‘Sometime in the night. She vanished from the nursing station.’
‘Wasn’t someone keeping an eye on her?’
‘The town doctor. He said he fell asleep, and when he woke up she’d vanished.’
‘Didn’t they look for her?’
‘Apparently. Did a huge search all around the town. Even put the flying doctor back in the air to search, but couldn’t find a thing. No one saw her go, no one heard her go. She simply vanished into thin air, and so did Butcher’s problems.’
‘Very convenient.’
‘Sort of.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was the end of his career. Not only was he responsible for bringing her here in the first place, but he was in charge of the search. A few people reckon he never meant to find her, if you know what I mean. No one could prove anything against him, but in the police that sort of thing stays with you, and he’s stuck as a sergeant in Port Barren for the rest of his time in the force, that’s for sure.’
‘It still seems pretty strange.’
‘What does?’
‘Why kill your career to get rid of a refugee girl? The worst they could do would be to give Butcher a slap on the wrist. Why would he get rid of her?’
Cameron shook his head. ‘No idea.’
They sat silently while Jamie turned the story over in his head, trying to put it all together. It didn’t add up – Butcher’s continuing interest in the old wreck, even now, six years later, or the fact that no one in the town was game to ask about what really went on that day.
‘There must be more to it.’
Cameron gave him a suspicious glance.
‘You said you wouldn’t mention this to anyone.’
‘Yeah, but think about it. Nothing makes sense. Butcher might be a thug but he’s not stupid. Why’d he bugger up his whole career for no reason? It doesn’t add up. There’s got to be more to the story.’
The expression on Cameron’s face revealed his discomfort.
‘I wish I hadn’t told you. Forget it, eh? There’s nothing more to find out, and if there was, there’s no one who’ll tell you any more than I already have.’
Jamie ignored him, thinking again through the events surrounding the derelict boat. Butcher had something to hide, that was for sure. Obviously, it was to do with the girl that they’d found, something she’d seen, or known, but what?
They sat in silence for a long time. Overhead, the sun was starting to drop slowly towards the horizon, and the sky took on the first pink tinges of sunset. It didn’t get any cooler though. The wind still blew hot from the desert and whipped up flurries of red sand around them. Images and sounds drifted through Jamie’s mind, like distant echoes, fragments of half-remembered events from the past.
Finally Cameron hauled himself slowly to his feet.
‘I’ve gotta go. Mum’ll be wondering where I am, and she’s gonna kill me anyway for missing my correspondence classes.’
He stretched his hand towards Jamie and heaved him upright.
‘You know what I reckon?’
‘What?’
‘I think something else must have happened on that boat. Something Butcher wants to hide.’
Cameron shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But even if there is, I don’t see how you’ll find out about it.’
‘Easy.’
‘How?’
‘Ask someone who was there.’
‘Butcher? You’re nuts.’
‘Not Butcher.’
‘Then who?’
Jamie looked at Cameron.
‘McPherson.’
fourteen
It was only five-thirty and the pub was quiet.
Jamie stood on the far side of the road looking at the tin and fibro building. He knew the Port Barren pub wouldn’t fill until later. Most of the men in town would go home and have dinner before heading out for a couple of beers.
He was alone. Cameron had gone home to face his mother, unimpressed with Jamie’s suggestion of speaking to the cop.
‘You’re mad,’ had been his response.
Nothing Jamie said could convince Cameron that it would be worth talking to McPherson, and in the end Cameron had headed off, leaving Jamie to wander home to Archie’s place.
He hadn’t planned to find McPherson, not right away in any case. As he wandered past the pub though, the idea nagged at him until he stopped, leaning on a dusty four-wheel drive and looking thoughtfully at the old shed on the other side of the street.
The Port Barren pub was what used to be called a nissan hut – a long structure with a corrugated iron roof which curved from ground level on one side smoothly across to ground level on the other. It looked a little like a giant water tank, cut in half and laid over on its side. Near the peak of the arched roof an ancient air conditioner wheezed and spluttered, fighting a losing battle against the continuous dust and heat.
McPherson would be drinking alone inside. It would be easy for Jamie to stick his head through the door and see. Cameron would kill him and so would Lorraine, and he shuddered to think what would happen if Butcher found him heading into or out of the pub, but even so . . .
His mind made up, Jamie glanced in both directions then dashed across the dusty road.
Inside, the pub was little more than a cavernous space with a timber bar at one end. It was dark and surprisingly cool, lit only by a couple of neon lights over the bar and two ineffectual light bulbs hanging high in the roof. Standing just inside the door Jamie waited for his eyes to adapt. The place was almost deserted – only a few shadowy figures, in groups of two or three, sipped at beers and talked quietly. The atmosphere was almost like the inside of a church. At one end of the bar a familiar figure sat alone, hunched over a glass. McPherson, still in his uniform.
Breathing deeply to keep his pulse rate under control, and trying to stay inconspicuous, Jamie picked his way through the gloom.
It was immediately apparent that McPherson wasn’t on his first drink for the evening. He wasn’t so much sitting on his barstool as using it to prop himself up. Jamie stood a couple of feet behind him, trying to think of a way to approach, when the cop spoke.
