1.

Introduction
Behold all ye who come to see Port Arthur, Tasmania, I need just one word to describe the small city of Port Arthur: hypnotic. I often wondered, if I hadnt stepped outside the Port Lincoln Hotel in South Australia for a breath of fresh air, would I have taken the tourist brochure that had been randomly handed to me? Would I have ever come here and stumbled across this historic site: Tasmanias most renowned tourist destination? My name is Imogen Pearce and I have always been drawn to natures mysteries and colonial buildings, and thats where the tourist brochure had led me in the beginning. From the moment I set foot within this small city, I was captivated. Its like reading a book that had been written centuries ago, filled with echoes and reflections from the past held beneath its surface. But there was something else drifting about this place, digging its way into the future! I could feel it, reach out and touch it, but not quite grasp it. And it was that sense that kept me from leaving this hauntingly beautiful city. When I first came here on a holiday a year ago, I was only twenty-three and had reached a defining moment in my life: should I contact my parents to help me out financially or stay in Port Arthur and claim my independence? It was only when I cut those final ties of depending on my family that I realised I had opened up a whole new can of worms independence. But what I couldnt know was that these tumbling events would change my life forever. And each of those little worms carried choices and decisions which became harder, faster and extra complicated. Since leaving home I had started to appreciate all the things that I had taken for granted normality, innocence, security and provision but it was the harsh reality of life which affected me the most when I took on my position at the Port Arthur Police Station. Thats where I found the truth. When we are children we are nurtured and taught to tell the truth. Were told that were protected and safe, but its not until we leave our family nest that we begin to find the real reason why life is so cheap for others and why the world is not just and fair, as we have been led to believe it should be. For that I grieve. Is there such a thing as destiny or purpose to our lives? How do we live and fit into the world without having our lives stolen or torn from us in the beginning? And who can we trust? Our leaders in society? Our government, who we have been led to believe will protect us? Or should we freely follow those who have inspired others and risen to protect the innocents of their motherland? What of love? I hadnt comprehended the word yet, or had I? Maybe now that I had left my home town I would eventually settle down and marry my childhood sweetheart and best friend, Patrick, whod been left behind. Time would soon tell, but for now I was to stay where the brochure had led me until I could figure out the rest. How could I appreciate the meaning of life and respect these things without discovering the person Id become in the future? Port Arthurs Mason Cove is surrounded by a picturesque backdrop of magnificent beauty, with old colonial buildings and statues. The forests, hills, mountains and sea-cliffs are heavy with the sweet smell of flowering gums, combined with pine and eucalyptus, fused in the salt mist. If I could bottle the primal essence, Im sure every tourist who visited this city would buy it. As the seasons changed I walked among the English trees and manicured gardens bursting with life, but it was the aisle of old English trees leading to heavens door that enthralled me the most. Its where natures jewels were uncovered by the heavens and where I watched the sunlight filter through the leaves until the long thick trunks lit up like burning amber flames. Its where my eyes caught the prisms of autumn leaves drifting down from the heavens, forming natures own confetti.

I watched the dazzling brilliance of red and gold spinning around me. And its the place where I lay in a thick bed of leaves and listened to the whispering, rustling sounds echo across the breeze. The old stone church stood high on a hill overlooking the small city of Port Arthur and Mason Cove, facing the Isle of the Dead. The famous landmark was privately owned and I would not dare to enter beyond the heavy, ominous gates. Sometimes, I had the strangest feeling that someone was watching me. There was nothing tangible, only the outlines and shapes that could have been shadows cast from the passing time of day. Outside the boundary of the grand entrance stood the marble tomb of a woman with a snake, carved to perfection. I could see that the statue had stood for over a hundred years through the harsh elements of time, but despite the pitted markings and discolouration, she was still beautiful. She must have done something extraordinary to be frozen in time all those years ago, for someone had made sure she wouldnt go unnoticed. Someone had cared about her then and I could see that someone took care of her now. Small tendrils of ivy were growing up and around the tomb, and a single green vine climbed up and around the figure. Her angelic features were framed with wavy hair that fell down past her shoulders, and her gown trailed behind her with carved softness, emphasising her graceful figure and the curves of her slightly bent legs, as she held out an arum lily to the small grave set beside her. Her other hand rested near her heart where a chain of carved flowers hung from the basket she carried on her arm. The carved snake trailed down from her shoulder across her heart, curving back up toward the basket and forming a perfect back-to-front capital S. It was also looking down at the small stone cross. The diamond-shaped head was blunt; the curved mouth was closed and spread back past its eyes. I thought the snake seemed paradoxical, a symbol of guardianship, but both destructive and protective. There was no doubt the figures were magnificent and breathtaking. I often sat beside the tombs tracing my fingers over the carved lettering: Sacred to the Memory of Aderleen Iesha Wittermore Died 21st April 1875 Aged 20 years Behold all ye who come to see And Sacred to the memory of Daniel Smith Died 21st April 1875 Aged 6 years and 1month Where pain shall be none I was unable to figure out why the tombs were outside the church grounds, where they rested on high ground beyond the gates. Had the child been born out of wedlock, offending some moral belief or religious practice? I would sit for hours trying to solve the mystery!

