Melisah paused. ‘Mum,’ she called, ‘Call Conan. He’s getting in the way!’ She kicked at the dog which responded with a surprised yelp, and started off again, following Emilyjane.
Garth looked round and saw Lauren standing on the flagstones under the pergola at the back of the house, holding a large kitchen knife. ‘What on earth is going on?’ he said, striding towards her.
‘Quiet!’ she said, her eyes shining, watching the girls intently. ‘Yes, yes,’ she called, ‘it’s circling the gum. Get it on the way up!’
Garth swung round in time to see Melisah and Emilyjane stop and begin to pound into the eucalyptus with his clubs. ‘Hey! Stop that!’ he shouted, anger giving him the strength to run towards them. ‘What do you think you’re …’ He stopped, stupefied, his mouth hanging open.
The girls were resting on the clubs now, breathing hard, studying the creature lying at their feet. Conan sniffed it, growling uncertainly. It was a goanna, a large one. Its striped hide was stippled with specks of bright blood that washed into a pink puddle around their feet.
Lauren splashed over to join them. Emilyjane and Melisah grinned at her, Melisah wiping her wet fringe back from her forehead. ‘Well done,’ said Lauren, smiling and putting her arm around Emilyjane. She gave the knife to Melisah who squatted down beside the carcase.
Garth was staring at his discarded golf-clubs lying in the mud and rage overtook his astonishment. ‘What is going on?’ he said harshly. Lauren looked at him as if he had only just arrived. ‘Dinner,’ she said off-handedly.
‘Whose dinner?’ said Garth.
She smiled at him as if he was one of the twins. ‘You probably wouldn’t be aware of it, but a state of emergency’s been declared. There’s no food, and they can’t get any in. We have to look after ourselves now.’
Garth was incredulous. ‘You mean you intend for us to eat that?’
Lauren nodded. ‘We’ve got a bit of tinned stuff put away, but it makes sense to stretch it out with what we can catch.’ She put her other arm around Melisah, who was still wrestling with the bloodied body of the goanna, and smiled. ‘The girls are good at this.’
Emilyjane turned to her mother. ‘Yes, but we have to do something about Conan. He’s not a hunter, he just gets in the way.’
Lauren nodded again. ‘Inside now, and get dry.’ The girls ran off towards the house.
‘And get into something decent,’ Garth called.
‘Why?’ said Lauren. ‘I mean,’ she went on as Garth frowned at her. ‘We can’t wash clothes, and the twins are always wet. Bikinis make sense. Besides, nearly everyone else is gone.’
‘We’re not going anywhere,’ said Garth quickly, ‘Not with Bedlow’s project …’
Lauren studied him. ‘No,’ she agreed to his surprise. ‘We don’t want to leave yet, either.’ She turned and followed the twins into the house.
Garth stood in the rain. Lauren seemed younger to him, more alive, like the twins. Conan sniffed at his foot and whined for attention. ‘By the way,’ he said to her retreating body, ‘The Saab’s out of fuel. None of the service stations are open. I’ll have to walk to work.’
Constance Street was empty of cars and pedestrians. It was awash, and grass and reeds grew in lush abundance around it. Eucalyptus saplings were struggling through the bitumen and lantana bushes pushed up through the grates where the stormwater bubbled, trying to escape. Garth was as wet with perspiration as with rainwater as he struggled through the swamp.
The foyer of the building gave some protection from the rain, but not from the vegetation. Weeds and vines had found purchase in the carpet and brightly coloured patches of lichen defaced the walls. Cobwebs dangled from the ceiling, sticking to him as he tried to brush past them. He wiped his face and undid the top button of his shirt as he climbed the stairs to his office. The monotonous sound of driving rain followed him.
Dee Dee was propped on a chair with a sketchbook on her lap and her feet on her desk, which was scattered with crayons and coloured pencils. ‘Hi,’ she said briefly as he entered. The sensitive fern-like leaves of a patch of weed curled in upon themselves as he wiped his feet near them.
‘Christ,’ he said. ‘It’s so hot in here.’
‘Well,’ said Dee Dee, looking up. ‘No electricity, no air-conditioning, and sealed windows. What do you expect?’
