The Swan Island Connection

by Dorothy Johnston

  Olly looked up. ‘They’re practising again.’

  Anthea lifted her chin in the direction of the gunfire, to the narrow beach which, in the gathering darkness, was all that could be seen of Swan Island.

  The shot was followed, in quick succession, by four more.

  Anthea turned and looked directly at Olly, raising a questioning eyebrow. ‘Apparently there’s a special kind of snail that lives in the seagrass. It’s important because the fish, the baby whiting, eat it. Well, the lead in the bullets has been turning all the snails into males. The marine scientists didn’t know why their numbers were decreasing, so they did a study, and that’s what they found.’

  ‘I don’t suppose they’ve listened to the scientists and started firing inland,’ Olly said. ‘I heard something related to that too. There’s a huge problem with algae taking over and smothering the seagrass. The common assumption is that crop fertilizers and cattle manure are responsible, but those snails did their bit to keep it down. They live on algae. It’s their main food source.’

  ‘So we need the snails back. What are they shooting at anyway? I mean it’s hardly cut-outs in the shape of terrorists when they’re firing over the water, is it?’

  Olly made a face and shook his head.

  ‘Have you given any thought to Bobby and Max?’ Anthea asked. ‘A bit.’

  Olly withdrew slightly, a movement that might easily have been missed.

  Anthea thought that it had been a mistake to raise the issue. But she knew Chris was worried and that a solution needed to be found.

  ‘I’m sure Max would be no trouble,’ she said.

  ‘But he’s in trouble, that’s the point.’

  ‘If the gang turned up at your place, you could send them packing.’

  Olly smiled at Anthea’s turn of phrase. ‘Your boss seems to think they’ll soon be looking for other sources of distraction.’

  She found it odd to hear Chris referred to as her boss. She realised she didn’t think of him that way herself; but of course it was factually true. If Chris instructed her to do something, then she had to do it.

  ‘I don’t know much about Bobby, but I do know that his home life’s awful and he’s independent for his age.’

  Olly frowned. ‘I couldn’t take the boy on as well. I mean, I couldn’t take on responsibility for a ten-year-old.’

  ‘Oh, no. No one’s asking for that. And Bobby wouldn’t let you, anyway.’

  ‘I told Constable Blackie I’d think about it. I’ll give him an answer soon.’

  Again, Anthea found Olly’s way of referring to Chris oddly formal. She said, ‘It might be time to move inside. It’s a good thing my bedroom walls are thick.’

  Olly smiled again, fondly this time. ‘Dessert won’t spoil, will it?’

  ‘Oh no. Not at all.’

  Anthea listened with her head on one side as a last shot followed them through the sliding doors. She turned over her shoulder to say, ‘You know, Chris’s lived here for most of his life, and he’s been in charge of the station for the last twelve years. But he doesn’t have a clue what goes on over there. They never tell him anything.’

  ‘It’s a training facility for spies, isn’t it?’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’

  Olly shrugged. ‘Around.’

  ‘There’s no shortage of rumours, that’s for sure.’

  Olly related another story later, over coffee and citrus tart, which they ate sitting up in bed with the doona over their legs. A small table beside them held a coffee pot and mugs, a jug of cream and a bowl of sugar. The story concerned a rich yachtsman who’d arrived at the marina one weekend to find the sail of his ocean-going yacht full of bullet holes.

  Anthea leant over to add cream and sugar to her coffee. ‘Did he get compensation?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  They laughed, as though the idea of withholding compensation was suddenly funny, though of course it would not be to the yachtsman. Anthea knew what she did not doubt, with Olly’s warm brown shoulder next to hers, Olly’s easy way of being with her, and his way of showing by small words and touches that he liked her, and that liking grew each time they shared a meal and went to bed in the middle of it. Anthea was used to being criticised by men, but Olly never criticised her. He made her feel that what she did was right.

