by Anna Krien
‘Mum,’ Robbie called out as they crossed with a small crowd. ‘Mum!’ On the other side, Claire stopped. ‘Mum,’ said Robbie, ‘there’s no way he could’ve walked this far. How would he have even crossed here?’
Claire frowned. ‘Honey, we didn’t even know he could get out of bed by himself. Just a bit more. C’mon, Robbie.’
Claire moved quickly, in and out of shops, down alleys, looking in bus shelters, pausing to tape flyers on every pole. Nathan did the other side of the avenue, disappearing ahead of them. Then Claire stopped at a small street that had a park with a playground nudged against a fence, shielding it from the train tracks on the other side. A group of homeless people were sitting on benches, surrounded by striped bags, shopping trolleys and sleeping bags. ‘There,’ she said, almost calmly, pointing at Danny. He was sitting with his back to them, his walking frame on the tanbark nearby. A woman beside him was talking loudly, nattering into her chest. Robbie was about to lunge forward but Claire grabbed her jumper, holding her back. She had her phone out. ‘No, Robbie,’ she said. ‘Sabeen should do it.’
Her mother was right. Danny had forgotten them, yes, but he couldn’t ever shake them completely. There was always the possibility they might ignite something inside him.
Claire phoned the nursing home and it was Nasim who arrived in a taxi and said hello to Danny in the playground, who held his arm as he said goodbye to his new friends, who sat with him in the patient transport, calming him with her chatter and making him feel he was returning home. Robbie stood at a distance and felt a familiar bleakness. How many times had he died now, in her heart?
In her mother’s flat, she showered, letting the hot water scald her. She slept for two nights and a day. Her mother urged her to return to Uluru, to her project, saying that she and Nathan would take care of things. They dropped her at the airport. Claire kissed her, trying not to make a fuss when Robbie let Nathan hug her goodbye.
This time, flying in, Uluru was blood red. When Robbie saw it, she felt something revive in her. Jack was on the footpath waiting, Bullant beside him. The puppy looked bigger, and he leapt all over her. Jack grinned, showing her the tricks he’d taught Bullant. ‘Shake hands,’ he said, and Bullant solemnly lifted a paw. ‘Drop.’ The dog dropped, black paws out, brown eyes on Robbie. ‘Roll over,’ said Jack. He rolled over, exposing his pink belly. ‘Play dead?’ Bullant sprang up, tail wagging. Robbie let the dog lick her as Jack shook his head. ‘He refuses to do that one.’
In the car, he looked over at her as he drove. ‘You okay?’
‘Sort of,’ she said. ‘But I’ll be okay.’ She smiled bravely, expecting Jack to smile back, but he didn’t. He nodded absently, his eyes nervous. He cleared his throat. Robbie felt a prickling on the back of her neck. ‘What?’ she asked. ‘What is it?’
‘I need to tell you something,’ he said nervously.
‘What?’
‘The community. It’s pretty quiet there at the moment.’ Jack faltered. He looked straight ahead, at the road. Robbie dipped her head, waiting for the next sentence as if it were a wave she hadn’t judged properly.
‘Why? Because of the climb?’
Jack sighed. He shook his head. ‘No. It’s sorry business.’ His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Robbie felt her breath snag. Bullant whined thinly and she realised she had been gripping the pup too hard.
‘Who?’ she said softly, releasing her hands.
The radio crackled between them as a voice came on. ‘Jack? You there?’ the voice said. Jack threw Robbie an apologetic look and picked up the radio. ‘Yep, here.’
‘Can you come to the western flank, the waterhole section? We’ve got a walker down.’
Jack pressed the button. ‘Yep, I can be there in ten. Serious?’
‘Breathing but pulse is weak. Ambos are on their way too.’
‘Okay.’ Jack put the radio back in its holder. He avoided looking at her. ‘Sorry.’
Robbie felt her blood thrashing, a roaring in her ears. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘You can drop us at the road in on your way past. But tell me who?’
Jack shoved his hand through his hair, rubbing his forehead. ‘I should have told you before. I’m sorry. I should have. But I didn’t want you not to come back.’
Robbie watched him and felt a ribbon of warmth go through her. She reached over and put her hand on his cheek. ‘It’s okay. Just tell me now.’
‘Charlie.’
Robbie jerked back. Charlie. The word was like a siren. ‘Charlie?’ Her voice sounded hollow in her ears, faraway. She saw that Jack was crying. Not heaving or gasping, just tears sliding down his cheeks, catching on his lip, a short drop to his chin and down again. Robbie thought of Uluru, how the rain curved down the rock’s features. It was just there, out the window.
