by Perry, Kyle
‘What are you gonna do, call the cops? We know you won’t do that.’ Kevin slipped the gloves off his hands and shoved them into his back pocket. ‘No fingerprints, so you can’t prove nothing. But if you don’t bring the girls back by the end of today, I’m gonna burn this house to the ground – with you still in it.’
Heat had started building in Murphy’s chest. He stepped down off the front steps, flexing his fingers as he walked towards Kevin. ‘Want to say that again, Mason?’
‘Don’t, bro,’ said Butch, moving between them, one hand on Murphy’s chest. Dimly, Murphy was aware of one of Kevin’s mates pulling out his phone, pointing the camera Murphy’s way. ‘Don’t. There’s journos over there.’
Murphy glanced in the direction Butch pointed. Two journalists were snapping pictures, and another was clearly filming.
‘You took her,’ said Kevin. He turned to the small crowd of neighbours that had gathered on the street. ‘This pedo bastard was fooling around with my daughter.’ Kevin pulled a small plastic bag of marijuana from his jacket pocket, a THE CAPTAIN sticker on the front. ‘I found this in her room. Your weed, Murphy.’ He pointed at Murphy. ‘You’ve always been too friendly with my girls!’
Murphy saw there were also three wrapped condoms inside the bag. ‘We don’t sell weed to minors,’ he growled.
‘Shut up, lad,’ said Butch.
The man filming on his phone nodded to Mason. ‘I got it: “We don’t sell weed to minors.”’
Murphy glanced at the journalists. Shit. They would have recorded it, too.
A BMW pulled into the street, lights flashing up in the corners of the windshield. Murphy bent to grab the packet of weed from Kevin Mason, but he snatched it away.
The BMW pulled over outside their house, and out stepped Detective Badenhorst, his shirt untucked and sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
Someone had called the cops. Murphy guessed it was someone in the crowd.
‘What’s that?’ Badenhorst pointed to Kevin’s hand. Kevin immediately made to hand the bag over, but the detective first fished some latex gloves out of his pocket.
‘I found it in Cierra’s room. I’m her father – remember when we met up at the trail?’ said Kevin. He pointed at Murphy. ‘This weed is his. You can tell by the sticker.’
‘You fucking liar —’ began Murphy. Butch pulled him back.
Con pulled an evidence bag out of another pocket and dropped the weed packet inside. ‘And you came here to confront him rather than coming to us, Mr Mason?’
‘No, I was just out for a stroll, detective,’ said Kevin. ‘This is all just a coincidence.’
Before Badenhorst could say anything more, a police Stinger sped around the corner, lights flashing and siren blaring. It screeched to a halt and out leapt Constable Cavanagh and Sergeant Doble.
Murphy saw Badenhorst grimace.
‘Well, look at what we have here, Murphy,’ said Doble, seeing the bag in Badenhorst’s hand. ‘THE CAPTAIN . . . a bit of your product, hey?’
‘Sergeant Doble,’ said Con, ‘can you and Constable Cavanagh see to these men while myself and Mr Murphy have a chat inside? The rest of you – perhaps there’s somewhere else you can be?’ he added wryly to the gathered audience.
‘No. I think I’ll come with you,’ said Doble.
‘I promise you, you can arrest him soon. I just need to chat with him first,’ said Con evenly. ‘Inside, Mr Murphy.’
Murphy had a mind to disagree, but Butch pushed him towards the front door. ‘Go. This looks bad for both of us,’ he muttered.
Murphy stalked inside, hearing Butch unloading on Cavanagh and Doble with the story of the brick and the smashed window, while Kevin Mason and his mates began denying it just as loudly. It showed how worried Butch was, or how scared – usually he wouldn’t be caught dead trying to talk to the cops, least of all Doble. The nearby journalists walked over to add their part to the narrative, backing up Butch’s story.
Badenhorst followed Murphy into the lounge room and sat down. Gus the Muss jumped up into his lap, and the detective absently pushed him to the side. He held up the bag, the sticker visible. ‘Is this your product?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Mate, we’re going to find out sooner or later.’
‘I’m not your mate.’
Con pulled out his phone and showed Murphy a photo: it showed another THE CAPTAIN bag of marijuana, on rocky ground with a yellow evidence tag beside it. ‘Is this your product too?’
