Hello? Nothing. Halloo. Nat stopped. Something weird about his head. Neck angle, maybe? Please, halloo. She took two small steps. Oh God or gods. Something was wrong, very wrong. Step. Such force in stillness, almost charismatic. Not charisma. Her face burned with the realisation, my God, this man’s charisma had dissipated some time earlier. She knew, as though seeing death was the most natural thing in existence. Away spun her mind, it was weird, her death-recognition must’ve developed that week, shit, from all those TV crime shows she’d been watching, death after death. Step. Stop. I’m frozen here. She was now five steps from it. Him. So many bodies she had seen, but this one real. This one looked more plastic than any of them. Fuck. She wanted to touch it, touch him, and also didn’t want to. Her hand extended and withdrew as though conducting thunder in the syncopated sky.
Shit, she thought. Storm’s coming and deadman’s here. She should take him, but how? How without touching him? Freaky, as though death could rub off, as though you could get some on you. She couldn’t touch him, she couldn’t, plus there was the whole don’t-disturb-the-crime-scene thing. Step forward, step back, stop. No reception on her phone of course, this was a given, because now she was in this crime show, her show, maybe her show. Anyway, no phone reception meant no story and this, Nat was sure, was definitely story. She was still holding the useless phone. But oh yeah, not entirely useless. She crouched and took a photo of him, of his pallor. Fascinated, she was, but that wasn’t the right feeling. Terrible, to photograph his dead body. She held the phone towards him and tapped the button again. Sea was in the background. Hair whipped across her cheeks. She looked at the image on her phone. Evidence of something, she assumed. But there were no wounds visible in her picture or on the (his) body. She had started to look. Now she crouch-walked around the rock pool, around the body. Tap, tap, pic, pic.
The phone’s memory ran out. What else? She opened the photo app and deleted, what, ten pics of Amy. Enough? This was weird, deleting photos from the real world. She felt annoyed with Amy, who’d taken her phone and snapped off about eighty-eight selfies when Nat had asked her not to. Don’t be a spoilsport, said Amy, still posing. Nat’s annoyance resonated at this strange moment.
There was a scratch on the man’s left arm, ridged pink against paleness. Not a death-wound, Nat thought. She zoomed in on it anyway. What if he had been bitten by a stonefish? Did they live in rock pools? Did they bite? She tried to think. This wind was intense. Whitecaps from here to the horizon. She looked at the man’s glass eyes. Clouds in them. I have to tell someone. No bars on her phone. She began to walk – what else could she do? She looked back as if it would start to make sense after all and he might get up and stop being plastic and glass and TV, but he didn’t and he stayed where he was.
Here, perhaps, was the way up, yes, scramble through undergrowth and get to a ridge. She did it, ignoring her toe and the wind and a thousand scratching bushes. She was perspiring with effort. Over her shoulder she could see him. More thunder now and then. From this distance he wasn’t a man. Up, up. From the top she couldn’t see him and she found herself on the edge of a golf course, still in bushes. Someone called, Fore! Stop, she said, stop.
A ball bounced past and she could see a man and a woman approaching on a little cart. She stepped out. Deadman, she said. Dead. She must have looked wild. Stop, said the woman, who wasn’t driving. The man stopped.
Now, what’s happened? said the woman. You seem upset.
Deadman, said Nat. She held her phone towards them, the photos. Look, a deadman.
He might not be, said the woman, squinting.
Yes, he couldn’t move. He is dead.
Is he near? Shall we phone the police? the woman asked.
Yes, phone the police, said Nat. She had thought she might do this on her own, see something no one else could see, solve the case.
Would you like some water? the man asked.
Okay.
Give her tea, said the woman.
Tea? asked the man.
Okay.
With sugar, said the woman.
Okay, said the man. He poured milky tea from a silver thermos into the red plastic cup that doubled as its lid, and stirred in several spoons of sugar. Nat sipped. It was sickly, foul, but not too hot so she took another gulp.
Did you do it? the man asked, keeping his eyes away from her, as though it had just occurred to him that second.
