Home/News/Breaking News/ABC/Australia
Severed arm found on beach in Far North Queensland
By Taj Weyman
Queensland Police are continuing to investigate the discovery of a human arm on the shore of Flint Beach, NQ, early this morning. In a statement released by the Far Northern Region, it was confirmed that the limb showed signs of “a traumatic injury” at the elbow joint. Since the investigation is ongoing, no further details can be made public until the forensic analysis of the arm is complete. Anyone with information relating to the incident is asked to contact their local police department immediately.
Posted Jan 7 2020 / Updated 6h ago
1
i step out of the Airlie Beach hostel this morning as if into the aftermath of a flood. Remnants of last night’s celebration are strewn all over the sidewalk, city workers cleaning up the garbage and beer cans while backpackers sleep off their hangovers inside, Regan among them. The town went big for New Year’s Eve—fireworks at the lagoon, dancing in the streets, DJs at every bar—and most people seemed to be having the best night ever. All around me there was revelry, and it felt a bit like those Times Square celebrations I used to watch on TV once I was thirteen and allowed to stay up. I’d sit cross-legged in a quiet room, witnessing other people’s fun through a screen.
The cab driver honks his horn, reminding me the meter’s running. From under the shade of the paperbark tree, I give him a thumbs-up. All good, buddy. Not much longer. She’ll be right out. Ten minutes ago, I shook Regan gently awake in our dorm, the air in there sour with sweated-out alcohol.
“Hey, come on,” I’d whispered. “Our interview at the marina is at noon. The crew jobs—remember? The cab’s already outside.”
She’d winced as if my face was a garish beam of light, a question in her eyes even though she’d been right there yesterday when we made the plan. We’d both spotted the handmade ad for two crewmates and a cook on a little yacht, Alone at Last painted in cursive along the stern in the overexposed photo. How calm it had looked; how perfect. The boat was heading north to Darwin—exactly where we needed to go—and we’d get paid, do tons of sailing, and avoid spending money on flights. We’d agreed that as long as the guy wasn’t asking for super-experienced help, it was totally worth checking out. I’d torn the tab from the fringe at the bottom of the sheet.
But this morning Regan just groaned, truffling into her pillow. “Stop, Ivy. Sleeeeep. Let’s blow the crew thing off.”
I stood there for a minute, realizing I could just go on my own. I’d report back. To me the interview felt fated. It hinted at a whole different way of traveling, one I might be better at. “You stay. I’ll go check it out myself,” I said, and her eyes snapped open. Perhaps she was remembering last night. We’d meant to celebrate New Year’s together, mark the symbolism of turning a corner, of finally putting my shitty year in the rearview mirror. We’d bought miniature bottles of champagne, and were going to link forearms at midnight and swig at the same time, as a toast. But Regan hooked up with some guy from Switzerland around eleven, forcing me to make small talk with his buddy—which was okay until he inched closer and closer, then lunged for me at the first strike of twelve.
“Jesus,” I’d said, pushing his whole face away with a flat palm.
“What? It’s for luck. Happy new year?!” He fixed his hair, shaking his head and expelling air through his nostrils, as if I wasn’t playing by the rules.
I downed all my champagne, left the bottle on the grass, and walked home on my own feeling raw. And this morning, I can’t get rid of the sense that
he was right, that I need to get better at this game. We’ve been here ten days, and it’s not that I don’t like Australia, or that I regret flying out here with Regan. On the contrary, I love the comically loud birds, the bright cobalt skies, all the spiky red bottlebrush shrubs. Everything’s bold in this country, nothing’s half-measured—hard sun, hard rain, hardy people—and I still get excited to see the water swirling counterclockwise in the sink, or when the crescent moon slivers horizontally, like smiles in the night sky. All these southern hemisphere details feel like a fresh page, and I need that, a chance to get away and mend. It’s just the backpacker scene I can’t handle. Plus I’d been looking forward to spending more time one-on-one with Regan. I’ve missed her since she dropped out in the middle of our sophomore year.
