He was quiet for a while. Then he said, ‘Night, Aaron.’
The squeak of Connor twisting his Rubik’s cube, mixed with the shushing of rain on the roof, began to make me sleepy. Of course the rainfish story wasn’t real. But imagine if it was. In the story they’d had to climb the highest tree. I thought about me and Connor and Mum and Pete in the top branches of the fig tree at the oval, which was the biggest tree I knew, and water all around. And there was a bunyip. And what made the rain stop, in the end? Did the boy jump in the water, or did someone push him? I couldn’t remember.
Probably it would stop raining soon and then we’d have to go to school, which would be just my luck.
15
THE NECKLACE TRAP
I OPENED MY eyes. It was pitch black. From the top bunk came the sound of Connor’s delicate snoring. The rain had intensified, it thrashed at the house, angry, determined. And in my half sleep I thought, It hates us. It wants to get in and wash everything away. It’s going to rip the roof off and smash the windows. It’s never going to stop.
Connor was shaking me. It was morning. ‘Aaron, get up. Come and see,’ he said.
We ran to the kitchen, joining Mum who was staring out the louvres. A single glance told me there’d be no school that day: the water had turned from clear to coffee coloured, and it had risen to the lower branches of the mandarin trees; their trunks were submerged so they looked like shrubs on a flat brown desert. The orange and avocado trees were half under too, and the clothesline. Towards the chook pen Mrs Melchiori’s fence disappeared completely. Only the topmost leaves of the lemon tree were showing. The bathtub was invisible.
The bottom three planks Pete had put down as stairs had come off and were floating in the yard, which made it feel like the house was a houseboat off its anchor and drifting and we were along for the ride to who knew where. And it was still raining. Like I’d known it would be.
The side of the house and the driveway were under as well. I ran out the front—all along the street people were out on their verandas. The road was underwater. A motorboat putted past. The man at the outboard was enjoying the attention he was getting; he even waved at one point, seemingly to no one in particular. His passengers, a woman and a little boy in life jackets, gripped the sides of the boat like they thought it might tip at any moment.
Pete’s truck was in above its wheels. The boat’s bow wave pushed water up to its doors.
Mum was behind me. ‘Pete, the truck,’ she called.
Pete came out of the bedroom, still half asleep and wearing only his boxers.
‘Oh no,’ he said, with his arms by his sides. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said louder.
‘It might be okay,’ said Mum. ‘Go see if you can start it.’
Pete got the keys and rushed down the front stairs. He waded through the gutter, where the water was up to his waist. When he got to the truck he opened the passenger door and shimmied over to the driver’s seat.
We waited for the sound of the engine starting.
Nothing.
After a while he got out and came back up. His sopping boxers clung to his thin legs as he stood there on the front porch. He looked skinny; I hadn’t realised how skinny he was.
He said, ‘I’ll ring Robbo, see if he can tow it out.’
But Robbo said he couldn’t do anything till the water came down.
‘Fridge is off,’ said Mum. ‘Power must be out.’
We ate breakfast listening to at least two choppers hovering above us. After that Pete set up a little diesel generator we kept in the kitchen cupboard for cyclones, which often took out the power, and we moved to the lounge room to see if the flood had made the morning TV news.
We were the second story. The newsreader lady said, ‘Torrential rain has closed roads throughout the Far North of Queensland and inundated some two hundred homes in the coastal town of Fingleton. The water has also cut power and other utilities to homes and businesses and forced the evacuation of hundreds. For more we’re joined by Sarah Hutchinson who is in Fingleton. Sarah, what more can you tell us?’
They cut to a young woman in a yellow raincoat.
Connor said, ‘She’s on Edith Street!’ which was only a few blocks away. She was in front of Sam’s Pies, which had a wall of sandbags across its front door.
Sarah Hutchinson said, ‘The State Government has today declared Fingleton a disaster zone after an unprecedented downpour last night caused extraordinary flooding in this sleepy coastal town. The town recorded a whopping six hundred millimetres in about six hours last night, which to put it into perspective is about a fifth of the annual rainfall. The SES has been kept busy rescuing people from their cars and evacuating residents to higher ground. A short time ago I spoke to some locals about their experiences.’
