Crow Country

by Kate Constable

  Mum twisted her hands in her pinny, her eyes big with dread. ‘Clarry—’

  ‘It’s all right, Jean. I’ll take care of it,’ said Dad firmly, and Mum edged back behind the counter and slipped into the house. Sadie started to follow, but Dad put out a hand to stop her. ‘Might need you, love.’

  Sadie nodded dumbly, half-terrified, half-proud that Dad trusted her.

  Dad crouched on the floor. ‘It’s all right, mate,’ he said quietly. ‘Whatever’s happened—’

  Mr Mortlock’s hand shot out and twisted into Dad’s shirt. ‘I’ve killed the bugger, Clarry. I’ve gone and killed him.’

  ‘Settle down, Gerry.’ Dad’s voice was firm and soothing, the same voice he used when Betty was fussing about a skinned knee. ‘You can bet your boots you haven’t killed anybody.’

  ‘So help me God, Lofty,’ said Mr Mortlock hoarsely. ‘I didn’t mean it, but I’ve killed him.’

  Sadie was frozen, terrified, her heart pumping a mile a minute.

  Dad said, ‘Who, Gerry?’

  ‘Jimmy Raven!’ It was an anguished howl.

  Sadie sucked in her breath, and stuffed her knuckles into her mouth to stifle a moan.

  Dad straightened up sharply. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Down by Cross Creek, round the back of the old graveyard. There’s a ring of stones . . .’

  ‘I know the place,’ said Dad.

  ‘You’ve got to help me, Lofty. It was an accident; I swear to God! Jesus—’

  ‘Not in front of my girl,’ said Dad, and Mr Mortlock glanced at Sadie as if seeing her for the first time. His face was haggard. Sadie shrank away from him.

  Dad barked, ‘Did anyone see you? Gerry, did any- one see you come here?’

  Mr Mortlock licked his lips, then shook his head.

  ‘You stay here,’ said Dad. ‘Don’t move from this room. I’ll lock the door. Sadie, you come with me.’ He was a soldier again, rapping out orders. Dad was in charge; he’d make everything right.

  Mr Mortlock lolled against the counter, his eyes closed. Dad motioned with his head, and Sadie followed him out of the shop, waiting while he turned the key. Dusk was falling.

  ‘Evening, Clarry,’ called Mrs Prescott across the street. ‘Going to be a frost tonight, I should think.’

  ‘Evening, Ethel.’ Dad’s voice was clear and calm. He put his arm around Sadie’s shoulder and steered her along the road, past the pub, down the hill, past the Laycocks’ house, across the railway tracks and past the Williams’ place. He was walking fast, swinging his bad leg.

  Once they were clear of the town, he led her off the road and into the bush. Leaves and twigs crunched beneath their shoes. The birds were shrieking their twilight chorus. The mallee gums twisted their grey arms into the sky.

  Sadie helped Dad to cross the creek in the shallow place. They skirted round the graveyard where the first Mortlocks had buried their dead. Dad was leaning hard on her shoulder now.

  ‘Do you want a rest, Dad?’

  ‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘Almost there.’

  She’d never seen the stones before. And yet, as they loomed out of the shadows, they chimed in her memory like something she already knew. They leaned from behind a tangle of trees, silent, watchful, solid clots of darkness in the shifting shadows.

  Waaah!

  A crow cried an abrupt warning, and a shudder ran through Sadie. For a fraction of a second, she knew that she was in the wrong time; she didn’t belong here; she wanted to go home.

  But then she heard a low groan, like no sound she’d ever heard, and all other thoughts fled.

  ‘Dad! Over here!’

  They knelt beside Jimmy.

  ‘It’s all right, mate, we’re going to get help. You’ll be all right,’ said Dad.

  ‘Nah,’ whispered Jimmy. ‘I’m done for.’

  Sadie didn’t know what to do. She reached out one shaking hand to Jimmy’s head, and touched something wet and sticky, spongy, and a sharp edge of bone. She snatched her hand away.

  Dad snapped, ‘Keep back, Sadie!’

  Jimmy murmured, ‘You got your girl there? That Sadie there?’

  Sadie swallowed. She whispered, ‘I’m here, Jimmy.’

  ‘I got something to tell your dad, Sadie.’

  ‘What is it, Bird?’

  There was a rustling in the darkness, as Jimmy fumbled in his pocket. Sadie heard him murmur, ‘. . . take care of this for me . . . not allowed to see . . . hide it, Clarry. Hide it good.’

