didn’t fancy a stroll in that jungle; it’d be alive with snakes.

‘I’m giving the orders here, Kemp,’ Swallow said. ‘You come with me, Dutchy, I need you to carry the casks. You two guard the boat.’ He picked up two machetes and handed one to Dutchy. ‘We’ll have to slash a path, by the looks of things.’

‘How do we guard the boat without a weapon?’ Billy asked. ‘If we get attacked are we supposed to throw bloody sand at them? Give me the gun.’

‘He’s right,’ George said. ‘We shoulda brought a couple of rifles.’

‘No need for that.’ Swallow unbuckled his belt and holster. ‘I’ll leave you the gun. You take it, George, and here’s the ammo. If you need us, fire a shot and we’ll come running.’

Billy laughed as they disappeared into the bush. ‘He’s bloody useless, that Swallow. He forgot the rifles, just like he forgot the bloody water. How were we to know he hadn’t put someone else on the job? Let’s go up in the shade, we’ll fry here. This sand reflects heat like a bloody looking-glass.’

They followed the others up the beach and sank down on to a frayed carpet of sparse seagrass. They couldn’t see Swallow and Dutchy in the tangled scrub, strung with huge lawyer vines thick as ropes, but they could hear them swishing inland. Billy hoped they wouldn’t be long, this was no picnic. He watched George buckle on the holster and examine the gun. ‘Is it loaded?’

‘Sure is.’

‘Then mind you don’t shoot your bloody foot off! Give it to me.’

‘Get lost. I can shoot. You think you know everything, Kemp. Bet you couldn’t even shoot a crow.’

‘If you could shoot a crow,’ Billy said lazily, ‘I’d give you a gold clock. They’ve got more brains than you have, mate.’ He leaned back against a tree, keeping an eye on the boat. Shoot? Anyone could shoot. Except his old man. He hadn’t even got that right. When Billy had gone tearing down to the creek and found his father, half his face shot away and the blood pumping out, he’d screamed and cried. Well, he was only ten. He’d knelt in the mess beside his father and grabbed hold of him, and that eye had stared up at him, beseeching! He was still alive. Oh shit! It was an awful thing to keep remembering. Billy had taken the rifle and finished the job. Well, he had to. Like they’d had to shoot dying, suffering, blind sheep.

Jesus, he was thirsty! His mouth was dry as dust. He got up and moved along the beach, keeping in the shade, looking for a coconut tree. A swig of coconut milk’d be just what the doctor ordered, but there wasn’t one in sight. ‘Wouldn’t you know?’ he muttered to himself. ‘From the ship there looks to be thousands of them trees along these shores and just when you want one, not a jigger around.’

By the time he returned, George was dozing, his head flopped down. Billy spat and kicked him hard in the ribs. ‘Some bloody guard!’

‘Whatcha do that for?’ George yelped, leaping up. ‘I was just restin’.’

A flock of lorikeets whirled red and blue from the bush and flew screeching out to sea. Billy whistled in admiration. Boy, they could move! They wheeled in unison and shot back towards land in a long sweeping arc. Billy nodded. There must be a hawk around somewhere. They’d give him the dodge.

He hitched himself up on to the thick ledge of a pandanus branch and sighed, wishing the others would hurry up. Surely they’d located some fresh water by this time. He squinted over the white glare of sand. Someone had come out of the mangroves at the far end of the beach. It was a blackfeller, marching along without a care in the world, and he was all alone, thank God. Not wanting to share this with George just yet, Billy watched, realising the native was fishing, and bloody good at it he was too. Time and again he waded into the sea, standing still like a shining black statue against the blue, and then the spear would flash and up would come the catch to be thrown in the dilly bag. As he came further up the beach, Billy saw it was only a lad. But then when he bent over the bulky dilly bag, small peaks of breasts came into silhouette. It was a girl! Naked as Eve and without the fig leaf!

Billy grinned, licked his dry lips and slid down from his perch. The black girl was standing erect now, body sleek as an eel, staring at the deserted longboat. Enticed by curiosity, the girl dropped the fishing spear by the bag and came slowly forward to investigate.

Billy caught hold of George. ‘Sssh! Be quiet. Look what we got out here.’ He pulled George back into the scrub. ‘Nice bit of tail there, my lad.’

George, eyes glued, managed a nod.

‘We’ll grab her,’ Billy told him. ‘But we’ll have to be quick. We can pull her in here to our spot.’

George nodded again, shivering with excitement.

‘Besides,’ Billy said, ‘she’ll be able to lead us to water so we’ll have the drop on the lot of them.’

The two men split up, moving stealthily under cover of the bush until they were either side of her and then they barrelled across the beach to converge on their quarry.

Billy saw the terror in her face as he was coming at her before she spun away to collide with George. But she was too quick for him. She twisted and hurled herself into the sea.

‘After her!’ Billy yelled, leaping across the ripples. They were waist deep before they caught her. She put up a hell of a fight; it was like trying to land a barramundi with your bare hands, and she had teeth to match. She landed a kick on George’s chin that sent him reeling backwards into the water but Billy pounced on her, laughing, an arm round her chest, feeling the silky delight of her skin and the brush of nipples.

‘Hang on to her, man,’ George spluttered as he dived for her feet. Billy tried but she was fighting and pulling him into deeper water. She rolled and twisted, waves breaking over them, and soon Billy could no longer touch bottom. A few feet further out George had started to panic. ‘Help! Billy, help me!’ He disappeared and came up again screaming, ‘I can’t swim!’ arms thrashing uselessly.

Distracted by George, Billy lost his grip on the girl, and suddenly she was gone. He looked wildly around but there was no sign of her. The sunlight reflecting from the shimmering water was blinding. ‘Oh shit!’ he said, more amused than annoyed that she’d got away. He swam a few yards to get hold of George and pull him back to the shallows. ‘You bloody idiot. You’d drown in your bath.’

‘Where’d she get to?’ G