Bright Air - Barry Maitland [70]
2709 1508 57J WF 06588 04470 103
That was similar to all of the entries from the previous two weeks, when they’d moved from Roach Island down to the southern cliffs. For a start, the two groups of five digits—the eastings and northings readings—were quite different. Even more significant, I thought, the WF symbol on every other reading on the list had become WE in that final entry. Could that have been a simple typo? I tried to remember what Carmel had said about the WF, and recalled that it identified the hundred-kilometre squares into which the UTM zone 57J was subdivided. If it wasn’t an error, the final entry must have been taken in a completely different grid square from all the rest. Wherever it was, it was big, for the final three digits showed that they were 149 metres above sea level.
I sat there staring at the numbers for a long time until they became a blur. I felt sure that Julian, Dick, Anne, George and Timmy the dog would have instantly understood this vital clue, slamming down their ginger beers and rushing off to tell Uncle Quentin. But I hadn’t the faintest idea what to make of it.
17
I woke to the smells of toast and fresh coffee. Anna had been up since dawn, she told me, and I noticed a small bunch of flowers lying on the kitchen worktop. Muriel Kelso had given them to her, apparently, to take to the accident scene. In the light of a new day it seemed a thoughtful gesture, and I wondered if I’d misread the Kelsos, put off by Stanley’s domineering manner. Soon Bob tapped on the cabin door and gave our gear a quick squint—a backpack with a bottle of water and windcheaters, but no climbing equipment. We followed him down to the beach and along to the jetty where his boat was moored. It looked as if it was designed to take small groups out fishing or sightseeing, with a covered wheelhouse at the front and bench seating around the middle and stern.
Bob steered us out into the calm waters of the lagoon, turning the boat south to run parallel to the long beach, several kilometres of deserted golden sand. We passed the end of the airstrip and continued towards the foothills of the first of the two southern mountains, Mount Lidgbird. Here the reef closed in against the shore, and Bob turned us towards the passage between the lines of foaming surf that would take us out into open water. The swell out there was quite heavy after the calm of the lagoon, and we pitched and yawed as we got clear of the reef and turned south again beneath the increasingly formidable basalt cliffs of the mountains.
I know next to nothing about boats, and I was interested to watch Bob and ask him how things worked—especially the GPS navigation equipment next to the wheel. He was pleased to demonstrate it, pointing out the features on the glowing map of the island on the screen and our position on it.
‘So, these figures show our position in degrees?’ I asked.
‘That’s right, degrees decimal. You can switch the readout to degrees, minutes and seconds if you want …’ he showed me, ‘or to UTM.’
‘Neat. What about the reverse? Can you put in a map reference and it’ll show you where it is?’
‘Yeah.’ He pointed ahead to a steep valley between the two mountains and handed me binoculars to look for waterfalls. I went back to join Anna and spoke quietly to her.
‘I need a couple of minutes alone in the wheelhouse. If we get the chance, see if you can keep him occupied out here.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Not sure yet. Are you all right?’ She looked grey.
‘This heaving up and down … I feel a bit sick.’
‘Concentrate on the mountains. Look out for waterfalls. See? Over there.’ There were several silver threads of water cascading down the immense black cliffs.
I stayed with her as we moved under the shadow of Mount Gower, its dark flank looming overhead as we approached the point of South Head. The sombre blackness of the basalt cliffs was oppressive, and as Bob throttled