I sat there, drunkenly flicking pages. There were copies of People, Woman’s Weekly, Penthouse. I ended up with the Penthouses, staring at the pictures. Soft focus, pale bodies, wrapped in silk and pastel colours and smiles. They were ludicrous, impossible. Especially in this little tin shed, tired and dulled with alcohol. I went from page to page, drinking more port, deeply bored. When I looked up Con was standing in the bedroom doorway, staring at me.
‘You like that stuff?’ he asked.
‘Not really.’
‘Turn you on?’
‘No.’
He curled his finger. ‘Come over here.’
‘Why?’
‘Come on.’ He was nodding in towards the beds. ‘Just look.’
I got up, went over. I looked in. There was no light in the bedroom, but the light from the main room was enough. Hilda was lying on one of the mattresses. She was naked. Her eyes were wide and white, looking up at Con and I. Her arms were at her sides. I saw large, flattened breasts. A round belly. The tangle of pubic hair, her legs held together.
‘You want her?’ Con asked.
‘What?’
‘Go on, she’s yours. I told her.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Just get a suck from her, eh. Give her a bit of white cock.’
‘No.’
‘Why not? I won’t look.’
‘It’s not that.’
I was still staring. Hilda was watching us, her eyes flicking from Con to me, back to Con. She made no move to cover herself. She seemed afraid. Submissive. Her dress discarded at her feet.
‘Don’t you like her?’ Con asked, confused, ‘She’ll do it.’
‘No.’ The idea of actually going in, fucking her like that . . . other men could do it maybe, without even thinking. Con obviously expected me to do it. Maybe even Hilda did. It could happen. Her big legs spread, me in between. Her sweat. Her smell. Her wide lips, taking in my prick, sucking. I thought about the women, the night before, biting into the bullock’s heart. The juices on their cheeks. Suddenly I was appalled, sickened.
‘No,’ I said again.
Con wasn’t pleased. ‘Don’t you like women?’
I had to get away. I fumbled for excuses. Anything. I said, ‘I can’t. I’ve got a girlfriend. Back in Brisbane.’
‘So?’
I babbled. ‘So I don’t wanna sleep with anyone else. She’s more than just a girlfriend. We’re engaged. We’re getting married when I go back.’
‘Gettin’ married? You never said.’
I shrugged, smiled hopelessly at him. Smiled at Hilda. She still gave no reaction. I tried not to look at her body. Her legs, her hips, the wide mattress all around her.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, to no one. I turned away, grabbed the cask from the table, walked out into the night.
‘Gettin’ married eh?’ Con called after me, laughing. I walked over to where I hoped my sleeping bag was, found it eventually in the dark. I felt ill and disgusted. Engaged? Getting married? Was that all I could think of to say?
I lay down. The sky reeled horribly. Too drunk. Hilda was still in my head. Big. Passive. Fearful. Of Con. Of me. There was something in me that liked that. The fear. Something that wanted her to just lie there, let me fuck her like a corpse. I hated it. I sat up again, drank from the cask, lit a cigarette. I watched the shack. There was no sound but the buzz of the little generator. I waited. Finally Con appeared in the doorway of the shack. He looked out. He had the rifle.
‘Gordon!’ he yelled.
I didn’t answer. He walked away from the shack, looked around. Eventually he came straight over to me, stood there, swaying slightly. In the darkness I could just make out that the gun was pointed my way.
‘It’s got a bullet in it,’ he said.
‘Okay.’
‘Where’s the cask?’
I handed it up to him. He drank from it, single-handed. Then he dropped the cask, lifted the rifle to his shoulder and fired. It made a loud, flat crack. He was aiming, vaguely, towards the ocean. He reloaded, shot again. Then again. Then he sat down. Seemed to look at me. Seconds went by.
‘Why did Allan give you that?’ I asked.
His dim shape leaned back, leaned forward. ‘You dunno a fucking thing, do you?’
‘No.’
‘I could kill you.’
‘I know.’
‘I could kill anyone.’
I said nothing. My mind was freezing up. It seemed a particularly pointless time to die.
‘You ever been out in the open, a place like this before?’ he said.
‘I’m from Brisbane.’ It was all I could think of.