They cut to footage from a helicopter: the low-lying parts of town, like our part, were all underwater, while higher parts like near the church and the school had been spared. The streets were brown with floodwater; some roofs had people on them.
‘There’s us,’ said Connor. ‘I saw our house.’
Sarah Hutchinson’s voice came back on. ‘Fingleton is known for its high rainfall, but few have seen anything like the current flood.’
An old man in a cowboy hat and a singlet spoke into a microphone, ‘Fingleton’s had a few floods. The big one was 1962. But I’ve never seen it come up so quick.’
A man in an orange council-worker shirt said, ‘Yeah, I had water all through me house, it come up in about twenty minutes. Reckon I lost about ninety per cent of me stuff. TV, fridge, all me food. I’ve got two kids, they’re in town. But I’m staying, see how bad it gets.’
They showed St Rita’s High School, with people going in and out carrying boxes. They showed a classroom with mattresses and blankets, people playing cards, kids running around.
‘Obviously not going to be any school for a while,’ said Mum.
Sarah Hutchinson was saying, ‘Evacuation centres have been set up in local schools and the shire hall. Many people have been evacuated, some by boat, some airlifted by helicopter, and are settling in for the night.’
The newsreader said, ‘Sarah, how busy does the SES think those evacuation centres will be tonight?’
Sarah was back at the pie shop. ‘Very busy indeed. Hundreds of residents have been forced to flee their homes. And the bad news is, as you can see, it’s still raining here, and forecasters are warning it’s set to continue. And with an expected king tide in the early hours of tomorrow morning, there appears to be no reprieve in sight.’
‘Thank you, Sarah,’ said the newsreader. ‘The Queensland premier is due to make a statement later this morning and is expected to travel to Fingleton today to survey the damage.’
‘Thanks be to God,’ said Mum sarcastically.
I left the others watching TV and went back out to the front veranda. Some kids were on the street in raincoats splashing each other and some other kids were in a blow-up raft being pulled and pushed by more kids I didn’t know. Everyone was yelling and wet and everyone was happy and carefree.
Karen, who worked with Mum at the pub and lived in a unit on top of the hill, waded up to our house. ‘Aaron, can you go get your mum for me?’
When Mum appeared Karen started to laugh, ‘Tracey, oh my God, look at your place.’
‘Pretty impressive, hey?’ Mum replied. ‘You want to come up?’
‘Can you come out?’
So Mum waded out to Karen and soon they were deep in conversation.
‘Aaron,’ called Mum from the road. ‘I’m going with Karen to check on Gran’s place. You and Connor stay here, all right? Peter’s in charge so do what he tells you. I won’t be long.’
‘Okay,’ I said and I watched them splash off together.
Inside, Pete and Connor were watching an Aussie Rules game on TV. Pete had a beer. I sat down beside him and waited till the ad break. ‘Mum’s gone out with Karen. She said she won’t be long.’
‘U-huh,’ said
Pete, eyes on the game.
‘Pete,’ said Connor. ‘I’m gunna go visit my friend Damon, okay?’
Pete sat up a bit. ‘Where’s he live?’
‘Just up the road.’
‘How you gunna get there?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Walk. I can walk there. It’s close. And if the water’s too high I’ll come straight back.’
‘I’m going too,’ I said.
‘Aaron,’ said Connor, shaking his head.
‘He’s my friend too,’ I said quietly.
Connor scoffed.
‘Now, Connor,’ said Pete, glancing at me, ‘You have to include your brother. Either take Aaron or you’re not going. Simple as that, mate.’
‘All right,’ sighed Connor. ‘Come on then.’
The kids and their raft were off in the distance, but the street was still rowdy because the people two houses down from us had pulled their couch out onto their veranda and were drinking beer and playing rock music.