What? Me? Oh God no, no, he was already there. I came around the corner and he was there, she said.
As if this wasn’t going to happen, she thought, now I’ll be the suspect for hours. She stared down at the ground, at her feet.
The woman was on her phone, saying Dove Head golf course and distressed young woman, not sure, didn’t see it myself but she has photos, she showed us, she says he’s dead, couldn’t tell, just photos, yes we’ll wait with her. No, she doesn’t have any weapon, she has nothing, no bag, nothing. Not sure of state of mind. Could be anything, I’m no psychologist, wouldn’t guess. What? I’ll ask.
Do you need a doctor, sweetie?
No, it’s stopped bleeding. Just need to wash it.
What?
Nat showed her the injured toe. See.
Maybe a paramedic would be good, said the woman. She’s kind of confused. Or confusing, anyway.
Nat took a last gulp of tea and showed her empty cup to the man. Good-girl moment.
More?
Okay, she said. Tea, she never drank tea. How funny. This one she drank fast. Three gulps, gone.
Steady on there, said the man. Why don’t you sit down?
Okay, said Nat, almost toppling backwards in her cooperation. She sat. Some time passed. She could hear a siren and she saw police running across the golf course.
He’s down there, she told them. He’s in a rock pool.
Can you show us? said the first cop.
Nat tried to stand up but her legs had stopped working.
Here, lean on me, said Cop Number 2, hoisting her upright.
You take it easy, said the man.
Nat took one moment to realise he was speaking to the police, not to her.
Thanks for your trouble, said Cop 2, also not addressing Nat. We’ll take good care of her.
So, said Cop 1, where we heading?
Down, said Nat.
Light rain was falling steadily now. Nat felt as though she could sense each tiny drop on her face, and all the drops cohering. So sensitive.
Is there a path? asked someone.
No, just go that way, Nat heard herself reply, or probably herself. She took a few steps towards the scrubland she’d climbed through maybe half an hour earlier.
Path? asked Cop 1.
Dunno, she said.
She sustained several more scratches. Toe wasn’t bleeding.
From the ledge where they now stood, the man’s body stood out like, eeuw, sashimi against the deep maroon of the rock platform. Terrible to think that. She tried to think something else. He might get up. Waves broke around it. Him.
I’m calling in a chopper, said Cop 2.
Yep.
Her hair was wet through, and the cop’s, who held the police hat in her hand.
You hearing this? Over, said Cop 2.
Loud and clear. Over, said a voice, neither loud nor clear.
Nat laughed.
Shhh, said Cop 1.
We’ve got one suspected deceased, said Cop 2. Cause unknown. On platform below Dove Head, near the point. Request chopper. Urgent, incoming tide. Request Forensics.
Have a code 33, request chopper, request CSSB. Over.
Suspected 33.
Roger that.
Roger, said Nat.
Shhh, said Cop 1, again.
Okay, maintain your location. Sending it, rasped the voice. Over and out.
Out.
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Okay, said Cop 1, once the helicopter arrives, we’ll be taking you in to the station.
Me? Why?
Take your statement. All very standard.
Why?
No, no. We ask the questions. You answer.
Wait. I have to wait for the rescue. What if they need help? We have to go down.
No, said Cop 1, resting a hand on Nat’s shoulder.
No, don’t touch me, said Nat.
She twisted away and began to climb down.
Stop, said Cop 1. Stop immediately.
I have to, said Nat, not stopping.
I’ll have to arrest you if you continue. I’m telling you to stop. You must comply with my reasonable directions in the interests of your own safety.
No.
Nat had put five or ten metres between herself and the police officer.
I’m warning you. Last warning, said the cop. This is a declared crime scene.
I don’t think so, called Nat over her shoulder. I don’t see why you should decide these things.
Ed, said Cop 1.
Don’t worry about it, said Cop 2. Nat, please stop, please. But if you go, take care as you climb down. It’s raining. It’s slippery.
What the fuck, said Cop 1.