‘You never know,’ he said, ‘you could be sleepin’, anyone could find you. Anyone could come up, slit your throat.’
We sat there. The night, the ocean, the endless bush, in every direction.
‘Bad people out there.’ Con’s voice was low, serious, directed straight at me. ‘Just walking around. A man comes up to your fire. From nowhere. You don’t know who he is. What he wants. What he is.’
I coughed. Said, ‘Yes.’
‘Maybe he’s not a man at all.’
I didn’t reply. I didn’t know how to. I stared at his silhouette. Suddenly it moved. Something heavy and cold landed in my lap. It was the gun. Con was standing up.
‘Those banteng’ll be out now,’ he said, ‘Let’s go.’
We were in the Landcruiser, jolting along a sandy trail through the scrub. Con was driving, drunken and fast, slewing all over the road. I was in a daze, the last hazy stages of fear and alcohol. Sucking at the port, peering out. The world was nothing but the glare from the headlights. The gun was in my lap. It was loaded. Ready to kill.
Then the scrub cleared and we were on a stretch of open grassland. Its borders disappeared off beyond the range of the lights. Con upped the speed, charged across, throwing us around the cabin. Finally, on the fringe of visibility, I could see what looked like cattle. Dozens of them. A herd.
‘That’s them,’ Con said, ‘Banteng.’
The animals were staring at us. They were light brown, sharper and fitter looking than most cattle I’d seen before. We bore down. The herd took fright and bolted. Suddenly it was a chase, a nightmare. Con swinging the wheel, yelling at me to shoot for the shoulder. The cattle leaping, stumbling, fleeing. The smell of exhaust and gun oil and dust. It couldn’t be real. I wasn’t doing this. We were alongside the herd, twenty, thirty yards away.
I lifted the rifle, took aim at a flash of brown, fired. There was noise, recoil, the cattle streaming away. Nothing. I’d missed. Con was swearing, the Landcruiser skidding as he tried to get behind them again.
‘Reload!’
I reloaded, fumbling with the bullet. Death was moments away. Con was driving blindly. There’d be a tree stump, or a sudden gully, and that’d be it. The banteng were in view again, zigzagging. I rammed the bullet in, flicked the bolt. Somewhere in my mind I remembered that international hunters would pay thousands of dollars for this privilege.
‘I can get you real close,’ Con said.
We slid up beside them, to their right. They jagged to the left, Con followed them. Suddenly we were only six or seven feet from the nearest one. It was right outside my window.
‘Shoot,’ Con was screaming, ‘Shoot!’
It was a split second thing, I knew, before they veered off again. I raised the gun. The broad brown hide of the animal filled the sight. It was impossible to miss. As soon as I fired it would rear or stumble or fall, and Con would heave the truck up, circle back to the carcass. Maybe another shot would be needed, but eventually it’d be dead. A huge knife would appear from somewhere and Con would be slicing through the skin, gutting it, skinning it, carving off great joints and cuts of meat from its rump. There’d be blood and shit and rising steam. Blood on my hands, my legs. Meat. Food. Thrown on the hotplate tomorrow morning.
‘Shoot!’
I pulled the trigger. There was a click, th
en nothing. The Banteng swung off. I jiggled the bolt, pulled the trigger again. Nothing. I banged the rifle against the door, pulled the trigger yet again. It didn’t work. I looked up. A line of bush appeared and the herd charged for it, vanished. Con pulled the Landcruiser up in a long, dusty slide. Looked at me, dumbfounded.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘It didn’t fire.’
‘You loaded it?’
‘Yes.’
I had the bolt open, but it was too dark in the cab to see. I got out and went round in front to use the headlights. I looked in the breech. The bullet was there, but not quite fully slotted in. There was a reason for that. The bullet was backwards. The dull lead point stared up at me.
‘Holy shit,’ I said.
‘What?’ said Con, from the cab.
I didn’t answer. I was thinking of all the times I’d pulled the trigger, of banging the gun against the door. It could’ve gone off. It could’ve blown up in my face. I’d put the fucking bullet in backwards.
I dropped the rifle, stumbled away. How close had it been? How close had it been all night?
‘What?’ Con yelled after me, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ I answered.