‘What’re you looking at?’
He didn’t look around. His speech was slurred with drink. Jamie took a step forward.
‘G’day.’ He tried to keep his voice steady, but in his ears it sounded squeaky and nervous.
‘Piss off.’
‘I’d like to talk to you.’
‘I said’ – the cop turned slowly, and for the first time Jamie could study his face close up – ‘piss off!’
He looked old. Years of drink and harsh weather had taken their toll and his skin was weathered and leathery. Two bloodshot eyes glared at him, the neon lights over the bar reflecting in them as a red gleam. Jamie took another tentative half step.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’
McPherson swung around to face the bar again, turning his back. He said nothing and after a minute of silence, Jamie’s nerves, already stretched to breaking point, were about to crack completely. He was about to leave when McPherson’s unsteady voice boomed out again, calling to the barman.
‘Jim! Get us another.’ He waved his almost empty glass in the air. ‘This bloke’s payin’.’
The barman gave him a long, hard look as he took the five-dollar note that Jamie proffered. He knew who Jamie was, everyone in town did, but he didn’t say anything.
Beer in hand, McPherson settled again onto his barstool. Jamie rested his elbow briefly on the top of the counter, but the wood was sticky with dried beer, and he quickly moved his arm.
‘Whadda you want?’ McPherson took a long draught from his beer.
‘Just a chat.’
‘’Bout what?’
Jamie took a deep breath.
‘The boat up the beach.’
McPherson’s glass froze in mid-air, halfway to his mouth. He slammed it down, its contents splashing out, and looked around fearfully. Then he half-turned and brought his face in close to Jamie’s, his voice little more than a whisper. The smell of stale beer and spirits on his breath made Jamie nauseous.
‘You better be careful askin’ about that boat. You don’t want anyone hearin’ you talkin’ ’bout that.’
‘Why not?’
The cop looked at him as though he was mad.
‘You wanna disappear too? Eh?’
Jamie’s heart thumped.
‘Why would I disappear?’
Unexpectedly, McPherson laughed.
‘You don’t know anythin’, do you?’
He swung back to the bar, taking another mouthful.
‘I know about the girl.’
The response was instant and electric. McPherson half choked on his mouthful of beer, spewing a little onto the already soaked bar towel.
‘What about her?’ The cop was too drunk to disguise the fear and curiosity in his voice. Jamie took a wild guess.
‘I know Butcher killed her. I want to know why.’
McPherson shook his head. Suddenly he didn’t seem quite so drunk.
‘Bugger off, eh? Just get lost.’
‘I’m not leaving until I get some answers.’
‘Look.’ McPherson leaned his head in towards Jamie again. This time, Jamie backed away. ‘The last thing you want is answers. Trust me. You wanna end up dead?’
‘Why would I end up dead? What’s Butcher got to hide, eh?’
McPherson returned to his drink and tried to ignore Jamie’s presence. Jamie persisted.
‘Come on, give me a clue at least. You were on the boat with him. What happened out there, eh? What did he do?’
It was futile. McPherson had obviously decided not to say anything more. After standing and staring at the policeman for another full minute Jamie decided to leave. As he turned, the drunk’s voice stopped him.
‘Hey!’
‘What?’
McPherson clambered methodically and awkwardly off his stool, every movement painstakingly slow. He staggered across and grabbed Jamie’s arm. His voice was a scared whisper with a clarity behind his words that belied his drunken state.
‘Listen to me carefully, kid. That girl wasn’t the first person Butcher killed that day, and if you keep asking questions there’ll be another body somewhere out in the desert for us to look for. Now do us all a favour, piss off and mind your own business, okay?’
‘But . . .’ Before Jamie could press him any further, McPherson shoved him roughly away and returned to his stool and his beer. Toying briefly with the idea of pushing for more information, Jamie thought the better of it.
‘I’ll come back later. With Cameron.’
While Jamie was making his way slowly from the dark, cave-like pub, the barman, who had watched the whole exchange with interest, picked up the phone, dialled, and spoke briefly.
A few minutes later, when Jamie was almost back at Archie’s place, the police truck pulled up in front of the pub and Butcher went inside. He emerged soon after, half dragging, half supporting the reeling figure of Constable Mike McPherson.
fifteen
The ten-minute walk from the pub to Archie’s place seemed to pass in an instant as Jamie tried to make some sort of sense of everything. About the boat, the girl, and McPherson’s comments. In his mind he could picture the events that Cameron had laid out for him. It was difficult to think of Butcher as anything other than enormous, but with a little imagination he could picture him leaping across to the deserted boat and poking around. He could imagine the scene – bodies piled up and decomposing, Butcher ordering McPherson around, the boat being towed up to the Port Barren jetty, and the girl being discovered and brought ashore, nothing more than a bundle of rag-clad skin and bones, barely alive.
