‘Cormac would be all right. He’d have his station. He’d have his daughters …’
‘Jon, for shit’s sake.’ Pete looks away. ‘It isn’t about if Cormac Tate would be all right. It’s me, Jon. It’s like I couldn’t carry on, the same as I am, not without him. It would eat me up inside, not to see him again.’ He hesitates. ‘I can’t remember what my dad was like, Jon, but …’
A shape moves on a sandstone ridge high above them, and they fix on it, in case they are its prey.
‘Your mind’s made up, isn’t it?’
Pete’s head snaps suddenly, so that he faces Jon. ‘But I want you to come.’
‘Oh, Peter …’
The silence returns. This time, there is nothing to puncture it.
‘There’s this thing Cormac Tate used to say to me, when we were out on the road. He’d say — there comes a time when you have to make a choice. And it’s your choice to make, Jon Heather. There isn’t any Children’s Crusade telling you what to think. But …’ He offers a canteen of water to Jon; when Jon does not want it, he takes a long draught. ‘… either you’ll settle down for the long haul loneliness, or you’ll start to chip away, make a fist of what you’ve got. That’s all George was doing, in the end. I hated him for it, same as you hated him for it — but that’s all he was doing. That’s even how it was for Judah Reed, once upon a time. You get older, and it doesn’t have to be perfect anymore.’
He’s wrong, Jon thinks. It isn’t just one choice. It’s a hundred different choices, tiny choices, things you don’t even notice, like Pete starts saying ‘fair dinkum’; like George starts singing bush songs with a man in black.
‘I’m tired of it, Jon.’ His voice trembles, as if contemplating something too terrible to acknowledge. ‘I don’t want to end up like Cormac Tate. He held out so long. He lost his wife, lost his daughters … All because it still burned somewhere, deep inside him, this idea he wasn’t where he was meant to be …’
‘I don’t see it’s such a bad thing, a little loneliness. Not if it means never giving up hope. People live with a crooked leg, a crippled back. It’s all just a little bit of pain.’
‘Loneliness isn’t like a crooked leg. It gets worse, Jon.’ He stops. ‘But what you’re thinking of is a great loneliness — one that makes you bigger, better than the rest of us. Better than me and George …’
‘I’d be lonely forever,’ Jon says, ‘if it means not giving in.’
Pete hesitates. He doesn’t want to say it, but he feels like a man unhanded by a superior swordsmen, fumbling for whatever weapon he can find. ‘What about Megan? What about her, Jon Heather?’
‘What about her?’
‘You could have something with …’
‘Don’t talk about her like that, Peter. I know what it is.’
‘I haven’t seen you like it, ever since I’ve known you. That day we left Broome, when you told her to get in the truck. You said it was like …’
Jon remembers. ‘Snow on the Nullarbor,’ he says, voice breaking into a laugh.
‘Like a miracle,’ Pete says. ‘You, Jon Heather, English even after more than half your life … Jon Heather, who doesn’t make friends and doesn’t think about anything but going home — asking her to come along, even though you knew what it could mean.’
‘I never acted like that before.’
‘You did some fucked-up things that day.’
‘Peter, I’ve got to tell you something. Something I did in 1958. That time I just disappeared …’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ says Pete. ‘Wherever you went, why ever you had to go, I don’t care.’
Whatever it is he was about to say, Jon swallows it back down. He extends his hand, holds it out until Pete is ready to shake it.
‘Don’t do this, Jon.’
‘You’ll look after Dog?’
‘He’s going to have a hell of a time, chasing chickens, rounding up sheep.’
‘He doesn’t have it in him to round up any sheep.’
Neither one of them has broken the handshake, but slowly their fingers untwine.
‘Peter …’ Jon can hardly force out the words. ‘Peter, I’m glad you found your sister. You deserved that.’
Pete whispers, ‘I don’t want to do this without you, Jon. I don’t want to grow old not knowing where you are, what happened to my old mate …’
Even so, Jon breaks away, wanders a few paces.
