1. The mystery man arrives

The large Irishman rolled down his taxi window and peered out into the gloom looking for signs of life.

A flickering streetlight flashed its yellow hue on and off across the building in front of him. 

None of the lights inside the building appeared to be on—though it was difficult to tell, the strobe-like effect distorting everything. A faint, sickly hum came from the faulty light.

He turned his head towards the shadow next to him. “Are you sure you’ve brought me to the right place, fella?”

When the driver flicked on the overhead dash light, the Irishman rolled his eyes.

Jaysus! His silhouette had been jockey-sized, so it was no surprise his head was only level with the dashboard. But the Irishman hadn’t expected him to be so old—well into his 70s—and wearing spectacles patched together with sticking plasters.

The old man pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper from his shirt pocket, unfolding it slowly. His hand trembled as he brought the paper close to his glasses, squinting at the words. 

He turned towards his front-seat passenger, his eyes magnified by the thick lenses. “Yep, Moose,” he said in a reedy voice. “This is where I was told to drop you. The Windy Mountain Tasmanian Tiger Museum.”

The Irishman unbuckled his seatbelt. “Look, pops, I haven’t got a clue who you think I am, but if you can just open the boot, I’ll get out of your way.”

The driver stiffened, and he adopted a fighting pose. Southpaw style. “How dare you call me ‘pops!’ I don’t care how big you are, Moose. Someone should’ve taught you some respect long before now.”

The Irishman sucked in a deep breath, trying to steady himself, forcing calm into his voice. “You can just put your fists down. I’ve never heard of anyone called Moose, let alone be him. I came to Tasmania to escape trouble.”

The driver punched the steering wheel and it vibrated. “Is this the thanks I get for being the first trainer on the scene when you pulled your hamstring in that footy match 18 years ago, Moose?”

“Cop on!” The Irishman’s accent thickened, and his voice rose. “You don’t tink I’d know dat I was growing up in Dublin 18 years ago!”

“You’re not fooling anyone with that phoney accent. I won’t be the last person in this town who recognises you.”

The Irishman’s hand bridged the gap to his back pocket, and he slowly pulled out his wallet. His fingers brushed the edges of the bills with an unsettling slowness, as though he had all the time in the world. He took out some notes and tossed them into the driver’s lap. “Keep the change, you silly old eejit.”

“Right, that’s it!” The driver’s voice became more tremulous. “No one calls me old and silly, and whatever that other word is.” He threw a punch, but the large Irishman had already ducked away, opening his door.

He squeezed himself out on to the footpath, his boots crunching the gravel beneath him. He turned and leaned inside the car. “Tell you what. If you pop the boot, I’ll grab my luggage, and we’ll call this a draw.”

The old man leaned over. “You haven’t changed, Moose. Just so you know, if you slip in something nasty and pull your hammy again, I won’t be coming running with my medical bag this time.” 

The Irishman closed the door, restraining himself from slamming it. A faint, cold breeze carried a scent of wet earth.

The malfunctioning light buzzed again. The only other sounds were the clicking of the car’s engine cooling down and a distant cricket chirping.

Then, suddenly, the boot bounced open, and the old man revved the engine. The sound screeched against the stillness, and thick smoke began spewing from the exhaust pipe, choking the air.

The Irishman fanned the fumes away as he hefted his suitcases on to the footpath.

He slammed the boot shut.

The taxi shot away like a rocket, tyres screeching.

The Irishman shook a fist at the disappearing car. “Happy New Year to you, too, fella.”

Amazing! How had the old fart suddenly become a racing driver?

He’d driven all the way from Launceston Airport like he was driving through a speed-restricted school zone.

Now the Irishman was left standing in the dark, with only the flickering light and a lingering sense of unease.

The Irishman’s ponytail swished around as he looked left and right.

Where was everyone?

He turned when he heard footsteps, but all he saw were two elongated silhouettes on the other side of the road, clip-clopping away with haste.

2. Pot of gold at the end of a crappy rainbow

He had been looking forward to the New Year’s Eve fireworks over Sydney Harbour. But the closest thing to pyrotechnics around here seemed to be that damned flickering streetlight.

He set his suitcases down in front of the big glass door, bent over, and lifted the doormat.

Sure enough, a key glinted back at him.

So much for a welcoming committee!