This was where his imagination abandoned him. He couldn’t picture her wandering off into the desert in the middle of the night. He could see her unconscious in the nursing station, with the doctor dozing outside the door, but that was it. When he tried to turn his mind to her waking up, unsure and uncertain, and creeping out into the vast, waiting desert, the image refused to come. What came instead was the trapped and helpless feeling he’d experienced while he’d been locked in the oven-hot cage on the police truck.
What had happened on that boat? McPherson’s words echoed in his memory – she ‘wasn’t the first person Butcher killed that day’. So there was another. On the boat. It was the only explanation. Butcher had to get rid of the girl, and quickly – the flying doctor was bringing an interpreter up with him. That was what Butcher was scared of.
‘Shit!’ Jamie stopped and sucked in a huge breath of dusty air. In the west, the last gleam of sunset was dying, casting a bloody scar across the sky. A dark stillness was settling – the thick, suffocating heaviness of a Port Barren night. Motionless in the middle of the road, Jamie suddenly knew why he felt so uneasy. It was the girl. It was her voice which seemed to speak into the centre of his brain at times.
The voice! The first time he’d heard it was as he hallucinated on the brink of unconsciousness in the police cage. Then he’d heard it later that same night – in his bed in the nursing station. The third time was just a few hours ago, when trapped below the decks of the boat. Was the girl speaking to him? It was insane. More than that, it was impossible. He tried to put the idea from his mind, but something told him that he was right – it was her he was hearing.
‘Don’t be a dickhead,’ he muttered. ‘What would Eddie say if you told him that a dead reffo girl was talking to you?’ It didn’t require a lot of thought.
He’d piss himself laughing and then never let me hear the end of it, Jamie thought. That’s what he’d do. Even so, as he started walking again, Jamie hadn’t managed to convince himself. Not properly. Still thinking, he turned up the pathway to Archie’s house.
The front door was open. That wasn’t unusual. Unlike the other inhabitants of Port Barren, Archie seemed to live his life unconcerned about the threat of intrusion. Initially, Jamie had found it disconcerting. At all his other foster homes there’d been locks on the doors and windows. In a couple of the houses it had actually been impossible to get outside without a key. Jamie hadn’t managed to stay in either place long enough to be entrusted with one. After a week in Port Barren, however, he’d come to terms with the fact that at Archie’s he could come and go as he pleased. And so could anyone else.
Not that anyone ever did. Visitors, invited or uninvited, were rare. So when he heard the voices inside, Jamie stopped on the porch. He couldn’t make out the words but someone was talking with Archie, or at least talking to Archie.
He let the flyscreen bang shut behind him as he entered, a warning to whoever was there. It worked – the conversation stopped. There was a moment of silence and the sound of the door echoed in his ears. Jamie stood and waited, alone in the dark passageway.
Footsteps, two or three. Quick, short and anxious. Lorraine appeared in the kitchen doorway. In the rectangle of light cast into the passage, her shadow fell in a long silhouette across the bare floorboards.
‘Thank God! Where have you been all afternoon?’
Her voice trembled with barely concealed anger. Jamie shrugged. He didn’t need this now.
‘Get in here!’
She stepped aside to let him pass into the kitchen. Archie was sitting at the old laminex table, an empty teacup clasped in his hand. Another chair stood opposite him, slightly askew, with an untouched cup in front of it. The brown liquid looked cold and uninviting. Jamie could see the scummy layer of skin that had formed on top.
‘Sit down.’ Jamie would have prefer
red to stand, but it was a command, not a request. Something in her voice made him obey. Lorraine remained on her feet. She paced for a couple of seconds, her footsteps ringing hollow on the bare floor, before she rounded on him.
‘Have you any idea how many people have been looking for you this afternoon?’
Jamie shrugged. All he felt was an overwhelming weariness.
‘I’ve been worried sick. So has Mr Scott. So has Archie.’
Jamie’s silence infuriated the social worker.
‘Say something, for God’s sake. At least tell me where you’ve been. Please.’
Her movements were agitated and seemed strangely out of character. Jamie watched her pace up and down – flicking strands of hair from her face as she moved. Her anger was genuine – no doubt about that. He wondered, though, whether she was concerned about him, or about what he might have discovered. In any case he had to say something.
‘Sorry.’
‘Sorry? Do you know what you’ve put me and Archie through this afternoon? I should hope you’re sorry. That’s the least I’d expect. But it’s not enough. Where’ve you been?’
‘At the beach.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Messing around. With Cameron.’
Lorraine stopped, mid-pace. Her expression seemed to change slightly; perhaps it softened a little.
‘I went to the school this afternoon. Mr Scott told me you’d gone home sick.’
‘I did.’
‘Then why didn’t you come home?’
Explaining seemed too difficult. Jamie shrugged.
‘Jamie?’ Lorraine looked at him.
‘I started to. I just got . . .’ He struggled to find the word ‘distracted’. He didn’t want to lie to her. That could end up creating more problems in the long run, but he wasn’t ready to tell her the truth either.
In any case, his half-answer had some effect. She sat heavily on the other chair, her hand closing instinctively around the mug of cold, scummy tea. She made no move to drink it.
‘Jamie, you know how much is riding on your behaviour here. Do I have to remind you?’
A New Kind of Dreaming Page 9