“We’re twenty-one,” she’d said, suggesting the trip having already booked us the flights. “We’re young and we’re free.” It was mid-December, a couple days after the end of semester, although Christmas break was going to be permanent for me. “I say we get out of here for a month. Forget about Thatcher Kane. Forget all the weak-ass guys. Let’s have an adventure, just you and me.”
“But I can’t—I don’t have—”
“I put the tickets on my credit card,” she said, shrugging, as if it was the bank’s fault for enabling her. “Into Brisbane, out of Darwin. And there’s tons of room left on the card. So, you know. Happy holidays.”
Regan was the richer of the two of us, undeniably—she’d had a lucrative year in the city while I was holed up reading literary tomes in the NYU library—but the idea of just flying away was outrageous. Wasn’t it? A vacation in tropical Queensland at the height of their summer, with nobody there we know. It didn’t take long for it to go from an outrageous to a genius plan. So, with conditions in place that I’d use the remainder of my scholarship money and pay her back the rest later, I took the lifeline she was offering me.
The cab driver lowers the passenger window and leans toward me. “We right, darl? Good to go?”
“Two minutes,” I say, glancing back at the main reception, just as my cell phone dings in my back pocket with the noise that can only mean Thatcher. He’s texted again. He changed his number recently, although I don’t know why, since his messages are always so clearly him. I’ve assigned him a doom-ridden, horror-movie footstep of a tone because these days, anything he sends me is ominous. Shudder-inducing. There’s no way I’m reading the text.
“That them with an update?” The cab driver is eyeing me, and I shake my head, leave the phone buried in my pocket. January 1st is a fresh page. A day to at least make new mistakes, not jump straight back into the old one. Talking to Thatcher will never happen again, nor will the intimacy I had with him, the very image of which makes me want to throw up in my mouth. What the hell was I thinking, sleeping with a college professor? With my college professor? It’s so cringingly awful, and that’s before I found out what he was
really like.
“Ives! Hey, ready, I’m here!”
I turn to see Regan hurrying from the hostel, pulling her dark curls back into a claw clip. She stops beside me, long-limbed, flat-stomached, tanned.
“Sorry,” she says. “I had to get water. Want some? How was your night?” She passes me the ice-cold bottle as we move toward the cab. “Sorry about that guy in the dorm. We were just fooling around.”
“I know, it’s—whatever.” I sip, one eye closed in the sun. “Can we make a new rule, though? No more bunk-bed boning? At least not while I’m below you.”
She snorts as she takes the bottle back, and there’s nothing more that needs to be said. The entire backpacker lifestyle hinges on hookups, conveyor-belt romances, easy-come, easy-go fun. Regan fits in, but then she always does. This morning she looks clammy, like she barely slept, but the world will still bend for her. It’s never been any different.
“So, where is this boat thing at?” She reaches for the rear door handle, just as a guy with a surfy blond man bun emerges from reception. He’s high cheekboned, wearing harem pants and a scoop-neck T-shirt that shows his collarbone and the circular top edge of a tattoo.
“Regan!” He says it like Ray-Gun. She doesn’t bother to correct him, just turns to me fast. What is his name? she mouths.
I roll my eyes at her. He’s the Swiss guy, but I know she won’t have listened to a word he said between fireworks. “Hi, Milo. We were just heading out.”
“For the crew jobs? But it’s not safe,” he says, incredulous. “You don’t know these people. What if they’re secretly smugglers? Traffickers? Or you run into pirates who take you, use you, throw you into the sea?”
I bite the skin near my thumbnail. Is he right—are we being stupid? But the very essence of travel is a dice roll from what I can tell. Since we got here, I’ve been sleeping in rooms full of strangers, going on waterfall hikes in flip-flops, signing waivers like they’re checks to be cashed. And anyway, what’s riskier than being pursued by Thatcher Kane?
Beside me, Regan blusters. “We’re not reckless girls, you know. The yacht’s family-owned. They’re hardly a crime syndicate.”
