She dragged her mind to focus on a cormorant that had landed on the rocks below. After Harry, she had promised herself to never allow another human being to hold control over her happiness. ‘Get a grip Ayla. You’re pathetic.’
The cormorant had a bald patch halfway down its neck. She let out a squeal of delight. ‘Buster.’ The bird flew off without a glance. She watched until he was a dot on the horizon, rejoicing at the life in him.
Each new wave smashing into the headland sounded more ominous. Frustrated with herself, she threw the cockle shell and watched it disappear into the bubbly white foam below.
She stood to leave and saw Riley at the base of the rock, on Hibiscus. He waved, and she almost somersaulted from the cliff into his arms. He scrambled up and they hugged hard. She couldn’t speak for the feel of him, his distinct earthy smell; the sound of his breathing.
He took all of her in. ‘You look beautiful.’
She blushed, knowing she had worn this dress for him. ‘Did you read the letters?’
‘I’ve been waiting for her to leave the house all week. Her bedroom door squeaks so I don’t dare try while she’s home. Ever since I found that photo, she’s been watching me like a hawk. I gave up. Missed you too much.’
‘I was hoping you would come.’
He sat down and pulled her to join him.
‘Can’t believe I didn’t get your mobile number.’ She plucked her phone from her pocket.
‘I don’t have one.’
‘Are you for real?’
Riley shrugged. ‘I’ve never had anyone to contact, so it’s never mattered.’
‘No one at all?’
‘I was home schooled from the age of nine. There was a boy, Kelvin. He lived on the property next door. We’d play together nearly every day. He was the closest I ever came to having a friend.’
‘Are you still in touch?’
Riley shook his head. ‘They moved away when I was thirteen… mainly because of Mum. She manipulated her way into their lives. His mother ended up hating my mother. When I think about it, Mum has destroyed every relationship I’ve ever had, except with David.’
‘I should feel privileged then.’
‘Or scared…the way she treats you, it’s like…she’s selected you.’ The sudden violence with which he threw a stone so it smashed on the rocks, unnerved her.
She steered the subject away from his mother. ‘Tilly said Dennis, her gardening man, wants to retire. If you come by her office, Dennis will try you out for the day.’
‘Really? That would be…I…I always helped David around the property. I think I could do that.’
‘Sure…just general maintenance. There’s lots of holiday houses here owned by rich people who pay Tilly to keep their gardens looking neat, also rental properties and elderly people Dennis mows lawns for.’
‘I could buy a phone…now I’ve got someone to contact.’
The tips of his fingers on her face felt soft and hard at the same time. She examined them, fascinated by the thick pads formed on the end of each one.
‘From playing.’ His breath had caught in his throat.
They kissed, and she became tangled up in the want of it, pushing him back against the rock to feel the hardness of the flute in his shirt pocket against her breasts and his own hard length against her thighs. He groaned involuntarily, his hands moving over her, pulling her closer as she melted into him, a wave of rapture surging through her. He wrenched his mouth from hers and sat up.
‘God Ayla…’ He looked out to sea trying to steady his breathing. ‘When I kiss you, I feel like I’m…’
‘What?’
‘It’s too much.’ He rubbed his hands over his face and through his hair.
She put her arm around him and felt his heart thudding.
Flustered, he started to play notes which turned to a tune. She watched, hypnotised at the continual crash and suck of the waves on the rocks below. The melody, a slow menacing one, twisting back on itself again and again, flushed her with fear. A sick feeling crept over her as the foamy white water between the rocks swirled with a pink tinge. Blood? Or was she imagining it?
He pulled the flute from his mouth as abruptly as he had interrupted their kiss. ‘Last time I sat here that tune came. I don’t like it.’ He stood up, wanting to flee.
She looked back at the water, clear again now. ‘It’s this headland.’ They climbed down to the surf beach.
‘How do you mean, the headland?’
