Chapter One

A thick black storm cloud of dragonflies buzzed across the sky, blocking out the sun, as they flew towards Darwin, Australia’s most northern capital city. Inside the cloud, hundreds of thousands of wings flapped and beat thirty times every second, propelling the insectile squadron forward at sixty kilometres per hour. With four wings each, the insects created whirlwinds of air around themselves, performing aerial manoeuvres which made the most sophisticated modern aircraft look primitive. Who could fail to fall down in admiration? Yet there were none to bear witness to this awesome, fearsome fleet of insects. As the intense humidity of the wet season made way for the Dry, the city’s residents and visitors all slept peacefully in air-conditioned comfort.

Except Pitch, who slept fitfully beside his emotionally estranged wife, Margie. She allowed him in her bed but offered nothing other than perfunctory good night kisses on the cheek. Just one per night. She was polite and reasonably friendly, but tension still bound them together even as it tore them apart. Pitch wondered how long his exile would last, but he couldn’t ask. He was the betrayer, so he had forfeited the right to ask for tokens of hope or request timetable updates. Knowing it would be hard had not made the process of reconciliation any easier. He flipped over on to his right side, facing her.

Interspersed with stumbling trips in the dark to the toilet, Pitch plunged into deep sleep where disturbing dreams drew from the well of his subconscious mind. His dreams all featured insects, giant and abnormal ones with which he interacted with atypical apprehension. As an entomologist, bugs were his life, he loved them, found them fascinating to study, discuss and write papers about. He was an authority in the field, his knowledge and expertise in demand, which furnished him many opportunities to tour the world. Travelling had enlarged his world, enriching it with both experience and friendships. However, until he met Callum on that fateful flight to Thailand, none of these relationships had broken through the ceiling of casual association. Their chance meeting opened not only a flood of unanticipated affection but exposed him to a whole new world dimension by creatures he’d previously believed only existed in fantasy.

Callum and Pitch had immediately hit it off, finding common ground in a discussion of horror movies and cricket, which, through the subsequent extraordinary events, transformed into a tight bond of shared experience. In Callum and Ande, with the ever-broadening complexity of their relationship, Pitch found himself easily sliding into the role of confidante and father figure to both of them. The chemistry between them was tangible and undeniable; impossible to miss, harder still to ignore, except for Callum and Ande who remained confused and blinded by their emotions.

The fire between his two young friends inspired envy in Pitch when he thought of his marriage which had long since faded into faintly smoking embers. He’d never questioned that before. It was a natural stage of life through which all couples travelled on their way to their twilight years: a matrimonial dusk. Many of course, did not make it through the troublesome mid-life crisis, or if they did, more marriages were shipwrecked in the empty nest phase. He and Margie had been so caught up in the business of being married they forgot to keep loving each other, to keep finding ways to grow together. It wasn’t wilful neglect. It just happened.

Pitch felt the nag of his bladder once more, though he wondered where it was all coming from. He’d had nothing to drink for several hours now. Pushing off the covers, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood in the darkness. He was jealous of those who could sleep all night, saving their toileting until either a natural waking with the sparrows or the rude call of an alarm. He waited a moment to allow his eyes to adjust once more to the dimness, reached for the light between the shadows, then made his way carefully to the bathroom.

Having reached his destination, Pitch shut the door then turned on the light. Urinating in the dark would have been better for his eyes, but he couldn’t see where he was aiming, and he was a well-trained and considerate husband. However, since Margie learned of his affair with Annie, he had been a husband in name only. His official title belied his true status as a tolerated guest. Pitch could neither expect nor ask for more than that. Margie had every right to treat him diffidently while she worked through the grief of his betrayal. It could have been worse. She could have kicked him out until she eventually decided to forgive him. And she would forgive him. Margie’s grace was perhaps her greatest attribute, and one of the main reasons he had fallen in love with her.

Finished, Pitch flushed the toilet, thought about washing his hands, but decided against it. There was the rub for him. Despite embracing Annie as his secret lover, and enjoying the thrill of subterfuge and elicit adventure, he never stopped loving Margie. It wasn’t that he did anything to her, but rather he did something for himself without considering the consequences for Margie or their marriage. That wasn’t quite true either, because Pitch knew that no one commenced an affair without thinking about what would happen if it were to be revealed. He did think about the repercussions, but he ignored them, pressed the manual override switch on good sense.

