by Greg McLean
Walter Riley, a local repairman from Wills, had his arm around a younger bloke.
The young man was splashed with blood, his left arm in a makeshift sling.
‘What in blazes happened?’ Terrance left the counter and hurried over. He may have been middle-aged, but his small, wiry body was still fast.
‘I picked him up on the highway. Bloody near ran over him. I gave him some water and cleaned his wound as best I could. His shoulder’s been injured.’
Walt looked pale. He also had blood on his clothes.
‘Here, sit him down.’
Walt carried the man over to a table, and he collapsed into one of the hard wooden chairs.
‘What’s your name, son?’ Terrance asked.
‘Bruce Eckhart,’ the young man breathed.
The young bloke’s sun-baked face looked faintly familiar to Terrance. Then it clicked: he was with that group of tourists who had stopped in for lunch yesterday. He was breathing heavily, and his lips were dry and cracked.
‘I’ll get you some whisky.’ Terrance dashed over to the shelf of bottles, poured a glass of Grant’s, and hurried back. ‘Here, take some of this.’
Terrance held the glass to Bruce’s lips and the young man sipped.
‘I didn’t know where else to bring him,’ Walt said. ‘This was the closest place I knew that’d be open, and Bruce wasn’t too keen on goin’ to the hospital in Nildon.’
‘It’s not . . . that bad,’ Bruce said. Terrace gave him some another sip. ‘Just a shoulder wound. I’ll live.’
‘It looks pretty bad,’ Walt said. ‘I still think —’
‘No.’ Bruce looked ready to pass out.
‘What happened, mate?’ Terrance asked.
‘Man . . . tried to kill me.’
Frowning, Terrance looked at Walt and the repairman shrugged. ‘He hasn’t talked much, slept most of the way here. But he was mumbling about some guy, kept saying he was attacked, the guy was crazy. I dunno, I couldn’t make much sense out of it. But he must’ve been out in the desert for hours. Damn near delirious when I picked him up.’
‘Maybe he’s got heat stroke,’ Terrance said.
Bruce shook his head. He looked up at Terrance with red, bleary eyes. ‘No, it happened. And my friends . . . Oh, Christ . . . They need help.’
‘Well then, we should call the police,’ Terrance said.
‘No!’ Bruce gasped. ‘No police.’
Bruce attempted to stand. He was wobbly on his feet and he quickly sat back down.
‘Well, you definitely need a doctor,’ Terrance said. ‘I’ll call one.’
Bruce sighed. ‘Okay. But just a doctor.’ He finished the glass of whisky, the tumbler shaking in his hand.
‘Walt, can you pour Bruce another?’
Walt nodded as Terrance stepped over to the phone. He called the local doctor, who said he would be there in around twenty minutes.
Terrance hung up and called the police station in Wills.
By the time he had finished talking to the officer on duty, Bruce was slumped in the chair, asleep, the glass of whisky empty.
The mood around the fire was sombre. Everyone seemed lost in their own world – even Amber and Duncan were flat. They didn’t flirt, kiss or retire early to the shed they had shared the previous night.
Only Mick seemed upbeat, even jovial.
‘Why so glum?’ he said, drinking from a bottle of Swan Lager. ‘I’ve seen livelier corpses!’
‘I guess we’re just not in the mood to party,’ Amber said.
They had moved dinner inside the large shed when the rain started, even shifting in the fire drum to keep them warm. Jewel thought an indoor fire an odd idea, especially when the men decided to carry the drum still flaming, to avoid having to relight it. Although putting it by the open door and sliding open the windows seemed to let most of the smoke out, the haze that soon filled the room made the food even less inviting. But while she wasn’t particularly hungry, she managed to work down a roll with some egg and onions tucked inside.
It wasn’t long after they all retired inside the shed that the light shower turned heavy, and it didn’t sound like letting up any time soon.
‘Yeah, this tour hasn’t exactly gone to plan,’ Duncan said. ‘We should be camped up at Rudall River tonight, enjoying the beautiful scenery, and Bruce should be with us.’
Mick snorted. ‘Well, I don’t think you would have been doing much stargazing tonight. It’s pissin’ down.’
The constant drumming of rain against the tin roof of the shed sounded like pebbles.
