In a recent story, 'A Message to Cane Toads', the cane toad mentioned that he had written several novels, this is the start of one of them. It was written some 25 years ago and I thought that I had lost it when the floppy disc that I'd stored it on decided that it wouldn't let me access the file. A couple of days ago I was going through some old papers I had in packing case from my last house move when I discovered a hard copy of the manuscript and decided to re-type in and back it up onto an external hard drive along with the other manuscripts. Apart from a few spelling and grammar changes the only major change was the age of one of the characters. When this story was written, the age of consent in New South Wales was 16 but this would not get it printed in this site so the age was raised to 18. The attitude of the girls is still pretty much those of the time. CM.
CHAPTER ONE
Summer morning in suburbia, the sunlight struggled through the leaves of the large trees that reflected the quaint Australian love of things English, even in the hot and humid climate of Sydney. This was particularly noticeable and Sydney's Upper North Shore where oak and sycamore stood cheek by jowl with eucalypts beside manicured lawns and garden beds filled with hollyhocks and pansies, lupins and a host of other brightly out of place flowers.
In the midst of the dappled light that flooded the back garden of the Swain house in Wahroonga, the red clay scar of the sewer trench had provided a microcosm of the never ending struggle for survival. The family of magpies, parents resplendent in their formal black and whites surrounded by the squalling gray and black offspring picked their way through the piles of loose soil dining regally on succulent worms. They largely ignored the swooping attack of the female peewee aggressively protecting its young in the branches of the large blackbutt above the feeding magpies.
The magpies also ignored the crouched form of Rex, the Swain family cat. Rex was an affection feline of unknown parentage, his tabby grey coat sleek and stretched by the over indulgence in pet food, blended into the shadows cast by the trees and his tail twitched as his back feet kneaded the grass like a golfer in order that his paws did not slip when the time came to launch his attack. An attack which, like all his previous attempts, would proved unsuccessful due in no small part to the fact that years and food had taken a couple of yards of his pace and the bell his owners had placed around his neck thinking it necessary to protect the fauna.
The summer drone of the cicadas stopped. A kookaburra tilted its head to one side. It had almost located a particular juicy snack on the branches of large camphor laurel when the cicada stopped its song. The magpies stopped their search for worms in the loose soil and swirled into the highest eucalyptus and safety.
The thump, thump of the sludge pump had spelled danger for both the hunter and the hunted.
The workmen watched as the first great mass of smelly water oozed its way down the pipes of the nearly connected sewer. The process of draining the now superfluous septic tank had begun.
For half an hour the thump of the pump invaded the otherwise still of the morning. The owners of the house went about the daily routine. Peter Swain emerged from the en suite showered, shaved and primed for the day ahead he slipped to towel from his waist, throwing in casually into a corner by the door. "Do you mind, you could least leave it in the en suite." Cynthia Swain had already showered and was putting the final touches to make up, her slender body, dressed in a pink half slip and bra, seated on the padded stool in front of the dressing table was held briefly in the gaze of her husband.
"Humph." Peter grumbled as he picked up the offending towel and threw it casually in the general direction of the pink plastic linen hamper just inside the en suite.
Cynthia let out a long exasperated sigh and returned to the task of improving on already flawless skin.
"Don't start." Peter's voice was a little more than a whisper. It was as if he couldn't make up his mind whether he wanted Cynthia to hear are not. Cynthia ignored him as she was not interested in any argument this early in the morning, having decided that she would try where possible to avoid a confrontation with him. This decision was a concession to the fact that knew that he was worried about his business and had been working long hours to keep on top of the workload. She knew that he was doing it for her and the children's benefit, but she wished that he would pay a little more attention to her.
"What's for breakfast, Mum?" The tension was relieved by the voice that echoed down the hallway and arrived with a screech in the bedroom.
The Swain children, Rebecca of the shrill voice, eighteen years of age with her long blonde hair caught at the nape of her neck, her slender body showing a physical maturity beyond her years and a striking resemblance to her mother, was at the breakfast bar with Timothy, thirteen years of age and pre-pubescent in stature and demeanour, were watching the workmen emptying the septic tank, but for different reasons. They watched as one of the men raised a large sledge hammer over his shoulder and proceeded to attack the concrete lid of the tank so that they could hose out the interior before completing the demolition work.
Lumps of concrete dropped into the hole as the wire re-enforcing reluctantly released its grasp. Soon a large hole was opened and Gerry Forrest stooped to peer into murky depths of the almost empty tank. "Hey Danny, come Here!"
Danny Bailey walked over to the tank and peered into its depths, his eyes following Gerry's pointing figure. "Bloody hell!" He reacted quickly, running over to the pump and switching it off. "Let's get the rest of this lid off without dropping too much inside so that we can get a better look."
The two men worked quickly and carefully removing as much of the lid as they could before lifting the remains and levering it to one side. The sight that greeted their eyes was not pretty, it would almost certainly mean a delay in the completion of the job. Staring at them through empty sockets was the skull of a human. Other bones stretched along the full length of the tank confirmed the existence of a human skeleton.
CHAPTER TWO
Danny ran to the house and knocked on the back door. Rebecca hopped down from the stool and rushed to open the door, her eager ears waiting for whatever request her young and impressionable mind hoped that the object of her adolescent dreams would ask. "Yes, what can I get for you?" Her voice losing its shrillness as she strived to sound older than her eighteen years.
"Can I use the phone? It's urgent, I have to call the police."
"Yes of course, I'll show you where it is."
"Don't worry, I know where it is." He had used the phone before and knew that there was one behind the bar in the large family/entertaining room. He kicked off his boots and walked through the room to the bar, the air in the room picked up the heavy aroma of septic effluent that his clothes, clean this morning, had already absorbed. He turned the phone around and dialled '000'. He had to wait some time for the connection to be made. "Police please." Another wait. "Police? My name is Danny Bailey and I'm working on a sewer connection at 36 Billyara St Wahroonga, and I think you should send someone over here straight away, we have found a human skeleton in the old septic tank, and it couldn't have got there on its own if you know what I mean." He gave directions to the police as to how to get to the site.
"Have you really found a skeleton?"
"Yes and it's not the sort of thing that a young girl like you should be seeing. Could I speak to your father?"
"Sure, I'll get him for you." Instead of going to fetch her father she merely turned her head until it faced the general direction of her parents' bedroom. "Hey Dad! The plumber wants a word with you."
"I could have done that myself." Danny said to her as Peter emerged from, the bedroom and walked down the hallway, his tie looped around his neck as he finished buttoning his shirt. Peter was forty years old but his tall slim body still retained its athletic appearance despite him not having been involved in any form of athletic endeavour apart from the occasional game of 'hit and giggle' tennis since leaving school. His unlined face and clear eyes had survived years of hard work. Nature's only concession to the passing years was the touch of, as he put it, distinguished grey' at his temples that contrasted with his dark brown hair.
