Elephants can't hide forever (24 page)

“Neither do I, Reuben, it sounds tropical, but that’s impossible,” Don replied, almost breathing a sigh of relief that the waiting was over. “Tell him we’re on our
way over and in the meantime they must clear the wing and no one else to come into contact with these people, and above all, no panic.”

“Did you hear that, Doctor?” enquired Reuben.

“Affirmative” replied the medical man, “The Governor wants a word.”

“Thank you, Doctors” the Governor said, “I’ll make my way down to the main gate so I can escort you straight up to the wing.”

Barely ten minutes later, Dr Reuben Goldstein and Professor Don Gooch were on A wing, Parkhurst, not believing what they were seeing. They had checked over Mouse, and were just finishing their
examination of Danny. Don turned to Reuben, a look of disbelief on his face. “Reuben,” he said, “It sounds impossible, and no doubt I’m wrong, but the last time I saw any
thing remotely like this was in West Africa, where I attended an outbreak of Ebola.” He was very convincing.

“Oh my dear God, it can’t be” exclaimed Reuben.

“No, I agree, but whatever it is, it looks real bad, and likely to be contagious. I’m not going to take any chances,” stated Don, “I’m going to call London, and get
an immediate evacuation of these people up to my place, where we have a specialised contamination unit. I can have our emergency vehicle down here in two hours.”

Reuben and the Governor both agreed - the sooner this was someone else’s problem, the better. Don pulled out his mobile, and dialled a number; the phone rang in a house in Hampshire.

“Doctor Gerry Hayes, at once,” Gooch ordered

“One moment,” replied Mike Tobin who held the phone for several seconds, and then replied, “Hayes speaking”

“Gerry,” Don said solemnly “I’m on the Isle of Wight, Parkhust Prison actually, and I have a possible red alert.” This was the code for a potential contagious
outbreak of a foreign disease which could threaten the population, some thing the Hospital of Tropical Diseases were trained for but hoped would never happen.

“What do you need?” Mike asked, playing his role well.

“Get the emergency contamination vehicle down here immediately; get it to come straight to the main gate where the Governor will escort it to the sick bay, we have three potentials who
need to be isolated.”

“On its way,” replied Mike, putting the phone down, and running out to the waiting vehicle as he gave the Cathy and Sammy the thumbs up.

“The specialised unit will be here in two hours,” Don said to the Governor and his team, “Be ready at the gate to let them straight in, and let’s get these patients off
your hands.”

All thankfully agreed. Don had made the call; it was more plausible to keep the three men on the wing rather than transfer them to St Mary’s and then move them again, especially as it had
been easy for him to get in, and he hoped Mike would understand.

Mike, kitted out in a rather bright high visibility uniform, was wondering why the plan had changed and he was now to go straight to the prison. Had the Prof lost his bottle? Was he walking into
the lion’s den about to be sacrificed - what the hell was the Prof playing at? Well, he wasn’t going to run now; this was it, whatever the outcome.

Just under two hours later, Mike pulled up outside the main prison gates. They immediately opened, and a screw waved Mike through and pointed at a building in the far corner of the large open
yard. Just as Mike pulled up to the sick bay, the GPS phone (which had never left his side) rang.

It was Jane making her regular call in; not the best of timing, but he sure needed to talk to her right now

“Hello, darling how are you?” he asked, and then his life changed again.

“I’m good, Mike,” she replied, and then said, “Mike, as soon as this is all over I want us to go and find my Dad” - the coded message they had agreed if she was
free. Mike froze, disconnected the call, and very slowly, very thoughtfully walked towards the sick bay.

It was said that only the young men of the Aboriginal race of Australia went walkabout as a rite of passage, but this wasn’t entirely true; it was not only the domain of
the young, the older Aborigines often disappeared into the bush during the summer months, returning to the Northern towns of Queensland during the winter for warmth and ale. They could often be
seen lying in the doorways of these towns, completely drunk; a source of considerable embarrassment to the townsfolk, whose opinion of these indigenous people hadn’t changed much in the few
hundred years since they, the newcomers, had arrived. And so it was the case with Dennis Tanami, a man of seventy years, and known as a shaman or medicine man to the Aborigines of the North. Every
year he would wander the outback during the summer, eating the natural foods that could sustain a human life indefinitely. He would spend days on end in a hypnotic state, conversing with his God,
and many sought him out for his mystic preaching and healing powers.

