‘Hollie.’ I shook her by the shoulders. ‘Wake up.’
She mumbled something, snuggling closer to me.
‘Hollie,’ I said, a little louder. ‘Get up.’
She yawned and opened her eyes, a clear startling blue. ‘We’re in the cave.’
‘Yeah, we’re in the cave,’ I said.
‘We’ve got no clothes on!’ With a cheeky, childish grin, Hollie folded her arms across her chest. She was acting like the old Hollie, all girly innocence like nothing had happened, but I could remember it all, especially the sex.
‘Where’s Danny?’ Hollie asked, bum-wriggling into her daks.
‘Don’t know.’ I snatched my Bonds out of the dirt and put them on. Something gnawed at the edge of my brain like rats in the roof but I couldn’t think straight. Thin light seeped through the entrance and there was a lingering smell of smoke. Clutching my head with one hand, I stumbled out of the cave for some fresh air.
I was choking even before I got outside. The further I went, the more difficult it was to see. My eyes were smarting, and when I stood up in the clearing, the red roof of Hollie’s house was obscured by a white mist. But it was the silence of the bush, usually teeming with the trills and whips of the morning chorus, which got me freaked. I listened for the tiniest sign of life but there was nothing, nothing except a deep, low rumble. Then, from behind me, further up the hill, came the frantic scurry of bush animals through the undergrowth – and birds, wings flapping and whirring above me, bursting through the tree-tops. I spun around and was hit by a hot blast of air. Thick, grey smoke smothered me. A raging wall of orange and yellow flame was descending from about two hundred metres up the mountain. It could only be a few minutes before the inferno reached the cave. Already, I could feel the air temperature rising around me and it was harder to breath, but the ground beneath my feet was soft and strangely cool. Dizzy and gasping, I rushed back inside the cave, now hazy with smoke.
‘Hollie! There’s a fire!’
She jumped up, her eyes wide with panic. ‘Where’s Danny?’
I peered around the cave but there was still no sign of him.
‘We have to find him.’ Hollie raced outside.
‘We don’t have time,’ I shouted, scampering after her.
She disappeared into the smoke and I could hear her screaming, ‘Danny! Where are you? Danny!’
‘Hollie!’ I shouted in the direction of her voice. ‘We won’t find him. It’s too thick.’
‘Danny!’ she screamed, running towards the flames. ‘Danny-Dilly!’
I took off after her up the hill. The fire roared above us. ‘Hollie, come back!’ I raced around, my arms thrashing about for her, yelling and tripping over rocks in the white fog until I stumbled into her. Her eyes blazed blue with terror. She was crying.
‘He’s not here, Hollie!’ I heard the crackling of burning scrub, the whoosh of bushes exploding into flame. I could hardly breathe. Black spots appeared like gnats before my eyes. ‘We’ve got to go!’ I yelled at her.
‘No!’ She kicked and spat and scratched at me. She beat her fists against my breasts, but I grabbed her hand and turned, pelting blind, dragging her with me, through the billowing smoke. The fire chased us like a rampant dragon devouring everything in its path, a great flaming mouth of destruction. A blazing gum tree tumbled from the sky and ash rained down upon us. Branches lashed at our arms. Our heels singed. The tips of our hair caught alight, scorching our naked backs. A huge black crow rose like a phoenix out of the tree-tops, its feathers aflame, as we screamed Danny-Dilly, Danny-Dilly, Danny-Dilly all the way down the mountain.
22
The police hounded us. They came around to Mum’s, where Hollie and I were recuperating, and interrogated us in bed. They thought we’d started the fire. They wanted to know where Danny was and what we’d been doing in the bush that night, if we’d been drinking or taking drugs. I wondered what they would have said if we’d told them the truth – that we’d danced around the fire and ate roast possum and sculled pink champagne and lay down in the dirt and had sex. God knows what I said to them; I was still in shock. The top of my left ear had got burnt and it was sore and throbbing. I was on heaps of painkillers and I had the shakes real bad. When they asked me if we’d lit a fire, I said I couldn’t remember. When they asked me where exactly we were, I muttered something vague. I didn’t say a word about the cave. Even though they took us into separate rooms, neither of us mentioned the cave. I was sure they’d nail us for something but in the end they buggered off.