‘How?’
Jack sniffed. He wiped his nose with his sleeve. ‘Used the cord on a toaster. Viv found him.’ The words were spooling out now. ‘She tried to hold him up, to keep him breathing, but he was too heavy. You know how big he was.’ Was. Jack looked at her, his eyes glassy. Robbie tried to nod. Was. She felt as though she were underwater, lying on her back, watching waves pass over her.
The radio crackled again. ‘Jack? What’s your ETA?’
Jack stared at the radio. ‘Fuck!’ he said, kicking the car above the accelerator. Bullant startled, triangle ears up.
Robbie willed herself to the surface. ‘It’s okay, Jack, it’s okay.’
The turnoff was coming up. Jack pulled over. A vein throbbed furiously on his neck. Robbie put her palm on it, felt it twitch like a bug beneath the surface. ‘Come back after? Soon as you can?’ she said. He nodded, his lips pressed together. ‘It’s okay,’ she said again.
Jack’s shoulders dropped, his face softening a little. ‘Right,’ he said, trying to pull himself together. ‘See you soon.’
Cracking open the door, she dropped her boots onto the shimmering bitumen and the heat threw itself over her.
It was quiet, walking in. She and Bullant turned a bend and saw a lizard poised in the middle of the road, neck up and long tail swishing. Bullant tore after it, and it scampered into the scrub, whipping its tail. When they got close to the community, Robbie saw a truck drive out from the gates. She stood to the side of the road to let it pass, whistling at Bullant to stay close. Two men, sitting high in the cabin, stared as they passed. An uneasy feeling came over her. She began to jog. She could only see a few cars – Bert’s red Mazda, Eileen’s ute and a couple of others up at the workers’ quarters. Then she saw the cages, the wire doors flung open, the dogs gone.
‘Bert!’ Robbie yelled as she ran over to the cages.
He was lying in the dirt, his stockman’s clothes dusty, his face bleeding. ‘Oh fuck, Bert,’ Robbie said, kneeling next to him. He moaned as Robbie patted him down to see if he was injured. ‘What happened?’
Bert moaned again and sat up woozily. ‘They came and got ’em,’ he said. ‘Knocked me over when I wouldn’t let them.’ Robbie balled the bottom of her T-shirt and dabbed at his face. She found a cut on his brow, just above his right eye. It was small, but bleeding a lot. She looked around for something better to stem the flow and spied a piece of mattress foam a few metres away.
‘What are you doing here, Bert?’ she asked when she returned.
‘The dogs,’ he mumbled. ‘I couldn’t leave the dogs.’ He looked up then, gazing at the empty cages, the ground covered with dog shit. He put his palms on the dirt and pushed himself up, standing unsteadily. ‘I’ve gotta go get ’em,’ he said. He loped sideways, shuffling towards his car.
Robbie leapt to her feet. ‘You’re still bleeding, Bert.’ He put his hand up, waving it over his shoulder, dismissing her. She beat him to the Mazda and stood in front of the driver’s door, blocking it. ‘I’ll drive,’ she said. He glared and started talking, words she couldn’t understand. ‘I’ll drive,’ she said again.
Bert narrowed his eyes, thinking. Then he shuffled to the
other side of the car, Bullant pushing past him to the back seat, tongue out.
The keys were in the ignition. ‘Where to?’ Robbie asked.
‘The tip.’
*
Bert sat forward, hands on the dash. His lips twitched, murmuring something to himself. The blood was drying, red creek beds now settled in the lines on his face. ‘Faster,’ he hissed, as Robbie sped down the road towards Yulara. Later, she had to remember everything, had to retell it to the police to the best of her ability: the cars they overtook; how she drove around the roundabout twice, not knowing which way to go; how they went past the campground and a building site, to the tip behind. She remembered each detail, but nothing of what was in her head, or how it switched from Bert to her, how he’d slumped when they pulled alongside the cyclone fence, seeing the men sitting on overturned milk crates next to a yawning hole, steadying the butts of their guns on their thighs, the truck’s tray lowered. How Bert let it go and Robbie took it up, she couldn’t remember. There were the dogs, their bodies tangled as they tumbled out, claws skidding on the metal slope, trying to get back into the truck, away from the stuttering gunshots.
