The beacon, p.1
The Beacon, page 1
For Miriam
Chapter One
Monday, 4th November 2019
Patrick O’Shaughnessy killed the lights and let his eyes adjust to the inky darkness. The moon had already dipped below the horizon. He climbed out of the car, stared up into the black void and waited. And there it was, high over his head, the beam of the lighthouse sweeping silently through the darkness. And then again, fifteen seconds later, unwavering, as it had done every night for more than a hundred years. It was Byron Bay’s beating pulse and Patrick felt that as long as that beacon shone, everything would ultimately be right in the world.
He was always the first surfer here, preferring to be in the sea alone, his only company the lapping water and the pinpricks of a million stars overhead as he eagerly awaited that first precious glimmer of light marking the new day, and its promise of renewal. Some people said he was crazy for paddling out when it was so dark, which was surprising. After all, this was Byron Bay, where normal was abnormal, and strange and eccentric often went unnoticed.
This morning the breaking waves sounded subdued, so he slid out the mal, a board he’d had for such a long time it was almost an extension of his body. His routine was so familiar it was automatic, and yet today he struggled into his wetsuit, an unusual stiffness straining at his muscles.
Something metallic clattered to the ground on the other side of the carpark, an unnatural sound disrupting the tranquillity. Patrick was surprised, and then irritated, to make out the dim shape of a van. The park ranger must have skipped his rounds last night – it was only his banging on doors all hours of the night that prevented the carpark filling up with illegal campers; vans of backpackers keenly embracing the prospect of both a free campsite and waking up beside such a glorious beach.
But Patrick’s irritation was soon replaced by pleasurable anticipation as he ran along the forest path and out onto the beach. At the water’s edge he stooped and fastened the leg-rope firmly to his ankle. Today there would be few waves to catch, but that wasn’t the point. He watched the great beam from the lighthouse trace lap after lap then, breaking the trance, launched himself into the water and began the strong rhythmic strokes that would carry him far out into the deep, beyond the rocks and beyond the reach of the waves crashing along the cliffs of the cape.
When he reached the take-off zone, he sat upright and savoured the smell of the salt, the bobbing of the waves, and the refreshing caress of the water. For Patrick, this was euphoric and addictive, and yet he knew surfers who were afraid this early in the morning, afraid to sit astride their boards with their legs dangling in the deep, their gaze unable to penetrate the black void below. There were sharks near here, many sharks. A few years earlier, a tourist was snatched as he swam across the bay. Newspapers, including Patrick’s own, feasted on such shark attacks, but he knew the odds were minuscule. Besides, he felt safer here in the water, even with the sharks, than he did on dry land, where lately he found himself having to fight the constant urge to look over his shoulder.
The first glimmer of daylight approached over the north-eastern horizon and the water beneath him began to take form. The tension in his muscles started to ease, and a soothing sense of joy began washing through him. With enough moments like these, he knew he would find sufficient strength to cope with the difficulties looming before him. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind. Less than a week to go.
A sudden splash disturbed him. His eyes shot open. A ripple was spreading through the water nearby. Something arced through his peripheral vision, perhaps a fin, but by the time he jerked his head around, it was gone. When he felt his heart pounding wildly in his chest, he laughed out loud at his foolishness. Too much thinking about sharks. It was a dolphin, he was sure.
He lay down on the board, closed his eyes again, and began to relax, his mind drifting to his daughter, Caitlin. Today was her birthday and he smiled – he was so looking forward to seeing her.
Then pain smashed into his brain. Unimaginable agony. His leg. His left leg. Below the knee. Before he knew what had happened, Patrick was yanked off his board into the water. Adrenaline surged. His heart thumped. Shark. His leg was being dragged down to the depths, pulling him with it. He gripped his board hard, trying to hang on. Thoughts of his darling Caitlin broke through the agony that was consuming his consciousness – there was no way he was leaving her. He gathered all his strength, wrenched his leg upwards and felt something give, but the overwhelming pain was beyond bearing and Patrick slid helplessly into the cold, dark depths.