  The world had shrunk to a pinprick. All that existed was Jimmy’s voice, his breath, the touch of his cold hand in the darkness.

  ‘Bird?’ whispered Dad. ‘Come on, Bird . . .’

  ‘You tell Netta . . . tell Netta . . .’

  ‘I’ll tell her, mate. Don’t you worry, I’ll tell her.’

  An owl called, far away. The mournful notes fell like stones dropping into a deep pool, the ripples washing over the three of them, their hunched fig- ures in the dark, small beneath the whispering trees.

  Dad let out a breath. ‘He’s gone.’

  A sob tore from Sadie’s throat. She heard Dad shift in the darkness, rearranging his bad leg.

  ‘Dad?’ she whispered. ‘We’ve got to fetch the police.’ Her mind was racing. Mr Mortlock was locked into the shop. Mum and the little ones were shut up with a murderer. Somehow they’d have to get him inside the little lock-up cell behind the court-house, keep him there till they could fetch Constable McHugh. Mr Ransome from the pub could help, and George Tick from the draper’s . . .

  ‘No police!’ Clarry’s sergeant’s bark rang out of the dark. Then he said, more gently, more like the Dad she knew, ‘Hold on, love. I need to think.’

  ‘Think about what?’ Sadie heard her own shrill voice, the edge of panic. But there was no point panicking now; the worst had already happened. Jimmy was dead.

  ‘Hold on, love. Shut up a minute.’

  Sadie sat beside the body of the dead man. She realised she was rocking back and forth.

  At last, Dad spoke. His voice was slow and heavy. ‘Sadie, I’ve never asked you to do anything that’s wrong, have I?’

  ‘No, Dad. Of course not.’

  ‘I’m sorry, love. I’m so sorry. But I’m going to ask you now.’

  Sadie stumbled through the bush, barely able to find her way between the trees in the moon- light. Her breath came in shallow gasps, as if she were drowning. The tears that had refused to fall when she sat beside Jimmy’s body were spilling freely now; but they were tears of rage, of disbelief.

  They couldn’t tell the police, Dad had said. They had to help Mr Mortlock. They had to hide Jimmy’s body and never tell anyone. ‘I’ll give him a Christian burial,’ Dad said. ‘I’ll pray for his soul. He was a good man, Jimmy; he deserves that much.’

  ‘What about his kids? What about Netta?’ Sadie felt as if she were screaming; she was surprised to hear her voice barely louder than a whisper. ‘You promised to tell her!’

  ‘I’ll tell her . . .’ Dad hesitated. ‘I’ll tell her Jimmy’s had to go away. Or Gerald can tell her. We’ll work something out between us.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll believe you?’ said Sadie. ‘Do you think if Mr Mortlock came and told Mum you’d had to go away, she’d believe it? That you’d go without saying goodbye? That you wouldn’t come back? Don’t you think his kids will miss him?’

  ‘They go off walkabout all the time; it’s normal to them,’ said Dad. ‘They’re not like us, Sadie.’

  Sadie’s jaw clenched. Jimmy had bled to death like any man. Why would the colour of his skin make him different inside?

  ‘Why are you doing this, Dad? Why?’ And then Sadie’s voice had risen to a scream, and Dad grabbed her arm and shook her.

  ‘Be quiet, Sadie, for God’s sake!’

  ‘It’s not right, Dad, you know it!’

  ‘I have to help Gerald; I promised I’d look out for him.’

  ‘And what about Jimmy? Didn’t you promise him, too?�
�� Her voice rose, shrill, hysterical. ‘Jimmy was murdered! Gerald Mortlock should hang for this!’

  Dad slapped her face.

  ‘Oh!’ Sadie sprang back, her hand to her cheek. Dad released her at once. They stood a few feet apart, breathing hard, beneath the moon.

  ‘I owe Gerald Mortlock money,’ said Dad. ‘A lot of money.’

  Sadie pressed her hand to her face. She said nothing.

  ‘If anything happens to him, we’re finished. Do you understand? I’ll lose the shop, everything. You and your mum, the kids, we’ll all be out on the street. Your mum doesn’t know. What kind of job do you think I could find, with my lame leg and my busted lungs? I’m no use to anyone. If it wasn’t for Gerald Mortlock, we’d be in the gutter, the lot of us. Is that what you want? That’s why I’m doing this. For us, for the family. Now get along and do as I tell you.’