She’s right: the boat in the picture looked folksy and cute, and the wording spoke of a dad and daughter, plus pet. There were ten other posters pinned up
around it, most of them out of date, but they proved that job offers like these weren’t unusual. Airlie Beach is a crewing town. Milo probably just wants Regan to stay.
“And there aren’t any pirates in the Whitsundays,” I add. “They’re in, like, Somalia or somewhere. Gulf of Aden.” I wait while he considers this shaky fact I gleaned from a Tom Hanks movie. The thing is, as hesitant as that wave of doubt just made me, there’s also something that seems so destined about this opportunity. I can feel the prospect of it tingling under my skin. Finally, Regan and I would get some solitude, a chance to properly catch up, on a journey we’ll remember forever. I’ve been imagining the sunsets we’ll get to see, the brightness of stars when there’s no land in sight. Plus, the whole ad had a comfy, mom-and-pop feeling—or at least pop-and-daughter feeling. What’s not to like?
“We’ll be fine,” Regan says, batting her hand at him. “See you later. You’ll be in the bar?”
He shrugs as if he really might not be, but who is he kidding? Regan’s magnetic. Even hungover, she doesn’t have to try. We climb into the cab, its back seat covered in heavy clear plastic that feels greasy under my thighs.
“We’ll be fine,” Regan murmurs again as we take off through the deserted streets. She nudges me, and I feel a rush of certainty, just like I always do when she and I are a united front. Things are going to get better now, and it’s almost as if we got our champagne toast after all. Here’s to a totally fresh start. College roomies back together. Alone at Last.
2
we get out in a windswept forecourt, where old boats sit in scaffolding, damaged or riddled with mollusks. The place looks sad to me, somehow. Like a hospice. The sick and the dying.
“New Year’s is a weird day to hold interviews,” Regan says, as the cab pulls away in a crunch of gravel. “Look, the office isn’t even open.” She points at the crooked sign in the dusty window. Back Jan 2.
“Good,” I say. “Weed out the competition.”
She laughs, shakes her head. “You really want this, don’t you? Why—you just want to get away from the crowds?”
“Sure,” I say. “And do things that are…unique, I guess.” Unique, quiet. Off the grid.
Her dark eyes search my face, wondering if there’s something I’m not telling her. And there is. But now’s not the time.
To our right is a wire gate, equipped with a sensor, that opens onto a walkway to the boats. Regan rattles it, but it’s locked. “Should we call the number you got off the poster? You’d think the dad would be up here to meet people.”
She waits while I unzip my shorts pocket and find the paper scrap, but then we hear footsteps. Two men are walking up the wharf. The one in front is younger—late twenties—wearing board shorts and a pale-yellow T-shirt. He’s dark haired, fit-looking, confident in his stride, and he’s holding some sort of file folder. Is he going for the cook job, or is he our direct competition? He seems worryingly self-assured. Behind him is definitely the guy from the ad, about forty, in a polo shirt buttoned all the way to the throat. He has sporty sunglasses on top of his head, sandy-gray hair, and there’s a faded stripe of zinc across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones. They stop at the top of the walkway and shake hands.
“Thanks again, Mr. Edwards,” the younger guy says in a faintly British accent, dimples evident as he smiles and brushes a sweep of curly hair from his brow. “It was great to meet you.”
“Thanks, Desh. Likewise. Looks like we’ve found our chef!” He opens the gate from the inside. My shoulders relax an inch.
The boat owner—Mr. Edwards—spots Regan and me, and catches the door before it closes. “Are you two here about the Alone at Last?”
“Yes, sir,” Regan says, stepping forward. “The crew jobs.”
“Fantastic. How exciting. Come on in.”
“Good luck,” the younger guy says, teeth white and straight when he grins. I notice the lean cut of his chest as warm air buffets his T-shirt, the beachy necklace around his smooth neck, the sun-worn woven bracelet on his right wrist.
Regan moves past him, but her head turns as he walks away. I can tell she already likes him. Mr. Edwards wedges the gate open with a brick, and the three of us stand in a little circle at the top of the wharf.
