Liar Bird Read online

  ‘Mus musculus? Is that the rare one?’ I said.

  ‘House mouse,’ he grunted.

  ‘House mouse? But why did Christine think it was the Hastings River mouse? And you — you said you thought it was a Hastings River mouse too.’

  Mac shrugged. ‘Mistaken identity. Happens a lot.’

  But I couldn’t let it rest there this time. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’ Mac frowned and wandered back to his computer. I pursued, prodding him in the back as Rodney looked on, bemused. ‘You knew it was a house mouse all along. Didn’t you? You did, didn’t you?’

  Mac slipped some headphones into his ears and pressed the power button of his iPod. His eyes met mine for a moment. I took that as a yes.

  ‘Jesus.’ I stomped back to my chair and replied to Christine’s email. Sorry — mistaken identity. The mouse is Mus muscoolus. I hoped I’d spelled it right. ‘What do I do with it now?’ I called to Rodney, pointing at the trap.

  ‘I’ll take care of it for you. Green Dream.’

  ‘Green Dream? That sounds nice.’ I imagined a grassy playpen.

  Rodney gave me a baffled look. ‘It’s what we use to euthanase animals.’ He drew his finger across his throat as he picked up the trap.

  ‘Oh.’

  Before I did anything else, I had to take care of the basics. Flicking through the yellow pages to T, I found a company that hired out portaloos at a very decent rate. Good — now I could withstand a siege.

  My next email was from Whale Woman.

  Seeing as you’ve settled in now, I want you to do an audit of all PR aspects of our office and make recommendations on how things can be improved. Please don’t feel constrained by the way it is at the moment. You have my full support to make any changes necessary. I’m just tied up with a couple of marine mammal issues; otherwise I’d be there to talk you through it.

  I smiled. Now here was something I could get my teeth into — an image audit. This was a good chance to show my true colours. Image audits were my bread and butter. A company’s image is so important. It’s not just a matter of sticking a logo on things — it’s all the little details, like how staff answer the phone and what they say when people ask them about their job in the pub. Most people don’t realise that.

  I opened a new page on my computer.

  Image audit

  Now, where to start? My eyes roamed around the office and fell on Mac. He was nodding his head to a tune on his iPod. He looked like he hadn’t shaved for a few days, his shirt was crumpled and a smear of some blackish stuff stained his khaki shorts. His hair was still doing whatever it had been doing when he got out of bed. Was that moss in it? His mud-splattered boots were only half laced and some kind of plant seemed to be using his socks as a home. His legs and forearms looked like they’d been lashed with a cat-o’-nine-tails. What had he been up to? My fingers moved furiously across the keyboard.

  Item examined — ranger

  Image conveyed — scruffy and uncorporate

  Desired image — stylish and welcoming

  Action required — get him to dress and groom better

  Budget — nil

  Now, what next? I picked up my notebook and went for a walk.

  Item examined — office

  What could you say about the office? The furnishings, the carpet, the signage — it all seemed to be stuck in a seventies time warp. It certainly needed an image makeover, but what to do? Although — sometimes shabby is chic. There was one client of mine who I’d advised to cultivate a down-at-heel look — it projected an image of sincerity and being careful with clients’ money.

  What sort of image were we trying to convey here at the wildlife office? Caring, concerned, friendly, environmentally aware … Who did that kind of thing really well? Steve Irwin, of course. My mind whirred.

  What we needed were big blown-up pictures of a ranger. It would have to be Mac — once he’d had his image makeover. We could have stand-up cutouts of Mac holding a frog, a snake, a mouse … He’d have to smile; he wouldn’t like that. That was a bonus. And then there was the merchandising …

  I eyed the brochures and other printed materials that lay on the desk at the front of the office. Where were the ranger dolls, the kids’ ranger shirts, the ranger line of surf wear? It was boring, boring, boring — and unprofitable. There was no harm in making a profit if it went back into wildlife, was there?

  Picking up a brochure on cane toads, I read it. Whoever had written this material had no idea about copywriting. It might have made a good academic thesis, but no layperson was going to wade through it. The cane toad, Bufo marinus, was introduced to eat cane beetles, but showed no interest in these pests … blah, blah, blah.