I know. Sorry, said Cop 2. You can see the state she’s in.
All the more reason. Jesus. How are we going to get her back up?
It’ll be okay. I’ve seen these before.
Me too, but I draw different conclusions.
Nat climbed down, turning away from the heaving ocean, backwards, so bushy here, so many ferns, and made her way towards the rock pool. She thought she could hear a helicopter though it wasn’t yet in sight. She looked around, at the two blue figures zigzagging down the cliff, ignored them, began to wave her arms overhead like an air traffic controller.
The cops arrived.
That was silly, said Cop 1. You could have fallen. Now we’re going to have to climb back up.
A huge wave crashed over the platform, soaking the three of them, dislodging the dead man, now in the middle of the pool.
I’m going to have to secure the body, said Cop 1. You can look after [gesture], seeing as you’re the reason we’re down here.
Cop 2 gave a glare. The helicopter came low and loud over the cliff. Megaphone asked, You clear to secure the deceased?
Secure, thought Nat.
Cop 1 raised a thumb. A wave sent foam high above them.
Come on, shouted Cop 2 to Nat – why was he shouting? Let’s watch from a bit higher up.
I want to go in the helicopter, said Nat. I found him. I want to go with him.
No. It’s full, shouted Cop 2. But we’ll drive you in.
How do you know? She didn’t trust anyone. Sort of. They’d retreated maybe five metres. A wave knocked Cop 1 over.
Whoa, said Nat. That was a big one.
Cop 1 tried to get up, but fell again, very hard. There was lightning, and Nat had the idea that the lightning had knocked the blue woman over.
Whoops, said Nat.
A rope dropped out of the helicopter.
Retrieving two, said someone, or maybe it was just her thought.
Wait here, shouted Cop 2, taking a few steps through the swirling air towards his unmoving colleague.
Stay back, came the megaphone. Retrieving two only.
Let’s go, it’s too dangerous here, Cop 2 shouted.
No, said Nat.
Don’t make trouble, shouted Cop 2, trying to take her arm.
Nat was stronger than she looked. She twisted away and ran a few steps onto the rock platform.
Stay back, repeated the megaphone from the sky.
An orange shape now dangled from a rope. There was so much noise. Nat took a couple of steps towards the rock pool, which was still frothing from the last wave. Cop 1 hadn’t moved since the fall.
Step back now. Danger, you are in danger, said the megaphone.
I’m going to help, said Nat into the sea spray.
A force hit her, and she fell.
What the fuck are you doing, the cop’s voice shouted into her ear.
I’m helping, she said, perhaps too quietly to be heard.
A wave crashed over them, and she was scratched and bleeding everywhere, that’s what it felt like, the blue man still gripping her.
Get off, she said. She lifted her head but Cop 2 wasn’t letting go this time.
To her right, the orange shape had become a man, and he was harnessing the limp blue shape of Cop 1.
Come on, said Cop 2. Fuck.
He had her by the collar. She tried to hit his arm away, but no effect. The next wave’s parabola was steeper, and they were soaked again, but at least not flattened.
Come on, said Cop 2 again. Nat had stopped resisting.
Blue and orange shapes ascended into noise above. The rock pool was empty. Over her shoulder, Nat glimpsed what might have been someone or something swimming or floating into the angry jade ocean.
His Boots Move Forward as the Ground Stays Still
With each step along the white, crusted-clay bush track, dust exploded in a small way around his ankles. The boy, perhaps eight years old, could feel the movement of the dust particles. It was so frigging dry. He heard someone say that in a movie and thought it sounded cool. It is so frigging dry. Yeah. This is what the kid was thinking: frigging dry and frigging hot and frigging trees. Kids are funny, how they believe in transformation, how they have faith that they can transform themselves. They squeak out in their little voices the same muscular, perspiring phrases they’ve heard some rasping, deep-voiced actor boom out in a high dramatic moment, and in their heads it sounds exactly as effective and authentic. Out loud the boy said, ‘Frig this heat.’