A man in a shiny green raincoat—it was probably his car parked on the rise near the school where the water hadn’t reached—was taking photos of Pete’s truck, crouching, trying out different angles. Pete had followed us onto the veranda and was leaning against the door, beer in hand, watching the camera man. He had a look on his face like he was contemplating telling the man to piss off.
The water was cold and dirty. I was in up to my ankles. On the bottom front step and I couldn’t see my feet. Connor was knee deep where he waited by the gate post that still had Pete’s mug on it from the day he’d driven off in such a hurry. I stepped out, and found the ground not exactly where I’d thought it would be, as if it’d pulled away slightly at the last minute.
The yards of the houses across the street were all under as well. In the distance to the left a procession of people were carrying chairs and bags of clothes above their heads. To our right, half the high-school oval was underwater.
I eased my way towards the gutter and tried the depth there. Then I clambered straight back out, my shirt wet to the armpits, wishing I hadn’t. I turned to give Pete a reassuring wave but he’d gone back inside.
We made our way through the knee-deep water along Mrs Melchiori’s front fence. At the corner the stormwater drain was marked by a whirlpool and an intermittent high-pitched sucking sound.
Shoe Street was submerged too; the houses on each side seemed to tilt into the water like sinking ships. The witch’s place, which was only one storey, had water halfway up its front door.
Connor splashed on down the middle of the road. Where Shoe Street met the street behind ours, which was Byron’s street, we were already waist deep. Down the far end of Byron’s street a few single-storey houses had only their roofs above water.
As we neared the Harmisons’ place Connor began to speed up. ‘Bloody hell!’ he said and started wading towards the gutter.
‘What is it?’ I said.
When he got to the Harmisons’ front fence he reached down with one arm and began frantically feeling around.
‘What are you doing?’
He said, ‘Come and help me.’
I made my way across to him. ‘Help you what?’
‘I put Mum’s necklace here yesterday.’
‘What? Why?’
‘’Cause then if Stevie took it I could call the police and tell them to search his place.’
‘Great plan,’ I said sarcastically.
‘I didn’t know it was going to flood, did I?’
‘It probably got washed away,’ I said.
‘Aaron, just come and help me look for it.’
It was too deep for me to reach the ground, so I took a breath, and closed my eyes and duck-dived. I felt along the grass but I didn’t find the necklace.
When I came up for breath Connor was looking at me. He was puffing. He said, ‘He took it. I bet he took it.’
‘What are you gunna do?’ I asked.
He started to head for the gate to Stevie Harmison’s house.
‘Connor, don’t,’ I said.
‘What? I’m getting Mum’s necklace back.’ He climbed the stairs and rang the doorbell and waited, with his arms folded in front of his chest.
‘They’re not home, Connor,’ I shouted to him.
He knocked, tried the doorknob. Looked through their front window. Rang again. He pulled at the window to see if it would open. It didn’t. Then he came back down the stairs.
‘What now?’
‘I’m going to Damon’s. I’ll check again on the way back.’
But Damon’s house was still a long way—as far as an island from a beach.
I said, ‘It’s gunna get deeper, you know.’ Connor was a bad swimmer—worse than me.
‘So?’
‘So we might have to swim. What if there’s snakes in there or something?’ The something that had popped into my mind was from the rainfish story. But I couldn’t tell Connor that—he’d think I was being an idiot.
‘If it gets too deep you’ve gotta turn back,’ said Connor. ‘And you have to promise not to get in the way.’
‘But Pete said—’
He cut me off with ‘I don’t care what he thinks.’ And he started wading down Shoe Street again, and after a moment’s hesitation I went too.
We kept to the centre of the road. The going got tougher and the water got colder with every step. Before I knew it I was in up to my belly button. Connor kept on determinedly, not looking back to see how I was going.
When the water was up to my chest I said, ‘Connor,’ and he stopped with a sigh.
We were more than halfway. Damon’s house was looming. Connor didn’t take his eyes off it. ‘You can go back, but I’m keeping on going,’ he said.
I started to swim, breaststroke, keeping my chin well up out of the water. It felt weird to swim down a road I had walked along so many times.