‘Maybe it’s just raining here,’ Jewel said, drawing on her smoke. ‘Maybe up north it’s beautiful clear skies.’
Mick chuckled. ‘Now that’s not very nice. You saying my place is dreary, that it attracts rain?’
‘No, not at all,’ she said, and found it hard to eliminate all sarcasm from her tone.
Mick looked at the group. ‘Who wants another beer? Akira, Chiyo? How ’bout you two?’
‘No, thanks,’ Akira said. ‘One is enough for me.’
‘Chiyo?’
She shook her head.
Mick grabbed a bottle from the stash on the floor, pried the cap off with his small knife, and offered it to Chiyo. ‘Go on, one more. You want to experience the real Australia, get about four or five of these into ya, and then you’ll be wearin’ Speedos and singin’ “Waltzing Matilda” in no time.’
Chiyo looked hesitant. Finally she nodded and took the bottle.
‘There ya go,’ Mick said, smiling.
This was the first time Jewel had seen Mick act friendly towards the Japanese couple. Maybe he was coming round to the realisation that they weren’t so bad, after all. Maybe his racism was draining faster than the beer. But Jewel had her doubts. She sucked on the last of her cigarette and tossed it into the drum. The butt was swallowed up by the flames.
‘What a night,’ Mick said. ‘Hasn’t rained like this since . . . well, I can’t remember the last time it pissed down like this. Weird fucken weather.’
Sitting a few chairs across from Jewel, Steve couldn’t keep still. He had hardly touched his hamburger and he hadn’t had anything to drink.
‘You okay there, Steve?’ Mick said. ‘Ya cold or something?’
‘No, I’m okay.’
‘You look like you could do with a beer.’
‘No, really, I’m fine.’
He didn’t look fine: he was pale, his face wet with perspiration. It wasn’t overly cold tonight, not like last night. The fire wasn’t necessary, but it was nice all the same. Comforting. Still, it wasn’t that warm inside the shed. And clad as he was in only jeans and a T-shirt, Jewel wouldn’t have expected Steve to be sweating as profusely as he was.
Suddenly, Steve jumped up. ‘I think I’ll go to bed. Night all.’
Cindy got up also, bid everyone a good night, and followed her boyfriend out into the rain.
‘Party poopers,’ Mick said with a laugh. ‘Ah well, just means more beer for us, hey?’
Nobody else laughed, except for Chiyo.
‘Is good beer,’ Chiyo said, drinking from the bottle. ‘Like Mick says.’ She giggled.
Mick grinned.
Jewel wasn’t a beer drinker – she preferred spirits and wine. But tonight, she felt like dulling the boredom.
‘I’ll have one of those,’ she said.
Mick obligingly snapped off the cap and handed her a bottle. It was cold, the glass sparkling with condensation. Jewel took a mouthful of the lager. Like most beers, it tasted like watery vinegar.
‘So, what is it you do back in . . . Japan?’ Mick said, staring at Chiyo.
Chiyo took the beer from her lips. She swallowed. ‘I work in film,’ she said, smiling. ‘I design costumes.’
‘Really?’ Mick said, eyebrows rising. ‘Sounds fascinatin’. Me, I don’t know any Japanese movies. I can’t stand readin’ the subtitles.’
‘What have you worked on?’ Duncan asked Chiyo. He sat w
ith his hands buried in his jeans pockets, neither smoking nor drinking.
‘Oh, a lot of small films you probably haven’t seen.’ She smiled, almost embarrassed.
‘Kurosawa?’ Sam said. ‘I’m a big fan of his films.’
Chiyo shook her head and took another drink. ‘No. He a dream, though.’
‘A dreamboat you say?’ Mick said.
Chiyo spat beer on the floor. She giggled. ‘No. He can be grumpy. Genius, but mean, sometimes. No, I meant I . . . Hmm, I don’t how you say . . .’
‘She want to work for Mister Kurosawa someday,’ Akira said, giving a curt nod. ‘Her dream.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Mick said. ‘That name means nothin’ to me. Give me John Ford any day.’ He laughed, sounded like a car’s engine revving.
‘I work for Mister Teshigahara,’ Chiyo said. ‘Biggest director I work for.’