  For a moment Sadie stood mute. Then she turned and began to stumble away, back through the bush toward the town. The stars peered down at her like hundreds of eyes in another world laid above this one.

  Dad had forgotten to give her the key to the shop door, so she had to go in through the kitchen. The children were all around the table, finishing up their dinner. Rice pudding, Sadie noted distantly; she liked rice pudding. But she knew she’d eat nothing that night.

  Four scared faces turned toward her as she entered. Mum rose from her chair.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Sadie quickly. ‘Don’t worry. Dad’ll be back later.’

  Mum followed her into the passage. ‘Sadie, what’s happened?’

  ‘I can’t tell you, Mum. There’s things Dad wants me to do.’ Seeing Mum’s pale face, Sadie felt as if she were the adult and Mum the child. She touched Mum’s arm. ‘Keep the kids out of the way.’

  Dad had said, Stay with him, Sadie. Fetch a cloth and let him wash. Give him my other shirt; he can’t be seen in those clothes. And keep the door locked.

  From her parents’ bedroom, she snatched Dad’s Sunday shirt and the old patched trousers he wore for working in the vegetable patch, a flannel cloth and the basin from the washstand in the corner. She could hear the kids’ subdued chatter from the kitchen, and her mother’s low, strained voice trying to hush them. Sadie hurried into the shop and closed the door carefully behind her.

  Mr Mortlock had lit a lamp. But he was slumped on the floor against the counter again. A brand new tin of Blue Crane cigarettes sat open beside him, and he was smoking. The shop was cloudy with smoke.

  He turned his head when he heard the door. ‘Where’s Clarry?’

  Sadie couldn’t answer. She couldn’t even look at him.

  ‘Was he . . . Did I . . .?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Sadie.

  Mr Mortlock took a long drag on his cigarette. He closed his eyes and said again, ‘Where’s Clarry?’

  ‘He—’ Sadie swallowed. ‘He’s going to bury—’ She choked on Jimmy’s name; she couldn’t speak it. ‘—the body.’

  Mr Mortlock’s shoulders sagged. ‘Thank God, thank God,’ he muttered. ‘I knew I could count on Clarry.’ He dashed tears from his eyes and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  Sadie felt a wave of revulsion. ‘Here.’ She indi- cated the flannel and the basin. ‘You can wash.’

  He looked up at her, then held out his hands for her to wash them.

  Sadie stared. She wasn’t his mother, or his servant. But Dad had said they had to help him. She made herself kneel beside him.

  She shook with wordless anger, with disgust, as she wrung out the cloth and sponged Mr Mortlock’s hands, his murdering hands, smeared with dried blood. How had he done it? With a rock? With a tree branch? Did he shoot him? The jagged hole in the back of Jimmy’s head . . . Sadie felt sick.

  She wouldn’t think about that. She’d remember Jimmy as he was. Big kind Jimmy with his broad smile, firm and muscular as a horse, his eyes that seemed to see right through you.

  Thinking of Jimmy alive was even worse than thinking of him dead. He was worth ten of you, she wanted to shout. But she said nothing.

  She rinsed out the flannel and a brown stain swirled through the water. She stood up and stepped away from him.

  ‘Dad says you’re to change your clothes.’ She held out the shirt and the old trousers. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  She let herself out into the passage and pressed her forehead against the cold wood of the door. She’d count to a hundred; that would give him enough time. She wished Dad would come back; she wished Mum would bustle out of the kitchen and take over.

  But no one came to save her. She was alone.

  She wondered how Dad would manage. He’d have to limp to the Mortlock outbuildings and look for a shovel in one of the sheds. At least Jimmy would be buried in the bush with the birds around him and those big old stones to watch over him. That was as good as any church.

  She counted to a hundred and twenty, and let herself into the shop.

  Mr Mortlock had changed his clothes. His blood- ied shirt and trousers were rolled into a bundle on the floor, and he was lighting up another cigarette. He looked at Sadie as he shook out the match, and sucked in a lungful of smoke.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Steadies the nerves. Got any brandy?’

  Sadie shook her head. She stayed behind the counter, glad to have its bulk between herself and him.

  He blew out a cloud of smoke and stared up at the ceiling. ‘It was an accident, you know.’

  Sadie said nothing.