Chapter Two
Jack Harris’s ascent from sleep was a slow one. Whenever he teetered on the verge of waking, a wispy tendril of thought drifted into his awareness with a stern advisory to stay asleep. That and a throbbing pain somewhere, trying to attract his attention. Where was it? In his head. And what was that horrible pounding? No, better to descend back to the comfort of his oblivion, buried under a warm doona.
Throb, throb, throb.
Pound, pound, pound.
Throb, throb, throb.
The throbbing was in his head. The pounding in his ears.
Pound, pound, pound, pound, pound. Faster and more insistent now.
‘Mr Harris, are you all right in there?’
Jack forced his eyes open. The first thing he noticed was that the room was still. He had a vague recollection it wasn’t so still last night when he was helped to bed. And then he saw the ceiling, big enough to play tennis on. And those walls meeting the ceiling in perfect straight lines that ran on forever, the kind of thing minimalist architects wet themselves over.
Jack lifted his head, and the room started spinning again. In front of him was a wall of glass, presumably with a view, but all he could see was hostile sunlight frying his retinas as it reflected off shimmering water and white walls. White everything. No cornices. Fuck. He remembered. He was in his father’s house. He sat bolt upright.
Jack was possibly the only person who disliked this house, as he considered it a bricks-and-mortar extension of his father’s enormous ego. Everyone else thought the house was extraordinary – a mid-century modern, Palm Springs style mansion surrounded by rainforest, and with sweeping views of the coast extending all the way to Cape Byron Lighthouse in the distance. Walls of glass looked out on an azure swimming pool. To be complete, the scene only needed some celebrity photographer like Slim Aarons snapping scantily clad, big-haired models lazing beside a pool they would never jump into. Indeed, being here was like living inside a work of art – but it was the last place Jack wanted to be. Still, there was one consolation for being in his father’s house – it was highly unlikely his father would also be in it.
Someone called again from beyond the closed door, presumably the same sadist who kept pounding so loudly on it. ‘Mr Harris, are you okay?’
It was Don Hargreaves, the resident manager of the house.
‘No,’ said Jack.
He heard quiet laughter.
‘You’re late. Very late. Breakfast is served.’
At the mention of food, another wave of nausea crashed over him. Oh God. Jack threw off the covers and scrambled frantically over the bed towards the bathroom. Fuck, this bed was big. And what was the point of having an en suite if it was twenty metres away? The contents of his stomach at least reached the en-suite door even if, at the time of eruption, Jack had only made it halfway there. The accompanying groan reverberated around the walls and floor. What was Don doing last night, plying him with so much whisky? And from Jack’s father’s hidden stash of museum single malts, whisky so good it wasn’t taking no for an answer?
He sagged to the floor and placed his cheek on the cool polished concrete. He’d never liked it. Hard. Cold. Industrial. At least he’d now found the one reason to recommend it – it was going to be easy to clean up.
Thirty minutes later, Jack eased himself downstairs and into the kitchen, cradling his head in one hand to keep it still as he moved. Don was watching him, and failing to suppress a wry smile. He hardly seemed to have aged – his sixtieth birthday had long gone and yet his hair was still naturally black, he’d barely a wrinkle and he stood with that same upright, ex-military bearing.
Jack slumped onto a stool at the kitchen bench.
‘Big night, Mr Harris?’
Jack grunted. ‘I blame you.’
Don seemed to be enjoying Jack’s discomfort a little too much. ‘You’d do better blaming the whisky, Mr Harris. Now you know why I keep those under lock and key.’ He slid a plate towards him, covered with a polished-silver dome. ‘Bacon, eggs, three sausages, onion – just the way you used to like it.’
Jack’s nausea was back again – even more insistent now. There was no way he was going to lift that lid.
‘Don, what did you call me when I was three years old?’
‘Jack.’
‘So lose the “Mr Harris” thing. I’m not my father.’
‘If you say so, Jack. Should I send someone up with the mop?’