On this particular morning, he found himself sitting on a small ridge watching the derelict drover’s hut where he had camped on many occasions previously. This time, however, there was
something different about the ramshackle building. He had arrived the previous night, and as he approached he had felt that the building was different. At fifty meters there was a slight heat
emanating from it, although there was no visible sign of life. His instinct told him there was something living in the building. The strange thing was if it was people why had they gone to so much
trouble to hide themselves? No white people could get to this isolated spot without a vehicle, and yet there was no sign of life; so he watched and waited.

It wasn’t long before his hunch proved right; the back door opened, and Richard Sykes appeared at the entrance. He looked around intently, was satisfied there was no one within the area,
and lit a cigarette. Sykes would not have seen Dennis, even if he had known he was there, but Dennis saw him all right, and from the ridge could pick out his features with the clarity of the
shaman.

Dennis knew by instinct that this white fella was a bad man, and wondered what he was doing so far from the town he obviously inhabited He wondered how many more of them were inside, and what
they were doing. Dennis watched Sykes throw his butt to the ground and go back inside. He watched a bit longer, but nothing else moved. Well, whatever was happening, it wasn’t his business
and these type of men carried guns, so he collected his things, deciding it was none of his business, and wandered back into the bush thinking it was time to head for one of the coastal towns and
find some grog.

Charlie Allington was walking along the boardwalk that ran the length of Macrossan Street, deep in thought. It had been several weeks since his daughter and Mike had so
suddenly vanished, and the mystery had deepened and darkened since the Private Investigator he had hired had reported back that Mike Tobin had boarded a London flight immediately after they both
disappeared. Furthermore, the description of the person he was with fitted that of one of the men Charlie had met on the jetty looking for Mike. One thing was sure, Jane had not gone with him and
there was no record or suggestion she had left the country, but that was the sum total of what the PI had found.

Jane was somewhere on the vast Australian continent, alive or dead. Charlie could only hope it was the former, but where to start looking? It would be just as hard if he followed Mike to the UK
for answers, where to look for him? The local constabulary really weren’t interested, as far as they were concerned it was a lover’s tiff, simple as that, and if Charlie’s
daughter wanted to start afresh she could lose herself forever in Australia.

Charlie was oblivious to his surroundings when he walked right into another person coming in the opposite direction sending him flying into the road adjacent to the boardwalk. Dennis Tanami
looked up from the tarmac rather pitifully; it wouldn’t be the first time he had been assaulted by a white man. Charlie was beside himself, what an idiot; he could have sent this Aborigine
into the path of a car. “Mate, mate, I’m so sorry,” Charlie said as he bent down to help Dennis to his feet.

Dennis muttered some thing totally unintelligible and brushed himself down. Charlie helped him to his feet and felt even worse when he realised the man was an aborigine.

“Listen mate,” said Charlie “How about a beer, it’s the least I can do.”

Dennis mumbled something, and sat down in one of the chairs outside a bar. Charlie took the gesture as a yes and disappeared inside, kind of hoping the black man might have gone when he
returned, much to his shame. Charlie returned with the beers and Dennis nodded, which Charlie took as a sign of approval.

Holding the glass with two hands Dennis downed the pint in one go and looked at Charlie.
OK
thought Charlie,
he’s going to milk this one and I’m paying, what the hell I
just might join him
. So Charlie knocked his pint back, and took the glasses back for a refill. Dennis almost smiled. Charlie tried making small talk but all he got back was grunts, although he
did get Dennis’s name. Halfway through the third pint, Dennis looked at Charlie with his deep black eyes for several seconds, making Charlie feel decidedly uncomfortable, and then he
spoke:

“Man, I can see in your soul you’re a troubled man, there’s a big black void where there should be light.”