We were at Mum’s for a couple of days and then we moved back to Hollie’s. There was more room for us there and Mr Bailey pretty much left us alone. It seemed like the right thing to do and I was relieved to get away from the Mum and Randy love-nest. We watched the bushfires, which were still raging only a couple of hundred metres from the living-room window, and when a man from the fire brigade ordered us to evacuate, Mr Bailey refused to budge. It took them more than a week to control the blaze. By then, the bush was devastated, not a single blade of grass was left. It was a picture of hell; blackened stumps, smouldering ash, rising clouds of grey vapour and, every now and then, the splitting sound of a charred tree-trunk crashing to the ground.
Once the fire had died down, the forensic cops went up to search for Danny’s body. They reckoned it was arson. They figured that if they could find his body, it would give them some clue as to who’d started it. But, after a week tramping around in the ashes, they didn’t find anything. The police issued a statement, saying it was a stray spark from the Mount Coot-tha fireworks that was to blame – not arsonists after all – and that Danny was presumed dead. But I knew that Bomber and Scott had something to do with it.
For a whole month, Hollie didn’t speak to anyone. Not to me. Not to Mr Bailey. She locked herself in Mrs Bailey’s bedroom and didn’t eat a thing. She was adamant Danny was still alive. She took the fact that they hadn’t found a body as proof he was still up there roaming about, hunting possum with his spear. One night, soon after the cops had cleared out and the media had gone home, we went up to the cave to look for him. Inside, everything was just how it’d been on New Year’s Eve. All perfectly preserved. Like the fire hadn’t touched it. We found the possum bones and the stereo and the empty bottles of champagne and our clothes draped over rocks and the satin cushions and the wicker basket, the food rank and rotting inside. The baby skull was still sitting on top of the egg rock where Danny had put it – except there was no Danny. From then on, Hollie spent her days wandering about in the bush or sitting for hours at a time in the cave. I tried to reason with her, to explain how it would have been impossible for him to escape, but she’d scream and stick her fingers in her ears, streaking up the track in her muslin skirts, filthy with soot.
That’s why I still haven’t told her about Scott and Bomber being up there. The last time I spoke to Scott was on the phone, a few weeks ago. I wanted him to know that I knew he and Bomber had been up in the bush the night of the fire. He answered on the second ring, laughter in his voice. Mrs Greenwood was in the background, humming.
‘It’s me.’ We hadn’t spoken since Christmas.
‘Oh.’ His laughter faded. ‘Hi.’
‘How’re things?’
‘Fine.’
‘How’s Amber?’
‘Yeah. Good.’
I paused. ‘It was you guys, wasn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘Danny.’
‘Yeah, what about him?’ He sounded impatient to get off the phone. ‘He’s dead. It was on the news.’
‘Bomber said he was gonna kill him.’
‘He was just talking shit.’
‘But I heard you. That night. You and Bomber were up there.’
I heard his knuckles tightening around the receiver.
‘Breakfast’s ready!’ Mrs Greenwood sung out.
Scott cut to a whisper. ‘Listen. I know what you’re thinking but you’re wrong, OK? Bomber and me had nothing
to do with it. Alright, we gave him a hard time at school and I feel bad enough about that, but you’ve got it wrong if you think us guys had anything to do with it.’ He coughed. ‘I’ve gotta go.’ He hung up but I knew then for sure that it was Scott and Bomber who’d lit the fire. I was going to tell the cops but for some reason I haven’t – at least, not yet. I guess it’s harder for me to go through with it now Scott’s a father. And with no body found, I wonder how they could prove that Scott and Bomber did it anyway.