  We needed cane toad Playstation games, maybe a word of mouth cane toad whispering campaign, something on YouTube and Twitter … I really needed to run a cane toad focus group to see what would connect with the punters. Tell me, what do you think of when I say cane toad? Um, warty, I’m thinking warty.

  This office was so far behind the ball game; it hadn’t even entered the stadium, let alone got itself onto the field.

  Racing back to my desk, I started to type.

  By the time I emailed my report off to Sam, it was eleven o’clock — time for the media ‘famil’ I’d organised last week. Justin from the Beechville Star was keen for a first-hand look at the survival-challenged shorebirds. Or that’s what he’d said. I think it wasn’t so much shorebirds as this bird. Still, any puff is good puff.

  The phone rang as I was about to leave. I picked it up. ‘He-llo, Cassandra Daley.’

  ‘It’s Simon McKechnie here.’

  Well, that was a surprise. Simon, what did he want?

  ‘From the Herald,’ he added when I didn’t say anything.

  I was tempted to hang up, but curiosity got the better of me. ‘Oh, really? Wow. I think I knew that — what do you want? Run out of backs to stab? A bit light on for witches to hunt?’

  ‘I was just wondering … how you’re going up there.’

  ‘Who told you I was up here?’

  ‘I can’t reveal my sources.’

  ‘Pig’s arse you can’t.’

  ‘Funny you should mention pigs,’ he said.

  I groaned internally; somehow he’d found out about my pig morning. ‘You know, Simon, that was actually a very successful event.’

  ‘Really? It didn’t give that impression. I was thinking of a follow-up …’

  ‘You’re joking. You think people in Sydney are interested in feral pigs?’

  ‘I think they might be interested in the combination of feral pigs and you. It’s an intriguing dichotomy — quirky. Might suit the Weekender.’

  My stomach sank; this was the last thing I needed. And he was right — Disgraced PR queen, Cassandra Daley, comes to grips with feral pigs was a story with legs. ‘Leave me alone, Simon,’ I hissed. ‘Haven’t you done enough, without a “where are they now” article?’

  ‘I was joking, Cassandra.’ His voice was soothing.

  ‘What are you ringing for then?’

  ‘No ulterior motive — just checking up on you.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I banged the phone down. Weird.

  Looking up, I noticed Mac’s eyes on me. He had a thoughtful look on his face. I’d probably been speaking too loudly. As soon as I caught his eye he looked away.

  Shaking my head, I shut down my computer. What was Simon up to? Sneaky little bastard probably just wanted to gloat. I picked up my iPhone and, for about the tenth time that day, checked for messages, but Wazza hadn’t called me back. The door to Sydney was still closed; I just needed to make the best of it for now.

  Picking up the keys to the four-wheel drive, I adjusted the dashing Akubra hat that came with the uniform and strode from the office. Ranger Cassandra to the rescue.

  Chapter Eleven

  High tide

  The radio crackled and faded as I reached the beach. I’d been singing along to Johnny Farnham’s ‘You’re the Voice’ u
ntil it died. ‘1987,’ I said to Justin. ‘A good year for music.’

  He flashed me a funny look. ‘I was born in ’88.’ In his cap and sandshoes he looked like a school kid on an excursion. Journalists, like doctors, get younger every year.

  ‘Well, I was only in primary school,’ I muttered. ‘Grade Four. I just have a good memory, that’s all. This is Whitey’s Beach,’ I explained as I veered onto the sand track through the dunes and turned north up the beach. ‘It’s a nature reserve the shorebirds use for nesting. It’s also popular with fishermen, illegal campers, dog walkers and drug dealers. Apparently it’s a gay beat too. You’ve got to hand it to those birds: they’re determined.’

  Whitey’s Beach was a far cry from Manly — no cafés, bike paths or lifeguards; just miles and miles of sand. The media ‘famil’ was going very well. The fruits of my research were paying off, judging by the copious notes Justin was taking. ‘Every year we have egg and chick losses from dogs, foxes and four-wheel drives. People put their tents up next to nests and party all night, but still the birds keep coming back.’ I liked the ‘we’. It implied a long-standing relationship with the birds.

  ‘I suppose they’ve got nowhere else to go,’ said Justin.