‘Maybe you should get on to maintenance, get a generator in or something—’
‘Get real,’ she muttered, returning to her colouring-in.
Garth ignored her and shuffled to Mike’s desk, where the latest lay-outs were set out. A fringe of bluish mould sprouted from the top page, and he carefully wiped it off with a scrap of tissue. He stared at them for some time.
The phone rang and he picked it up, clearing his throat. ‘Lorgan and Associates,’ he said.
He stood listening to the voice at the other end. ‘Cara,’ he said finally, ‘We’ve been through all this before. I don’t care if you’re finding it hard …’
Dee Dee was on her feet and grabbed the receiver from him before he could protest. She turned away from him. ‘Hi, Cara,’ she said, ‘It’s Dee.’ There was a pause while she listened, and he had time to wonder why she was wearing what looked like a scabbard with a Bowie knife on her belt. ‘No, don’t worry about that. Really. It doesn’t matter any more. It’s time to go.’
Garth started forward and raised his hand in protest. She swung away from him. ‘That’s right, time to get out. I’m heading for Montville, up in the mountains. Want to come?’ She waited for Cara’s response, and then laughed. ‘We’ll walk! Course we can. Okay, I’ll meet you there and we’ll be off. Wear boots. Bye.’
Dee Dee put down the phone and brushed aside a glossy-leaved liana vine coiled around the cord.
‘You mean that?’ said Garth. ‘You’re leaving, both of you? Leaving me here—with this?’ He gestured at the papers and documents strewn around the office.
‘Uh-huh,’ said Dee Dee, picking up her bag from the desk, wiping a film of mould from it carelessly.
‘Leaving me with all this work, in these god-awful conditions, in this god-damn heat—’ His voice rose, he could feel it becoming a scream, and his ulcer spasmed.
‘Heat? Hot, are you?’ said Dee Dee. ‘Well, I can fix that!’
She picked up her chair and hurled it through the window. There was a crash of breaking glass and the suddenly loud hiss of rain. It poured through the fragile shards that remained intact, drenching the furniture and carpet, and a warm breeze caught the papers, fanning them across the room.
Garth clutched at them wildly, his mouth open, as Dee Dee slammed the door behind her.
Something large made a slithering noise behind the photocopier.
The force of the rain sprayed moisture through the fabric of the umbrella. It didn’t matter, Garth was damp all the time now, it seemed. The walk home through the dusk was a nightmare of wading through once-familiar territory that had somehow become swampland, disturbing strange birds and things that scuttled through the waist-high grass as he went. His legs ached. The sight of the colonial cottage wavering through the dimness and rain brought a sigh of relief to his lips.
He was on the last step to the verandah when a large shaggy dog bounded out at him from the dark of the house. He stopped abruptly as it snarled, lowering its body into a crouch, its mouth open showing sharp fangs.
‘Lauren!’ Garth called, his voice wavering. The dog made a rumbling sound in its throat and edged closer.
‘Lauren! What is this? Are you alright?’ The dog was gathering itself to spring, he knew it was.
Lauren stepped onto the verandah and clapped her hands. ‘Here Wolf.’ The dog jumped up and ran to her side, panting. ‘Good boy!’ she said, burying her hand in the thick fur of its neck.
Garth dragged himself up the last step, feeling his legs quivering. ‘Where did that come from?’ he gasped.
‘The girls needed him,’ Lauren said. ‘He helps.’
‘The
electricity’s totally gone,’ he said.
‘I know,’ said Lauren.
Garth followed her and the dog into the house. The kitchen was lit with candles, and a makeshift fireplace had been built with bricks on the slate floor near the dishwasher. It made the room hot, and steam rose from the water trickling down the walls from leaks in the roof. Garth sat down, feeling fatigue drain him.
‘Where are the girls?’ he said dully.
‘In the back yard, getting the meat ready.’
‘Not goanna again,’ he said.
Lauren shook her head. She was busy with a saw, cutting the legs off a stained mahogany chair that Garth was sure belonged to the Wallaces, next door. He’d seen it when they’d visited for dinner, a long time ago.
He looked round absently. ‘Where’s Conan?’ he said. ‘I don’t think he’ll like this new dog very much, will he?’
