Five Parts Dead by Tim Pegler Page A

PERMISSION TO ANCHOR
    New Year’s Eve is a total waste of time. Every. Single. Year. At Easter the chocolate compensates for any social events you have to suffer through. At Christmas, even if your family is off the Richter Scale for paper-hat-wearing, cracker-pulling dagginess, at least you know what you’re in for. You can psych yourself up for the cousin who cries every time you get him out at cricket, the uncle who farts and falls asleep at lunch, and the unidentified salad that looks as if it’s been recycled from another event. When you yarn to your mates you talk Christmas down, as if it’s a chore. ‘We’re doing the family thing…all going to Aunty Sue’s place.’
    Everyone talks up New Year’s Eve. Each year it’s going to be bigger and better than before, which, in theory, should be a shoo-in given how much the last one sucked. Seriously, it’s the one night of the year that is guaranteed to over-promise and under-deliver.
    Experience tells me I shouldn’t get my hopes up but I can’t wait for tonight. The sky is clear and windless. New Year’s Eve ripples with possibility.
    Mum and Dad have hit the road again, motoring off to a secret beach where they reckon there’s a chance they’ll spot a greater speckled something or other. They actually asked if I wanted to come with them. I made like I was thinking about it and replied, ‘Maybe next year.’ There’s a certain greater freckled someone I’m much more interested in spending the evening with.
    This morning, after Mel convinced Mum and Dad to drop her at the farm-stay so she could bond with her favourite tour guide, I went back to bed. Well, back to sleep. No point getting up when I could be recuperating horizontally.
    After a late breakfast, Pip and I took her camera gear down to the rocks to get some shots of the seals. Okay, Pip hid in the rocks and photographed while I lay on the boardwalk and snoozed some more. Now we’re back at the cottage, locked in combat over a Scrabble board, waiting for the others to cruise in.
    We hear a vehicle muttering as it crests the hill. Pip stands and, in a mock-elderly voice, says, ‘Visitors. Better put the kettle on, love.’ I laugh, thinking of us as an old married couple. Right this second, I kind of dig that idea.
    Turns out it’s not the bus but a dodgy-looking campervan that lurches and grinds down the gravel track to the cottages. Hiroshi shrugs apologetically from behind a bug-blasted windscreen as a beaming Mel swings from the seat and kisses me on the cheek. Wow. Mel’s had crushes before but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her bubbling like this. It’s…kind of cute.
    â€˜Hello you,’ she says. ‘Had a good day? Rosh and I picked up stuff for a picnic but Pip and I need to get changed before we go anywhere.’ And then she skips off inside, leaving me to rub my cheek and wonder when was the last time I hugged my twin. Better put it on the To Do list, Dan.
    Hiroshi and I circumnavigate the van, borrowed from his boss, who needed the minibus. It looks like it hasn’t been washed since...ever.
    â€˜Maybe it would go faster if you weren’t carrying half the island in mud.’
    Hiroshi chuckles and slaps an arm around me as we wander inside.
    Buggered if I know why the girls want to dress up for New Year’s Eve. I mean, it’s just the four of us having a picnic.
    Laughter leaks from the girls’ room as Hiroshi and I flop on the lounge chairs. There’s an awkward silence that jars with the festive mood. Time to make an effort, Dan. Get to know Hiroshi better. Do some detective work about him and Mel.
    â€˜Hey Rosh…’ He looks at me as if he’s glad I spoke first but he’s apprehensive about what I might ask. Here goes nothing…
    â€˜So were you and Mel together when she was in Tokyo? I never really asked her about the trip.’
    He