‘I’ve taken care of it.’
How could Don have known? Then again, an ant wouldn’t find its way into this house without Don knowing about it and, even then, it would have to apply in advance for permission.
Jack looked around the kitchen, re-familiarising himself. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve slept in this house,’ he said.
‘Yes, I’m sorry you couldn’t use the old house. There are some guests staying .’
Jack had spent the first ten years of his life in the old house down the bottom of the hill, closer to the beach. When his father’s empire started to grow, the new trophy house was built on the hill. It looked spectacular in glossy magazine spreads, and cleaned up all the architecture awards, but Jack still considered the old house home – with its wrap-around verandas, breezeways, timber floors, and windows that actually opened to allow in the cooling sea breezes. His old bedroom door still had the marks where his height had been pencilled on each of his birthdays, and his tiny footprints could be seen in the concrete floor of the old garden shed, alongside the date those tiny impressions were made. After his parents separated, his mother moved back into the old house, taking a delighted Jack with her. Later, much later, Jack would return to spend the last few months with his mother as she faded away.
Don was saying something. ‘So, first day in the new job? What time were you supposed to be there?’
Jack checked his watch. ‘Oh, shit. An hour ago. Is there a car I can borrow?’
‘Of course, Jack. I’ll fetch the keys.’ Don tapped the silver plate cover with his fingernail and it resonated with a hum that faded slowly. ‘I put a lot of effort into that breakfast, don’t waste it.’
Jack had never known Don to cook anything. ‘Is Sophie still here?’ She had been the chef and housekeeper since Jack had been a boy.
‘Her mum’s not well. She’ll be back next week.’
After Don left, Jack took a deep breath and wrinkled his nose in anticipation before lifting the plate cover. No nauseating eggs, just a tumbler of iced water and a blister pack of paracetamol. Don had nailed it, as always.
A few minutes later, as they both walked across the crushed white quartzite towards the garage, Jack noticed a massive new building among the trees five hundred metres further along the ridge. ‘What’s that?’
‘Another of the movie stars.’ Don rolled his eyes. ‘Tiffani Swanson’s place.’
‘It’s the size of a shopping centre,’ said Jack.
‘Your father is furious. Says he came here for peace and quiet. Her chopper almost collided with his on the first day she moved in.’
The garage door slid up silently and revealed one car sitting in a garage large enough to hold a dozen or more.
‘Oh, you can’t be serious,’ said Jack. ‘I’m not driving that in Byron Bay.’
Not only was the car a Ferrari, it was a shouty red Ferrari. His father had cars like this scattered around his various houses, most gathering dust. The car looked lonely, staring back at him, pleading with him to take it – like a dog wanting to go for a walk.
‘Actually,’ said Don, ‘you’re probably still over the limit. Tony can take you. Can’t have you arrested on day one.’
‘Does Tony still work here?’
Don didn’t elaborate, offering just a brief nod before setting off towards the house.
Jack, on the other hand, couldn’t help but smile at the mention of Tony. The lanky Italian had been part of the household, in charge of maintenance, since the big house was finished. He could fix anything and, as a child, Jack had become inseparable from him. Tony had adopted an eager Jack as a mini-apprentice and, from then on, whenever Tony was covered in paint or grease, Jack was also spattered from head to toe. Once, when a sewer pipe blocked during a wild New Year’s Eve party, they’d both been liberally decorated with shit. And it wasn’t just any shit they’d shared; it had been the Prime Minister perched on the bog when it all backed up.
Tony’s car drove up a few minutes later, and Jack couldn’t believe it was the same old seventies Holden Kingswood. And still the same outrageous purple.
The driver’s door flung open, and Tony jumped out, beaming. He gave Jack an effusive handshake and then, overcoming his embarrassment, a big hug. ‘Jack, welcome back.’
The car might still have been in showroom condition, but Tony had packed on a little weight, and that wasn’t white paint in his hair. The glint in his eye was still there though, and the perennial smile.