‘No,’ said Murphy.
‘You didn’t sell any to Georgia Lenah?’ said Con.
‘No,’ said Murphy. ‘Why?’
‘Because we just found her body. And this was in her pocket.’
Murphy felt a swooping sensation, deep in his stomach. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Georgia’s dead?’ A whine began in the back of his mind. His vision grew bright.
‘We just found the body of Georgia Lenah. No sign of the others.’ Badenhorst watched his face closely, but Murphy couldn’t care less. The whine in his head grew louder. ‘We found this in her pocket and now it seems a similar bag was found in Cierra’s room.’
Everything was too bright. Too loud. Murphy’s throat was tight. He couldn’t breathe. ‘Was there any sign of Jasmine?’
‘Just Georgia.’
‘She could be dead. I have to get up there,’ said Murphy. ‘Where did you find Georgia? What happened to her body? Show me.’
‘You’re not going anywhere. Jordan Murphy, you’re under arrest for cultivating and selling a controlled plant.’
‘Like hell.’ Murphy didn’t remember standing up, or stepping so close to Badenhorst. ‘You think I did it?’
Badenhorst pulled his jacket away from his hip holster, unclipping the retention on his firearm, unfolding himself from the chair slowly. His eyes flicked back and forth between Murphy’s. ‘Prove me wrong,’ said Badenhorst, voice level. ‘Come to the station.’
‘I’m not going anywhere!’ Murphy shouted, feeling the floodgates of his anger start to release.
‘Calm down, Murphy.’
But Murphy was too far gone now: he shoved the detective. ‘No one is gonna stop me from going up there and searching for my —’
The blow to Murphy’s solar plexus was so fast he didn’t even see it. He bent over, wheezing, and Badenhorst’s leg swept his own from under him. He fell to his knees with a heavy thump, and then the detective was across his back, pulling his arms up behind him and into the cuffs.
‘You’re not making this easy for yourself, you know that, right?’ said Badenhorst. He wrenched Murphy to his feet. ‘Not that you care, but I’m not having a great day myself.’ He dragged him towards the door.
By the time the handcuffed Murphy was led roughly from the house, red and angry, the crowd on the footpath had grown. Kevin’s friend was still recording the whole thing. So were the journalists.
In minutes, the footage was uploaded to Facebook. And then broadcast on the news. In half an hour, the whole town knew that the body of Georgia Lenah had been found, that she’d had a bag of marijuana in her pocket potentially linked to Murphy’s weed business, an operation he’d basically admitted to on camera, and that after that he’d been arrested by police.
Within an hour, the first death threat arrived in the Murphys’ mailbox. Only Butch was there to receive it.
CHAPTER 14
ELIZA
Eliza sat on the couch as Monica rubbed her back. She kept repeating Detective Pakinga’s phone call in her head: ‘I’m sorry, Eliza, but we have news . . . We’ve found Georgia’s body. It looks like she fell from a cliff . . .’
‘Eliza . . . talk to me . . . How can I help?’ said Monica, her own voice raspy from tears.
‘I have to go back,’ Eliza said woodenly.
‘Where?’ said Monica. ‘The hospital?’
‘I have to find a way to remember.’
I have to tell them about the fight, part of her screamed, bu
t it was a very distant part, almost like someone else’s voice. I have to tell them about Tom and Cierra. This changes everything! She pushed that thought away. She had to do what was best for Wren. I have permission to be strong.
‘Eliza, you can’t go back up there. It’s dangerous. Let the searchers do their job . . .’
‘I need to go to Georgia’s family. I have to explain. I have to . . . I have to apologise.’ Suddenly that was all that mattered, the most vital thing in the world.
‘It’s not your fault!’
‘I left Georgia alone!’ she shouted, turning on Monica. ‘When I went back to search for the others, I left her all alone!’
Monica didn’t flinch. ‘You had to search for the others,’ she said. ‘Stop blaming yourself! Eliza, you can’t save everyone!’
‘Me, my fault, my own fault!’
‘Not if she fell off a cliff —’
‘You really think that’s what happened?’
‘Of course! Wh-what do you think happened?’
