The Brothers Craft

by Peter Corris

  Basil and I slept close together that night, wrapped in our blankets. It is an exaggeration to call our shelter a cave; there are a number of large rocks jutting out of the earth. One of these overhangs an area of about eight feet square. I rolled several other rocks into place to provide some protection on one side. There was no fuel for a fire. I prevailed on Basil to allow the woman to wear the woollen coat. She lay as still as a stone, tied at the wrists and ankles. She had not uttered a sound since we had taken her.

  'If she doesn't find any water tomorrow I've got a good mind to shoot her,' Basil said.

  'No. We should release her.'

  'She'd join up with the man, tell him how weak we are.'

  I was alarmed. 'You think he's following us?'

  'I know it. There's only one thing that stops me from shooting her now.'

  'What?'

  Basil laughed; the desert and deprivation had taken the edge off his harsh, baying laugh, but there was enough of that quality left to cause the black woman to twitch and turn her head towards us. A hideous white patch around her mouth moved as she grimaced and ground her teeth. 'I've only got one bullet left,' Basil said.

  That night a wind got up while we slept and blew softly until dawn. When I inspected the shirts we had spread over the rocks I found them quite dry. The sun appeared to be climbing faster than usual and the stony country heated up more quickly than the spinifex. Basil had awoken and unscrewed the lid of the canteen, ready for the ritual we had performed these many mornings—the slow, careful process of squeezing the moisture out of the cloth. He gazed up at me as I held out the dry shirts.

  'The wind,' I said.

  Basil's eyes had retreated into his skull and he had drooled at night so that a thin trail of dried spittle ran down from his mouth into his beard. I realised with a shock what wrecks we were—bearded, tattered skeletons with festering sores, hair and eyelashes stiff with salt and dust, lips and noses cracked and peeling to the pulpy tissue several layers deep. I scarcely had the strength to pull on my shirt. Basil tried to stand and fell. He had done most of the carrying for the past few days and had assumed the responsibility, farcical though it may have been, of the leader. He was exhausted. I helped him to a sitting position against a rock and put his shirt around his shoulders. The sun was already strong enough to scorch the skin. Basil's pistol had fallen from his belt and I picked it up.

  'We're nearly there, Dick,' Basil croaked. 'Nearly there.'

  At that moment the other black appeared as if from nowhere. He must have crawled for several hundred yards from behind a low sandhill, sheltering behind the scattered rocks. He was a slender young fellow. He said something and the woman rolled and scrambled, trussed as she was, away from where Basil lay and I stood. I watched as the man advanced in a shuffling motion; he had a spear in his hand, a long, evil-looking weapon with a serrated head. He wore the hair belt around his loins and he was painted in a combination of red, black and white that made him look like a ghostly creature of the night, despite the clear morning light. At a distance of only twenty-five feet he launched his spear at Basil. The blade took him in the upper part of his right leg. I was too shocked to move. The man jerked his foot up and another spear appeared in his hand. He threw again and transfixed Basil's left leg in the same way.

  Basil screamed, 'Shoot him!'

  I brought the pistol up but the man held another spear and poised it ready to throw at my chest. My hand was shaking and I was unfamiliar with the weapon. I could not shoot. The black could see I was no threat and he evidently had no wish to kill me. He spoke to the woman again. She replied, the first words I heard her speak. She struggled across to where our bundle lay, kicked it open and felt inside it with her feet. She extracted one of the clasp knives. The man kept his spear raised but moved across, bent for the knife with his free hand, opened it dextrously and cut the woman loose.

  Basil had fainted. I looked down at him; blood was soaking his trousers and running freely into the sand. The blacks took one knife but otherwise left our bundle undisturbed. They retreated slowly, backing away. The woman still wore the coat. She looked like a moving scarecrow. The man kept his spear poised until they were fifty yards away, then they turned and loped off back towards the sea of spinifex.