As he lay back down on his bed, rolling off his back—a position which made sleep impossible, his thoughts turned to Annie. She wasn’t without blame either, but Pitch felt no anger towards her. For a time, she had made him happy, taking him away from everything real, from monotony and trouble. Whenever he felt discontented or in despair, she was his drug of choice.

Pitch flipped sides again, as Margie slept peacefully beside him. Why wouldn’t she sleep peacefully? She had done nothing wrong. She’d taken control of the reconciliation process, and if she meant to hurt Pitch, which he doubted, she had every justification for doing so. Pitch had no choice but to be patient. He appreciated being able to talk to Callum about what was going on, but as he lay in the dark with his eyes fixed on the bedroom wall, he longed for the intimacy he shared with Annie. The same kind of ‘safe to be vulnerable’ intimacy he’d once shared with Margie.

He touched his phone to see the time. Two forty am. Another endless night. Soon he would fall asleep from exhaustion despite not believing he could.

Callum and Ande were due in Darwin in the afternoon of the following day. Callum was coming on his own accord—a mix of business and pleasure, while Ande’s trip, also a holiday, was the result of an invitation from Pitch. This vacation was to give her time to figure out what to do next. She felt she couldn’t continue working at the Doghouse after all she’d experienced and talked often about the three of them forming some kind of paranormal investigation team. Callum alternately loved or hated the idea depending on his mood, and Pitch had other more pressing concerns, so the idea of them pursuing a very odd and possibly dangerous, not to mention financially unrewarding career was left to float around in the ether. Ande also needed to recuperate.

That was the angle Pitch used to persuade her to travel to Darwin. He told her how perfect the weather was in the Dry and about the laidback pace of life. He waxed lyrical about the natural wonders of Katherine Gorge, Litchfield National Park, and Kakadu. Told her if she never watched the sunset on Mindil Beach while munching on a crocodile burger she would live to regret it. She could do a lot or nothing at all, and as a final irresistible pitch, he told her of the incredible seafood available at a selection of restaurants from fish and chips take-aways to five-star fine dining. It was not hard to sell the Northern Territory as not only a great tourist destination, but also a wonderful place to live—so long as one could handle the relentless heat.

Naturally, Pitch offered himself as a tour guide par excellence although his availability was limited slightly by the Asia Pacific Entomology Conference which was to be held at the Darwin Convention Centre. Pitch was the keynote speaker. His topic: dragonflies, and specifically the unscientific belief that these six-legged masters of the sky were heralds of the dry season in the Top End. The City of Darwin’s logo featured a stylized dragonfly, and many people placed their trust in the arrival of dragonflies in the city as a sign that the wet season was drawing to an end. Like most scientists, Pitch was quite fond of debunking populist mythology with cold hard scientific facts. His address would require him to speak about meteorology as well as entomology and while he was completely in his element in relation to the latter, the former would require a bit of work. He had a friend, a storm chaser, whom he planned to meet with to pick his brain, and he’d lined up an interview with a spokesperson from the Bureau of Meteorology. He intended to focus much more on the skills and charms of antisoptera than the weather.

Pitch closed his eyes, feeling drowsiness take over once more. He slowed his breathing, concentrating on slow, deep breaths, trying to clear his mind. Annie popped in for a visit as he drifted away, as did Callum and Ande; he saw them together, just as he felt they should be despite neither of them apparently being switched on enough to realize it. Perhaps they knew it but simply couldn’t figure out how to move the relationship forward. It wasn’t that difficult. Pitch reckoned they were overcomplicating it.

In his dream, Pitch walked across a cricket field, from the boundary fence, across the boundary rope towards the wicket. There was applause from behind him, cheering and clapping, encouraging words. He lifted his hand to acknowledge the crowd, felt the weight of his bat. He squatted with his bat held above his head, repeated the action a couple of times, jumped on the spot, acclimatising to the reduced flexibility of the pads. After adjusting the strap of his helmet, he quickened his pace towards the middle where his partner was waiting at the non-striker’s end.

As he got closer, the other batsman walked toward him, meeting him two metres from the wicket. He looked at Callum’s face inside a helmet, took it in his stride as if they often played together, though they never had.

‘It’s swinging out pretty sharply through the air,’ said Callum. ‘Play late. Don’t feel for it.’

