Angel Rock

by Darren Williams

  He approached the roo cautiously, not really a thought in his head about why, but drawn to it all the same. Flynn was dilly-dallying around behind and hadn’t noticed what had caught his eye. He was holding his watch arm up to his ear, a self-contained system with himself at the centre, a whole world within the stretch of his arms. Tom turned back to the kangaroo and immediately caught the stench coming off it. The smell was about the same as a rotten cat or dog. Tom screwed up his nose and was about to call to Flynn and continue walking when he felt the kangaroo stiffen and sense him. Not dead after all. He stopped and held his breath. They were only a foot or two away from each other. He heard the animal’s chest suck in air and then its entire body quivered, sprang upright, and reared to its full height before him. Tom stepped back and fell over but didn’t take his eye off the kangaroo for a moment. The roo’s head turned to and fro, its eyes as wide and white as a spooked horse’s. There were black and white markings on its face and it had black paws. The fur around one heavily muscled shoulder was much darker and Tom could just see the glistening edges of a putrid wound. Maybe it had been shot, he thought, but before he could think anything else the animal turned clumsily and bounded off into the bush. Tom watched it go—sat and stared into the twilight after it like a sea captain after a mermaid or white whale.

  After a moment or two he stood, his and Flynn’s predicament forgotten, thinking only of how the kangaroo had come to be injured and how it had come to be by the side of this road.

  “Wow,” he said to Flynn. “Did you see that? Did you see how big it was?”

  He looked around for his brother but the piece of road where he had been was empty; there was no Flynn standing there, no Flynn singing, no Flynn on the grass verge, no Flynn playing a harmonica. Nothing at all and nothing to be heard either. He looked up and around, as if he might be up a tree, or hanging in the air, glowing, like a small moon, but he was gone, and there were only so many times you could look in the same places.

  “Flynn!” he yelled. “Come back or you’ll get a bloody belting!”

  His shouts were swallowed up by the trees and seemed to make no impression. He stopped, listened, and thought he heard the kangaroo—or maybe Flynn—crashing down through the undergrowth somewhere, but then there was nothing except the faint sound of running water. His hands and feet went cold and when he called his brother’s name again he could barely hear himself, his voice was so hoarse, so strangled inside him.

  “Flynn!” he croaked, but there was no answer.

  He tried to think. Flynn had been behind him. He must have seen the kangaroo and followed it when it leapt away, sliding into the bush behind him and only a few yards away from where he’d been standing. It was the only explanation. He stepped into the bush, calling Flynn’s name constantly and trying to watch his step. The floor of the forest was a mess of tree litter and small scratching plants and grasses but the trees were evenly spaced and it was still possible to see quite a distance through them. Away from the road the land sloped sharply away into a gully. He pushed down through the swamp gum scrub until he was standing next to the creek he had heard from the road. Looking down its course, he saw the last of the sun sinking away below the hills in the distance. There were pools, connected by thin trickles of water, stretching away as far as he could see. The thunderstorm the night before seemed to have made little impression on the volume of water but Tom could see where the water had risen, then receded, leaving a watermark of leaves and twigs. He took a quick drink, then stood and yelled Flynn’s name again. In the distance, upstream, in a spot where there were fewer trees, he thought he saw something move. He was peering into the gloom, flicking his eyes from left to right, when he saw Flynn’s pale legs, or what he thought were Flynn’s legs, far ahead.

  “Flynn!” he screamed, and the legs seemed to stop and he was certain he saw the white oval of Flynn’s face turn to him.