  ‘No, they don’t.’ I pulled up a short distance from a group of birds digging for shellfish on the sand. They looked like the right ones, from what Sam had said. The pied oystercatchers’ long orange beaks and feet contrasted nicely with their black and white feathers. It was a good look. Maybe I could emulate them. Orange boots would go well with my black and white checked skirt … ‘Why don’t you take some pictures?’

  Justin jumped out and started clicking, walking further along the beach towards another group of birds. I figured I may as well drive up a bit.

  Starting the car, I put it in gear and pressed the accelerator. Nothing happened apart from the engine revving. I tried again, but it still wouldn’t move. A loud whining accompanied my efforts, then a movement outside caught my eye. Sand was spraying up outside the window. Turning the car off, I jumped out. Shit. The tyres were half buried. How did that happen? Kneeling down, I scraped at the sand ineffectually, before giving it up as a bad job.

  Getting to my feet, I glanced up the beach, tapping my fingers on the car bonnet — Justin was still happily involved with the birds. He looked like he was getting into it — setting up lots of creative angles. Good. My eyes came back to the tyres. There was no way I was going to get that car out of there. Not without a lot of digging anyway. And wouldn’t the same thing just happen again?

  This was just what I didn’t need. I eyed the waves licking greedily towards me. Please let the tide be going out. This job was turning out to have a multitude of unforeseen pitfalls. The feral pig morning fiasco had — bizarrely — turned out all right for me, but wrecking a car … That could be cause for dismissal, particularly with on-the-spot media coverage. I knew Justin was sweet on me, but that wouldn’t stop him filing the story. Journalists were like that.

  I looked from the car to the tyres to the waves to Justin and back again, seeking a solution. Car. Tyres. Waves. Justin. It was a quadrangle of evil with no apparent means of escape. I jumped back in the car and tried again, praying for a miracle. There was no miracle. When I jumped out of the car, the tyres were buried even deeper. This definitely wasn’t looking good for my job prospects.

  I couldn’t go back to Sydney. Wazza wasn’t returning my calls and now Anthony was gay. That would be an über-loser whammy as far as the in-crowd was concerned. Did you hear — she turned her boyfriend gay? No wonder — look at her stuffing herself … The plastic surgery makeover didn’t seem such a good idea anymore either. I was used to my face; I didn’t want to change it.

  And then there was Simon’s phone call. It had shaken me a bit. I’d thought I was safe — a few more months and I’d be in the clear — but he’d reminded me that with the right fuel, stories can run and run. He wasn’t really thinking of doing a follow-up, was he?

  Oh, René, what would you do in this situation?

  Crawk.

  An optimist may see a light where there is none? Are you saying there is no light?

  The sand shimmered like a desert as I gazed down the beach. It reminded me of Wolf Creek — a movie I wished I’d never seen. I’d probably end up selling Kombis to crazed outback killers if I lost this job. A wave washed over my foot and I came to a decision. I didn’t like it, but it was the lesser of two evils.

  I selected the office number on my phone; Rodney put me through to Mac. ‘I need some help.’ I clenched my teeth. He was the last person I wanted to ask, but who else was there? Part of me was interested to see how he’d react. Would he tell me to get stuffed?

  ‘What’s up?’ he said.

  It was different hearing his voice on the phone — more intimate somehow than face to face, like his mouth was up against my ear. It surprised me that I could enjoy that, even in this awkward situation. Perhaps I’d fallen for him a bit more heavily than I’d meant to. I pushed the thought aside. ‘I seem to be stuck,’ I said.

  ‘Uh huh?’

  He didn’t say much, but what he did say was strangely sexy. Once you’re attracted to someone it really doesn’t matter what they say, does it? It’s the voice that counts. His was deep, but not too deep — masculine, but not macho. It hit the low notes like a fine cello.

  ‘I need someone to give me a hand.’ Without intending it, I found I was purring like a cat. I sounded like a phone sex operator.

  ‘Have you got your Akubra hat on?’ His voice was dry, though still sexy.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I touched the brim of my hat. Was he having a go at me?

  ‘Nothing. Have you tried winching?’

  ‘Winching what?’

  ‘There’s a winch on the front of the car.’ He spoke slowly, as if to a two-year-old. It was pretty uncalled for.