“How are you going? I’m Christopher.” He extends his hand for us to shake. His fingers don’t press, aren’t alpha-male dominant. Mostly he just seems sun-smart, practical-looking, eager. Like a dad at a swim meet.
“I’m Regan Kemp,” she says, adding her winning smile.
“And I’m Ivy McGill.”
“What great names. How striking.” When he rubs his hands together, the sleeves of his polo shirt reveal a line of tan at his sinewy biceps. “You’re
both keen sailors?”
Right, I think. Here we go. Now I’m nervous. How should we answer that one? As much as I want this adventure, we can’t outright lie. Sailing’s no joke, and this is a family vacation. Imagine if we sank the boat. I stare down at Christopher’s sneakers, hoping Regan will handle the negotiations. She’s the one with the gift of the gab.
“Ivy’s dad is into sailing,” she says. “Right, Ives?”
“I’ve been out quite a bit,” I nod. “But just small boats, dinghies, nothing major.”
There’s a long pause while Christopher scrutinizes us both. He has a kind face, although he looks tired around the eyes.
“Neither of us have crewed before,” Regan says. “If it’s dangerous work, or you need really experienced helpers, we might not be your best bet.”
“But we’re fast learners. Hard workers,” I add quickly, then hold my breath, fingers laced so tightly behind my back that I’m certain they’re white at the knuckle.
“I appreciate your honesty,” he says quietly. “I take it you’re both backpackers. What lives have you left in the dust?”
It’s a strange way to phrase things, and we both hesitate.
“I work in fashion in New York City,” Regan says, and Christopher’s eyebrows shoot up. I wonder if he gets she’s a model. She was scouted two years ago buying a Coke at a deli, handed a business card, signed by a top agency, and that’s what I mean: life rolls open for her like a lavish carpet. But she’s not bigheaded. Regan’s likeable. Her casualness unlocks everything.
“And I’m an English lit major in my senior year at NYU.” There’s no way I’ll graduate, I manage not to add.
“How good is that? My daughter, Lila, is eleven and an avid reader. It’s such a dying passion in youngsters, but I’ve tried all along to nurture it. We couldn’t pack her enough books.”
“I have hundreds,” I say quickly. “On my Kobo. Including a whole range of classics she might like. Jane Eyre, The Secret Garden, The Outsiders.”
He shakes his head in wonder like I’ve just told him I wrote them all.
“And we’re a good team, Mr. Edwards. I mean, Christopher.” Regan puts her arm around me. “We lived together freshman year. We’re tight.”
“That’s true,” I say, flushing, but I notice Christopher isn’t looking at us anymore. His gaze is out at the water, dreamy and faraway. After a few seconds, he turns back to us with a sigh.
“Can I tell you a secret, girls? I reckon it’s my turn to be completely transparent.”
“Okay,” I mumble, frowning. I feel Regan reach for my hand.
“The truth is, I don’t really want crew. No, I don’t mean that rudely. It’s just that I’m on a trip with my daughter, and it’s very bonding, very…special
We should have done this a long time ago, to be honest. We’re both finding it extremely therapeutic.” He dips his head, as if bashful at his own fatherly devotion. “But the next leg is up over the top into the Gulf of Carpentaria, and that’s a major shipping channel. I need to make sure we don’t stray into the path of bigger vessels. And for that, I need a rota system. Through the night. So, when I say ‘crew,’ I really mean glorified boat watch. Looking for lights out at sea.”
“You just need bodies awake?” Regan grins. “Night watchmen?”
“Exactly. Shift work. Nothing technical or navigational. I do all that. I’m taking on a chef—the guy you saw—to rotate faster, make the watches shorter. And get better grub! But your job would be lights in the night. That’s it.”
“And what if we see one?” I ask.
Christopher laughs, stares at me like he wants to give me a hug. “You wake me up!”
“Oh,” I say, turning to Regan. “We can totally do that. ...
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