I stopped, stood still. I felt nauseous, hot, full of adrenalin. I looked up at the distant, blurred sky. I heard the clumping of the banteng in the bush, their snorted, breathless lowing. Panicked. Exhausted. Lucky to be alive.
International hunters, I thought.
A thousand fucking dollars.
THIRTY-SEVEN
I woke to pain and sand and dazzling sunlight. I sat up. The hangover moved in. The asthma. The headache. I looked around. I had no water. No painkillers. I got to my feet. The sky, the ocean, the trees, everything was there. It was another beautiful day at Araru. I wanted nothing to do with it. I wanted my bed, the ceiling fan, and darkness. I headed off to the shack to find something to drink.
I spent the rest of the morning lying in the shade under a tree. Con and Hilda wandered into view from time to time, but left me alone. I was glad. I had nothing to say to either of them. I ran through the previous night in my head. All of it seemed ugly. Something to forget. I dozed. Grew hungry. I thought about cutting slices of meat off those big, hairy joints. Couldn’t face it.
Sometime after noon, a boat motored down along the beach and landed. It was Allan and Russel and Long Bob. I watched them pull the boat up the beach. I wondered where they’d be taking me next. More fishing? More hunting? Back to Croker with them? I was tired of it all. Cape Don and its comforts seemed years away. I got up and went over. Allan pointed to the Landcruiser.
‘Who moved that?’ he demanded.
I looked. The Landcruiser was parked next to the shack, where Con had left it the night before. I couldn’t remember exactly where it had been parked the previous day.
‘Con did,’ I said.
Allan nodded, spoke to Russel and Long Bob in Gurig. He was angry. I followed them over to the shack. Con came out, smiling. The others began yelling at him. He faltered, said something. Allan cuffed him over the head, then pushed him back into the room. I stood at the door, bewildered. They shoved Con back and forth, shouting. Hilda stood at the bedroom door and watched.
Allan found the rifle, and the remaining bullets. There were only three. He held them in his hand, thrust them at Con. Con talked back, sullen. Then Hilda spoke. Occasionally either she or Con gestured towards me. Everyone’s looks were hostile. Something was wrong with the fact that we’d been shooting, and driving the Landcruiser. I waited. Finally they dragged Con out again, shouldering me aside. Hilda came and stood with me in the doorway.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked.
‘Con. He got no right driving or shooting round here, them banteng aren’t his. Allan told him stay put last night. Do nothin’.’
‘What’d Allan leave him the gun for then?’
‘Just in case. Not to take you shooting.’
I thought. ‘Did you tell Allan about last night? In the bedroom?’
She shook her head, her eyes on Con. ‘Not his business. This’s enough.’
They had Con on the ground now. Russel and Long Bob were holding him down. He wasn’t struggling. Allan had two thick chunks of wood. He put them under Con’s left arm. One near the elbow, one near the wrist. Then he stood up, took aim, and stamped down hard.
‘Shit,’ I said.
Hilda gave me a short look. ‘You stay out. Lucky it’s not you.’
Allan peered at the arm, stamped his foot down again. Then again. On the third time, Con screamed. Allan stopped. He kneeled and examined the arm, seemed satisfied. He spoke to Con for a while. Then they let him go, walked away. Con sat up, cradling his wrist, staring at it.
Allan came over to me. His face was still stern. It was my turn.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. It was weak. Pathetic. I didn’t want my arm broken.
‘That Con,’ Allan said, ‘I told you he was Tiwi, not Gurig eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘He does nothin’ here, if we don’t say he can. Not you either. You know that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Them banteng—we live on them. For food, for money. Not too many left. What you gonna do if you hit one last night?’
‘I dunno. I didn’t think.’
He shook his head. ‘That Con, he’s stupid, too much grog, gets in fights. Not you. Thought maybe you had sense.’
I looked at the ground.
Russel came up. He and Allan headed off, talking. I went inside, sat down. I flicked through the magazines. Hilda watched me. She brought out a joint of meat and began cooking slices. She offered me one. I declined. I was feeling terrible. Sick. Guilty.
Allan finally came back. He ate, talked with Hilda. He looked at me. ‘Better get your stuff. Russel can take you back to Cape Don.’