  I snapped out of my erotic haze. ‘It’s all right, I speak English.’ I glanced at the car. There was a roll of wire below the bumper bar, but — really. I mean, I called the NRMA if I got a flat tyre. Winching was way beyond my repertoire. There were two things I did to cars: put petrol in and clean the windscreen. ‘Oh come on. Just drive down and give me a tow out, will you?’ I lowered my voice. ‘I’ve got a journalist with me. I’ve managed to keep him busy photographing birds so far, but it won’t be long before he notices we’re not going anywhere.’

  ‘Could be tough turning that into a good news story.’

  ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ He was a total bastard; how could I have forgotten? I stamped on any romantic thoughts. This was going absolutely nowhere.

  ‘How far above the sea-line are you?’ he asked, ignoring my question.

  ‘About a metre. Why, is the tide rising?’

  There was a pause. ‘No, it’s going down. You should be right.’

  ‘Oh, good. So, are you coming?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so. Sit tight.’

  I thought I heard him whistle as he put the phone down. Bastard.

  Forty minutes later Justin was getting restless. ‘So, I’ve got all the shots I need, I guess we’ll be off now.’ He wiped the sweat off his forehead. It was pretty warm out there in the sun. He must have been as much of a four-wheel-drive novice as I was — he hadn’t even noticed we were bogged.

  I leaned against the car, adjusting my hat to keep the sun out of my eyes and thought quickly. I’d been checking the time on my phone every ten minutes or so. When was Mac going to turn up? Contrary to his advice about the tide, the waves seemed to be getting closer, not further away.

  ‘There’s another bird down there you haven’t photographed yet.’ I pointed at a lone long-legged bird with a pointy beak about a hundred metres away. ‘It’s a rare one too.’

  Justin brightened up, pulling out his notebook. ‘What’s its name?’

  I inspected the bird. ‘The long-legged pointy beak.’

  Justin scribbled. ‘Haven’t heard of that
one. I’ll go get a picture then.’

  I rang Rodney while he was gone.

  ‘He should be there by now,’ Rodney said. ‘He left ages ago. I’d come down myself, but I can’t leave the office unattended.’

  ‘The tide’s going out, right?’ I eyed a wave that almost touched the back wheel.

  ‘Hmm, let me have a look at the tide chart … no — tide’s coming up. It’ll be high in about an hour.’

  ‘Great.’ As I hung up, a rogue wave washed over my foot. Where was that lying bastard?

  Justin trudged back towards me, shimmering in the sun like a serial killer on an outback highway. I was about to break it to him that we weren’t going anywhere, when a black shape appeared in the surf in front of us.

  ‘What’s that?’ Justin lifted his camera.

  A flipper came out of the water, then a whiskered snout. What was that? I blinked and refocused. It was a seal, rolling around in the breakers like it didn’t know what to do with itself. Surely that was unusual for the North Coast? Weren’t they supposed to live in cold places? I frowned, doubtfully, but then its head came out and its round black eyes looked towards the beach. Yes, it was definitely a seal.

  ‘What do we do?’ said Justin, clicking off a few shots. ‘Is it sick?’ The uniform had him fooled — he thought I knew what I was doing.

  ‘Don’t touch it,’ I said sternly. I wasn’t keen on getting wet, and I’ve heard seals attract sharks. ‘I’ll contact my manager.’ I hadn’t wanted to call her before — for obvious reasons — but the arrival of the seal put a whole new complexion on things. Seals were right up her alley. I smiled: events were taking a turn for the better.

  Whale Woman appeared within fifteen minutes; it was uncanny. She took control of the situation immediately, snapping at the two grizzly fishermen who’d stopped to stare.

  ‘Keep your distance — let it rest. Not you,’ she said to Justin. ‘You take photos.’

  He knelt down in the surf on command, the waves soaking his jeans.

  Like I said, she’d have been good in the army. Her gaze swung to my car. The waves were washing at the hubcaps. ‘I’ll just get that out of the way while you do the media thing.’ She jumped in the car, turned it on, then turned it off again and jumped out. ‘Need to lock in the hubcaps. You’re right, it’s good to keep it in two-wheel drive on the hard sand, but now the tide’s coming in …’ Kneeling down, she did something to each of the hubcaps, started the car and — just like that — drove it up closer to the sand dune.