It was Robbie who got out of the car. ‘Stay,’ she snapped at Bullant, the pup pining as she ran to the entrance, ducking under the boom gate. The men were cheering each hit, the dogs somersaulting, yelping, bending and twisting before landing with a thump. Robbie could see them in the pit as she got closer, some still alive and stuck underneath the others, periscope tails waving. A man stepped in front of her, a big guy with tatts on his arms, the Velcro on his orange work vest pressed together carelessly, the hems mismatched. ‘Private property,’ he said, the other men pausing their shooting. They stared at her while the dogs kept falling out of the truck, cowering in the pit, trying to climb up its sides. Robbie saw the men had beer cans in stubby holders next to their feet.
‘I said,’ the man growled, ‘private property. Get out of here.’
Robbie moved to pass around him and he stepped to the side, blocking her. She went to go the other way and he followed. His eyes bulged. ‘You want me to call the police?’
Robbie looked at him, at the red capillaries on his nose. In the hole the dogs were screaming. Sharp and constant, the sound scraped at her.
‘Listen, bitch,’ the man said, ‘we got a contract to do this. So I’ll say it one more time. Get the fuck off this property.’
Robbie was breathing fast, and the man’s face swam. She couldn’t focus on it all, only specific parts – an eye, a squarish tooth, the sunburnt cartilage of his ear.
A dog came up the side of the pit, its claws scrabbling to get a hold. It managed to pull itself up. It kept its eyes lowered and flattened itself onto the ground, trying for invisibility as it shimmied along the dirt. One of the men sitting on the milk crates got up and walked over. He kicked it back over the side with his boot. The dog disappeared with a yelp.
The sound flicked a switch deep inside her. She swung at the man in front of her, hearing a flabby thwack as she connected with his chest. He barely budged. He laughed, a grunting noise. Robbie looked past him into the pit. Dogs were writhing like maggots, their jaws fastened on one another, a swarm of pink Xs. ‘Listen, you stupid bitch,’ the man said, and she spat on him, a slag of white right on his face.
When he socked her, it was like being hit with a brick. She fell backwards into the dirt, away from the hole. Instinctively she twisted, hunching over and tucking her knees in under her ribs. She held the side of her face, the pain pulsing. There was screaming in her ears, and it was only later that she realised the sound was coming from her, a high-pitched yelping, short and sharp, just like one of the dogs.
Spirit Riders
Amos Bald Buzzard Homey lay on the ridge and lined up a shot next to the opening of the burrow. It was on dusk. The jackrabbit put its nose out, its enormous feathery ears flattening cautiously as it sniffed the air. As it hopped forward, Amos shot it clean through the head.
Back at the bus, he took out his flick-knife and cut a slit in the back of its neck, sinking his fingers in the pink. With his free hand he kneaded the hare’s flesh, cracking its bones like knuckles as he shrugged the skin off. Squatting next to the fire, Gerry fed twigs into the flames and watched Amos intently, admiring the way he coaxed the hare into reverse, his hands swift, as though turning out a sweater. Amos’s dark hair fell over his eyes as he worked. A thin silver chain rippled around his neck like a live creature. When he was done he dumped the hide in a bucket of water, which rose to splash Elliott, who had set up nearby in a plastic lounge chair.
‘Watch it!’ Elliott warned, as he lifted his sculpted, smooth legs off the ground.
Amos didn’t say anything. He cut off the hare’s head and feet, tossing them in the fire. The large ears caught alight first. Then he settled on the dirt next to Eva and slit open the hare’s belly over a wooden chopping board.
‘Ew,’ Elliott moaned theatrically, as guts started to ooze out. ‘Gross.’
Without looking up, Amos flicked the intestine out with the nib of his blade, the wet, stringy organ landing in Elliott’s lap. Elliott screamed as he leapt up, shaking the skirt of his dress. (‘It’s not blue, Gerry darling,’ he had corrected earlier in the day, ‘it’s cobalt.’) ‘That’s disgusting!’
Gerry sniggered, unable to help himself. ‘You!’ Elliott pointed a long black finger accusingly. ‘Don’t you dare.’ Gerry held up his hands, trying to stop the laughter. He almost had it under control but suddenly snorted, which set him off again, and Eva too.
All the while Amos kept his head down, shuffling the innards, separating the heart, liver and kidneys, reddish brown and thick as menstrual blood. Finally, when Gerry and Eva stopped laughing, Eva leaned over to pluck the intestine out of the dirt, flinging it into the trees.