Jaysus! It wasn’t in his nature to lie low like a scared rat. But here he was, stuck in the remote back-blocks of Tasmania, the island at the arse end of Australia.

Joh had insisted this was the best place for him to hide out. No one would ever think to look for him here—and it was only for a while.

“How much do the locals know?” the Irishman had asked.

“Absolutely nothing. So keep it that way. The less they know, the safer you’ll be.”

“You must have told them something about me?”

“I had to tell a few little white lies.”

“Will someone be waiting for me?”

“Of course. But if they’re not, you’re to go in and make yourself at home. The key will be under the mat.”

“What do I know about running a museum? I know nothing about art.”

“You don’t have to. This is a different kind of museum. It’s called the Windy Mountain Tasmanian Tiger Museum.”

“Toigers!” The Irishman gulped. “Are you kidding me?”

“Relax. You’ll have two days before your employer calls by. Use that time to look around the place and get yourself up to speed.”

“That’s easy for you to say. Now I know there are toigers in Tasmania, the speed foremost on my mind will be leg-speed.”

* * *

He flicked the light switch inside the door. Nothing happened. The electricity wasn’t even connected!

The bedroom would be upstairs. They always were.

He squinted, trying to make sense of the room in front of him. The flickering yellow streetlight at least provided a strobe effect. He made out a long counter on the far side of the room.

Hoisting his heavy suitcases, he began inching his way across the carpet in rhythm with the pulsing light.

A foul smell distracted him, and as he sniffed left and right, he lost track of the counter. He certainly found it when his ribs slammed into its sharp edge. Something on the ledge clattered to the floor, the jangling sound of a landline phone.

Behind the counter, he discovered a spiral staircase.

The suitcases seemed to grow heavier with every turn.

At the top of the stairs, he found a bedroom at the end of the hallway.

It was a long room with windows at either end. There was a single bed near the door. But up the other end, to his relief, was a much larger bed, illuminated by moonlight and—wouldn’t you know it—the poxy, flickering glow from the street.

But it was like the pot of gold at the end of a crappy rainbow.

Crossing the room, he nearly tripped over something soft on the floor but managed to stay upright. With a groan, he dropped his suitcases beside the bed.

Stripping off his clothes, he flopped on to the mattress and passed out like a light.

3. Moose’s regret

Moose Routley moved to Windy Mountain in the early 1990s hoping to catch a Tasmanian Tiger.

He came to know every valley, every fire trail, and every stream better than anyone else.

The Tasmanian Tiger lived around these parts in large numbers in 1840 when Colonel Richard Northan planted a flag on a bank of the Bing Bong River and started building the town with the convicts under his command. 

Moose’s woes began the day he tried out for the local football team in 1993. 

In September that year he messed up at an orchard on the outskirts of town. 

That row of apple trees had been planted by Colonel Northan and handed down his family line until it was owned by the latest mayor, James Northan, who was now dividing the town by wanting to destroy his legacy.

Moose never regretted doing what he did to the ponce, but he did come to have misgivings about being sent to prison when people who stood around laughing got off scot-free.

4. Time for reflection (New Year’s day, 2017)

The warmth of the morning sun streaming through the window on to his face was probably what awakened him. 

He kept his eyes shut as he listened to the sound of the birds chirping outside.

Fuelled by exhaustion, the Irishman had slept like a log in the kingsize bed despite his sore ribs. Not even the flickering light outside had annoyed him once he closed his eyes.

Now he was in that blissful stage of waking fully, and not really wanting the serenity to end. He just wanted to lie here and enjoy it some more. He had nowhere to be, nothing to do in a hurry, no one to see.

But something nasty-smelling crept into his nose.

He sniffed. And sniffed again. Another pong? What was that stink? 

He opened his eyes.

His heart skipped a beat. A large, bearded man was looking down at him! He had the type of tattoos that looked like they had been done in a jail cell.

Then he realised they had been.

It was only a reflection of himself from a mirror on the ceiling. Jaysus! Didn’t putting mirrors on the ceiling go out of fashion in the 1970s, around about the same time as spiral staircases went arseways.

He threw off the covers and swung his legs to the side of the bed.

The walls were decorated with framed photos of topless women. The floor was a minefield of discarded socks, jocks, shirts and jeans. 

Then the horrible smell hit him again.

He grabbed a handful of the sheets, which he raised to his nose. Yuk! He had been too tired to care last night the sheets on the bed had probably already been slept in. Whatever pong he was smelling now had probably been enlivened by the morning sun.