‘Where will you go?’
Jon turns around. The night is growing thick around them, blinding Pete so that he can hardly see more than a few feet. Jon Heather, it seems, is already gone. ‘Wherever the work is,’ he says. ‘Peter … Pete … Thank you … For when I was little and, well, for everything after.’ He turns onto the road. ‘I had a hell of a time, Peter. I’d love it down there with you and Cormac Tate. With Megan. But that — that’s why I got to go.’
One footstep, and then another: that is how you cross the world. He throws his arm up in goodbye and, gulping on air to hold in the tears, he leaves his friend forever.
The sea rolls and the ship rolls, and though George too rolls, his stomach seems to stay still. He has retched everything out of his body; probably, he would heave his heart out, but he feels as if he’s done that already.
He is aware of another sudden rolling, and the door of his cabin swings open. Boys are filing past. They seem to be pushing each other, clattering against the walls, but it is only the way the ship casts them. One after another, they make their way to the deck.
George stands up. He has no clean shirts, so he finds the one least dirtied and straightens it out. By the time he reaches the deck and the dining halls, the sea seems to have stilled. They must be in the eye of something, but George doesn’t care; he is glad of any respite.
Judah Reed stands at the door of the main hall, watching the boys scurry through. He acknowledges each of them by name. It is a trick he has been trying to impress on George, and now George knows why: when the childsnatcher calls you by name, you never see home again. He begins to walk that way, but a voice calls after him.
Charlie breaks off from the procession and gallops over. ‘Mr Stone!’
At the door, Judah Reed’s eyes flash up.
George puts his arm on Charlie’s shoulder, angles him so that Judah Reed cannot see his face. ‘What is it, Charlie?’ He feels suddenly sick again. Please, he thinks, don’t let me retch on the boy.
‘I remembered something else,’ he whispers.
George nods. ‘And what did you do?’
Charlie cups his hand to his mouth. ‘I wrote it in the notebook, just like you told me, just like everything else. But I don’t think I spelled everything right.’
It is a game they have been playing, one much more important than marbles or stones. The rules are simple: everything you remember, you write it down. That way, you’ll remember it still in two, three, four years’ time. If you remember the name of your neighbours, you write it down. If you remember the birthday of your brother, you write it down. If you remember there was a slate missing from a house three houses along the terrace, you write it down and make yourself a drawing. In the end, you’ll have a treasure map of your life. X marks the spot where, one day, you’ll find the golden trove — your old existence.
‘What did you remember?’ George asks.
‘My neighbour’s dog. It was called Maisie … but it was a boy dog.’
‘That’s a girlie name for a boy dog.’
Charlie sniggers. ‘That’s what I always say.’
They walk into dinner together, George nodding an amiable hello at Judah Reed. Though they must sit at different tables, Charlie catches his eye twice during the meal. He sits among other boys his age. Once, he even laughs. If the boy has friends, thinks George, it must surely be a good thing — but something in the thought makes him sick to his stomach.
The sea is still, but he excuses himself to go and retch into the ocean.
At night, he walks on deck. They are s
till somewhere south of Colombo, weeks into their voyage but with weeks yet to come, and the air does him good. He props himself at the balustrade, as dead centre as he can find, and lets the spray whip his face. He was petrified of sea spray when he first made this voyage; sometimes, it takes his breath away, but now he knows not to be frightened. You are an adult, he tells himself, and you can choose when to be frightened and when not.
George feels a sudden stirring in his gut — but, when he goes to retch, nothing will come. He stands up again, sees Judah Reed at the rails only twenty yards further towards the prow. He is gazing into the east, as if he can already spy Australia. The stars above them have changed; they must be nearer Australia than home.
