Coming Rain

by Stephen Daisley

  ‘Hold on now,’ Lew said and walked down the wooden steps to stand opposite Painter.

  Painter was furious, yelling at Lew. Veins rising in his arms, in his throat. ‘You way way over the line here boy. The boss’s daughter. That Clara Drysdale is forbidden territory.’

  ‘What’re you sayin’?’

  ‘That Jimmy Wong come runnin’ like the big-mouthed laughing cunt he is. Couldn’t wait to tell us.’

  ‘Hold on a minute.’

  ‘She don’t care about you. Those landowner girls just havin’ fun with the croppy boys. They all like the thought of the shearer’s cock mate. Ticket of leave ploughboys is what we are. Got no idea what’s at stake here. Bond or free, son.’ Painter said, shaking his head. ‘No idea.’

  Lew leaned towards Painter, pointed at him. ‘That’s enough now. That shit talk.’

  Painter stepped back. ‘Don’t point at me like that,’ he said. ‘Enough? Fuck son, you got no clue to what enough is.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I asked him not to come after you.’ Painter glanced back towards the homestead. ‘I told him we are gone and won’t be back. This Tuesday morning gone. He’s paid us, I got the cheque. We have to get going now son.’

  ‘Don’t call me son.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘Well now. Like that is it?’

  ‘I am going nowhere. I am staying here. With Clara. She’ll be having a word with her father. Work it out with him.’

  ‘You don’t know what you are saying. He will never work any fucking thing out, with you or his daughter mate.’

  ‘Well,’ Lew said, ‘you always seem to know so much. You know nothing old man. Jesus, you even hate that Jimmy for just being who he is.’

  ‘Now you hold on a minute.’

  ‘And you sayin’ grace before each meal like a clown. Just getting attention I reckon.’

  ‘That’s got nothin’ to do with this.’

  ‘Or what about your wife? Mary, is it? I didn’t even know you had a wife. You left her didn’t you? You knock her about when you mad drunk? Your missus? You nasty old bastard.’

  ‘Well well.’ Painter took two steps to one side and raised his fists to his waist. Crossed back as if in a boxing ring to touch gloves. Banged his knuckles together. ‘Best that is enough now young Mr McCleod.’ He began moving from side to side as he spoke, forcing a smile. ‘Well well.’ He let his bottom lip slip onto his top lip. ‘Son.’

  ‘You did, didn’t you? Bashed her? Make you feel good when you hurt her?’

  Painter hissed, ‘Yeah I did, liked it too. Smashed her stupid face in. Laughed as I did it too. Easier cause they weak, see. Women. Throw them against the wall mate. Cunts. Give me a hard-on when they cry. Beg. You so high now you been loved for a bit son?’

  Lew did not raise his hands, bit his bottom lip to stop his mouth shaking. It was as if his heart was breaking as he heard the old man speak.

  ‘You just like your mother, boy. Weak. What do you know anyway, still thinking with your cock.’

  ‘I know more than you ever will old man. I love her and I would never hurt her. Not like you, full of hate for anything that shows you tenderness. You evil when you drink.’

  Painter was moving constantly, dipping his head and rolling his shoulders. ‘Full of hate is it? Think you are a fightin’ man now? That woman has made you think you are bold and strong. Look at me. How ugly I am. You got one brain Mr McCleod,’ Painter spat on his hands, ‘and that’s between your legs.’ Opened and closed his fingers as he always did before a punching fight. Laughed. ‘Fight me boy if you think you can.’

  Lew had seen this and knew this is what he did before he fought, say everything, truth and lies to make them angry and you’ll win every time but he didn’t care and threw himself at the old tattooed man with the don’t touch me arms.

  ‘I’m a better man than you’ll ever be you ignorant old bastard,’ he yelled and ran at him.

  Painter sidestepped and watched as Lew ran past. Pretended to kick out at his backside. Acting out something almost slapstick. ‘Well you are not a fist fighter, that’s for certain. I will hurt you if you keep this up. I might even enjoy it. Not like fucking your mother. She was hopeless. Like you.’

  Lew turned, spinning in the dust, and approached Painter. Looked at him. This impossible old man with the broken face. Wanting to love him and beat him down at the same time. Be better than him and his filthy mouth.

  Lew swung a wide right hand towards his head. Painter stepped back and bobbed. Came up and hooked Lew in the ear. Followed that with a right to his neck. Another hard left hook, this time into his ribs, stepped away.

  ‘Old man is it? Ignorant? Yes boy, I am the worst old man you will ever meet. A hiding will do you the world of good.’

  Lew staggered back, coughed and was struggling to clear his throat. Kept swallowing.

  Painter blew out through his nose, made a come here gesture with his fists, banging them together. ‘Should have, years ago. Come on then Mr McCleod, knock me down with a feather.’

  Lew put his head down and ran straight at him, grabbed him around the waist as Painter punched into his lower back above his kidneys. They held, staggered backwards and crashed into the ground. Dust rose as they rolled over in the dirt. Arms and legs and Lew was first to stand up and recover. He stood over a coughing Painter. Raised his foot, callused heel facing down as if to stab it into his face.