He had to get out of here. 

He looked at his watch. It was 7.16am, which meant he hadn’t eaten for almost 24 hours. 

He bent down to unzip a suitcase and felt a stabbing pain around his ribs. It was a painful reminder of his first night in his hideaway.

He found his mobile phone.

He started checking for messages but realised it was out of credit.

He dressed, bunched his hair together and secured it with a hair tie, and headed down the hall.

The eyesore that was the foyer revealed itself to him as he descended the stairs.

Jaysus!

This large room was in an even bigger mess than the bedroom. How was that even possible? 

He picked an old black phone up from the worn, grey carpet near the gate. He raised it to his ear. Nothing. Completely dead. 

He placed the phone on the counter and hurried across the room. He really needed to get out of here into the fresh air.

* * *

As he approached the glass door, he realised too late a figure backlit by the sun was standing on the other side. 

When he opened the door, the unexpected heat of the morning hit him. But it was the man’s blue eyes burning into him that really raised the temperature.

The stranger was tall, thin and unsmiling, and he was wearing a white shirt with a blue tie. He switched his clipboard from one side to the other and offered his hand. “Henk Van Gogh . . . I was about to knock.”  

The Irishman took his hand tentatively. He had no idea who this man was but he relaxed when the man said:

“I’m here to welcome you.” He spoke in a deep baritone with the hint of an accent. 

He tensed up again, however, when the man on the doorstep added: “Well, I’m here to induct you really. I’m the group manager for Biggs and Sons. The owner of the museum?”

“Um, of course. You’d better come in. Happy New Year.” 

Van Gogh brushed past. He looked around and shook his head. Then he locked his piercing eyes on to the Irishman again. “You might want to keep that door open.”

The Irishman sniffed the air for effect. He could hardly say he hadn’t noticed the pong. He followed his nose to the other side of the reception counter and lifted up a milk carton that had solid bits floating inside. “I’ll just put it outside.”

When he came back in, Van Gogh was still surveying the shambles.

The foyer needed a good scrub, and perhaps a lick of paint. Some of the posters on the walls had come partially unstuck. Some were lying on the carpet. One had fallen on to the reception counter.

“I wasn’t expecting you until Tuesday.”

“You didn’t get my email?” Van Gogh said. “You said in your application you were keen to hit the ground running.”

But before the Irishman could reply, Van Gogh said: “I must say I was expecting someone older. When I think of a professor, I think of an old guy with a white beard. How do you like to be addressed? Professor O’Brien?”

The Irishman wished now he had bothered to look at the job application that had been lodged on his behalf. What had Joh been thinking?  

He forced himself to smile. “Just call me Paddy, that’s fine.” 

Van Gogh studied him. “Did you know you look a bit like a young Moose Routley?”

“Not him again!”

“How could you possibly know him?”

“I don’t, but I’ve got a bone to pick with him.”

Van Gogh sniffed. “If you don’t mind me saying, you smell a bit like him, too.”

The big Irishman did mind his lack of tact, actually, but Joh had asked him to be on his best behaviour. So instead of punching him in the face, Paddy raised an arm, which caused him a bolt of pain from his sore ribs, but was worth it because it made the rude Dutchman step back.

“I’ve been marinating in my own juices on planes and long car rides, and I couldn’t have a hot shower when I arrived last night because the power wasn’t on!” 

Van Gogh tapped a finger on his clipboard. “You didn’t read the contract properly. It’s the manager’s role to ensure the power and phone services are reconnected. You can sign up to both at the town hall.”

Van Gogh bent over and picked up one of the posters from the floor. He sighed before screwing it up and throwing it down again. “I fail to see what girls in bikinis have got to do with the Tasmanian Tiger. Do you, Professor?”

Paddy’s eyes narrowed. “You should see the mess upstairs. Did the last manager leave in a hurry?”

“Not fugging fast enough for my liking. Luckily for you we haven’t got customers beating down the door, which gives you a bit more time to get this place back into shape.”

Van Gogh’s eyes bore into the Irishman’s again. “You say in your application you are interested in studying the Tasmanian Tiger?”

Paddy had no choice now but to bullshit his way out of this. “Do you keep them in a cage at the back?”

Van Gogh frowned. “Keep what?”

“The toigers.”