Soon Connor began to swim as well.
After a while he could walk again. Then I could too.
‘Wasn’t that bad,’ I said, but I was panting.
Connor nodded, panting too. ‘Easier than I thought it’d be,’ he said.
Damon’s place had water halfway up its stilts. Wet sheets were draped over the front stair rail and more were piled on the veranda.
Connor called out, ‘Anyone home?’
No answer.
A loud splash, and laughter, drifted from the backyard. As soon as Connor heard it he called, ‘I’m comin’ round, Damon,’ and he began to wade through the chest-deep water along the side of the house.
I followed, and in that way we arrived at Damon’s backyard—or rather the place Damon’s backyard had once been. Now it was a giant muddy swimming pool. Beyond the back fence, of which only the tips of the star pickets were showing, stretched an inland sea. The swamp was somewhere beneath it.
Connor and I perched ourselves on Damon’s back stairs and caught our breath. Damon was swimming breaststroke near the back fence. Stevie Harmison was there too, doing some sort of backstroke.
‘Perfect,’ Connor whispered when he saw Stevie.
Coldy was there as well. Now I knew why he hadn’t come pestering me for ages. What Stevie and Damon were thinking in letting a kid like him hang around them I had no idea—maybe he’d shown them his worm-eating act. Anyway, there he was, swimming behind Stevie like he was his puppy, and looking at me like he didn’t recognise me now that he was so cool.
Connor called out, ‘Damon.’
Damon turned round and looked right at me, but just said, ‘Connor. Didn’t see you there. What d’ya think of me pool? Mad, ay? It’s so deep at the back I can’t hardly even touch.’
‘Aren’t you worried about crocodiles?’ asked Connor.
Stevie said, ‘Oh yeah, real worried.’ He started splashing and waving his arms about, yelling, ‘A croc’s got me. Save me, Damon.’
Damon and Coldy laughed.
Connor eased himself into the water and started to swim around.
‘I’m goin
g again,’ Damon said to the others.
‘Where?’ asked Connor.
‘You’ll see.’ He swam to the steps and brushed past me as he made his way up to the veranda where he climbed onto the handrail.
‘Yodelay hee-hoo!’ he yelled. Then he jumped, curled into a bomb and smashed the water causing a tidal wave that kept going past the fence and into the swamp.
‘Cool,’ said Connor who was dogpaddling in little circles in the deeper bit like he was proving he wasn’t afraid of crocodiles. He had to lift his chin to avoid swallowing Damon’s wave.
Damon rubbed his eyes and shook his glasses dry. ‘Have a go, Connor. We’ve all done it.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘You should have been here before. Dad caught a black bream right there off the veranda.’
‘Yeah?’ said Connor. He’d swum over near Stevie. He said, ‘How’s it going, Stevie?
Instead of answering Stevie laughed and shook his head.
‘Did you happen to see a necklace out the front of your house?’ asked Connor.
‘A necklace? You wear necklaces, do ya?’
‘No. But you like necklaces, right? And beads?’ said Connor.
Stevie sighed. ‘Why’d you invite Frenchie?’ he said to Damon.
‘Who?’
‘This bloke.’ He grabbed Connor around the neck. A wrestler’s chokehold. He bared his teeth as he did it. I couldn’t see Connor’s face, just his chin. He was splashing around and trying to keep his head out of the water.
‘I didn’t,’ said Damon. ‘He lives down the road.’
Connor was trying to pull Stevie’s arm away from his neck.
Damon said, ‘Why do you call him Frenchie?’
‘He reckons he can speak French.’
Connor managed to say, ‘I never said that.’
‘Can you speak French?’ asked Damon.
‘I never…said I could,’ Connor spluttered.
‘Go on, say something French, Frenchie,’ said Stevie, and he pulled on Connor’s neck.
Connor’s splashing became more frantic. ‘Let me go,’ he cried out.
Stevie dunked Connor’s head underwater. Connor came up coughing and taking big drawing breaths.
I said, ‘Let him go.’
Rainfish Page 13