Shalimar, February 2025

THE SMELL, SOMEWHERE BETWEEN rotten eggs and dried mud, came on the breeze. Bird call broke with a sharp echo and the chorus roused him from sleep. For a moment, he thought he was in the hotel. And that the doors were open. Eyes still shut, he listened for the sounds of the marina: voices, boat engines, gulls. Nothing. Then, as he opened them, he saw why. He wasn’t in his room. Or even a building. Above him, blue sky.


“What?”


His voice was scratchy, unused. But even if it had been louder – and clearer – it wouldn’t have mattered. Nobody was going to hear him out here. Duncan Watson sat up, felt gravel beneath his elbows, and looked around. The scene didn’t make sense. He was on an unmade road. To his right, a ditch and a wire fence, paddocks beyond. There was no sign of the town, only flat paddocks in one direction and, in the other, rolling mountains of lush green. The Gillies Range, he remembered from the pamphlet in his room. Now he glanced over to the source of the smell, the mangroves, glimpses of the ocean beyond.


“What the hell?”


He got to his feet and stood in the middle of the road, lifting his face to the cloudless sky, as though answers could be found there. It was early, but already warm, the heat wrapping around him like tendrils and making his breath shallow. The dry taste at the back of his throat mixed with the rancid smell of the mangroves made his head spin. Today was his wedding day. He’d planned on meeting his best man, Charlie, in the hotel bar at ten for a drink. That was looking unlikely. What the hell, he muttered again. Thoughts chased each other. What was his fiancée Lara doing right now? Getting ready, he figured. While he was here.


But where was here?


Duncan’s mind managed to wrap around another thought and hold it. He had to ring Lara and tell her what had happened. He felt rattled at the idea of what she would say. She couldn’t tolerate changed plans – everything had to be organised according to a schedule, right down to the last minute – and this was definitely unexpected. He could hear her voice inside his head, strained, breathless: What time do you call this, Duncan? He consoled himself as best he could. Tradition said it was bad luck for the bride to see the groom before the ceremony, so he knew she wouldn’t have gone to his room this morning. He rallied at that. She might not even know.


He thought of trying to make light of it. The funniest thing happened, Lar. I woke up by the beach. I can’t remember a thing. That Charlie’s a real joker. Duncan spun around. Even he didn’t buy that. In any case, his buck’s night had been a week ago – dinner in Brisbane with Charlie and a few colleagues – and it had been a sedate affair; he’d been home by eleven. Did he go out to dinner last night? Have a few too many drinks? Again, he looked up at the sky, trying to work out what time it actually was.

He had to call. But when he reached for his phone in the back pocket of his jeans it wasn’t there. He checked his side pockets, around his feet and behind him, over to the ditch beside the fence. It was nowhere to be seen. Duncan closed his eyes, pressing the heels of his palms to them, trying – failing – to remember something of the night before. Had he been on the beach? Perhaps he’d dropped it there. He scowled at his inability to remember anything. Looking in the direction of the shore, he saw the tide was out, leaving an expanse of sand and a path through the mangrove swamp. He moved quickly, the mud firm underfoot, and less than a minute later, emerged from the mangroves. The beach was deserted, the Coral Sea stretching in front of him, calm and endless. At any other time, he would have thought it beautiful. Not today.


Duncan headed for the shoreline, followed it for a dozen or so steps then stopped. He didn’t need to go any further – there was nothing but pristine sand and strands of seaweed. Still, he retraced his steps, slower this time, back to the edge of the mangroves, just in case he’d missed something on the first pass. He was standing by a thick gnarled root, scanning the ground, when he heard the sound of a car approaching. Listening intently, he heard the engine rumble to a stop. An instant later the sound of a door closing, then another. Duncan’s heart jumped. Had Charlie come for him? Was this all part of an elaborate prank? He tried to see through the mangrove forest, but the light flickered through the leaves, distorting everything. His feet were leaden as he started jogging back the way he’d come, as though he had to concentrate on every step, but then worried Charlie wouldn’t see him and drive off, Duncan started running. Eyes gritty, he didn’t see the overhanging branch that caught his arm and sent him stumbling up the path to the edge of the road. He winced then recoiled, the pain quickly replaced by something else.


Charlie hadn’t come.


At the rear of a vehicle, two men stood with their backs to him. Duncan followed their line of sight, saw what they saw. He should have run then, but he didn’t move, just stood there like a dummy.


“Get him by the arms.”


The voice belonged to the taller of the two, a fat man, his puffy profile caught in silhouette by the sun as he turned to face the other. The smaller wiry man grunted as he reached down to the body lying in front of the open boot. He stood, wiping the back of his neck with an open hand, his skin shining with perspiration.


“Give me a hand, would ya?”


“Just yank him.”


The smaller man pulled again and this time the body moved. Duncan watched as it slid sideways into the ditch, one arm extended as though reaching for help. The man took a couple of steps forward and kicked the arm in beside it.


“That’ll do it, mate,” said the fat man.


A shriek rang out as a cockatoo took flight, and the mangroves shuddered. The sound startled the men, and they looked up. He watched as one man lowered his gaze, then the other, and turned to him. He stared back.


Duncan thought later that he could have run away then. Right up to that moment, he could have escaped; slipped back into the trees, and to safety. But it was as though the sight was too overwhelming – on the happiest day of his life, or so everyone kept telling him – that he just stood there, wondering, not without curiosity, what the wedding guests were doing. Having breakfast. Drinking in the bar. Getting ready in rooms with views of the sparkling marina. And what they would do when they realised the groom was nowhere to be found.


From somewhere nearby, another cockatoo screeched. It snapped him back. With a sharp turn, he took off the way he’d come.


“Hey!”


Duncan didn’t know which one had yelled. Didn’t care. He ran across the uneven ground, stumbling over mangrove roots, the sound of crashing footsteps behind him.


“Hey, you.”


The beach came into view. In both directions it stretched to the horizon: no cover, just sand and palm trees. To his right, the mangrove forest. He pivoted, branches scratching at him as he stumbled again. A few more steps and he stopped completely, aware that one wrong step would mean a twisted ankle. Or worse. With one hand he held onto a trunk, the other he stretched out for balance. As he turned, he could make out the path, but was far enough in to be obscured by the foliage and the darkness of the canopy. After a few seconds a man appeared – the big one who’d been giving the orders – and stared in the direction of the beach before pitching forward to rest his hands on his knees.


Duncan watched. Despite his fear, he knew he could easily outrun him. If he had to. The man’s face was bright red under the strong morning sun, a sheen of sweat on his cheek. He didn’t look well. Slowly, he turned so that his gaze swept in the direction of the mangroves. Duncan stood stock-still, completely hidden by the forest of trees. He kept watching as the man spun around, back to where he started, facing the sea. It was then he pitched forward again and, for a split second, Duncan thought he was going to vomit. Or pass out. Instead, he reached down to pick up something from the ground.


What was he doing?


Then it was Duncan’s turn to feel sick. He swallowed. The chestnut colour, the familiar item in the man’s hand, clutched tightly like a prize. It had been a birthday gift from his dad and, in his imagination, he could perfectly picture the gold embossed letters in the top right-hand corner: DW. Duncan squinted, wishing he was mistaken. He’d been so focused on finding his mobile, then so pleased with himself for getting away, that he’d completely forgotten about it. He felt a tightness in his chest at the sight of the man holding his wallet.

Prologue

The Song of Clouds, a novel by Samantha Wood

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