‘Never heard of him,’ barked Mick.
‘Me neither,’ said Sam.
‘Good filmmaker, but make strange movies. He a nice man to work for, though.’ With a nod, Chiyo downed some more beer. ‘This Australian beer is quite nice, but I still like sake better.’ She giggled.
Jewel had never drunk sake, but she was sure it couldn’t be worse than this beer. Still, she continued to drink, listening to the idle chitchat, and prayed morning would come quickly.
‘I want to go home,’ Steve said.
Cindy took his hands in hers. ‘You’re shaking.’
‘I just want to go home,’ he repeated.
‘We can’t,’ she said. ‘We’re stuck here until the bus has been fixed.’
‘I’ll get Mick to drive me to the nearest town, then I’ll hire a car and drive to the nearest airport.’
Cindy kissed his cold hand. Her lips were warm. ‘Now you’re being silly.’
‘I feel like I’m . . . back there,’ Steve said, hunched over on the floor of the trailer. The rain was loud and never ending. The sound of it hitting the roof of the trailer was like bullets. Just like in the jungle, he couldn’t escape the noise.
‘We’re in the goddamn desert,’ Steve said, voice quivering. ‘It’s not supposed to rain in the desert. Why is it raining?’
‘I don’t know,’ Cindy said.
It was sticky, too. He didn’t mind the dry desert heat, but this rain made the air humid, like the world was one great big greenhouse.
Steve broke away from Cindy. He wiped the sweat from his forehead.
‘I know you don’t like talking about it, but hon, if you would deal with your shadows, then they would stop plaguing you like this.’
Steve stood up and paced around the old, dusty trailer. Aside from a table missing one leg and a banged-up filing cabinet, it was empty. His head brushed against the cobwebs that laced the ceiling. ‘Don’t start this again. I don’t want to hear it.’
‘If you can recognise the darkness, face up to your demons, then you might be able to start dealing with them. Conquering them.’
‘Cindy, I’m not some damn class assignment.’
‘Tell me what you saw over there. Tell me what you did.’
Steve laughed. It was a strange sound, foreign, even to his ears. ‘Oh Christ, Cindy, you don’t want to hear about it.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Well I don’t want to talk about it. I . . . can’t.’
‘Those who embrace the darker aspects of their psyche are usually the ones who can cope better —’
‘Stop it!’ Steve cried.
‘But Steve, you can’t go on like this.’
‘Like what?’
‘You’re hurting inside, and there’s nothing I can do to help you. I thought that by bringing you out here maybe you’d relax enough to start talking to me. You haven’t been the same since you got back from Vietnam. You’ve been distant. All I want is for you to talk to me.’
Steve gazed down at his girlfriend.
He loved her with all his heart, he really did. He knew she only wanted to help him. But he was beyond help. What he had seen and done couldn’t be unseen or undone. They were a part of him now.
She wanted him to face his darkness? If he did that, he’d be swallowed up by it and become a raving lunatic. Hell, he was barely keeping hold of his sanity as it was.
Steve sat back down on the sleeping bag and Cindy draped an arm around his shoulders.
‘I love you. I’m here for you. You know that, right?’
Steve nodded. He opened his mouth to begin talking.
Instead, he started crying.
‘There, that should do it,’ the doctor said. ‘Change the dressing every couple of days, and if the wound looks at all like it’s infected – pus, redness around the perimeter, extreme tenderness – then go to the hospital right away.’ A large, big-bellied man with furry eyebrows and bad breath, he clicked his tongue and added, ‘I really think you should go to the hospital, though. Stay a few days.’
‘No,’ Bruce said, still feeling drowsy from the three glasses of whisky. ‘I’m okay. I just want to . . . get going.’
‘You said you’re a tour operator, right?’
Bruce nodded.
‘Outback tours?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, I’m afraid that’s out of the question. You’d be a fool to go touring around the desert in your condition.’
‘I have a partner. He’s waiting for me back at . . . down the highway a bit.’
‘Even as a passenger, I wouldn’t advise going anywhere that’s too remote. Not with your shoulder the way it is. And you got a lot of sun on you. You’re dehydrated.’ The doctor turned to Terrance. ‘Get the bloke some water – he’s had enough whisky.’ He gathered his things as Terrance scampered over to the counter. ‘Well, that’s about all I can do here. If you don’t want to go to the hospital, but you’d like a check-up, my practice is in Nildon. My address is . . .’