  “Stay there!” he yelled, relief flooding through him. He heard a sound like a voice, but he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t the water. He raced up the creekbed, skidding across the bare rock and crunching through the beds of gravelly wash for about ten minutes until he was sure he was close to where he had seen Flynn. When he arrived there was no sign of him. Nothing at all. He sat down and struck the rock beneath him with his fist and then he burst into tears. He sat there sobbing for ten minutes or so and then there was nothing left to do but keep walking or stop where he was and give up. He wiped his eyes and took some deep breaths and reassured himself as best he could, the cold squid of panic in his belly threatening to grow and grow. He told himself that he wasn’t lost, that he could follow the creek back to the road and get help, or he could keep walking and find Flynn and they could walk out together. He licked his lips and then decided to walk. He walked for what felt like nearly an hour before he stopped again. It was pitch dark until the moon rose and helped him, but then clouds came over and soaked up its faint glow and made it so dark he could barely see his feet. He walked a little way up the slope away from the creek and crawled in under an overhanging bush and pulled his knees into his chest. He listened for as long as he could for the sounds of a small boy but heard nothing like them. He was hungry and exhausted and even though it wasn’t too cold under the bush he wondered matter-of-factly whether this might be the end of his life. Between bouts of sobbing he felt more than a little annoyed. All the questions he had about things seemed as though they would never be answered and Henry, Sonny, the rest of the world, would win. In the darkness he thought about things until he saw himself and Flynn, clear as day, as though it had already happened, standing by the road, arm out to wave down his mother as she drove by where Artie had dropped them. He saw her staring ahead through the windscreen, wrapped in the hard black skin of the car, the dust billowing up as she roared by, missing them. The sort of dust that clung to trees, bushes, even people if they stood still long enough.

  4

  After he’d finished his shower and shave Pop Mather went and sat out on the back step of the station house with a cup of tea. The morning air was already whet with a summery edge but a whisper of breeze evaporated water off his damp skin and cooled him. A butcherbird on the fence watched a dragonfly jig and jag its way over the lawn. Bees hummed in the orange blossoms. Soft new leaves fluttered in the trees like tassels and ribbons, like echoes of other celebrations, other occasions. Births, deaths, marriages. Life churned on like the will of God, but today was Sunday and it was Pop’s day off as well.

  He closed his eyes for a while, then opened them again. Nothing had changed. He put on his glasses, picked up Homer, began to read. He’d only finished a few pages when he looked over the top of the book and saw Ellie Gunn coming across the lawn towards him. He knew something was wrong by the set of her shoulders and by the way she was walking, even before he saw the look on her face. He sighed and put down his book and glasses, a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. Ellie was over thirty now and still a peach despite the hard work she was doing and all the long hours. He’d heard rumours she and Henry might have to move on soon. He knew he’d be sad to see her leave and he couldn’t say that about every soul in Angel Rock. She was one of those gentle, generous women who, as far as he could see, always went for the wrong kind of man. First Tom’s father, who’d stayed barely a month by Ellie’s side after young Tom had been born, and now Henry, who, to give him his due, had stuck around much longer and seemed to be devoted to his young feller and making a go of things.

  Ellie stopped when she was only a few yards away from him. Pop thought she looked near collapse. Her face was pale and drawn and her hair was a sight. He jumped up from his chair and took her by the arm.

  “What is it, girl?”

  “I’ve been . . . up all night,” she managed to say, gulping down air. “I thought the boys were with Henry . . . but when he got home this morning they weren’t with him. He doesn’t know where they are, Sergeant Mather. He says Artie McKinnon was supposed to . . . He didn’t want me to come, b
ut . . .”

  He could hear the panic welling up in her voice. He steered her inside and sat her down at the kitchen table. Lil heard the commotion and came and sat down and took Ellie’s hand in hers.

  “Where’s Henry now?” asked Pop.

  “He’s out looking. He’s gone to Artie’s.”

  “Right.”

  Pop got on the telephone and rang Artie’s place. Artie’s wife said that he and Henry had gone out looking for the boys.

  “If you see either of them, or the boys, ring me here, will you?” he instructed. “Thanks. All right then. Cheers.”

  “Maybe they’ve gone fishing or something,” Pop said, as he walked back into the kitchen.

  “No,” Ellie sobbed. “None of the gear’s gone.”

  “Something else then,” continued Pop. “Boys can get up to all sorts of things.”

  Ellie shook her head. Pop put his hand on her shoulder. He could smell the sweet, stale smell of her and he could feel her soft skin through the fabric of her dress.

  “Don’t worry, love,” said his wife. “I’m sure they’re all right.”

  “Yes, don’t worry, Ellie. Henry and Artie have probably found ’em already,” he said. “We’ll just sit tight for a while until we hear. What about a cup of tea?”

  They sat for an hour or two waiting for the two men to appear or call. Ellie walked back and forth beside the kitchen table and Lil fussed over her and kept the tea coming. Just after the church bells rang for the morning service Pop saw a movement through the window. Henry and Artie. He strode out to meet the two men with Ellie in his wake. He didn’t need to ask the result of their efforts. Henry, bleary-eyed, his shoulders hunched, his dark red hair unkempt, barely lifted his head to acknowledge them. Artie, shamefaced and pasty, stood just behind him, gripping his hat in his hands and playing it like a squeezebox. Ellie stared at them both. She didn’t, as Pop thought she might, cry or faint or scream. Instead, she went to the back step and sat down, hard, her eyes glassy, her body trembling. Pop stepped forward to the two men and began whispering fiercely at them.