‘I don’t think it matters,’ said Lauren.
Beneath the dreary pall of rain Fortitude Valley was deserted and unrecognisable. Colourful banners advertising the next festival were reduced to ragged tatters and the gaily-striped awnings were shredded. The facades of the buildings were disfigured by opportunistic and unidentifiable growths, and the Chinatown lions seemed somehow smaller and misshapen, eroded by the constant rain. A small sea had risen in the Brunswick Street Mall, its waters scarred by the constant eruption of raindrops on the surface. Wavelets lapped into the reeds as he tramped through them, and he disturbed a flock of magpie geese gathered on the verges. Their grotesquely shaped heads jerked back and forth as he pushed past them.
He stopped at McWhirter’s, where the automatic doors were open, jammed by waist-high masses of vegetation and debris. Inside, the ceiling was encrusted with growths of vibrant coloured fungi. Closer to his building, the Dead Rat Hotel was much the same. There was no movement in the darkness beyond its front doors, and he remembered with a strange hunger the nights he had spent in there with Dee Dee and Mike. He hoped there were a few drinks left, to celebrate with when the work was completed. It would be. He’d finish it by himself. Soon. He didn’t need the others. None of them.
A dismal chorus of honking sounded, and he looked back. The geese had followed him. He hurried on up the stairs to his dark office. To continue.
In the flickering of the candlelight, the big dog’s eyes were shining pinholes of infinity as it lay curled near the twins, watching him enter the kitchen. Melisah and Emilyjane were sitting on the floor, legs crossed, intent on the objects around them. They had discarded their bikini tops. Garth pretended not to notice.
Lauren knelt by the fire, shredding a pile of newspapers, dressed only in a bra and panties. The flames crackled and hissed with the moisture in the furniture she was burning and he could feel sweat breaking out on his body. He sat down near the girls, trying to ignore the shifting of the dog. In the wavering light he could see the things they were working with—a broom handle, empty tin cans, his golf clubs, shears, wire, knives … Their hair hung in dishevelled curls across their shadowed faces and their strong young hands were busy.
He cleared his throat. ‘What are you doing?’ he said. They looked at each other, then at their mother.
Lauren shook her hair back. ‘Making spears,’ she said matter-of-factly. Her face was flushed from the heat.
‘Oh,’ he said.
Garth sat at his desk, staring vacantly through the window of his office. Brisbane was a grey mirage through the rain, wavering and indistinct. There was no movement anywhere beyond the pelting water. With an effort he pulled his gaze down to his desk.
The work was almost done.
Shuffling through some papers, he extracted one and began reading by the dim light that filtered through the window.
The guinea grass in the front office rustled, and he stiffened. ‘Who’s there?’ he called hoarsely.
A small furry shape dashed across the doorway and vanished. An animal, maybe a bandicoot. He sank back in his chair, feeling his lips twitch nervously. Lucky for it the twins weren’t here. He picked up his biro and began making notes.
The phone rang. He snatched at it.
‘Who’s there? I mean, Lorgan and Associates,’ he said.
‘Garth. How are you?’ Jonathon’s dusty voice was unmistakable.
‘Jonathon, it’s good to hear from you,’ Garth said, trying to make his voice sound warm.
‘I wasn’t sure that you’d be there,’ Jonathon went on.
‘Certainly wouldn’t be anywhere else, not when there’s work to be done,’ Garth said heartily. ‘I’m glad you rang, I’ve got great news. We’ve just about wrapped up the submission, and we’re looking forward to showing it to Mr Bedlow just as soon as—’
‘That’s very good,’ Jonathon interrupted. ‘But unfortunately there has been a change of plan.’
Garth’s face went cold. ‘Well, we can accommodate any of Mr Bedlow’s changes,’ he said. ‘We’re nothing if not flexible here. That’s the beauty of a small business. Flexible.’
‘You don’t understand,’ said Jonathon patiently. ‘Mr Bedlow has instructed me to tell you that the project is off.’
‘Off?’ Garth was bewildered, the word making no sense.
‘Yes. Owing to your continuing inclement weather, Mr Bedlow doesn’t believe there is much future in an ecological resort at that particular location. Mr Bedlow is looking elsewhere.’