The sun, directly overhead, heated the track to a shimmer, as it sloped through the trees and sparse undergrowth. The boy swiped at a couple of flies with no real intent. He wasn’t that murderous – no, really. He didn’t care what the flies did, as long as they stopped bugging him. He was a pretty good kid, for a kid. They were eucalypts, those trees, and a half-decent botanist could have narrowed the boy’s position down to a within a state or habitat or altitude by identifying which species had lasted beside that path. Nothing alpine, that was for sure. The kid, obviously, had no clue about eucalypt species. All kids are clueless about everything.
For example, the kid thought that ‘frig’ derived from ‘refrigerator’, so that ‘frig the heat’ meant something like ‘refrigerate the heat’. That etymology explained exactly what he would have liked his imitation-actor words to do and made perfect sense to the kid with his cluelessness about what was sense and what was nonsense. It pleased him for a moment, that heat could be mechanically cooled at the utterance of three words. Yeah, he thought to himself, doing that self-barracking thing he had to do, spending so much time alone.
The boy switched from thinking about frigging or fridging the heat to thinking about his feet. He was watching the tips of the big boots kicking forward through the dust. Step, puff, step, puff. The boots. Hoo-boy, there was no way on this planet that he was going to turn around and go back where he’d come from in those boots. Ha-ha to the old man. Or just Ha! The boots kicked forward of their own will, without him causing their movement, so it seemed to him. These were one-way boots. He was thinking about how although his feet stayed clearly in view and the ground seemed to disappear behind him, he knew it was the ground which was keeping still while he was moving further and further from the old man’s hut. His brain insisted upon the truth despite the false evidence of his eyes. Yeah. That was a revelation or an insight.
The heat was bothering him, and his lack of preparation wasn’t helping. Not that he could have prepared himself much better. There was no time. And there was that other kid thing, that kids never pr
epare anything for anything. The old man had often claimed to be prepared for any eventuality. That was the thing about old men. They were very sure of themselves for no reason. Every step the boy took proved how wrong the old man was.
The boy remembered water because he was thirsty and there was no water to be seen. Don’t think of water, he told himself, which was useless advice as he was already thinking of water and couldn’t stop. He listened out for the sound of a creek, and for a moment mistook the hot wind rustling hot trees for water, but it wasn’t, and on he went, stamping the dust into the air with each boot swing.
Swing-stomp. Swing-stomp.
He pictured himself from outside, as though he were in a cartoon on the television. There was a small boy trudging along a rocky path. His boots were way too big and he was wearing a camo hat. For a quarter of a second he could have been a hero army boy, taking after his dad or his uncle. But he wasn’t. He was too dusty and there was no one to ruffle his hair at the end of the march. That television with its cartoons was the best piece of furniture in the hut.
He concentrated on the wide, sun-bleached path. He looked like he was striding out, at pace, but given the size of the boots relative to the size of the boy he couldn’t have been. If he’d tried to walk quickly-hut-hut-at-the-double he’d have fallen out of the oversized boots, whoosh, somersault, limbs in all directions and boots flying either side of the burning path. Yow, yow, step, step, trying to grab the boots, sharp rocks and hot path, but he’s got them back, even though they hadn’t come off. And at that pace, his cap, also several sizes too large, would have unscrewed itself from his head and thwapped onto the ground, traced a two-thirds arc around its rim and sagged into the dust like a soccer ball which had given up on life. The boy would’ve had to turn around like some huge slow beast to go and retrieve it, the dust angling away from his skidding great boots.
He didn’t speed up and he didn’t trip. Step after loose-booted step, the boy stayed upright and held his momentum – he had two kinds of impetus, from his pace and from his determination never to see the old man again. He had his rhythm and he stuck to it. It worked. The shaky old camo cap never tipped off. His eyes remained shaded, unlike his forearms and his back. He was parched and kept wishing he’d thought to bring a water bottle. Maybe the path had once been a dried-out riverbed. He had no way of divining water. (Also: no bucket.)
When I Saw the Animal Page 15