  ‘He came rushing up to me. Would have thought he’d had a few, he was that wild, only Jimmy never drinks. Even in France, he never had a drink. Not even a beer.’ Mr Mortlock closed his eyes. Sadie had the feeling that he’d been transported somewhere far away, to a different world. Then his eyes flicked open and he was back, his stare blazing so intently into her face that she was frightened.

  ‘He was wild. Shouting and bunching his fists up, getting ready to take a swing at me. Thought he must have been bitten by a mad dog.’ Mr Mortlock bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. ‘Shouting something about the new dam. Couldn’t understand what he was on about. He was dead against it right from the start; don’t know why. Got some funny notion in his head, the way they do. I said, “Settle down, Jimmy. Keep your hair on.” Well, he didn’t like that much. Came right up to me, breathing in my face.’ Mr Mortlock stared at Sadie. ‘No respect. Couldn’t let him get away with that.’

  Sadie stared at the floor. I wish I could take a cloth to those shelves, she thought. He’s left marks everywhere. She was seized with a desire to scrub the whole shop from top to bottom, to sweep away all trace of Mr Mortlock, to cleanse the place of his taint, his sin, his awful crime . . .

  ‘Had to defend myself, didn’t I,’ said Mr Mortlock abruptly. ‘Anyone could see that. He was like a bloody madman.’ He paced up and down the shop, flicking ash on the floor. ‘The gun went off while we were struggling. That’s what happened. It was an accident.’

  He glanced sharply at Sadie. ‘That’s what hap- pened,’ he repeated.

  Sadie heard herself say, ‘Either it was an accident, or you were defending yourself. It can’t be both.’

  Mr Mortlock’s face hardened. ‘I said it was an acci- dent, didn’t I? You better watch your tongue, Miss Hazzard.’

  Sadie dropped her eyes. If it wasn’t for Gerald Mortlock, we’d all be in the gutter.

  She groped for Dad’s stool to steady herself. The smell of the smoke was making her feel sick; if she had to listen to Mr Mortlock say another word, she’d scream. She’d scream and scream until they heard her in Bendigo, until the police came running, until they took him away . . .

  But that wouldn’t bring Jimmy Raven back.

  Oh, please, Dad, hurry, don’t leave me here with him. I can’t bear it.

  But it seemed like hours they waited, trapped there together. Sadie heard the usual commotion of the little ones getting ready for bed, feet thumping along the floorboards; she even heard the low hum of voices behind
the wall as they said their prayers. Sadie stared at the back of Mr Mortlock’s head. What would he say in his prayers tonight?

  And then she remembered that she hadn’t prayed for Jimmy’s soul. She bowed her head, but the right words wouldn’t come. Our Father, she began, give us this day our daily trespasses, for thy kingdom will be done . . .

  She remembered that she’d had no dinner. She was hollow inside.

  Mr Mortlock smoked one cigarette after another. He didn’t offer to pay. For the sake of tidiness, Sadie picked up the empty tin off the counter and stuffed it into her cardigan pocket.

  It was after midnight when they heard Dad’s key in the lock.

  Mr Mortlock jumped up, and ground out the last cigarette under his heel. The shop bell tinkled, and Sadie’s head seemed full of its jangling, bursting with the noise of bells, as if her skull would split. Dad limped in, his face grey, his clothes stained with mud and blood.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Mr Mortlock.

  ‘It’s done.’ Dad bolted the door and leaned against the wall as if his bones had turned to jelly. His face was like wax. ‘He’s in the old graveyard. It seemed the least we could do for him.’

  No! Sadie wanted to cry. Not there! She felt like weeping. She knew Dad meant it as a sign of respect, the only sign he felt he could give, but it seemed all wrong. Jimmy should have been buried near the stones, under the trees, in the heart of the bush. He wouldn’t have wanted to lie with the Mortlocks . . .

  Somewhere out in the ice-cold night, a crow shrieked. The sound pierced her like a knife of freezing iron.

  ‘Sadie?’ Dad glanced at her. ‘You all right, love?’

  She tried to reply, but her tongue was numb in her mouth. She sank to the floor, her head spinning, and the shop went black around her.

  ‘You all right, love?’

  Sadie opened her eyes. Mrs Fox had emerged from behind the checkout and was bending over her, her face wrinkled with concern.

  ‘You had a funny turn, love?’

  Sadie managed to sit up. ‘Yeah – something like that.’ She tried to stand, and collapsed back to the floor.

  ‘Stay there, love, keep your head down. You want some water?’