The flare of anger had faded. New emotions pressed on Eliza’s skin, external and distant. Memories, thoughts, things she didn’t want to remember. Grief.
‘Up in the hills, he hides and kills . . .’ she said.
‘No. Impossible.’
The memories made her feel dizzy now. ‘Terror. I was so scared, I would’ve jumped off a cliff to escape. And I ran, I ran so fast . . . I can’t remember . . . it all feels so close to the surface . . . I think there were footsteps . . . but . . . Will you take me to Georgia’s house?’
‘Are you sure that’s a good —’
‘Monica. Please.’
‘I’ll grab our jackets.’
The Lenahs’ home was a rundown fibro house that backed onto the bushland of the mountain’s escarpment, sassafras and wattle trees encroaching over the fence. It sat at the end of a long gravel driveway lined with waratahs, and a white picket fence ran around a yard, overgrown and full of squat native laurel.
It had started to rain when Monica pulled up behind a police car parked out the front. On a short flagpole in the front yard hung an Aboriginal flag, limp in the rain.
‘Want me to come in with you?’ said Monica.
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Eliza, hugging herself. She was familiar with this house: she had come a few times before, to help Georgia with her museum project. She felt another sharp pang in her gut as she realised that would never happen again.
When she opened the car door, she could hear wailing from inside the house. A sudden grip of nausea rolled through her, and she had to hold on to the edge of the little gate at the side of the footpath. It was the sound of a woman in pain.
She heard the car door open behind her. ‘Eliza?’ called Monica. ‘Are you okay?’
Eliza nodded. The air smelled clean and full of waratah. She pushed through the gate and knocked on the door. A man answered it. He was tall, with blonde hair, a blonde moustache, a crooked nose. He looked dazed.
‘Are you family?’ he said, not unkindly.
‘No, I’m Eliza Ellis. The teacher who . . .’
‘Miss Ellis. Sorry, we haven’t met yet.’ He opened the door. ‘I’m Detective Stuart Coops. I’ve been working closely with the social worker at the school. We’re just waiting for Rosie’s family to arrive, but it’s good you’re here. Rosie might be glad to see a familiar face.’
‘I’m here to apologise to her.’
But Detective Coops had already walked off deeper into the house. ‘Pakinga? Eliza Ellis is here.’
Gabriella Pakinga appeared at the end of the corridor. She smiled at the sight of Eliza. ‘Come in. It’s good you’re here: Rosie needs someone she can hug, and she’s not too keen on police.’ She leaned in close to whisper in her ear. ‘Do you know about Sorry Business?’
‘I teach some of the Indigenous Studies curriculum at the school,’ said Eliza. ‘And Georgia taught me a lot.’ Her voice broke. ‘I shouldn’t say the name of the dead.’
‘Then you’re further ahead than Coops,’ Gabriella said darkly. ‘Alright, come on through.’
They entered the dining room, where Rosie Lenah was sprawled across the table, her back heaving with grief. She had grey in her dark hair and wore a big floral dress.
At the sight of her anguish, Eliza’s own guilt nearly made her retch. ‘Rosie?’ she said. ‘I’m so . . . so sorry . . .’
Rosie turned and in one movement swept Eliza up into her arms, her words incoherent. All Eliza could do was hold her, letting her own tears fall. Rosie smelled of perfume and baking. Eliza’s mind returned to Denni, to the moment she’d heard of her death, and her own grief was amplified in Rosie.
Finally she heard Rosie speaking through the crying. ‘The mountain needed my girl,’ she sobbed. ‘We needed her . . . Why did it take her . . .?’
Over Rosie’s shoulder, Eliza saw Gabriella and Coops glance at each other. Confusion was clear on Coops’ face, but Gabriella only looked strangely excited, her eyes sparkling.
There came loud knocking from the door. Coops went to answer, and returned with two elderly women. The family resemblance was clear, and the way Rosie threw herself into their arms confirmed it. Together the three women howled their grief, and Rosie was bundled away into the tiny lounge room and onto the threadbare couch.
Gabriella grabbed Eliza by the shoulder and steered her into the corridor. ‘Can you show us her bedroom?’ she whispered. ‘We just want to have a look around, and time may be of the essence. Rosie already gave us permission. Or at least, I think she nodded when we asked. It’s not until today that they’ve even let any cops inside to look. We were working on getting a warrant . . .’