  ‘Righto.’ Painter relaxed, lay back and closed his eyes. ‘All right, all right mate you win.’

  ‘You finished?’

  Painter, looking at the ground, nodded.

  Lew stepped away.

  They could hear each other’s hard breathing.

  ‘Enough,’ Lew said, ‘you should not have said that stuff. I know that’s what you do.’

  ‘You know why?’

  ‘Yep, I know why.’

  ‘Welcome to the world boy, you are your own man now.’ Painter rolled over. Coughed, retched and raised himself up. Hands on knees, wheezing as he struggled to catch his breath.

  Lew stretched out his hand to help him stand and Painter swivelled. He hit Lew with a rising left hook to his cheek, a straight right to the forehead. Lew’s head snapped left and back and then the world became black. Throat closing. Two more punches to the ear and back of the head as he fell.

  Painter stepped over him, watching as he put his hands on his hips. ‘What did you fucking expect? Son?’

  He stood there until he heard the first shotgun blast. His head came up. Another blast and then two more in quick succession. Coming from somewhere near the dog kennels.

  CHAPTER 48

  King looked away from the old man. He looked to where he could hear her coming for them. He knew her sound and the smell of her. King would not acknowledge the old man as he levelled the shotgun. His tail wagged only for her; even with the terrible fear in her voice, he felt the joy that was her coming for them and lifted his chin. And then her father blew his head off.

  Boofy snarled and charged at the old man and he too was shot dead.

  John Drysdale broke open the Remington twelve gauge and extracted two spent shells. Tossed them to one side and inserted two fresh cartridges. White smo
ke curled from the barrels. He snapped the breach shut and shot Jess and Fleet.

  Clara screaming as she ran. Her father looked to where she was running across the paddock from the homestead. Flicked the opening lever with his thumb. Again, extracted the spent shells, reloaded. Lifted the gun to his shoulder and shot Swift and Bill. Sky had retreated into her birthing kennel. John kicked it over and shot her in the back of head as she cowered from him. One of the yearling pups had crawled away on its belly to the limit of its chain. Her tail between her legs. John stepped forward and dragged her closer and shot her too.

  Clara reached him and pushed him; stood, bent over and panting, her mouth open staring at the slaughter. The bodies of her dogs in the kennel lines. The blood and matter of such familiar coat markings. He had shot each of them in the head so she no longer recognised their faces.

  She began screaming at her father.

  He recovered from her push, stepped forward and hit her back-handed across the face. Hissed words to her she had never heard him use. She staggered and immediately stopped screaming, opened her mouth and eyes wide, looked at the ground. Silent. Blood coming from her nose.

  ‘I left you her,’ her father said, his voice soft now. Pointed with the gun barrels to the bitch Dee who had curled into a ball as if trying to make herself invisible. She was unmoving and terribly still except for spasms of trembling coming through her.

  ‘You only need the one dog, girl,’ he said. ‘And she is barren so when she dies you will have to buy another. Won’t you?’ Her father broke the shotgun open and allowed the barrels to point to the ground. ‘You always kept far too many dogs young lady.’ He turned and walked towards the dressage yards.

  Clara fell to her knees and began a dreadful wailing. There were no intelligible words coming from her except please. And, don’t Dad.

  *

  Jimmy was standing on the veranda, a hand shading his face. He was holding a towel in the other hand and watching where the shooting came from. His face contorted, mouth open in horror. He began waving the white teatowel as he realised what was happening.

  John Drysdale reached the handling yard.

  The shooting and screaming had unsettled the black filly. She was tossing her head and racing around and around the circular yards, her feet throwing up sawdust. She saw him, smelled the blood, stopped and turned away from the old man and cocked her hips as if in warning that she would kick him if he came close. He stepped to one side and shot her in the belly with both barrels.

  The blast threw her onto her side and she tried to stand. The pink coils of her intestines had come out of her and she stepped in them. Staggered, gave a high-pitched noise and fell to her front knees. Nose to the ground.

  John reloaded. He levelled the shotgun and shot her in the head. ‘Good,’ he said. He did not like to see an animal suffer unnecessarily. He didn’t even know if his daughter had named the young horse yet. Spoke again to himself, language he never used. ‘Where’s that fucking cunt kangaroo with the straw hat? Gwen is it?’

  He did not see Jimmy as he came up behind him. Only heard, ‘Sorry Mr John,’ as Jimmy hit him over the back of the neck with a length of wood.

  Drysdale sprawled forward and Jimmy stepped over him and hit him again, this time on the side of the head above his ear. He kicked the shotgun away and knelt next to the old man. ‘Sorry Mr John but you gila gila. Oh my good God Miss Clara I did not know he do this. I am very sorry. He go crazy your father.’

  His accent was strong as he took a roll of bandages from his pocket and tied Drysdale’s hands behind his back. Rolled him onto his back and looked to where Miss Clara was still kneeling and wailing.