In February, Mr Bailey reluctantly organized a memorial service at Pinnaro Lawn Cemetery. Hollie reacted badly, spitting in her father’s face, threatening to kill herself. She said it was like burying him alive. I stayed out of it, shutting myself in Hollie’s bedroom.
The day of the service, the drought broke. It was the first skerrick of rain since September and it didn’t just rain, it chucked it down so hard the heels of my black strappies sank in the mud. It was a small gathering, mostly relatives. Randy went on behalf of Mum, who couldn’t face the cemetery germs. Hollie mumbled to herself the whole way through, as we clung tight to each other under a huge black umbrella, staring down at the chunk of engraved marble bashed into the earth:
IN MEMORY OF DANIEL ORPHEUS BAILEY
BELOVED SON OF DAVID AND BROTHER OF HOLLIE
MISSING IN BUSHLAND SURROUNDING MOUNT COOT-THA
1 JANUARY 1995
REUNITED IN DEATH WITH HIS MOTHER, LESLEY
After the service, Hollie got a bit better. At least she was talking. We both had trouble sleeping. Each night, we lay awake together, clutching each other. Hollie sobbing, me silent, numb. When I did fall asleep, I saw faces grinning from my hell-fire dreams. I was a skeleton walking through roaring flames, flesh melting off my bones, my eyes red as the devil’s. I’d wake up cold-sweating into the sheets, and Hollie would hold me tight and kiss me all over until I stopped shaking.
Once my burn had healed, Randy offered me a job at his cancer-germ lab out at uni. At least when I’m working I don’t think about how, if I’d told the cops about Bomber’s threats, Danny mightn’t be dead. Although Randy is the big cheese, he took me under his wing. He taught me how to prep petri-dishes with e.coli and how to use an electron microscope and how to record observations on the computer. It’s not so bad. I get ten bucks an hour and the days go fast. I’ll admit it’s better than the coffee shop, although I won’t be staying much longer. Of course, I missed my flight on New Year’s Day but I’m still going to London. I’ve already booked my ticket. This time nothing’s going to stop me.
It’s strange being at uni again. One lunchtime, I was in the cafeteria eating lunch when Kirstie came up to me. She was in third-year law, same as I would have been if I hadn’t dropped out.
‘You back doing law?’ she asked, inspecting her nails.
‘No,’ I said, my mouth full of ham sandwich.
‘What then?’
‘Germs.’
‘Germs?’
‘I’m studying germs.’
‘Oh.’ She smiled, real fake. ‘That’s nice.’
I slurped on my Coke.
‘I suppose you’ve heard the news?’ she chirped.
‘What news?’
‘Amber had a boy.’
‘Good for her.’
‘They’ve called him Tom. Tom Greenwood. Good strong name for a boy, don’t you think?’
‘Yeah,’ I laughed. ‘But he could still turn out faggot like his dad.’
She gave me a weird look and lowered her voice. ‘I heard you’d moved in with your… friend.’
‘Her brother died.’
‘Yeah, but that’s not the whole story, is it?’ She flicked back her hair. ‘Who would have thought you’d turn into… ’ She leaned in and whispered, ‘a dyke,’ before turning and clacking off in her kitten heels.
The weeks slip by. After the rain, the bush grows back, lusher and greener than ever. The evenings turn chilly. Hollie and I spend the weekends re-decorating Mrs Bailey’s bedroom. We paint the walls buttercup and clear away all the stuff from the night she killed herself. We hang a print of The Lady of Shalott on the wall and swap the satin bedspread for a big, fluffy doona, but Hollie insists on keeping the waterbed because, as she says, ‘it’s comfortable and luxurious.’ The past few months, we’ve grown so used to living together. With Danny gone, all we have is each other, but I know it can’t go on like this for ever.
I get up early and make her breakfast in bed – croissants and chocolate muffins and freshly squeezed orange juice and a pot of Russian Caravan tea.
‘Rise and shine, birthday girl.’ I kiss her on the lips.
