Start reading The Beacon by Paul Thomas

Chapter One
Monday, 4th November 2019

Patrick O’Shaughnessy killed the lights and let his eyes adjust to the inky darkness. The moon had already dipped below the horizon. He climbed out of the car, stared up into the black void and waited. And there it was, high over his head, the beam of the lighthouse sweeping silently through the darkness. And then again, fifteen seconds later, unwavering, as it had done every night for more than a hundred years. It was Byron Bay’s beating pulse and Patrick felt that as long as that beacon shone, everything would ultimately be right in the world.

He was always the first surfer here, preferring to be in the sea alone, his only company the lapping water and the pinpricks of a million stars overhead as he eagerly awaited that first precious glimmer of light marking the new day, and its promise of renewal. Some people said he was crazy for paddling out when it was so dark, which was surprising. After all, this was Byron Bay, where normal was abnormal, and strange and eccentric often went unnoticed.

This morning the breaking waves sounded subdued, so he slid out the mal, a board he’d had for such a long time it was almost an extension of his body. His routine was so familiar it was automatic, and yet today he struggled into his wetsuit, an unusual stiffness straining at his muscles.

Something metallic clattered to the ground on the other side of the carpark, an unnatural sound disrupting the tranquillity. Patrick was surprised, and then irritated, to make out the dim shape of a van. The park ranger must have skipped his rounds

last night – it was only his banging on doors all hours of the night that prevented the carpark filling up with illegal campers; vans of backpackers keenly embracing the prospect of both a free campsite and waking up beside such a glorious beach.

But Patrick’s irritation was soon replaced by pleasurable anticipation as he ran along the forest path and out onto the beach. At the water’s edge he stooped and fastened the leg-rope firmly to his ankle. Today there would be few waves to catch, but that wasn’t the point. He watched the great beam from the lighthouse trace lap after lap then, breaking the trance, launched himself into the water and began the strong rhythmic strokes that would carry him far out into the deep, beyond the rocks and beyond the reach of the waves crashing along the cliffs of the cape.

When he reached the take-off zone, he sat upright and savoured the smell of the salt, the bobbing of the waves, and the refreshing caress of the water. For Patrick, this was euphoric and addictive, and yet he knew surfers who were afraid this early in the morning, afraid to sit astride their boards with their legs dangling in the deep, their gaze unable to penetrate the black void below.

There were sharks near here, many sharks. A few years earlier, a tourist was snatched as he swam across the bay. Newspapers, including Patrick’s own, feasted on such shark attacks, but he knew the odds were minuscule. Besides, he felt safer here in the water, even with the sharks, than he did on dry land, where lately he found himself having to fight the constant urge to look over his shoulder.

The first glimmer of daylight approached over the northeastern horizon and the water beneath him began to take form. The tension in his muscles started to ease, and a soothing sense of joy began washing through him. With enough moments like

these, he knew he would find sufficient strength to cope with the difficulties looming before him. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind. Less than a week to go.

A sudden splash disturbed him. His eyes shot open. A ripple was spreading through the water nearby. Something arced through his peripheral vision, perhaps a fin, but by the time he jerked his head around, it was gone. When he felt his heart pounding wildly in his chest, he laughed out loud at his foolishness. Too much thinking about sharks. It was a dolphin, he was sure.

He lay down on the board, closed his eyes again, and began to relax, his mind drifting to his daughter, Caitlin. Today was her birthday and he smiled – he was so looking forward to seeing her.

Then pain smashed into his brain. Unimaginable agony. His leg. His left leg. Below the knee. Before he knew what had happened, Patrick was yanked off his board into the water. Adrenaline surged. His heart thumped. Shark. His leg was being dragged down to the depths, pulling him with it. He gripped his board hard, trying to hang on. Thoughts of his darling Caitlin broke through the agony that was consuming his consciousness – there was no way he was leaving her. He gathered all his strength, wrenched his leg upwards and felt something give, but the overwhelming pain was beyond bearing and Patrick slid helplessly into the cold, dark depths.

The Beacon by Paul Thomas

A page-turning debut murder mystery, set in Byron Bay.