Mike Dixon

sions.
„You are going to teach me how to dive?‟
„Only if I can clear myself.‟
„You will, David.‟
„I‟m not so sure.‟
„Think positive, David.‟ She grasped his arm. „It won‟t be
long. I‟ll be in Canberra in a few days time. I‟ll give my mo-
bile to Humphrey. You can phone him. He‟ll know what to
do.‟
They reached the Wombat‟s Den after a drive of about an
hour over rough dirt roads. The old pub was in a sleepy hol-
low and had no claims to fame. Edward Lacey had bought it
twenty years earlier and was soon accepted by the mixed
bunch of locals, despite his upper-class British accent which
he made no attempt to hide.
He had the habit of addressing younger males as „dear
boy‟, which had given the impression that his sexual
tendencies might be inclined to persons of his own gender.
Time soon proved otherwise. Ted was now part of the sce-
ne. His hotel was run-down. The licensing inspectors had
excluded it from their beat. It was a place where so little
happened that no one in authority paid it a visit.
Ted came out to greet them, wrapping his arms around
Rebecca and giving her a big kiss. David assumed she accepted
that sort of behavior because Ted was so much old-
er. His attempts to give her a mild kiss had met with rebuff.
They unloaded his gear from the van. There was scarcely
anything to it. Apart from his watch and dive knife, every-
thing else belonged to Rebecca‟s father. He found that depressing.
It was like he‟d been stripped of his past. One of
his martial arts instructors had told him that the perfect
warrior was an island to himself … he didn‟t need people.
David decided he was not a perfect warrior.
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