‘What do you hope to find?’ whispered Eliza.
‘We’re not sure yet,’ said Gabriella. ‘But do you know what Rosie meant, about the mountain needing G—’ She caught herself, looking around the walls of the house. ‘Needing the girl?’
‘Yes. You’ll see . . .’ It was a small bedroom already, but the large table taking up the centre dominated the space.
‘What’s this?’ said Gabriella, stepping immediately up to the table.
Upon it sat a scale model of a wide, sweeping building, with a large flagpole rising from the centre peak, waving a miniature Aboriginal flag.
‘This was her dream. The Kooparoona Niara Aboriginal Heritage Museum,’ said Eliza. The display was a mixture of architectural and trainset models. Georgia had even included tiny people, lazing in the picnic area, walking through the outdoor gallery, lining up at the coffee stand. ‘She wanted to build an Aboriginal history museum, right here in Limestone Creek. And she would’ve done it, too. She had what it took.’
Gabriella examined the contents of a folder. ‘Permit applications . . .’ She picked up a large hardcover book. ‘A book about property law.’
Coops read out the titles of the books scattered on the floor. ‘The Aboriginal Tasmanians, The Black War, Whitewash . . .’
One of the papers that littered the floor caught Eliza’s eye, because it had her own handwriting across the bottom: giving feedback on an essay. With another pang, she picked it up. As the detectives rummaged through the rest of the room, speculating aloud to each other on whether the museum might give someone the motive to kill Georgia, Eliza wiped her eyes and began to read.
The Mountain of the Spirits, by Georgia Lenah
At the bottom of the world, there is an island.
It has the purest air in the world, the purest water. It is a land of rugged wilderness, of ice and snow, blistering heat, the oldest trees on earth, deep lakes of which no man nor machine has found the bottom. A fifth of the island is protected, where no business can exploit nor industrialise, and precious little can be reached by road. They say extinct tigers still roam there. They say other things roam, too. Strange lights haunt the night sky and unearthly howls the bushland.
It is the location of one of the earliest recorded genocides, cannibals and convicts, the introduction of psychological tortu
re of inmates, Australia’s biggest massacre. Its name once brought fear to people’s hearts; it is said the soil still cries from the blood of its First Peoples, and that their bones curse the land.
If you believe in such things.
Near the top of the island, in the centre, at the edge of the Central Plateau, is a rocky mountain range. These days it is called the Great Western Tiers. But always it was called Kooparoona Niara. It was a sacred place, a meeting ground, and a pass. They say it is the gate to Tasmania’s heart.
It is a place of changing weather, silence, brooding and looming menace, secret caves and urban legends and murderers who once made it their stalking ground.
It is a mountain that, they say, takes care of itself.
If you believe in such things.
Eliza shuddered. She put the paper down beside her.
‘What is this?’ said Gabriella, picking it up and raising her eyebrows as she began to read.
‘Maybe this will help,’ said Coops. He was lying beside the bed, holding up a purple book he’d pulled from under it. ‘I think it’s her diary.’
‘Perfect,’ said Gabriella, taking it out of his hands.
‘Put that down – it’s none of your fucking business,’ said a gruff male voice from the doorway. ‘Why are you pigs in my sister’s room?’ A short young man stood there, in a muddy t-shirt and football shorts, dark brows narrowed. Tears ran down his cheeks, but he seemed unaware of them. ‘Get out.’
‘Calm down, Carl,’ said Eliza. ‘They’re the police.’
‘I know who they are. I want them out of her room.’
‘I’m sorry, I know this is hard,’ said Gabriella. ‘But a diary is important, it could help us build a picture of what might have happened.’
‘Get out,’ Carl snarled. He lunged for the diary.
‘Don’t hurt him,’ shouted Coops, as Gabriella deftly caught the boy’s wrist and pulled it back on itself. Carl let out a howl and Gabriella let him go, but kept her eye on him.
Carl balled his fists. ‘Give it back or I’ll kill you.’
‘I’m really sorry. Carl, is it?’ said Coops. ‘It’s important for us to use everything we can to try to find out what happened to your sister, to bring back the other girls.’