  CHAPTER 49

  The dingo listened and heard the vehicle start and drive away. The sound of the motor faded and soon there was no sound of them at all. The quiet of the country without the men in it returned. Her breathing slowed.

  Her heart too began to slow its beat. She would wait another hour before she emerged from the gully. She had taken her mouth from the young dog’s mouth and licked her lips. Licked his mouth and looked at him. His fear and trembling. She crawled out of the deep fold in the land, lay down and waited in the covering at the edge of the scrub. Watched the red male and closed her eyes. Rested her chin on the ground and waited.

  He joined her and they lay as still as they could until the dog crows found them. The black feathered demons began hopping and flapping in the bushes above them. Cawing and calling waahdong, their judgment; their mocking of her and her kind. The thought of emerging into the open country from the cover of the blue and smoke bush daunted her but at the same time she knew they would have to move. The damned dog crows were telling the world they were there. The old man with the car and the rifle would soon see these things and return. She rose and ran at the black feathered devils, snapped at them.

  Resumed the need to run east and, as she began to trot, she began to see before her images of the man hunting them and how he would know their line of travel; how he would know they had been steadily moving into where the sun rose. East. The need to find water was once again growing and as they ran into more and more strange country the knowledge of places diminished.

  His moving car and his arms raised, forming, shooting and disappearing in the ground before her as she ran.

  She breasted a ridge and again saw below the long fence and how it stretched right away to the bokadje line where the earth meets sky. The young dog caught up and stopped with her and they lay panting and watching the fence and the darkening land, the sun falling behind them. The crows seemed to have given up for a while and the afternoon sun was coming down over the earth in a wide view for as far as she could see.

  She came to a decision to cut through country. She knew of an abandoned township. Water would have gathered there from the storms.

  A wide looping backtrack and then they could follow ancient river lines, continue into the interior where no men no cars would follow. Backtrack yet again to return to the line of rocks that was the head of Winjilla Springs. There was the ancient place to den. Fresh water close and rock caves. But first she would mislead. She stood, wheeled away to her right side and began to trot to the south.

  The young red dog, frowning, panting, his injured leg beginning to touch the ground a little, began, as usual and unquestioning, to follow her.

  CHAPTER 50

  Painter was staring in the direction of the shooting. ‘What the hell is going on? Shooting off that shotgun boss? Something’s wrong.’

  Lew began convulsing and Painter rolled him onto his side. Pulled his rigid arms together and down towards his knees. Took off his Jackie Howe vest and made a rough pillow. He stood up and leaned back down with his hands on his knees as he stared into Lew’s swelling face. ‘No. No you don’t. I believed in you son, don’t let me down now.’

  Painter straightened, turned his back to look towards the woolshed.

  ‘Fuckin’ kid,’ he said. ‘Didn’t even have a pair of shoes when I met you. Still shit’n yellow.’

  Thought about the location of his Bible. Next to his bed, on the floor. He could see the shape of the woolshed. And above the corrugated-iron building, surrounded by trees and the sky, a ghost shadow of the coming moon already rising.

  He bowed his head. ‘The priest O’Donnell, son. Forbid them not to come unto me: the little children.’ He put his thumb up to hi
s nostril, blew snot onto the ground. ‘For something something suffer…enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Yeah, that’s it.’ Some of the snot blew across his ribs and belly and he looked up. ‘O’Donnell? Some other cunt maybe.’

  An old man, bare chested with muscles like twisted ropes in arms and shoulders and chest. He began walking and shadow boxing. Shuffling feet, bobbing and ducking his head. Once he slapped both hands onto his chest. Across his back an entire crucifixion scene.

  More shotgun blasts, and then more. He looked again to where they were coming from and then he heard a woman. It was young Clara and she was screaming.

  His eyes became wide and he began to run towards the screaming. Calling out.

  ‘Hold on, hold on.’

  CHAPTER 51

  It had been a week. Perhaps ten days. Following the outlines of a raised gravel road, Lew had driven John Drysdale’s Series I Land Rover due east for two hours. He stopped at a crossroads with a rock cairn, a black metal pole and signposts. Daybreak Springs 15 miles, pointing from where he had come; beneath that: Thompsons Find 5 miles.

  He switched off the engine and did not move as he thought about the last week.

  A night, a day and a night again till he woke. He didn’t know how long it had been. It had hurt when he breathed and it hurt when he tried to walk. His urine red with blood.

  Jimmy had said to him, Mr John he is not well no. He was standing at the front door of the homestead.

  Painter had gone too but was true to his word and had sent the doctor who drove out from Gungurra that same day. Dr Fraser had wanted to move Drysdale to a Perth hospital but Jimmy said, no, Mr John he don’t want to go. Lew remembered the doctor examining him. Saying he had concussion but there was nothing broken apart from his nose. His fingers on the grating ribs. Confirming that they were cracked but otherwise he was all right internally apart from bruised kidneys. Spleen good. Liver fine. The doctor bandaged and strapped his ribs; kept the strapping in place with two diagonal shoulder bandages.