Bruce tuned out while the doctor told him the address. He bid farewell to the fat doctor with the stale breath, and once he was gone, he turned to Terrance, more animated. ‘Okay, so who’s going to drive? We’ve wasted enough time. We got to get back and help my friends.’
Terrance turned to Clapper, the chatty Aboriginal man Bruce remembered meeting in the roadhouse the day before. He’d come in shortly after the doctor. Bruce knew he was lucky to be sitting here. He had only found the highway thanks to the mess of broken beer bottles he had stumbled across; they were like glass breadcrumbs that told him he was close to the road – the tour group’s shooting practice may have inadvertently alerted Mick to their presence, but its remnants had also saved him from certain death. Walt, the good Samaritan who had found him staggering down the highway, had left, saying he needed to get home to his wife and three-month-old baby daughter.
‘What?’ Bruce said, when neither man responded. ‘You mean no one’s going to help me? You don’t believe me?’
‘Back where?’ Terrance said.
‘To the mine. The others . . . This guy Mick . . . he’s crazy.’
Terrance frowned. ‘Mick?’
‘Mick, the mechanic. We . . . Our van got a couple of flats, he towed us back to his mine, but this morning, he drove me out into the desert . . . I thought to go to town, but . . . he went crazy and tried to kill me.’
‘Jesus,’ Terrance said.
‘We can take care of Mick ourselves. But we have to hurry.’
‘Mick?’ Clapper said. ‘You mean Mick Taylor?’
Bruce looked at the Aborigine. ‘You know him?’
‘Mick Taylor?’ Terrance said. ‘Nah, he wouldn’t hurt anyone.’
‘The man who attacked you, he a tall fella?’ Clapper said, stepping up to the table.
Bruce nodded.
‘Looks rugged, hair like a younger Elvis?’
Bruce nodded. ‘That’s him.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ Terrance said. ‘I don’t know Mick all that well, but he’s always come across as nice enough. A bit odd sometimes – he always has the same for lunch: a pin
t of beer and steak and chips. I mean, he can be a bit dark sometimes, but still . . . You said he attacked you? Tried to kill you?’
‘Yes,’ Bruce said, getting impatient.
‘Well, if Mick is as dangerous as you say he is . . . and he has guns and stuff —’
‘So?’ Bruce scoffed. ‘We bring more guns. More men, more firepower.’
Bruce wasn’t normally the violent type. He wasn’t a make-peace-not-war hippie or anything, but he never went looking for a fight. He preferred drinking and chasing girls to brawling. Still, he couldn’t help the fire that blazed in his belly – the desire for revenge was so strong in him he could taste the smoke.
‘You should really stay here, Bruce,’ Clapper said. ‘Have another drink of water and just relax.’
Bruce was mystified. Hadn’t these men heard what he had been saying? Didn’t they get that Mick meant to harm his group of friends? He looked up at them. Had he misjduged them? What if they were in on it with Mick?
Their faces told Bruce that they at least knew something he didn’t. There was something they weren’t telling him, and when Bruce considered their reluctance to act, it dawned on him.
‘You called the cops, didn’t you?’
Terrance didn’t speak, but his face told Bruce the answer.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Bruce groaned. ‘I told ya not to. Why did you do that?’
‘Why?’ Terrance huffed. ‘Because you said a man tried to kill ya, that’s why. What else did you expect me to do?’
‘Why don’t you want the cops anyway?’ Clapper said. ‘I don’t get it. If your friends are in trouble, and you want to help ’em, what’s the problem?’
Bruce sat back in the chair. His shoulder was still sore, but at least the painkillers the doc had given him helped take the worst of the pain away. Maybe he was being an idiot. He and Duncan had become so used to avoiding police, not wanting to attract undue attention that might reveal their illicit cargo, that he hadn’t stopped to consider that by involving others he might be putting lives in danger. The police would have enough on their plate dealing with Mick – they’d have no reason to search the Kombi.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Bruce said. ‘I guess I wanted to deal with Mick myself. It’s silly, I know.’