  My mind was oddly calm as I took stock of our situation. Happily, Basil was deeply unconscious, for I had to saw through the shafts of the two spears that skewered his legs. The wood was hard and a knife was scarcely the instrument for the job. I was sweating freely by the time I completed it, losing precious moisture. I had been rough and clumsy and no conscious man could have withstood the pain. I then dragged Basil back into the shelter of the cave. My own strength was low but he had become so thin and light that I found I could manage. I laid him on the ground, placed his hat under his head and tried to make him comfortable. A laughable idea. Then I went out and recovered our bundle. On opening it I was astonished to find that it contained two brandy bottles, both almost full of water, a can of pressed meat and several large ship's biscuits. The bottles were wrapped in a shirt to prevent them clinking. How Basil had managed to conceal this cache from me and for what purpose I do not know and do not choose to guess. I brought the bundle back to the shelter and weighed it down with a rock. Then I took a tiny drink from one of the bottles, put on my cap and went to inspect the surroundings of the place where I was sure I was about to meet my death.

  No desert is as barren and without comfort as it at first appears. My scourings over this blasted landscape yielded wood from a dead mulga tree, some tufts of grey grass and the bones of an animal I took to be a camel—fuel. I dragged this back to the shelter, making several trips to complete the job. Together with the spear shafts I now felt that I could provide a fire for at least a couple of nights. Flies were attracted to Basil's wounds and buzzed around his legs and settled on them in a thick mass. But they were not the voracious creatures of before and, as the blood dried, they ceased to come in any great numbers. They were troublesome, however, and I was fearful of another swarm. It hardly mattered—Basil was certain to die within hours and I had no hopes of rescue. Still, I did not want to die choking on liquid black horror.

  But Basil did not die. His strength, greatly diminished though it was by our privations and massive loss of blood, must have been immense, for he appeared to rally from time to time, almost to regain consciousness. But the infection had him firmly in its grip and he would lapse back into babbling incoherence. Once I had to hold him down as he thrashed about. The pain from his wounded legs cut through his coma and made him scream in agony. I was astonished at the manic strength in his upper body, but the spasm was brief and weakened him perceptibly.

  The story is almost over, ending as it was bound to do. Basil is dead. His end came peaceably, almost like an afterthought. One moment his breath was rasping harshly in his throat and then there was silence. His chest heaved slightly and he was still. I could not weep. Perhaps my body is so dehydrated that it cannot manufacture tears. In any case, Basil's death seemed like a natural event, in keeping with the passage of the sun across the sky or the rising of the moon. I folded his arms across his chest and drew the blanket up to cover his face. I wish I had the strength to bury him or to make some kind of marker, but at times I can barely hold the pen. Small allowances of strength seem to come in spurts. I can almost summon them up as an act of will, but they run out very quickly, more and more quickly each time. I have not eaten for days and the water is exhausted. I am starting to feel the breakdown of my body's tissues—my eyesight is fading and my gums are pulpy; I retch and fart but my bowls and stomach are empty.

  I am dying but I am not afraid. Basil has managed it and it was always my fate to follow him in what he did, never to lead, never to do as well. That is wrong. I did not follow him down his mad paths, the insane byways of his 'experiments'. And they were insane, those plans. Now I have come to the evil heart of things and I must not shirk it. On my mind throughout our terrible ordeal has been this aw
ful knowledge. I cannot but think that this punishment has been visited on Basil for his contemplation of the cruellest, most unnatural manipulations of all. I saw notes he scribbled when he was writing his book, passages he wrote and deleted. He intended to mate his children one to another and to breed with his daughters himself. Insanity. It is better that it has ended thus. I am left with a hundred questions: I wonder why Basil's brilliant, strong mind took this demented turning that ultimately destroyed him. I wonder what happened to the children. Did 'our masters' really abduct them or did Basil obliterate them in one of the dark, destructive fits he was capable of? I will never know and this is the hardest thing about death—to be prevented from knowing what happens next. A mundane observation but a true one. The almost-dead do not lie.

  This shelter is very dry. I suppose it rains here but to judge by the landscape this must be an infrequent occurrence. Our bones will lie undisturbed for many seasons, perhaps forever. Of the fate of our spirits, I dare not think. With an effort of muscle and will I can manage to cut a section away from the oilskin and wrap the journal in it. Then I will bury it beside my brother's head. I think I have enough strength left to scratch an arrow on the rock above the spot.