Deep within the heart of Port Arthurs small city sat the most interesting and mysterious buildings and statues. They drew me in and I could feel the torment, pain and beauty of the citys scandalous past. This was the place where a British experiment went from bad to worse. The very place where more than twelve thousand prisoners had been tortured, condemned to solitary confinement, flogged or put to death. In the beginning, long ago, Tasmania was known as Van Diemens Land. Its where our early history began in Australia; its the place where the convicts built their own prison and bushrangers came to life. This place is still renowned for the harshest penitentiary of its era it operated from 1830 to 1877 and it was only after the penitentiary closed that the town began to grow and establish its own identity. Eventually, Australia began to recognise its own kind of culture, language and breed; and it was the bushrangers from that era that we immortalised, their rebellious actions against the law that we cast in bronze statues to admire, to remember their courage and character against brutality. Some of them were educated gentlemen, who came to an understanding that they were better off fending for themselves in the wilderness instead of living in chain gangs, or having their flesh flogged until it turned into a shapeless mass. It was the likes of Michael Howe, Ned Kelly and Martin Cash and many others who had been charged with petty crimes, who revolted against the law and society after enduring years of slavery. The human mind can only suffer so much before it will retaliate which turned gentleman into those we know today as bushrangers, who daringly claimed the right of justice and their own identity. We remember their struggle for survival against the corrupt system that eventually freed them. The British had already dealt with the damned and had punished the worst of their felons by executing them on their own soil. The British had a bigger plan for the innocent who had been wrongfully accused, or charged with minor offences. Corruption had changed the lives of thousands of people from the beginning and we are here today, descended from the very men, women and children who were transported across vast oceans for months on end to a land others feared hell on earth. Extraordinary really! But I have only come to learn these things since I came to live in the city of Port Arthur. These free settlers and convicts who helped create Australia were driven by pride and spirit because everything they had ever known or understood had been stripped away. These so-called convicts had started again after being torn from their homeland and sent across the vast dividing sea away from their kin. It would seem that every race has had its downfalls, with families stolen from their land and sold to slavery or tortured and killed! It makes it hard to accept todays worst criminals, especially when those from our past had been charged and sentenced to seven years for stealing a loaf of bread. Todays laws cannot protect its citizens from the worst of our society and allow murderers, rapists, paedophiles and home invaders who repeatedly break the law to walk among us. But that was three years ago before a group of citizens created a new foundation known as Law of Citizens. The foundation was to protect the innocent through the constant cries of justice. LOC had established its own constitution and power to take the law into its own hands. The government had no choice but to be overridden by LOCs drastic measures, which had reverted to public executions, executing reoffending paedophiles to prove a point. Justice had been reinvented and operated legally in each state of Australia to keep the growing crime rate down. Australia had begun to regain its own identity and beliefs. LOC simply made its own laws, as every other country had. We gained new leaders and the worst of our society had something to fear justice and the word was slowly spreading.