Van Gogh raised an eyebrow. “What university did you say you were from?” he said slowly.

Paddy rubbed his sore spot, mainly to stall for time so he could think of a feasible reply. “I didn’t, but, er, you’ve probably never heard of it. It’s one of the smaller campuses in Dublin.”

“That might explain it.”

“Explain what?”

Van Gogh sighed. “We weren’t even going to reopen this place. But when we received your application and you said you’d work for nothing until you could ramp up business, that was the clincher for Mr Biggs.”

Paddy blinked. Twice. Did he just say he had agreed to work for nothing?

“Of course, you have free use of the flat upstairs.”

Van Gogh looked at his watch. “I’ll give you a couple of days to get on with the clean-up. I’ll be back on Wednesday. 10am sharp?” He looked towards the doors on the other side of the room. “If it’s OK with you, I just need to do a quick stocktake in the gallery and then I’ll get out of your hair.”

Paddy watched the Dutchman head across the foyer.

* * *

Paddy stomped back upstairs. 

Breakfast would just have to wait.

Who did this Van Gogh think he was anyway?

If he liked cold baths so much Paddy would have been happy to hold his head underwater for a bit. It was easy for Joh to tell him to stay out of trouble, he wasn’t the one who had to go against his normal inclinations. 

Paddy decided to kill time by putting his things away.  

But the more he started flinging open drawers and cupboards in his new bedroom, the harder he flung them and the more his ribs stung. Jaysus! All of the drawers were still full. 

He stormed into the bathroom. Same result. Shampoo on the side of the bath, a stiff-as-a-board towel hanging over a rail, two-thirds of a roll of toilet paper sitting on the window ledge above the jacks, and half a cake of cracked soap with three strands of pubic hair on the sink. A red electric razor sat in a cradle attached to the wall. Paddy opened a cabinet and found a toothbrush in a mug shaped like another topless woman.

He stormed out of the bathroom and crossed the hall to the other door, which he opened.

What a mess!

It looked like it was the kitchen/lounge room.

Dirty dishes were scattered all along a long white bench that divided the room.

As he stepped further in, he could see more encrusted dishes filled the sink. 

A pale yellow phone sat surrounded by dishes on the bench. He lifted the receiver to his ear. Nothing. Just like the phone downstairs, it wasn’t connected. It was probably just an extension.

He opened the fridge, and slammed it shut almost immediately. The smell was overpowering, which was surprising considering hardly anything was in there. 

He opened the cupboard above the sink. Inside was a stack of saucers and a few stubby holders.

He turned around and found himself looking at six long rows of books along the back wall..

Jaysus! That looked out of place.

He walked across and examined the books. They were all in alphabetical order of author. 

Paddy selected one and looked at the cover. It was Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.

The front door downstair slammed. Van Gogh obviously wasn’t happy. Was something missing from the gallery?

Served him right!

The good news was that Paddy could now go and try to find some breakfast.

5. First sign of the pinstripe suit

When he turned to lock the door, his shirt felt sticky against his back. Who knew Tasmania got this hot?

Left and right of him were full length windows, which provided lots of light inside, as well as a brilliant view of the car park out front and the road beyond. But right now the windows were just radiating lots of heat and glare.

Paddy caught a flickering reflection of movement on the street behind him, and spun around.

He was blinded by the sun.

Only when he raised a cupped hand to shield his eyes did he see the little dog on a leash pulling an elderly man past him on the footpath.

The old man was shiny-faced, like he had shaved, then scrubbed his mug, then shaved again in case he had missed a whisker. He was dressed in a neatly pressed grey pinstripe suit, and he carried a little yellow spade and a plastic bag. 

Paddy smiled. “Rioght? Grand day. Happy New Year.” 

But the man just kept walking towards what Paddy assumed was the town centre. 

Maybe he hadn’t heard him? 

He did had large hearing aids protruding from both ears.

The dog stopped and squatted a little further along the footpath, and the old man shakily went down on one knee and held the spade behind the pooch.

Aware he was being watched, he turned and shouted: “FOR GOODNESS SAKE, HAVE YOU NOT SEEN A MAN USING A POOPER-SCOOPER BEFORE?”

He spoke at the decibel level you might employ in a noisy room, with a voice halfway between clipped plum and rusty razor-blade. 

He stood back up, funnelled the droppings into his bag, and continued huffily on his way.

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