‘Most of the islands in this bay have death spots, places where atrocities happened. Mud Rock is the place on this island. It was the biggest of the bay island massacres.’
He blinked. ‘Massacres?’
‘Men, women, children, even babies. Government soldiers pushed them over the edge. Those that didn’t die from smashing against the rocks were eaten by sharks that came in because of the blood. Anyone who tried to swim to shore was shot. Aunty Dora’s great-great-grandad was a little boy hiding in the bushes over there…saw the whole thing. Most of the local population won’t live on this island because of what happened here, they prefer Big Island, where the mission was.’ She pointed to a distant land mass beyond Hibiscus.
‘Doesn’t Aunty Dora live here?’
‘She always jokes about why she moved her family back. Reckons she’d rather live here with the ghosts than put up with all the dramas that happen with the mob on Big Island.’ Ayla paused. ‘I’ve heard her sometimes, standing on the edge of Mud Rock, arms out, singing to her ancestors.’
He stopped walking to look back at the ancient formation jutting into the sea, glowing red in the afternoon sun.
‘Something else happened on that rock, in the 1980’s, before I was born. Two of the Johnston brothers – descendants of the family who built the house you’re living in. There were five brothers in all.’
‘Five of them all lived in that house together?’
‘That was only one generation. Grappa told me the Johnstons lived there for generation after generation, and every generation they got fatter. He describes them as fat white maggots.’ Riley’s mouth hung slightly open as he listened. ‘Two of the last generation of Johnstons that lived there brought an Indigenous girl over from Big Island – she was only fourteen. They took her to the rock and raped her, left her unconscious. The girl was too frightened to go to the police, but when the community learnt what happened, they took the law into their own hands and the Johnstons were driven off.’
‘What do you mean driven off?’
‘Ostracised, threatened, picked on until they couldn’t handle it. The weirdest thing is, my friend Mandy found out that the house was rebuilt in the 1960s. Before that, it was one of the original shacks on the island, built by a man called Samuel Johnston. And get this, Samuel Johnston, nicknamed Buster Johnston, because of his brutality, was the soldier in command that led the Mud Rock massacre. Those Johnston brothers were his descendants.’
Riley shook his head as if trying to rid his mind of everything she had told him. ‘No wonder I find it hard to sleep there.’
‘I wasn’t going to say anything but now you’ll be working for Tilly, you’ll hear it all. Islanders love passing on the goss, especially if it’s awful.’
They had walked all the way to Dead Tree Point. Riley sat on a ghostly limb and played his flute with a trace of the same sad melody, but lighter now, managing to infuse it with hope.
The pale finger of the sand bank stretching before them in the twilight was disappearing on the incoming tide. Ayla didn’t know if it was his music, or the swish of her dress around her thighs, or both, but she shut her eyes and let her body lose itself in his rhythm. She danced for him, for his gentle longing, for the way he softly explored her face each time he looked at her.
When the song ended, she realised she had danced to the edge of the sandbank, the water caressing her feet.
He walked to her, eyes bright with wonder.
‘It’s your music…’ She tried to explain but
he placed his finger on her lips.
With her head on his shoulder, he held her as if protecting her from all things bad in the world and they laughed at the mullet flipping for joy in the last of the sun.
‘Tell me what you can remember of the letter again.’
She did. Then they walked in silence, only the touch of their hands speaking to each other. She could see by the crease in his brow, his thoughts kept returning to the unanswered questions in his head. Arriving at the trespasser’s sign, he said quietly, ‘Mum’s going to a community meeting tomorrow night at six-thirty. That will be my chance. If you’re free, could you come over? I’m scared about what I might find.’
‘Of course.’
Standing under the angophora, they parted too fast and lightly. She sensed the air between them would burst into sparks and set the old tree on fire if they lingered a moment longer.
13.
Filthy with mosquito bites – the red lumps encompassing his face, neck, arms and ankles – Grappa walked into the rapidly filling community hall. The more casual he tried to behave, the more attention he drew to himself.
