there,’ she babbled. ‘We’ve got to get inside now!’
Nina flailed her arms, still dreaming she was beneath a life raft in the mid-Atlantic, and trying to find Leonardo DiCaprio among a floating tangle of wooden planks, dead bodies and chunks of ice. She cleared the plastic and stood unsteadily, gulping air and thanking Almighty God that she still lived.
Meredith was frantically wrestling with the front door of the van when Annie woke from a deep sleep and couldn’t remember where the hell she was either. At that moment the roar of an engine cut through the night and the camp was blasted with blinding floodlights. Meredith, Annie and Nina stood shielding their eyes, transfixed like proverbial rabbits.
‘What the fuck are youse doing here?!’ came a voice. Deep, male and rough as guts.
‘Three little suckling pigs by the look of them,’ chuckled another male voice.
Annie thought of the stories of horrific abductions and murders in the Australian outback and felt for the broom handle. Then Nina saw the silhouette of a gun in the headlights and screamed as if to wake the dead.
Annie peered through the flywire of the front door at the mud-splattered monster LandCruiser ute parked in the driveway under the porch light. Cigarette smoke curled out of both windows.
Trevor Baum, macadamia nut farmer, appeared at her elbow and thrust a cup of hot coffee at her. ‘Here you go. You’re lucky they saw you before they started blasting. Bloke next door got his quad bike shot last week. He’d parked it by a tree and gone off for a leak and . . . Boom! One stuffed petrol tank.’
Annie grinned at the tale and gratefully sipped at the strong, milky brew.
‘But those blokes do a bloody good job. Feral pigs are a real menace out here. You should see the friggin’ mess they make. They wreck everything. Go and have a look before your van gets towed in the morning and tell those idiot animal rights greenies back in the city.’
‘I’m from the country. I know what you’re talking about.’ Annie nodded in agreement. ‘City people have got no damn idea.’ She slurped her coffee and turned to see Meredith down the hallway cradling the telephone.
‘Hello. Is Sigrid there? This is her mother speaking.’ Meredith heard her own voice echoing down the telephone line—absurdly formal, considering she was barefoot and wearing an Aran-knit fishing jumper over a singlet and a pair of shorts.
She paused to bestow a good-natured grin upon Mrs Bev Baum, who was blinking, watching her as she stood on the synthetic caramel-coloured carpet. The reproduction Swiss cuckoo clock on the wall chimed an accusing eleven o’clock.
‘Mrs Dalrymple?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Charlie! I can’t believe I’m talking to you. Sigrid and I are getting married in less than forty-eight hours.’
Meredith held the phone closer to her right ear and jammed her finger in her left. She must be mistaken—she thought she’d heard the young woman on the other end of the line say she was marrying Sigrid.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Meredith. ‘Who did you say you were?’
‘I’m Charlotte Newson, but everyone calls me Charlie,’ the girlish voice burbled on. ‘We are so looking forward to you being here. There’s not that many mothers who would be able to deal with all this. Siggie reckons you’ve been great. I’m looking forward to breakfast before the wedding. That means we can spend the whole day together. We’ve got so much brilliant stuff planned. My mum’s here too. You’ll get along fine. It means so much to us that you’re coming.’
‘Is Sigrid there?’ Meredith repeated the question—it was all she could think to say under the circumstances.
‘She’s asleep. I can go and get her if you like, but I’m sure you know she’s pretty grumpy when she gets woken up.’
‘No, no, that’s fine, just leave her,’ Meredith stuttered.
‘Are you sure? Can I give her a message?’
It was a female voice, Meredith was sure of that now.
‘Just tell her that I was hoping to get to Byron tomorrow afternoon, but that I’ve been . . . delayed. It looks like I won’t be there until the early evening, or later.’
‘Fine. No problem. I’ll tell her. We’re picking up Jarvis from Ballina airport in the morning. Don—Mr Dalrymple—got here yesterday. Do you want to speak to him?’
‘No, no. That will be fine . . . er . . .’
‘You can call me Charlotte if you want, but I’m much more of a Charlie, to tell you the truth. Imagine k.d. lang—but with curly blonde hair.’
Meredith