This didn’t make Charlie feel any easier with Dennis, but what the hell; he was feeling over confident with the alcohol.

“Your right Dennis, so you want to hear my story?” he enquired of the shaman. Dennis nodded and looked at his now empty glass. Charlie did the honours, fetching the fourth beer, and
then he began.

Once he started, it was like a great weight was lifting from him. He told Dennis the whole story, from the chance meeting with Mike to the disappearance of his daughter. He was more lucid than
the beer should have allowed and when he finished, he looked at the Aborigine not quite sure what, if any, reaction he would get.

“Fetch me a pencil and paper,” the shaman said glancing at his empty glass. Charlie duly obliged on both counts and the shaman began to draw. It is said that when people see a ghost
the hairs on the back of their neck stand on end, and as the shaman drew so did Charlie’s. The alcoholic haze vanished as Charlie watched the face of Richard Sykes, the thug from London,
materialise on the paper in front of him. When Charlie found his tongue and was able to talk, he stupidly but sincerely asked if this was what Dennis had seen in his soul. Dennis laughed.

“No man, not in your soul, in a derelict drover’s hut outback.”

Charlie was gathering his thoughts quickly now.

“Would you take me there?” asked Charlie, his throat as dry as the desert even after all the beer. “Sure man,” said Dennis confidently, pushing his empty glass
Charlie’s way.

The next morning, Charlie was to be found in the boatyard, having taken Dennis home with him - not entirely for charitable reasons, he didn’t want him out of his sight. He had spent the
night rationalising the situation, and had concluded the coincidence was just too much; for whatever reason the thug from London had Jane captive out there in the bush, so drastic action was
needed, and if he was wrong, well sod it.

He and two of his friends, Pete Fulcher and Den Lawrence had convened in Pete’s shed. They had all been mates for a long time, and both Pete and Den were well aware of Charlie’s
plight. Charlie had rang both at five am and they were more than happy to meet and help.

“That should do it” Pete said.

“That’ll bring a house down,” Den laughed

“That’s what it’s going to do,” Charlie said very seriously.

The two men had, since Charlie had filled them in, spent the preceding hours making and then welding onto Pete’s already considerably robust land cruiser, the biggest kangaroo bar they
could fit on the front. Dennis sat in the corner watching the goings on, whilst the two men threw him regular suspicious glances. He might be the saviour of Charlie’s daughter, but he was
still an Aborigine and not to be trusted.

At last they were ready to roll out of town, heading for the drover’s hut. Charlie had estimated as best he could from Dennis that it was probably four hundred klicks North West. The last
item to be loaded was a jerry can, full of high octane fuel which Pete used for his speedboat; Dennis looked on, slightly worried, suspecting it would not be full on the homeward journey.

Charlie had a plan of action- as far as he was concerned, Jane was a captive in the hut and if she wasn’t it didn’t matter one hoot what happened to the hood from London, he had it
coming either way. Charlie had therefore decided to storm the building, hardly with the finesse of the SAS but nevertheless just as effectively. He had got Dennis to draw a layout of the building
and ascertained there were two sleeping rooms, a living room, and a kitchen which led to the rear door where Dennis had spotted Sykes.

Charlie’s plan was to drive the land cruiser right through the back door in the middle of the night. They didn’t know how many people were in the building, but were confident they
could overcome a small army, what with the shock the occupants would get. Pete and Charlie had a baseball bat each, and Den was holding a Browning Hi-Power semi-automatic pistol. Pete made a mental
note to ask him what the hell he was doing with it, after the forthcoming adventure.

The four men left Port Douglas, headed South to Cairns, then due West through the forty mile scrub until the road ran out, and then into the vast red desert they called the bush. Dennis
navigated by a succession of hand movements and grunts, and no one else spoke. Eventually, after some five hours driving, Dennis signalled to pull over. Charlie looked quizzically at Dennis.
“White man’s hut over that ridge,” said Dennis. He pointed to the small ridge he had camped on the night he saw Sykes.