  I can hear his laugh as I write these last, conscientious, words. He has killed me as I always knew he would. There is one bullet left in Basil Craft's pistol.

  41

  Vic Bright lay on the bed in his room in the Grand Northern Hotel in Alice Springs and stared at the ceiling. The events of the past three days were clear and sequential in his mind now, although he realised he had spent a lot of the time in excited confusion. After Hawke had returned to camp to summon the technicians, they had restaged the discovery of the rock shelter and the journal. Bright had managed a statement that was short on coherence but long on excitement and the thrill of discovery. Then they had left the site, leaving the skeletons, the pistol and the other relics as they had found them, taking away only the journal.

  They had proceeded to Alice Springs via the Henderson bore and it was there that Bright had received the note. It read: 'CONGRATULATIONS MR BRIGHT. PLEASE BOOK YOURSELF AND MISS PRENTISS INTO THE GRAND NORTHERN HOTEL, ALICE SPRINGS, AND AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS. MAKE NO STATEMENT OR ANNOUNCEMENT OF ANY KIND. MR MCKINNON IS IN EXCELLENT HEALTH.'

  Bright had shown the note to Marsha and Hawke. Marsha gazed around the barren landscape. The bore was simply that—a deep hole in the ground with supporting machinery. It was visited weekly by a Public Works inspector who happened to be present when the party arrived. The official had handed Bright the note he said had been given to him by a truckie. Then the inspector drove off, his 4WD leaving a cloud of dust behind him on the hard gravel road.

  'How could anyone find out so fast?' Marsha said. 'We only discovered the shelter what, twenty-four hours ago? Less.'

  Hawke rolled a cigarette and lit it. The blue smoke hung in the clear, still air and Hawke fanned it away with his dark hand. 'Didn't think anything of it at the time,' he said.

  Bright stared at him. 'What?'

  'I heard Joel talking a bit funny last night. I thought they were clowning around, him and Stuart. Recording voices and that. But now I reckon they were using the radio.'

  'Shit.' Bright squinted down the road in the direction they had come. The Toyota had developed some slight engine trouble and had lagged behind. 'Where the hell are they? They should've been here by now.'

  Two hours later the Toyota, with its precious cargo of film and sound recordings, had still not arrived.

  'Spies,' Bright said bitterly. 'How'd you come to hire them, Col?'

  'They sorta hired themselves,' Hawke said. 'I got a call from the Alice. Bloke I know wondered if I had anything on. I told him I was going into the Gibson and needed a camera. Next I knew Joel was calling me. He had the qualifications. I just thought—'

  'It's all right, Col,' Marsha said. 'You weren't to know.'

  'Know what?' Hawke said.

  Marsha looked at Vic, who was squatting in the dust. His body was tight with anger and frustration. 'Someone's been playing with us,' she said. 'Ever since this thing started.'

  'I dunno about this,' Hawke said. 'Dead bodies, guns—should be reported to the cops.'

  'We can't do that,' Bright said. 'They've got Andy McKinnon and we have to play along with them. They've got the bloody films and everything. They could go out and remove the evidence. Then we could talk to the police until we were blue in the face. Probably think we were journos trying to promote a story.'

  'Who's this "they"?' Hawke said.

  Bright shook his head. 'That's what we don't know and won't know unless we do as they . . . as the note says. Col, I don't like to ask it but you've got to play along with us.'

  'S'all right,' Hawke said. 'McKinnon's paying me and I've got some more money coming. Don't want anything to happen to the boss. Besides, I can't think of anything the Northern Territory cops've ever done for me.'

  They drove into Alice Springs. Bright and Marsha booked into the Grand Northern and Hawke went to a motel saying that he intended to spend a couple of days in the pool.

  'If things had turned out right, I'd have wanted to get some film of you, Col,' Bright said. 'Maybe with some Afghans and camels. Now, I don't know.'

  Hawke slapped him on the shoulder. 'I hate camels. Don't worry about it. I'll stay in touch. You know where to reach me if you need help.'