Dora took one look, ‘Good one. How do you think you’re going to help our argument against spraying coming in looking like that, you bujin?’
He sank sheepishly into the chair beside her. Tilly bundled up with a big guffaw. ‘Grappa, you’re a walking talking advertisement for the fact that the mosquito population on this island is out of control. Well done.’
Ted Hanson, the president of the canoeing club, piped up, ‘Put him out front with a label: exhibit A.’
Several people laughed at this.
‘Everyone’s a comedian,’ Grappa muttered.
‘What the hell have you been doing?’ Dora examined him, taking in the extent of the bites.
‘Research.’
‘What kind of research?’
Grappa had spent the last two days hidden in the mangroves, watching the old Johnston house through a pair of binoculars. He’d tried to sleep during the day and spy at night. If she were Fey, she’d be more active in the dark, he figured. Unfortunately, that’s also when the mosquitoes were more active, and no amount of repellent could keep the little suckers at bay.
He was fascinated when Ayla told him about the box of letters and photos, and how Marlise had lied to Riley. Grappa felt he’d discovered a messed-up jigsaw puzzle. All the pieces were there, he only needed to fit them together.
Why didn’t she want Riley to know his father? Maybe the father knew what she was? Was she scared he would tell Riley? Whatever she was, the father was defintely human. The warmth of the boy when Grappa shook his hand proved he wasn’t all Fey. The way he played that pipe though, that came from her side, the faery side.
These thoughts kept rattling around in his head as he watched the house from Little Beaudy’s hidey-hole in the mangroves. There was one way in and out of the swamp via boat on a low tide: a deep channel known only to the locals, which ended where the mangroves grew impenetrable. The gap to see the house was no bigger than a man’s fist. Through his binoculars, he had watched Riley on the verandah several times, with drink or food or a book. Once, he sat carving a piece of wood, whittling it into a new flute until driven inside by mosquitoes.
The first time he saw her was at dusk, when the mosquitoes were at their worst. She stood on the verandah, perfectly still. Why weren’t the mosquitoes attacking her? Grappa knew immediately she was up to no good. Was she communing with something? He nearly fell overboard in his excitement to get a closer look.
Energized by what he’d seen, he was determined to watch for the rest of the night, but fell asleep, waking to the sound of a toilet flushing. He caught sight of her under the house as she went back inside. Grappa was livid. What’d he missed? Why’d she been outside in the middle of the night? A light came on upstairs in the front room and she sat at a computer. When she looked straight down the barrel of his binoculars before pulling the curtains shut, he whimpered in terror.
On the second evening, at dusk, she came onto the verandah and communed with something again, but this time she was alone. He’d seen Riley go out earlier. She began speaking to someone who wasn’t there. Grappa was too far away to hear the words but could tell by the tone she was soothing something. He had to gulp from his flask to keep the binoculars steady. When she heard the boy walking down the road, she fled into the house. Grappa stayed awake all night on high alert, drinking to keep calm, hoping to discover more, but the place remained eerily still of any movement.
At dusk, she speaks to something…when the boy’s around she does it silently, when he’s not, she speaks aloud. Mother-of-God. Who, or what, does she speak to?
Dora prodded him, interrupting his thoughts, bringing him back to the present. She pointed to the young council representative making his way towards the stage. Grappa stifled a yawn as he realised it was going to be another long bloody boring community meeting.
Startled at the number of people pouring into the old wooden hall, Marlise parked her scooter beside Tilly’s car then made her way onto the bull-nosed verandah. Sharon was among a gaggle of women beside the latticed-worked main entrance. Marlise turned to enter via a side door but Sharon was too quick. ‘Marlise. Don’t tell me, you’ve come to stick up for your favourite blood suckers,’ she said, noting the documents tucked under Marlise’s arm.