‘But surely our work will be relevant, wherever it is,’ said Garth desperately. He was surprised to feel hot tears stinging his eye-lids.
‘Elsewhere is overseas,’ said Jonathon. ‘Thank you for your involvement and commitment. Goodbye.’
There was a click on the line, then a hissing, as if all the rain in the world was falling through it.
The dog seemed not to have moved from its spot near the sink, where the heat from the constant fire radiated warmly. It opened its jaws, tongue lolling, as Garth entered, staggering under the weight of a brimming cardboard box.
He put the box on the kitchen table and collapsed into a chair next to Lauren, who was grinding seeds in a bowl with a smooth rock. The reddish firelight jumped and flickered uncertainly, casting deep shadows that swayed back and forth across the walls. His clothes felt hot and heavy and he slowly undid his shirt buttons. Lauren looked up from her work and nodded to him. Her skin was white and water-wrinkled, and strangely attractive.
Emilyjane and Melisah were together on the floor. Melisah’s face was drawn into a frown of concentration as she sat drawing intricate designs across Emilyjane’s cheeks and breasts with a marking pen, to match the ones on her own.
He looked away. There was a pyramid of tin cans arranged against the far wall that hadn’t been there earlier, he was sure, and the girls’ spears lay close by. The sharp tip of one was still shiny with blood.
Rain rattled inexorably on the roof.
‘Here,’ said Garth. He pushed the box of A3 envelopes containing Bedlow’s project across the table towards Lauren. She smiled at him, and rose to add them to the fire.
Glimmer-by-Dark
Marianne de Pierres
I drifted back to Carmine Island on a whim, a fragment of memory, like a warm current. A means to float, no matter how much I wanted to drown.
Years before, families had clustered there, hungry for the sparkling water and unstained sand. In those days, ferries scurried like schools of busy reef fish to and from the mainland, their patrons littering the island with holiday trash, scarlet coral cuts and the agony of sunstroke, oblivious to the spirit winds.
Now only one barge still ran. A tired, flat-backed Beluga, wallowing its way through its last days. My custom had been to ride the stern. But I was a different person now. Worn by heartache.
The other passengers, I noticed, wore their own badges of disappointment. Some dressed in casual wealth, some in gaudy rags. I slumped among their fedoras and sarongs, sipping margaritas in the bar, while the wind whipped a whisper of life against my skin.
Their inc
urious glances lulled me. Perhaps Carmine Island would heal my pain where time and neuro-feedback gongs hadn’t.
An hour on the barge saw one aspect of Carmine rising from the sea. Despite myself I strained to catch the view: turquoise water shimmering before black reef mirages, the gauzy web of spores buoyant on The Bara.
The spores had settled a decade ago, a freak of nature blown in from deeper waters, settling like a veil over Carmine, bringing with them fierce irritations and allergies. The residents who couldn’t afford the expensive immunosuppressants suffered the exotic, often terminal, afflictions of the spores. Holiday-makers deserted but those resolute in their seclusion stayed. Tourism confined itself to the indolent young rich, clutching the antidote Tyline, searching for the hint of danger to shift their inertia.
My supply of the antidote was tucked in the waterproof pocket of my spray jacket. Half a year’s worth—the last of my savings—buying isolation.
The floating pontoon undulated as the barge sighed alongside. Unsteadily—was it the margaritas?—I stumbled along it and caught the trans-island commuter. It dropped me in front of the realtor’s, a flat beach house on Mariners Drive with its stilts rooted deep in the dune.
I scanned the window ads, scrolling quickly to what I could afford. Only two properties for rent, a unit at Los Nidos and a shack on the beach at Glimmer-by-Dark. I paid a month for the shack, leaving my palm print, the code to my savings account on the mainland.
‘Have you got your Tyline?’ asked the golden-skinned girl at the desk.
I nodded, not one for unnecessary words.
The bridge of her forehead bulged slightly, her watery eyes changed to startling aqua by the spores. She ticked a box on my profile and sighed, ‘The whales sing on the full moon. The Sapphire Lounge and Bara Beach are off limits to tourists. Enjoy your stay.’
The sigh, I guessed, was about the Tyline. I was another tourist, when the locals had dwindled to so few.
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