Mum or Dad?’
‘Dad’s fishing,’ the child said, breaking his silence to speak in little more than a quavering whisper. Alistair’s impression of hopelessness intensified.
‘And you’re waiting for him to come home?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Maybe you could wait somewhere cooler,’ Alistair suggested. The middle of the bridge was so hot there was shimmer rising from the timbers.
‘I’m OK here.’
Alistair hesitated. This kid had dark skin. Maybe he wouldn’t burn like Alistair was starting to. If his dad was coming soon …
No. The child was square in the middle of the bridge and his face said he was expecting the wait to be a long one.
He squatted down beside the boy. ‘What’s your name?’
‘I’m not allowed to talk to people I don’t know.’
‘I’m a doctor,’ Alistair said. ‘I’m here to visit the doctors at the Crocodile Creek Hospital. I know them all. Dr Gina Lopez. Dr Charles Wetherby. Dr Georgie Turner.’
The kid’s eyes flew to meet his.
‘Georgie?’
‘You know Georgie?’
‘She helps my mum.’
‘She’s a friend of mine,’ Alistair said gently, knowing he had to stretch the truth to gain trust. ‘She’ll be at the hospital now and that’s where I’m going. If I take you there, maybe she could take you home on the back of her motorbike.’
The child’s eyes fixed on his, unwavering.
‘You’re a doctor?’
‘I am.’
‘You fix people?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you fix my mum?’
His heart sank. This was getting trickier. The sun was searing the back of his neck. He could feel beads of sweat trickling downward. ‘What’s wrong with your mother?’
The child’s expression had changed to one of wary hope. ‘She’s sick. She’s in bed.’
What was he getting himself into? But he had no choice. ‘Can you take me to your mum?’
‘Yes,’ the little boy said, defeat turning to determination. He climbed to his feet, grabbed Alistair’s hand and tugged. ‘It’s along the river.’
‘Right,’ Alistair said. He definitely had no choice. ‘Let’s go.’
SHE nearly missed him. She drove slowly back toward the airport, starting to feel really guilty. It was unseasonably hot even for here, she thought. The wind was starting to feel like they were in for a major storm, even though the sky was clear.
There was a cyclone out to sea—Cyclone Willie—but it was so far out it should never come near them. The weather guys on the radio were saying the winds they were feeling now were from the edge of the cyclone.
Just don’t rain for Mike and Em’s wedding tomorrow, she told the weather gods. Or for Gina’s the Saturday after.
Right. Back to worrying about Alistair. She’d gone two miles now and was starting to be concerned. Surely he should have walked further than this. But it was so hot. She should never have let her temper hold sway. He wouldn’t have realised how hot it was.
Maybe he’d left the road to find some shade. She slowed down and started studying the verges. Here was the bridge …
She nearly didn’t see them. A path ran by the river, meandering down to a shanty town further on. Here were huts built by itinerant fishermen, or squatters who spent a few months camping here and then moved on. Periodically the council cleared them but they came back again and again.
There was a man in the distance, just as the track disappeared into trees. Holding a child’s hand.
Even from this distance she could pick the neat business suit and jacket slung over his shoulder. Not Crocodile Creek wear. Alistair.
What the hell was he doing? She pulled onto the verge and hit the horn. Loudly. Then she climbed out and waved.
In the distance Alistair paused and turned. And waved back.
Who was he with?
She stood and waited. He’d have talked one of the local kids into taking him to shelter, she thought, expecting him to leave the child and come back to the road. He didn’t. He simply stood there, holding the child’s hand, as if he expected her to come to him.
Really! It was hot. She was wearing leather pants. OK, maybe they weren’t the most practical gear in this heat. She’d put them on to make a statement.
She’d also put her stilettos back on before bringing the car out. Her nice sensible trainers were back at the hospital.
He expected her to walk?
He wasn’t moving. He simply stood by the riverbank and waited.
Didn’t he know you didn’t stand near the river? Not for long. There were crocs in this river. It was safe enough to walk on the bank as long as you walked briskly, but to stand in the one spot for a while was asking for trouble.
OK. She gave a mental snort and stalked down the path toward them. Dratted stilettos …
Davy Price.
She recognised the child before she’d reached the riverbank. Immediately her personal discomfort was forgotten. What the hell was Alistair doing, holding Davy’s hand? Davy was six years old. He was the eldest of four children, the last of whom she’d delivered four days earlier. They lived in the worst of this motley collection of shacks.
While Lizzie, Davy’s mum, had been in hospital, she’d tried to persuade her to move to council housing. But …
‘My old man wants to live by the river. He won’t move.’
Georgie fretted about the family. Lizzie’s ‘old man’ was Smiley, an indolent layabout, drunk more often than not. Lizzie tried desperately to keep the kids healthy but she was almost beaten. To let her go home to this mosquito-ridden slum had gone against every piece of logic Georgie possessed. But you can’t make people do what they don’t want—who knew that better than Georgie?
But now … She slipped on her way down the grassy verge and she kicked her stilettos off. By the time she reached them she was almost running.
‘What’s wrong, Davy?’ she asked as she reached them. She ignored Alistair for the moment. It’d take something really dire to prise this shy six-year-old from his mum. There