  Because the buildings were so close, they couldn’t avoid knowing when each other was at home. Anthea thought that Olly might be in flight from something, or someone. Sometimes a stillness came over his face, as if he was waiting for her to pry so that he could rebuff her questions. If she’d been a different kind of woman, she might have remarked to her neighbour that he never had any visitors. Then Olly would have made it plain that visitors or the lack of them were none of her business.

  Next morning, Olly watched as the small red arrow of Bobby’s kayak approached over the gold and green seagrass, amongst the play of reflections on Swan Bay.

  He knew better than to move in the boy’s direction. He waited and let Bobby come to him. He smiled, dipping his paddle in the water, while Bobby moved steadily through the morning haze. It was obvious that the boy had secrets. Olly tried to indicate by his expression that they would be safe with him, then winced at the presumption.

  ‘Where ya goin’?’ Bobby asked.

  ‘Round and round,’ said Olly.

  ‘Catchin’ any?’

  ‘Fish are protected here, young sir.’

  Bobby ducked his head in delight at being called a young sir.

  They idled, Olly pointing out a gannet and a banjo shark, the only large predator, apart from sting rays, flat enough to hunt in the shallow water. Bobby followed Olly’s finger without speaking, then lifted his gaze towards the island.

  When Olly raised the subject of Max, Bobby said, ‘I’d come and see him every day after school.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Max likes bones.’

  What dog didn’t? Olly wondered.

  ‘For a while,’ Bobby said. ‘Until I get things sorted.’

  Olly was careful not to ask what things.

  THREE

  Stuart Hocking left Queenscliff with his family. It was a solution Chris Blackie had been hoping for, without allowing himself to hope too much. When the gang had first come to his attention, he’d looked into Stuart’s background, and discovered that the family moved often. Chris felt reasonably confident that without their leader the gang would break up. Perhaps they’d re-group behind another bully, but that could take a while.

  It seemed to Chris that every day he was made aware of the ways in which his small corner of responsibility was becoming an anachronism; sooner rather than later it would be rationalised away. Administratively, it made sense to operate out of one police station based in Ocean Grove. The extra distances the officers would have to cover was a small consideration compared to savings on salaries and profit from the sale of land.

  Chris did not think he could work in another station, under a sergeant younger than he was. When he went to bed at night, he asked himself why he’d bothered coming back. Yet somehow, in the morning, he woke with renewed confidence that he still had a job to do. He did not consider it beneath his dignity to protect children and their pets. He continued to worry over Bobby and wish he could see his way clear to finding a better home for the boy, his brothers, and older sister, Sharon.

  As for Anthea, Chris had found, returning from long service leave, that his assistant had settled down in Queenscliff. She was firm friends with camel trainer Julie Beshervase, though Julie spent much of her time on the road. Added to that, Anthea and Olly were an item. That much had been obvious even to someone with as little experience of items as he’d managed to acquire.

  Of all the possible consequences Olly Parkinson might have predicted following his agreement to give Max a temporary home, the dog’s love of music wasn’t one of them.

  Olly’s piano was a recent acquisition, bought at the start of winter, when even for a man who enjoy
ed his own company, the evenings were too long. There’d been one embarrassing occasion, a couple of hours after nightfall, when he’d decided to break up the evening with a walk.

  Olly prided himself on his night eyes. He didn’t need a torch; but he must have become lost in his thoughts because soon after he’d turned around to retrace his steps, the way ahead was lit up suddenly, and he’d come face to face with a man walking a German Shepherd. The man had glared at him as though he was trespassing, though the path was a public place.

  Olly had muttered a greeting as he eased past.

  The very next day, which turned out to be stormy — rain turning into sleet that was almost horizontal — he’d travelled to Geelong to buy a compact upright piano with a lovely, subtle tone.

  It took up practically the whole of Olly’s tiny living room, but he didn’t care. It was the best purchase, apart from his kayak, that he’d made in years. Playing the piano was a treat he gave himself after sending off his daily quota to the software companies whose modest but regular contracts afforded him the means to live.

