Australian Secrets. Fiona McCallum

would bring back Paul and Ruth and the other six who had perished, she owed it to them to at least learn the truth. If not, what was the point of having a journalist in the family?

      She’d been prepared for Bill to refuse her request to lead the investigation, on the grounds that she was too close, too emotional, and not objective enough. Instead he agreed.

      Had he seen something in her as a journalist or just understood that the best thing she could do for everyone was be at the heart of the story, no matter how painful? It no longer mattered.

      It had taken all of her strength to sit and listen to the pilot’s transmissions, knowing her parents had done the same for a full five minutes before the eerily calm mayday call was issued. For weeks she’d had nightmares about them frantically searching under their seats for life jackets that weren’t there; being plunged into icy, shark-infested water at over two hundred kilometres an hour; and finally, the hopeless struggle to survive while calling to searchers overhead who couldn’t see or hear them.

      Four years on, it still made Nicola shudder to think about.

      As the plane jerked and rolled forward, she felt her neighbour’s hand give a squeeze, or maybe it was an attempt to regain some blood flow. She offered an embarrassed grimace and released the hand. To her further dismay, Nicola realised her good Samaritan was around her age and decidedly attractive.

      Even more frigging embarrassing! Without making it too obvious, she snatched another look at the biggest, brownest eyes and possibly the longest lashes she’d ever seen. Wow, and those strong, tanned arms disappearing into rolled up blue and white striped shirt sleeves … Yum.

       Jesus, Nicola, stop it!

      She quickly stuffed the sick bag in the seat pocket in front, noting the length of his legs as she did, and set about studying the emergency card again.

      Damn it; she could just kill Bill for putting her in this situation.

      Maybe he thought she’d dealt with everything and had sufficiently moved on; perhaps he had no idea she was booked on a Piper Chieftain.

      Or could it be his fatherly way of shoving her over the cliff to really get on with her life? Bill was perceptive when it came to human emotion – the main reason he’d been an award-winning journalist himself.

      One thing was for sure; she’d definitely need a couple of weeks of massage and pampering after this.

      Nicola watched the large jets taxi past the end of the runway while their pilot patiently waited, flicking switches, poking buttons and muttering into the headset in a tone that couldn’t be heard over the bone-penetrating drone of the engines.

      Suddenly she wished she’d told Scott she loved him when she’d rung him to say goodbye; both rarely uttered the words these days. When had he last said them? When had she?

      Nicola closed her eyes and gritted her teeth until her jaw ached.

      And then the vibration beneath her feet ceased and her stomach did a weightless lurch. They were finally airborne. The houses got smaller and smaller below them and then they were suddenly out over water – Gulf St Vincent. The dark blue was littered with whitecaps.

      The little craft bobbed and twisted, throwing them against their seatbelts.

      ‘Sorry folks, bit of a crosswind,’ came the voice over the loudspeaker.

      ‘See, not so bad, eh. All safe and sound,’ the man beside her said, winking.

      As Nicola alighted from the hatch onto the first step, the pilot said, ‘Thanks for flying Air SA.’

      Outside the plane Nicola’s legs were not cooperating. She stopped and tried to stretch the cricks from her neck and back before trying to walk.

      She took a deep breath of the brisk, fresh air coming straight off the nearby sea. The salt was instantly noticeable in her mouth. It made her thirsty. She hated to think of what it was doing to her hair’s perfect body and shine.

      Theirs was the only plane in the harsh white light of the terminal.

      None of the passengers spoke and the only voice was that of the pilot uttering, ‘Watch your step – thanks for flying Air SA,’ as each passenger alighted behind her.

      His voice had an obvious country drawl to it now, so different from the official tone reeling off safety instructions back in Adelaide.

      Nicola, after a lifetime devoted to people-watching, recognised it at once. Pilot Mark might have been in the city at private school for a couple of years to get the grades for aviation and a plummy voice for the right circumstance, but he was never going to settle there. The lad was country country.

      ‘Thanks,’ Nicola replied. ‘I really appreciate it.’ She tried for a friendly smile, but was so intent on willing her legs to regain their feeling that it came out as a pained grimace.

      ‘Life’s too short – don’t stress so much,’ he offered kindly.

      ‘Too true,’ Nicola muttered, finally summoning the grin she was after.

      They wandered the fifty metres over to the cream brick building where eager faces peered from backlit windows, searching for friends, relatives and business associates.

      After settling into her room, Nicola planned to have a long soak in a steaming bath before ringing Scott – and this time she’d remember to say she loved him.

      Standing by the counter of Brown’s Rentals, Nicola fished her mobile from her pocket and turned it on while absently watching the tarmac goings-on.

      A short, fat attendant was hauling the trolley piled with luggage back towards the building, a small fuel tanker was driving across to the plane, and Pilot Mark was striding purposefully about, green clipboard tucked under his arm.

      Suddenly her stomach grumbled, reminding her how little food she’d had that day and the unhealthy choices made since the awards night. What a whirlwind it had been.

      She was a little disappointed – but at the same time grateful – that local media hadn’t turned up. She could just imagine the caption below an unflattering grainy black and white image: Nicola Harvey, Life and Times – Needing Her Own Makeover.

      ‘Someone picking you up, or can I call you a cab?’ Mark enquired, stopping next to her.

      ‘Yes, a Mister Brown from Brown’s Rentals. I’m driving to Nowhere Else – an hour away according to this,’ she said, reading from the printed itinerary Bill’s assistant had provided.

      ‘That’ll be Bob – he’ll be here any minute. We were a touch early. I’ll wait with you, if you like.’

      ‘Thanks but that’s not necessary – I can always call a cab or stay the night in town.’

      ‘Public phone’s out of order.’

      ‘That’s okay, I’ve got a mobile.’

      ‘Take extra care on the road; there are bound to be roos about – they graze at night.’

      ‘Okay, I’ll be sure to keep a good look out,’ Nicola said, thinking that she couldn’t take much more care than trying to navigate unknown dark country roads in an unfamiliar vehicle. She checked herself; she was being tired and snippy. He was just being friendly.

      They lapsed into silence. Mark shifted from one foot to the other. She listened to the sounds of the country – the thick, eerie silence punctuated by the howls of dogs and hum of traffic on a distant highway.

      ‘This must be him now,’ Mark finally said, nodding to his right. She followed his gaze towards two sets of bobbing lights negotiating the speed humps and winding course of the car park.

      The first vehicle to halt in front of them was a four-wheel-drive wagon that looked slightly outdated with its squarish profile. At least she’d have half a chance in an accident. A burly man in bulging workman blue overalls got out and strode over.

      He