She opens her eyes, sees the tray laden with goodies and smiles. As she props herself up against the pillows, my heart flares. She is so beautiful. Her face escaped the fire but her hands were badly burnt. They rest on top of the covers shiny-pink and puckered. I pull back the curtains. The sky is low and grey with fast-flitting clouds.
‘Present now or later?’ I say.
‘Now, please,’ she says.
I lean over and pull a pale-blue envelope from the top bedside drawer and gently place it into Hollie’s hands. I’m dying for her to see what’s inside but she takes ages to open it, her fingers stiff and clumsy. Eventually, she slips out the card – two little sepia girls on swings – and two plane tickets to London drop out. She picks them off the doona, inspects them and looks at me in amazement.
‘When do we go?’
‘Tomorrow.’ I can’t stop smiling.
‘For how long?’
‘As long as we want. I’ve got heaps of money.’
Her face drops. ‘But I can’t.’ She hangs her head.
‘Why not?’
‘Danny.’
‘Hollie, he’s not coming back.’
She shakes her head, looks up mournfully. ‘Can’t we just look?’
‘For God’s sake, Hollie, how many times—’
‘Just once more. Please.’
I sigh, heavily. It is her birthday. ‘OK.’
I change into a tracksuit and sneakers. Hollie togs herself up in one of her mother’s crêpe-de-chine cocktail dresses and heels. She pulls her hair up in an elegant French roll with wispy tendrils hanging down and wears white silk gloves to cover her hands. I spot the wicker basket at her feet and ask her what’s inside.
‘Oh, just some food for Danny,’ she says. ‘He’s sure to be hungry.’
Outside, it’s overcast and cold. From the top of the mountain comes a biting wind. Blustery gusts snatch leaves from the trees, flattening the spinifex. The crickets whisper, barely there, grown shy without the heat. All the way up, Hollie chats non-stop about how wonderful it’ll be to see Danny again. I want to tell her how much I love her, how beautiful she looks, how much fun we are going to have overseas, but all she can think about is Danny. We reach the clearing. The wind lulls as if we have entered the eye of a storm. We turn and run, knowing the way like in a dream where you do things inexplicably, without reason. The cave appears. Hollie stops, reverent, head bowed.
‘Go on,’ I say, impatient to be back in the warm.
‘Wait,’ she says. ‘Listen.’ There’s no sound except the wind, whooshing past our ears. I push her forward, through the young vines which are just starting to bud again, and follow her into the cool and shadowy void.
‘Look,’ she says as we are nearing the egg rock.
A faint, orange glow is coming from the back of the cave. I reach for her hand but she’s jumped up and is rushing towards the light. ‘Hollie. Wait.’ But there’s no reply. I step gingerly, trepidation in my heart. It can’t be him. But someone, or something is there. Hollie gasps. ‘Danny,’ she whispers. But it’s not possible. After all this time. I slip in beside her, the damp rock flush against my arm.
A man with dark skin and dark hair squats over a small fire with his back to us. He’s wearing a yellow T-shirt and ragged shorts. The fire crackles and spits. The smell of burnt animal flesh fills the air. Our eyes stretch wi
de until they smart and throb in the fire-smoke and still I can’t believe it.
Hollie speaks, ‘Danny?’
He turns, slowly, as if perhaps he knew all along that we were there but was waiting for us to say something. It is not Danny. A young aboriginal man stares at us and then he speaks in his own language, which we cannot understand. We shake our heads and he laughs and holds out his hand, but we’re too stunned to take it.
‘My name is Micky. Danny told me about this place. It belonged to my people.’
‘But this is our cave—’ Hollie starts, but I squeeze her hand to silence her. Micky grins and, without a trace of menace, says:
‘Go, this is my place now.’
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Richard Francis for his advice and encouragement during the early drafts of this novel. Thanks to my father for his invaluable knowledge of cricketing facts and lingo. My heartfelt thanks to Caroline Dawnay and Clara Farmer. And, my eternal gratitude to Charlie Aspinwall for his unflagging patience, faith and dedication to the cause.
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