  Forty-eight hours later, Bright had heard nothing further from 'they'. His frustration and impatience mounted to a point where Marsha found it difficult to spend more than a few minutes with him. He drank a lot and slept poorly. On the second night he awoke, shouting, out of a dream. Marsha, whose sleep had been disturbed for the second night, was sharp.

  'What the hell's the matter?'

  'I dreamed we never heard from them again. They took the bones away and that was it. Just nothing. Hey, where're you going?'

  Marsha took a pillow and a blanket from the bed. 'I'm awake and cross! I'm going to sleep on the divan, if I can.'

  Bright grunted and turned on the reading light. He picked up the journal from which he could not bear to be parted and turned some of its fragile pages. The leaves of the notebook fell loose from the dried-out binding, but the writing was clear and he had read every word. He read again now, marvelling at the story, burning to be able to tell it to the world and fearful that he would never get the chance. He fell into a fitful sleep and when the knock came on the door he felt as if he had only just shut his eyes. He heard Marsha swearing from the divan as he pulled on his dressing gown and stumbled towards the door. 'What is it?" he said.

  A piece of china rattled. 'Breakfast, sir.'

  'We didn't order breakfast.'

  'Compliments of the hotel, sir.'

  'For Christ sake open the door, Vic,' Marsha said.

  Bright did. A slightly built Asian in starched whites wheeled in a trolley carrying dishes covered with metal lids. Enticing smells rose from the trolley.

  'I don't understand,' Bright said.

  The man in white smiled and backed out. Another man, much larger, stepped around him, entered the room and closed the door. 'Allow me to explain, Mr Bright. Good morning, Miss Prentiss. I'm delighted to meet you both. My name is John Craft.'

  Bright heard Marsha gasp and the rustle as she dropped the blanket and then pulled it up to cover her body. He saw at once the resemblance between this man and Randolph Craft—they were much of a height but this man was neatly built and the coarse, overblown features of Randolph were here symmetrical and pleasing.

  'I'm sorry for the intrusion. I know this will all come as a surprise to you. I took the liberty of ordering breakfast to make the moment more civilised. I'll just step into the bathroom for a moment and allow you to compose yourselves.'

  Bright pulled on some clothes. Marsha did the same.

  'He looks like Randolph,' Marsha whispered.

  'I wish I had a gun.'

  Marsha's voice widened. 'Why?'

  'T
he voice. This is the guy who phoned Andy's flat.'

  'You're right. What should we do?'

  Suddenly, John Craft was back in the room. 'What you should do is listen. Nothing more.'

  Bright nodded and lifted a lid from one of the dishes on the trolley. He picked up a piece of toast and nibbled at it. He discovered that he was hungry and he knew that he was going to learn more of the story, perhaps all of it.

  The tall man, wearing a dark suit, his Eurasian features composed in a pleasant smile, strode forward. He poured coffee for himself and sat in a chair. Vic sat on the bed, Marsha at the table with the breakfast things in front of her.

  'As I say, I am John Craft. That, at least, is the first name I was given. I have another now. Randolph Craft is my brother, or possibly my cousin. I have some papers to establish this identity. But do you doubt it?'

  Bright shook his head.

  'We have a great deal to talk about,' Craft said. 'Would you rather I began or would you prefer to ask a question.'

  Marsha said, 'Can we tape you?'

  Craft smiled. 'I think not.' His accent was mid-Atlantic.

  'Is Andy McKinnon all right?' Marsha said.

  'He's fine.'

  'Talk, then, Mr Craft,' Bright said.

  John Craft did talk, for almost an hour. His voice was quiet and soothing and Marsha and Bright found themselves doing justice to the breakfast as they listened and asked questions. There was something about the tall man's manner, his poise and assurance that was relaxing. Craft drank two cups of black coffee. He told them that an international business organisation of which he was now the head had taken charge of himself and his siblings after the cataclysmic events at the Craft Clinic.

  'We know,' Bright said. 'You were held as bargaining chips to force Basil and Richard Craft to undertake the Australian expedition.'

  'That is a little crudely put but I'll let it stand. Basil Craft had passed into madness beyond anyone's control. The organisation had heard nothing from him for some time before he came to this country. His geological investigation, presumably, were made with his own private interests in mind.'