  Olly had never had any kind of music lessons. A deep shyness, coupled with a reluctance to appear ignorant, had prevented him from doing so as an adult. His parents had never had money for that kind of thing when he was a child. Olly was teaching himself from books and a CD. He practised with the windows shut and curtains drawn, not that, after the early dark of winter, anybody ever walked along the street.

  The joy it gave him to produce simple sounds, tentative or strident, was something he shared with nobody, not even Anthea. One day, Olly told himself, when he could play a piece through without mistakes, he’d invite her to listen. He knew he was a perfectionist, and that perfectionism in this case was silly, but he couldn’t help it.

  Max was different. From the first, Max seemed to understand both his temporary guardian’s pleasure and his need to set high standards. Max’s chosen position was near the cottage’s front door, since that was the way Bobby had left and the way he would return. The kelpie cross sat with his back straight and ears up; or else lay down with his head on his paws and his eyes closed. But Olly knew that he was listening.

  Max made himself as unobtrusive as possible indoors. He seldom left his rug by the door unless he needed to, and then he walked to the back of the cottage and gently wagged his tail. Every afternoon after school, Bobby took him for a long walk on his own. He never told Olly where he’d been, or what he’d done. On the weekends, they took the kayaks out.

  Olly made few rules in return for the favour of looking after Max; but he was determined to see them kept. Bobby had to go to school and do his homework. When he said he had none, Olly took him at his word.

  ‘He’s used to making his own decisions,’ Olly said to Anthea. ‘He’s probably been making them since he learnt to talk. He’s always hungry, which means his brothers must be too.’

  Olly knew by now that Bobby’s older sister worked at the bakery and that his youngest brother had just started school.

  ‘If I give him money, he’ll despise me for it. What he earns, or takes by cunning — to Bobby it’s the same thing — he feels he’s earnt. It’s the feeling that’s important to him.’

  Anthea nodded in response to these remarks. She expressed the cautious hope that they might find other ways to help the family.

  Olly walked Bobby home in the winter dusk, though Bobby insisted that he didn’t need to. Olly said that that was not the point. Sometimes Max came with them; sometimes he was left behind.

  ‘You could take some soup home for your brothers and your sister,’ Olly said one evening, careful not to look directly at Bobby when he made the suggestion. He’d learnt that Bobby hated being stared at, and that the boy responded best when Olly gave him what he called to himself ‘eye room’. He guessed that, while Bobby was neglected when it came to things like regular meals and clean clothes, he was used to living under surveillance, and that this was particularly the case when his father was at home.

  After a silence, Bobby said carefully, ‘Okay.’

  Encouraged, Olly said, ‘What do your brothers think about you coming here?’

  ‘Nothin’.’

  ‘But they know I’m looking after Max.’

  Bobby hunched his shoulders, which Olly read as a warning to back off. Up until now he’d respected the warning, but this time he pushed on.

  ‘And your sister, Sharon?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘You don’t have to put up with it, you know.’

  Bobby’s ears went red.

  ‘I’ve seen your bruises,’ Olly said gently. ‘I’ve seen —’

  ‘That’s nothin’.’

  ‘Does your Dad hit your brothers too?’

  ‘I look after ‘em.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, but it doesn’t have to be like that.’

  ‘If we went into a home, they’d separate us. And they’d take Max away.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘A lady came. From the Social Services. Constable Blackie brought her.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I asked Constable Blackie and he couldn’t promise that I’d be able to keep Max.’

  ‘I see,’ Olly said.

  He wondered if he ought to talk to Chris, or if not Chris, then Anthea, but decided that he’d wait a while. Already Max had been with him longer than anticipated, but what alternative was there that Bobby would accept? And the dog was no trouble.

  Olly knew what it was like to be on your own, to trust your own judgment over and above that of anybody else. His only chance of making headway with Bobby was to gain his confidence. Olly discovered to his surprise that he wanted to do this; he found himself, more and more, respecting both his charges. He admired their reserve and self-sufficiency, which answered to his own; though he realised that at ten he’d been a babe in arms compared to Bobby.