A thought strikes him. All he would have to do is creep twenty yards to the prow, make one motion, and Judah Reed would topple into the black water below. You would have to be decisive about it, he tells himself. If you faltered for even a second, he would know what you were doing and fight you off. You are still a fat weakling in body, George, but you are made of sterner stuff in the head. Go on, he wills himself, march over and do it! Judah Reed would be twenty leagues under the sea by the time anybody noticed.
He slopes back from the railings — but, by the time he has advanced ten yards, murder now a delicious thought, he feels his stomach convulse again. This time, he does not reach the balustrade before he throws up. Yellow bile dribbles down his chin.
Roused by the noise, Judah Reed approaches. He brings a handkerchief from a pocket and begins to dab at the mess on George’s face.
‘George,’ he says. ‘You should take to your bed. You haven’t been right, ever since England.’
George nods. For once, Judah Reed speaks the truth. He hasn’t been right in more than ten years.
He wakes in his cabin to a cold sweat and eyes boring into him. Judah Reed sits by the edge of his bed, as if he might have been there for endless hours.
‘George,’ he says. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Better,’ he begins. ‘How long have I …’
‘We need to talk, George.’
George sits up, catching his reflection in a mirror on his cabin door. It is difficult for a man with as round a face as George to look gaunt, but that is how he looks. His skin has acquired a curious complexion: white as a wraith, yet still burnt by sun.
‘I spent some time with the boys this morning. We had a lesson in history.’
George knows not to interrupt. He busies himself tidying his shirt in the mirror.
‘I happened to hear Charlie, talking to his friends. He was telling them how, one day, he is going to go home and see his mother.’
George freezes. When he looks up, Judah Reed’s reflection hovers above his own. In the glass, their eyes meet.
‘He must be … confused,’ he begins. ‘Denying it’s true.’ He turns; he cannot contemplate seeing Judah Reed behind him any further. ‘It’s a fantasy. But we all have our fantasies, don’t we? I remember …’ He does not need to lie now. ‘I used to play a game where my mother was coming to pick me up from the Mission. And she died before we even left England, didn’t she?’ He pauses, cannot tell whether he has won Judah Reed over or not. ‘It’s just taking some time. He has to get used to the idea.’
For a second there is silence. Then Judah Reed produces from a pocket a little notebook. It is a scrappy thing, the sort a boy might buy with salvaged pennies from a corner shop. On the front, it says: ‘Memo’. There is space for a little pencil to be slipped into the spine. ‘This sort of thing won’t help him adjust though, will it?’
He casts it, derisively, onto George’s bed. George doesn’t have to open the cover to know what is inside. Here is every memory Charlie has of his home, written in childish script: his old address, his mother’s name, the name of a boy who picked on him and then was his friend and then picked on him again. On the reverse of the inside cover is a drawing he has made from memory: Charlie and his mother up on the heights of Woodhouse Moor. It is the same as the photograph Judah Reed has filed away, never to be seen again.
George keeps a blank look. His mind races. Has Charlie told Judah Reed who instructed him to keep this notebook? His mind reels even further back, and he understands: yes, Charlie betrayed everything I said to him. He is a little boy and he is frightened and he would have seen a way out, back into the affections of the monster who is making him.
‘He’s afraid,’ says George. ‘He’s alone. His mother’s dead and, in his heart, he knows it. I’m sure he does.’ He takes the memo book and rips it in half. Then, he rips it into quarters and eighths, sprinkling the floor with confetti. ‘I thought it would help,’ he says. ‘I got comfort from it, when I was a kid. Making up stories about Mum and Dad. But …’ And here he must steel himself, for if you are going to walk into the monster’s lair, you must make certain that he thinks you, too, are growing a thick hide and scales. ‘… you’ve helped boys for longer than I’ve been alive. If you think he has to …’ He makes as if he is fumbling for the phrase, but in truth he can barely bring himself to utter it. ‘… take his medicine … then, I understand. I’m sorry.’
Judah Reed gathers together a fist of the confetti and nods.
‘I know it’s hard, George. But … these boys need Australia, quite as much as Australia needs them.’