‘Cute dog,’ Marlise ignored her, addressing the white scruffy thing Sharon was holding.
The dog growled, making Sharon smile.
‘Must have heard you’re not fond of dogs, only mosquitoes,’
Sharon said to the other women, who either tittered or looked away, embarrassed.
Sharon’s oblique reference confirmed it, Harley had spread his noxious belief around the island – he held her responsible for killing his dog.
‘Who told you that?’ Marlise feigned confusion.
‘You know…island gossip.’
‘No, I don’t know island gossip. Who’s been saying things about me?’
The group went quiet.
Sharon smirked. ‘Now you’re being paranoid.’
Samantha stepped forward. ‘You’ll soon learn, on the island, don’t believe any of what you hear and none of what you see. If they don’t have anything on you, they make it up.’ She touched Marlise on the arm. ‘If you’re free tomorrow, join us. Every Friday a group of us go to the mainland for an outing. Tomorrow we’re trying the new café at Rocky Point.’
They all joined in, urging her to come, while Sharon took an overt interest in tying her dog to a verandah pole.
‘I can’t tomorrow. Maybe another time?’ Marlise lied. She couldn’t think of anything more tedious than spending time with Sharon and her sycophantic entourage. Marlise remained standing near the doorway to let them enter the hall first, deciding to sit as far from them as possible.
The dog owner, wearing sunglasses under the bright fluorescent lights, materialised out of the crowd. She stopped breathing. He brushed by, the scar on his face loomed, puckered and nasty. She heard, softly but distinctly, the word ‘bitch.’ He bolted down the verandah, through the car park and into the night. Marlise felt lightheaded. Her ears were hot – all the blood rushing to them. He’s gone now. She took solace in the thought. He’s gone now.
When her heartbeat slowed to normal, she managed a glance around the room. The dog owner’s neighbour was in a seat against the wall by an empty chair. Marlise approached. ‘Is anyone sitting here?’
The woman looked trapped, head spinning towards the door. ‘A friend was but…I think he’s gone home.’
Marlise sat down, surprised at how old the woman was, from a distance her long hair made her seem younger. ‘Don’t you live at the end of Long Street?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re almost neighbours.’
The woman smiled like she had bitten down on something sour. Marlise tried to think of how to lead into a conversation about the dog owner, but the president of the Stop Pro
gress Association was asking for quiet.
Riley crept into the room. The stencilled teddy bears on the wall stared with their cot death stare. How did his mother sleep in here? He was surprised to see his hand shaking as he reached to lift the bedspread. Was it excitement, or fear of what he was about to discover? A light tap on the front door made him pause.
‘Riley?’ It was Ayla’s irresistible husky voice.
He ran downstairs, two at a time.
‘I was hiding in the bush up the road, waiting for her to go past.’
She was a vision in the twilight: the green material of her dress hugging her like he wanted to. He resisted the urge to touch it. It would lead him to her. ‘Thanks for coming. We don’t have much time.’
She waited in the doorway of his mother’s bedroom while he knelt to retrieve the box. ‘There’s nothing here.’
She was beside him now. ‘It was. I swear.’ They sat up at the same time. ‘She’s moved it.’
‘Or destroyed it.’ The thought pinned him to the floor.
The last of the day was fading. Ayla snapped on the light and began opening drawers. ‘She’s put it in a better hiding spot, that’s all.’
Together they searched until Riley sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head hanging low. Hope quietly slipped out of the room on the ghostly breath of a dead baby.
‘Have you said anything that would make her suspect?’
‘I’ve been conscious of that, trying to act as normal as possible while all the time I’ve wanted to scream at her.’
Ayla sat beside him and put her arm around him. ‘There’s still the rest of the house to search. What about her work room? Bet you it’s in there.’ She stood but he held her hand and pulled her back down.
‘It’s almost dark. You should go. She’ll wonder what you’re doing here.’
Beneath the Mother Tree Page 15