LITMIR.BIZ

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      It was a good question, but there were sensible answers. Nick Daniels had one burning ambition and one only—to make high-court judge. Historically, once a lawyer joined Queens Counsel he could be appointed a judge without leaving the city, but that was hard to do now. There were new rules. No one wanted the country magistrate positions, and there was only one way to force aspiring judges to take them on.

      ‘If you want the plum job, then you need to do the hard work first,’ Nick had been told by the head of his chambers. ‘Politically there’s no other way. There’s a job going as local magistrate at Bay Beach. Great little fishing town, four hours’ drive from Melbourne. You’re not married—you’ve no kids—no ties to keep you in town. Put in the hard work there, boy, and we’ll see what we can do.’

      ‘For how long?’ Nick had been aghast.

      ‘Two years.’

      ‘Two years!’

      ‘You never know.’ Abe Barry had sucked his pipe and had surveyed his hawk-like junior with the beginnings of amusement. Nick was too darned clever by half. If he didn’t get shot of him soon Nick would be edging him aside as chamber head before he knew it. ‘You might even enjoy a spot of rustic idyll. You could apply for a county court judge position and stay there for life!’

      ‘In your dreams!’

      ‘No. In your dreams, and I know you dream of the big one,’ Abe had told him, the steel in his voice telling Nick he had no choice in this. ‘But there’s only one way to get it. You’ve had a taste of magistrate work already so you know the ropes. Now take yourself off to the country and show us what you’re made of.’

      ‘What I’m made of…’ Nick’s hands clenched the wheel of his sleek little sports car until his knuckles showed white. Magistrate at Bay Beach! It was an uninspiring name for an uninspiring place. Nightmare stuff.

      Accustomed to big-time criminal cases, now he’d be dealing with parking infringements, fines for illegal fishing and not much else. Though it served as a base for a much larger fishing and farming community, Bay Beach township had less than a thousand inhabitants.

      So…fishing and farms! What qualifications did he have for judging farming or fishing disputes? What did he know of either?

      Farms gave milk, steak, or wool which was exported to Italy and returned as Nick’s superbly tailored suits. And fishing… Fishing produced salmon and caviar. That was the end of Nick’s interest in farming and in fishing. Period.

      Two years as country magistrate… Two years of purgatory! He rounded the headland, still groaning. Bay Beach lay before him, its whitewashed stone cottages glistening in the morning sun. The fishing fleet was coming in—at least, it must be the fishing fleet. There were six boats heading into harbour, and surely there couldn’t be many more boats than six in this ends-of-the-earth place?

      ‘I’ll go stark, staring crazy,’ he told himself. The sea air was blowing warmly on his face but he hardly noticed. His skin was so tanned he didn’t fuss about protection, and his deep black hair was combed into submission so firmly the sea air didn’t shift it. He sniffed—and wrinkled his aquiline nose in disgust. Salt! And cow dung! Ugh! Give him petrol fumes and city pollution any day!

      Another bend in the road and the town limits came into view. There was a petrol station on this side of the town boundary and, on impulse, Nick pulled in. He had to fill the car with petrol, and he might as well do it now—give him a few more minutes before he entered this dump!

      He pulled up to the bowser, looked idly over at the youth pulling petrol at the pump beside him—and his life changed for ever.

      ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’

      Shanni sighed and rolled her eyes as three-year-old Hugh made his life or death announcement. It was Friday morning—thank heaven—the end of a week which seemed to have gone on for ever.

      ‘Marg, can you take Hugh?’ Her assistant at Bay Beach Kindergarten was preparing milk and fruit. This would be Marg’s fourth trip to the toilet during reading, and the way they were going milk and fruit wouldn’t be ready until lunch-time. But needs must.

      Calm and unflappable, Marg grinned good-naturedly, shrugged, and took Hugh’s hand. ‘Okay, Hugh, let’s go. But we’d best hurry. This is a very exciting story.’

      ‘Miss McDonald always tells exciting stories,’ Hugh announced. ‘I tell them to my dad, and my dad says, “Why can’t exciting things like that happen around here?”’

      ‘I guess pirates wouldn’t be a very peaceful thing to have around in real life,’ Shanni said thoughtfully. ‘What do you think, boys and girls? Would we like it if a real live pirate climbed through the window?’

      ‘Oh-h-h no…’

      But as Shanni went back to reading she couldn’t stop a vague feeling of regret. Oh-h-h, no. But…

      Maybe not a pirate—but something! Sometimes Bay Beach was just too quiet for words.

      I wouldn’t mind one very small pirate, she thought as she went back to reading of Dirty Dick’s Dastardly Deeds. An image of her John rose before her—kind and placid and as immovable as the Friesian cows he ran on his property. They’d be married soon, Shanni knew. All in good time. When he’d paid off the new dairy and had enough to put a decent size down payment on a new home. He had it all planned out.

      ‘Just a very small pirate,’ she whispered to herself, and then went back to her book—which was the only place around here that things happened.

      It was Len Harris.

      Nick stared at the youth beside him and the name was burned into his brain. They were all of two feet apart. No!

      Two weeks back, Nick’s junior, Elsbeth, had taken Len on as a duty solicitor case, and she’d asked Nick’s advice. ‘He’s on his ninth conviction but he’s only sixteen. How do I keep him out of remand home?’

      ‘You don’t,’ Nick said, skimming through the file and closing it with a snap of finality. ‘Hopeless. Save your talent for something worthwhile.’

      ‘He probably won’t even get to court,’ Elsbeth said morosely. ‘I’ll spend days on this and then he’ll skip bail.’

      Which was exactly what must have happened. Nick had seen him in his pre-court briefing. Len had been dragged into chambers by his social worker and, like Elsbeth, Nick had thought the kid’s chances of making court were somewhere between zero and none. Len had looked surly, defiant and fearless.

      Which was just the look he gave Nick now. The youth stared at him for a long minute—enough to recognise Nick as surely as Nick recognised him—and then he swore. He threw the fuel hose aside so it snaked away still spurting petrol, he leaped into the Mercedes he was driving—that had to be stolen—and he spun out of the petrol station leaving a trail of burned rubber behind him.

      ‘Harry, don’t you want to hear about the pirates?’ Before she returned to reading, Shanni tried one more time to attract Harry’s attention. Harry was three years old—almost four—like the rest of her class—but Harry was different. Abused and battered, he’d only just joined the kindergarten after being moved from an uncaring family situation into one of the five homes that made up the local orphanage.

      ‘You don’t need to take him on if you don’t think you can cope,’ Shanni had been told by the welfare authorities. But of course she’d taken him. How could she not? Harry was enough to wrench the most hardened of hearts.

      Harry’s leg was recovering now from a break which had been poorly tended in the past. It had needed resetting, and because the healing was taking so long it was bound in a fibreglass cast with an inbuilt heel. The whole structure seemed much too heavy for such a little body.

      The child was so small—little more than a baby, really—and he was permanently withdrawn from the world. He spent his kindergarten

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