Only after Judah Reed has gone does George allow himself to breathe out. He wants to plunge back onto the bed, but he refuses to let himself.
This is not over. To give up over a little thing like this would be a bigger failure than ratting on your best friend. He pictures Judah Reed, the relieved look that came over him when George performed his genuflection, and thinks: you had me when I was little, but you don’t have me now.
I can’t murder you. I can’t fight or stand up to you. I’m not Jon Heather. I’m not the wild boy Luca. But I don’t have to be like them. I can do it my own way, quietly and studiously, so that nobody even sees. I’ll have my hour. Just wait and see. You won’t see it coming. You won’t guess it’s me — because you think I’m something I’m not. You don’t even know my name.
He reaches under his pillow and takes out another little notebook, identical to the last. In these pages, he has copied down everything Charlie ever told him — just in case. He takes a pencil and writes a new note: my neighbour’s dog was called Maisie, even though he was a boy.
Oh yes, Judah Reed, you can steal memories and families and loves from little boys, but you can never touch a man who knows who he is.
And I’m George Stone.
He writes it down, big bold letters, lines scored on top of each other until the paper tears.
I’m George Stone. My name is George Stone.
That night, when Pete returns to his sister’s home, he walks like an old man. It hurts to take each step. Defeated, he lingers on the veranda, looking back the way he has come. Dog, knowing something is wrong, twists between his legs, desperate to be petted. When Pete obliges, he rolls over, exposing a belly matted with red earth and shit. Pete does not mind; he pats him all the same.
Though it is late, the lights are still on in the house. In the lounge room, Megan sits alone.
They stare at each other. Pete can only shake his head.
‘Did he even mention me?’
‘He mentioned you.’
Megan sees the webbed patterns that tears have stained all down his cheeks. She goes over to him, but he is as intractable as Jon Heather; he will not be consoled.
‘I tried,’ he says.
He turns onto the staircase, every step a new torture.
‘What now?’ asks Megan.
‘Now?’ whispers Pete, lumbering away. ‘Now everybody just lives their lives.’
Alone, Megan listens to Pete prowling in the bedroom above. She goes to the door, opens it a crack and looks out into the different textures of night. It is as far as she has ever been from home, the Old Arabia, the empty halls and stale rooms and occasional guests. She came this far for Jon Heather
. He would tell her: you did not come so very far at all, not nearly so far as the rest of us. But he would be wrong. In her own way, she too has crossed the world. That she came at all was for Jon; that she is left here, now, in the company of strangers, well, that’s for Jon too. It has been about him from the moment they met: what he wanted, when he wanted it, how much of every little thing he can stand. She wonders: why does she even care? She ought to hate him now. If she was seeing straight, she would find a way of getting back to Broome and slide back into her old life, forget she ever crossed paths with that boy who pretends he comes from nowhere at all.
She drifts outside. Behind her, the door falls shut.
He cannot have gone far.
She starts walking. Pete was right. There is only one road Jon Heather would take: the road deeper in, the road further north. At first it is familiar, because it is the very same road they took in the morning, when they went out into the sandstone hills. There are stars to light the way, but the road between the crags leaves only a ribbon of stars shining down. In fits and starts she runs, then walks, then runs again. Jon Heather is hours ahead of her; if road trains have passed this way and taken pity on him, he might yet be so far away she will never catch up.
She has been walking, running, walking for more than an hour when she hears a dull vibration, some truck coming out of Kununurra. It is five minutes before the headlights appear. Throwing herself onto the bank at the side of the road, she begins to wave her arms, like a drunken man making semaphore. When she thinks it is too late, blinded by the headlamps, the truck slews to a stop and a voice barks out.
‘It’s late to be out alone …’
‘I don’t need to go far,’ she says, hoping it is true.
‘You want to get in?’
Her eyes, now accustomed to the light, can see into the cab, piled high with newspapers and cans.
Little Exiles Page 32