  Small for his age, wiry but not weak, the boy’s only real meal was the one Olly cooked for him. When Olly suggested tactfully that he bring his brothers over some time, Bobby gave him a searching look, but did not reply.

  On a stormy night, after he’d walked Bobby home, Max sat down next to the piano and began to sing.

  Max’s voice was tentative, just as Olly’s notes were sometimes, hesitant when they should be dripping with authority, then suddenly too loud. At first, Olly thought Max’s singing was the wind. When he caught the dog’s eye, they both looked away. When Olly hit a wrong note, Max stiffened. When he managed a whole passage without fumbling, Max’s voice rose in joyous lack of harmony.

  Sometimes, after Olly had finished a piece that demanded all of his attention, he sat for a second or two with his hands resting just above the keys and smelt burning petrol. When he swung around, it was only to find Max in his customary spot. The relief made his hands wet and he had to wipe them before he could resume his playing.

  One Saturday, Olly suggested paddling as far as Swan Island.

  The afternoon was golden. Bobby matched it; the light on his skin, the satisfaction of a full stomach, rounding his cheeks and making him smile.

  When they drew near to the island, and Bobby pointed at the beach, Olly shook his head. All landings were prohibited; Bobby surely knew that.

  While the boy went on staring in a kind of trance, Olly asked him mildly what the matter was.

  ‘Nothing,’ Bobby said.

  Olly was alert, listening for echoes. Bobby’s expression was solemn as they returned to shore.

  FOUR

  ‘Bobby! Hey!’

  ‘Yo,’ Bobby said into the darkness.

  ‘Over here, man.’

  Bobby stepped away from the hotel lights in the direction that the voice was coming from, into the middle of a triangle of grass and trees. The shadows of four men separated themselves from the deeper shadows of the foliage.

  ‘Good night for hunting,’ one said. The others laughed.

  Bobby spoke in low tones and briefly, giving the men the information they w
ere waiting for.

  The one he knew as Stellar, the one who’d called him over said, ‘I think we’ll prepare a little welcoming committee.’

  More laughter greeted this announcement. Bobby looked up, but was unable to make out any of the men’s faces, though he was familiar with them and had seen them in daylight. Not names though: he only knew Stellar by the name on his t-shirt and the others by the nicknames they gave one another.

  ‘Where did you say they’re leaving from?’

  ‘Edward Point.’

  Bobby glanced up at the man who’d asked the question; he was furthest away from the streetlight and most difficult to see. This man was inclined to be impatient, and though Bobby was wary of all of them, he felt least comfortable with him.

  ‘That’s good enough,’ said Stellar.

  Bobby looked up at the hotel, not the well-lit bars on the ground floor, but the rooms above, all of which were in darkness.

  ‘Past your bed time.’ Stellar handed Bobby a twenty dollar note.

  The impatient one added, ‘His babysitter’s left him and he’s all alone.’

  Bobby didn’t say thank you for the money. He didn’t see why he should thank them for what was no more than his due. In fact, he even thought of asking for another ten, but let it go. There’d be more opportunities.

  Before Bobby reached the edge of the small triangle, the men had disappeared. He walked home thinking that it wasn’t safe to keep the twenty in the house overnight. Several times he’d woken up to find his father going through his pockets. But it was late to walk all the way to his hiding place and back, and if he waited till tomorrow after school, he could take Max with him. Max would stand guard and tell him if anyone was coming. A warm feeling filled his hands and fingers to think how much he’d saved.

  Bobby looked back once at the hotel, wondering why the soldiers had chosen to meet him outside it, when there were safer places. He didn’t think they did anything by chance. He saw a dim light, then a movement behind one of the upstairs windows, and knew who’d been watching. He smiled to himself as he reached his broken front gate and made his way soundlessly around the back.