‘Alright.’
I went out, walked over to my sleeping bag. I rolled it up, gathered my things together. Then I sat waiting. I was being kicked out. I deserved it. I was a fool. Russel was over talking with Con, inspecting the injury. Then he went into the shack, came out again, walked over to me.
‘You ready?’
‘Uh-huh. How’s Con’s arm?’
‘Little break. We’ll take him to Black Point later, get it looked at.’
We walked over to the boat.
‘I’m sorry about last night,’ I said.
Russel shrugged. ‘You don’t know better.’
We pushed the boat off, climbed in, and headed west. It was a silent trip back. I sat in the stern and smoked and didn’t feel any pleasure from it. Not from the wind, or the waves, or the spray. The hangover and my empty stomach verged on seasickness. Finally we were at the bay. Russel dropped me at the beach, said goodbye, turned around and headed east again.
I watched him go, then shouldered my gear. I began the long walk through the bush, back to the lighthouse.
THIRTY-EIGHT
It was the end. Yet another one. I was through with the Cobourg Peninsula. Whatever chances it might have offered, I’d thrown them away. From now on it would be only the lighthouse and the weather observations. Until our time was served.
I made it to the compound, found Wayne in his bedroom. He was surprised to see me. I’d only been gone two days. I gave him the sorry details. I didn’t mention Hilda. I went over and reported in to Vince. He was angry about the hunting episode.
‘I’m not surprised Allan freaked,’ he said, ‘Those banteng are a prime resource. And they all hate that idiot Con. I thought you knew that.’
‘No.’
‘Well, least Allan didn’t kick you right out of the park. He could’ve you know. I could too.’
I nodded. I was very tired. ‘It might be a favour if you did.’
It would never be that easy. There was a full six weeks to go, no one was getting out early. I went back to the routine. It was hateful now—the compound, the weather, the whole process of existence at the lighthouse. I ate. Showered. Cleaned
my teeth. Shaved. The last of the boils went away. I didn’t know why. Nothing had changed in my diet or lifestyle. Maybe they’d just had their time.
I packed away the writing gear. All the paper and the ink. I wasn’t going to be using any of it. Not now, not ever. I wiped dust of the surface of the mirror. I looked into it. There, I thought, Is a man in trouble. Then I flipped the door over, mirror facing down. It’d all been crap in the first place.
I took to spending my time on the back verandah, staring out. I listened to music. Wayne’s tapes. They were louder and more violent than mine, and that was good. I smoked steadily. That was good too. I had it almost completely now, the habit, the addiction, the style. At least I’d got that out of the six months. The asthma was playing up a little, but there were no regrets. The cigarettes demanded only health, gave everything in return.
Otherwise there was nothing but Scrabble. Wayne and I still played our one game every night after dinner. I won them all. It was effortless. I was clocking-up scores of over four hundred. Two things, then, that had saved me at Cape Don. Smoking and Scrabble. I would be grateful to them both forever. Then one night Wayne refused to play anymore. He’d never really liked the game, losing every night. Now that was finished too. I couldn’t blame him.
Time crawled. There were things that could be done, I knew. The whole national park was still waiting out there. It could be walked, looked at, fished. I couldn’t rouse myself. Russel and Eve finally returned from Croker, but it made no difference. I’d lost interest in anything or anyone to do with the Cobourg Peninsula. Allan made no more visits. Nor did Con or any of the others. Maybe everyone had seen it was futile.
Time kept crawling. I wandered around the house feeling hot, bored, mindless. The Scrabble set sat unused on the dining table, the tiles in position from our last game. I sat down one afternoon to pack it away. The board was stained with tomato sauce and gravy, pencil and ink. A hardened board. I toyed with the letters, made words, messages, scattered them again. The minutes ticked by.
Eventually I balanced one of the tiles on the end of a knife, studied it. Plastic. Had they ever made letters out of ivory? Or marble? Or gold? I had a cigarette lighter with me. I lit it under the knife, warmed up the tile. The tile began to smoke, melt, and finally to burn. I dropped it onto the board, lifted another one with the knife. I lit it as well. It was decided. I’d spend the afternoon burning the tiles.
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