I got my first break at the Port Arthur police station, employed as a receptionist, answering phones and taking messages. Within a few months Id been promoted to filing duties, where I had learnt the long procedure for the processing of criminals within the governments decayed system. I recognised the loopholes and costs within a system that still currently operated, but was now too run down to protect anyone or anything. It was this knowledge, and my constant concerns about the old governing system, that made me admire the LOC system. After almost a year of taking on extra shifts within the police department, and living on air, Id saved a reasonable amount of money; and now that I had turned twenty-four I was gaining even greater responsibilities and had resigned from the government department. I started my own business and now worked in a secluded office, sworn in under the banner of LOC. I lived in a small waterfront apartment and owned my own vehicle. In other words up to my neck in debt. Welcome to reality, Imogen, I thought. It was on my first official day after opening my office when two mysterious gifts arrived. Orchids I had never known existed and a bottle of whiskey. The three cream sepals of each flower were covered in blackish-purple veins, with each corner of the petals pulled into a fine tail. In the heart of each flower was a strangely exotic bright pink lip, with stripes of green and yellow above the top. It exploded with the fragrance of candy, filling my office with the sweet smell of marshmallow. I cautiously watched the delivery woman struggle awkwardly as she carried the over-sized arrangement through the waiting area before setting it down on the foyer desk. She stood back admiring the long-stemmed flowers green foliage with envy, making certain the creation stood flawlessly in place. Even I noticed that each orchid was the perfect replica of the others in size, shape and beauty. Interrupting the womans concentration, I asked her if she had the right delivery address. The middle-aged woman reached into her pocket and took out a docket, raising her eyebrows. Miss Imogen Pearce! she said, pointing her chin confidently at me. Shop 34 B. Shipwrights Esplanade! Her tone indicated she knew me but how could she have known me when I had never laid eyes on her before? I searched for a name, a card among the flowers, but there was nothing to be found. I quizzed the woman to find some sort of clue as to who had sent them. I was left dazed and confused, and the woman must have felt my confusion when she started to explain that she had no obligation to give out any information, but really, there was nothing she could tell me, even if shed wanted to. We received no records with the order, only a large sum of money was delivered, she informed me in a low tone. She then asked me the strangest question: Did I understand the language of flowers? I shook my head, struggling with the disappointment of not knowing who sent them. She continued to tell me that some people sent flowers for their unspoken words and meanings and that over the years of her employment she had learnt how to decode the secret messages they carried. It was only after saying this that she offered to read the flowers. The woman looked at the exotic display with an curious intensity, as though she were unfolding a cryptic message, and began to decipher the unwritten words: Dracula vampira is the correct name of this orchid, and this particular flower is known to be the King of the Dracula species. The three petals represent a triangle of three, with three meanings: Forget us not! The hearts mystery, and Fidelity. This particular orchid is only found within the Dracula species, she said, delicately touching the bright pink lip with a pointed finger. Its a precise statement in its own right! The woman was hesitant to continue and I watched her face flush with colour. Dangerous pleasures! she said slowly, her eyes glaring. The person who

sent this arrangement of flowers, my dear, has undeniably made a statement. And you say that you have no idea who sent them! She looked rather suspiciously at me. Was this someones idea of a practical joke? I had no idea. But I decided to keep them all the same. They were too exotic and too beautiful to get rid of. Besides, the candy-scented perfume was a fragrance I had come to like. The second gift had been delivered some hours later. It wasnt until Corbin arrived late that afternoon to finalise our business agreements that I watched his eyes flicker past the display of orchids, staring at the bottle of whisky. Corbins words were very matter-of-fact as he explained what he knew of the bottled gift. First of all. There are only twelve bottles known to be left in the world and one of those particular bottles is a McCallums 1926, which sold for seventy-one thousand dollars and here on your desk sits an 1877 vintage. Jesus! I hate the ghastly stuff, I thought, buckling at the knees. Friends. In high places, Imogen! If you choose to share, Im willing to find out just what a hundred thousand bucks tastes like. He commented dismissively, Seems you have an admirer! Corbin just happened to know the provenance of the whisky but hadnt said anything about the exotic, scented flowers. They were amazingly breathtaking and he seemed to be waiting for me to comment, but I was still flabbergasted. If he did send the gifts, he would not find the comments he was looking for! Two could play this game, I thought. *****