‘Tony, you’ve still got Millie.’
‘Sure do. I’m going to be buried in her, sitting in the driver’s seat, with Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds playing on the stereo.’
Inside, the car looked and smelled just as Jack remembered, even the furry dice still dangled from the mirror. Tony started the engine and drove down the curving driveway, the V8 engine burbling. Like he’d done hundreds of times before, Jack pressed the play button on the cassette, not expecting anything to happen after all these years, but Hoodoo Gurus’ ‘What’s My Scene’ began blasting from the speakers.
Tony smiled at him. ‘I hear you have a new job. I hope that means you’ll be here for a while.’
‘Only if they don’t fire my arse for being late on my first day.’
Chapter Three
Jack was irritated, his hangover still goading him. How hard could it be to find a door in Byron Bay? Tony had dropped him a hundred metres away and gestured vaguely in the direction he needed to go. For a town too small for traffic lights, driving could be diabolical, and today the cars were almost at a standstill. Tony had rightly pointed out it was faster to walk.
Since Jack was last here, The Beacon’s office had relocated to Jonson Street. According to his phone, he had arrived, but all he could see was a very dodgy-looking kebab shop, and food was the last thing he wanted to think about.
He forced himself to take some deep breaths. What the hell was he doing here? A week ago, he’d been in Melbourne helping his father, Malcolm Harris, run his business conglomerate from the fifty-seventh-floor boardroom. The Harris interests were diverse: freight, hotels, agricultural machinery and windfarms. Jack’s stepbrother ran most of the subsidiaries but it was Jack who was in charge of the crown jewel, Harris Media, with its newspaper and television empire stretching from coast to coast. That all ended five days ago when Jack’s father had called him into his office and told him he was being stood down as executive director of the Harris board. Instead, Jack was being sent to learn the business, and journalism, from the ground up as the lowest-ranking hack in a regional newspaper, The Beacon. Jack had been caught by surprise. Had he done something wrong?
Malcolm Harris was a man to be obeyed. Always. A man who demanded total family loyalty. So, Jack had joined his father’s business straight after graduating from university and now, at the age of thirty-five, still worked there. Just. Jack was getting very close to telling his father to shove it, but, so far, his courage had failed him. Which meant he had to keep to himself his troubling thoughts about the unethical and unconscionable behaviour of some of Harris Media’s newspapers and TV channels, behaviour which was probably encouraged by his father. The best Jack had been able to manage was making a few noises about Harris Media having a social contract with its readers to do the right thing. Noises his father ignored.
Jack had always had a love–hate relationship with his father, but more recently it seemed the needle was moving towards the latter. Maybe some time in Byron Bay would be a good thing. Indeed, the more Jack dwelled on it, and as his anger subsided, the more he realised it actually wasn’t such a foolish idea. The Beacon was his father’s first newspaper, where he’d taught himself journalism. And where the fledgling Harris Media exploded out of the blocks in the race to become one of the country’s most dominant and influential media companies. Besides, Jack grew up in Byron Bay. There were beaches and bars. How bad could it be? As long as it was short term. And his father left him alone, which was doubtful.
And so, here he was, in Byron, unable to even find the office on his first day. His phone continued to insist he’d arrived at The Beacon. Perhaps he’d walked past it. He turned and took a step just as a someone on a skateboard shot out from a narrow alleyway behind the kebab shop. Jack fleetingly registered denim shorts, a green tank top and a large shoulder tattoo before she collided with him and they both tumbled heavily to the footpath.
Jack lay there for a few seconds in shock. Gravel rash stung the palms of his hands. A graze on his left elbow complained loudly, but not as insistently as his ribs, which had collided with something hard. He tentatively climbed to his feet. The skateboarder was brushing away gravel from her hands and knees. She was only a few years younger than Jack. His eyes would have held her furious gaze if they hadn’t been drawn to her freckles. Hundreds of them – there were more freckles than face. And impressive ginger dreadlocks. Jack stretched out a hand to help her up.