Pitch wasn’t aware of Callum ever having played cricket at any level, even as a child, although he supposed he, like many Australian kids, did. Despite his lack of experience, Callum spoke with authority and Pitch listened as though he was debutant joining a veteran at the crease.

‘Don’t feel for it,’ said Pitch. ‘Got it.’

They touched gloves before Callum walked back to his position beside the umpire, leaving Pitch to take guard.

‘Middle and off,’ he called to the umpire who gestured for Pitch to move his bat a little to the leg side.

Pitch scratched the ground with the toe of his bat, adjusted the straps on his pads and gloves, fiddled with his thigh guard and box. When he was ready, he took a few deep breaths, positioned himself sideways to the stumps, leant over his bat then tapped the ground with it.

A Bulldog Ant appeared under the toe of the bat. Pitch held up his hand to stop the bowler from running in, as he swatted the bug away. He mumbled to himself, thanking whoever that he had seen the little terror before it got anywhere near him. He was about to have a hard round missile thrown at him at about a hundred and forty kilometres an hour, but that ant could have bitten him multiple times before the ball reached him. The distance from the other end of the pitch was twenty-two metres which would give him around fifty-one hundredths of a second to react. Bulldogs Ants had been known to kill people. The ball could kill him too or break a bone. At the very least if he missed it with his bat and it breached the various protective garb he wore, he’d get a nasty bruise.

Pitch was busy thinking about Bulldog Ants and how they bit and stung their victims simultaneously, when the ball whizzed past his chest. An enormous ‘ooooh’ rumbled from the crowd.

Callum nodded to the umpire then quickly made his way to Pitch. ‘Are you alright mate?’ said Callum. ‘I would compliment you on a perfect leave, but I don’t think you even saw the ball, did you?’

Pitch laughed. ‘Remember all those beetles in Istanbul? That was crazy.’

‘Not now Pitch,’ said Callum, frowning. ‘We’re two for seven, and we need to see off this new ball. The cloud’ll break up in an hour or so. Let’s just take it easy until then.’

‘How’s Ande?’ said Pitch.

‘Get your head in the game, mate.’

‘Is there a problem gentlemen?’ said the umpire.

‘No problem, sir,’ said Callum. He turned back to Pitch. ‘Forget the bugs. Forget Ande. Clear your head and get in behind the ball. Leave ‘em all if you like—there’s only two balls left in the over, but at least watch the ball, will ya.’

‘There’s a fly on your face, Callum.’

‘No there isn’t it.’

Pitch swiped at Callum to shoo the fly away but misjudged the distance and clipped the grill of Callum’s helmet. ‘Sorry mate.’

Callum shook his head, walked back to the bowler’s end. Pitch took guard once more, and for a second time the Bulldog Ant appeared from a crack in the ground. The crack grew larger, the walls of the chasm forced apart by a flood of Bulldog Ants, surging and bubbling from the crevice like molten lava from an erupting volcano. Pitch watched in fascination until the ball thudded into his stomach, bent him in half. He heard the reaction of the crowd as he collapsed, struggling to catch his breath. From his foetal position on the dry, hard wicket, Pitch searched in vain for ants.

‘He’s not that fast, Pitch,’ said Callum, as he squatted beside his fallen comrade. ‘What’s going on?’

Wheezing an undecipherable response, Pitch managed to give the thumbs up, before attempting to rise. A crowd of players gathered around him to check on his welfare. Their faces were blacked out, silhouetted by the sun shining from behind. They seemed to have antenna, but Pitch dismissed it as a trick of light. He heard clicking and scratching instead of words. The sound grew louder as he stood finally, pressed gently on his stomach. He was about to tell them to stop making all the noise when they suddenly did exactly that.

‘Okay to go on, Pitch?’ said Callum.

Pitch’s nose began to itch, so he hurriedly pulled off his right glove, and worked his forefinger into his nostril. He quickly found the target, a mass of mucus which must be removed. As he dug to remove the offending blockage, he felt a sharp sting, then a bite, then another and another bite. The pain was excruciating, burning, and itching.

Someone yelled out ‘Incoming! Heads up!’

Instinctively, Pitch looked up for a ball but instead he saw, albeit through a blur of tears as the Bulldogs ant’s venom invaded his sinuses, a massive fleet of dragonflies passing over the cricket ground, blocking out the sun.