Elliott sat back down and pouted in the darkness. ‘Tell your brother he’s an asshole.’
Eva tilted her head slightly. ‘You’re an asshole, Amos.’
‘Thanks, sis,’ Amos replied.
Amos had no time for Elliott. From the first evening, there had been an inflexible dislike between them, owing mostly to Amos. Elliott had offered his hand, swan-like, but Amos refused to take it. Since then, Elliott had upped the ante, laying on the theatrics in an effort to get under Amos’s skin.
‘You know,’ Elliott said now, swinging his ankle so that his sequined slipper dangled off his big toe, ‘every man who doesn’t like drag queens has a little boy inside of him who just wanted so badly to dress up in Mommy’s things.’
After a long pause, Amos looked at Elliott, his black eyes unrevealing. ‘I won’t be in your show,’ he said.
Elliott kicked off his slipper so that it thwacked against the chair. ‘I’d never cast you, darling.’
Eva rolled her eyes and looked teasingly at Gerry. ‘I wanna be in your play, babe,’ she said, both of them laughing again. It was cruel, but Amos’s arrival seemed to be shifting Eva and Gerry closer together, edging Elliott out of the tight trio they’d formed over the past three weeks.
Amos tossed the remaining innards into the fire. They sizzled, the guts sweating and crisping, smelling delicious. Cutting the meat into strips, Amos scraped it into a bowl with the heart, liver and kidneys. He held the bowl out to Elliott. ‘Wash this in the river.’
Elliott folded his legs. ‘No.’
Eva glanced at Gerry, the orange flames of the fire between them. He stood to take the bowl instead, but Amos snatched it away. ‘No, Elliott can do it. I been with you three for, what, two days now, and I haven’t seen him do a thing.’
‘I do a lot, thank you very much,’ Elliott said. ‘I provide plenty.’
‘What, pills and acid? Joints? You call that providing?’
Elliott fluttered his lashes, his teeth shining in the moonlight. ‘Yes, I do, and I think you’ll find, hairless birdman, I’m far more sought after than you, with your fiddly rodent.’
Gerry couldn’t help but laugh. Amos glared at him
. Gerry held up his palms. ‘Don’t get angry at me,’ he said. He put out his hand and took the bowl before Amos could move it away again. ‘I’ll do it.’
Eva scrambled to her feet. ‘I’ll come too.’
She put her hand in Gerry’s as they picked their way through the tall pines with rough, furrowed trunks. The moon cast a silvery light over the woods, the pine needles crushing underfoot. It smelled earthy. They could hear the slip of the river, where it slowed and wound its way around an ancient tumble of boulders.
Gerry stopped suddenly, and Eva bumped into him. ‘Look,’ he whispered. On a low bough, a skunk was watching them. It had a thumbprint of white fur between its beady eyes.
‘Oh, he’s lovely,’ whispered Eva. A noise snapped the dark and the skunk bounded away, its soft movement seamless, as if a marionette suspended on invisible strings.
They reached the riverbank and climbed down the round, smooth rocks. Gerry’s hands went numb in the water as he washed the meat. ‘You think Elliott will come with us?’ he asked.
Eva sat down, propping her boots on another rock. She stared at the stars and was quiet for a time. ‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘I don’t think so.’
*
The instant he landed at LAX, Gerry knew that he had gotten it wrong. It hit him plain in the face. For a year and a half he’d worked three jobs to save up for this trip, and not once had he considered the moment he would actually land in the States. Not fucking once. It was as though he’d watched a rubber band as it was stretched further and further away from his face and hadn’t thought, that’ll snap. He’d figured he would get a car and head out to Joshua Tree. He knew the highways were meant to be a nightmare. But he’d never thought it would feel wrong, being there. He’d been so convinced the trip would be the answer, the solution, that he hadn’t even thought, what if it isn’t?
Still, he went through the motions. What else was he going to do? He took a taxi from the airport to a used-car yard with a white trailer on blocks surrounded by jeeps, sedans, SUVs and station wagons. Two dogs reared on their hind legs, slobbering and yanking on their chains, when Gerry walked by. A salesman sat in the trailer smoking a cigarillo and watched through the doorway as Gerry looked around. Several cars were parked on lengths of sloping plywood. Gerry ignored them. He remembered his dad saying to a salesman years ago, ‘You trying to sell me a pregnant bitch?’ Toohey had shown Gerry how the slope was disguising the car’s sagging metal chassis. Most likely the suspension had gone to shit, he’d explained.