  It was Artie who provided most of the answers to Pop’s questions. Henry stood there mutely, looking like a little boy himself despite his thick arms and sun-reddened face. Every so often he would let out a deep breath and shake his head. Pop began to feel a bit sorry for him—he knew how much little Flynn meant to the poor bastard.

  “Why’d you drop them by the side of the road like that?” he said, incensed, turning his attention back to Artie.

  “I was . . . ah . . . running late.”

  “What for, for Christ’s sake?”

  “I . . . ah . . .” Artie’s eyes flicked from Pop to the side of Henry’s head.

  “A woman, Artie? That it? Not Mrs. McKinnon I take it?”

  Artie blushed a deep red and stammered something unintelligible.

  “Sorry, Sarge,” he muttered. “Don’t say nothin’, will ya?”

  “Bloody bleeding hell! You’d better hope those boys are all right, that’s all I can say. Astonishing!”

  He spun round and headed back into the station house. Grace was just emerging from her room as he stormed past on his way to the station proper.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked him.

  “Follow me and I’ll tell you,” he said, grim-faced.

  Henry stood by his truck staring at the ground and smoking a cigarette. He looked calm but his hand shook as he smoked. He and Artie had already checked every likely place they could think of that morning without any success. Ah well, Pop thought, it’s out of his hands now.

  He walked into the middle of the road, whistled for everyone’s attention and when he had it he asked for their opinions and he listened to where they thought they should start looking for the boys. Most of what they said tallied with where he wanted them so he divided them up into four parties of six each and tried to make sure that there was at least one in each party with a little bit of sense. As he was about to get everyone going the Pope brothers, who lived out along the road to the dam, drove up in their dusty Phantom, the old thing looking like a hearse from another age, a conveyance for some puffed-up dignitary, not a runabout for two old cattlemen. They’d bought the car when they were flush, nearly forty years ago, and had never parted with it. They drove into Angel Rock for church every Sunday. Pop waved them down and they pulled up. Heat was coming off the peaked hood of the Rolls as if there were a fire parked there underneath it.

  “You should go a bit faster, get some more air past that radiator,” Pop said, leaning in at the window.

  “Won’t go too fast up the damn hill, you fool, only down, and we’re not going down are we, we’re going up!” said Reg, the cranky one, who was driving.

  “Thank you, Sergeant, we’ll keep that in mind,” said the other brother, Robert, who’d had polio as a child and could barely walk and had more cause to be disagreeable than most but never was. “What can we do for you?” he continued. “What’s all the commotion?”

  “We’re looking for some missing boys.”

  Pop leant his hip against the side of the car and looked in at them. Both were wearing their hats and threadbare suits. He knew Reg wasn’t licensed and his eyes were none too good any more. One day he’d have to take away the keys and he wasn’t looking forward to that day at all.

  “You didn’t see anyone on your way down this morning?”

  “No, sir. You see any boys this morning, Reg?”

  “No, no boys,” Reg muttered.

  “What boys are these that are lost?”

  “Ellie Gunn’s boys.”

  “Ah. How’d they lose themselves then?”

  “Walking home from the crossroads, some time yesterday evening.”

  “Well, what kind of mug could get lost doing that?” said Reg slowly, his voice scornful.

  “All right, Reg, steady on,” said Pop quietly. “Their father’s just here.”

  Reg peered past Pop at Henry and screwed up his face.

  “Ah, well, his father was a silly coot as well,” muttered Reg. “Maybe it’s in the blood. Whole family never had no common senses.”

  “Yes. All right then. Thank you, gentlemen. Steady as she goes and you might make it back in one piece. If you do see any boys on your travels you be sure and let me know.”

  He rapped on the door of the Rolls and turned away before Reg could fire a parting shot. As he did he saw Grace sitting on the step of Artie’s truck. She was watching him intently. He sighed to himself. He’d almost forgotten about her. She’d insisted on coming and against his better judgement he had given in. He found it hard to argue with her when she had her mind set on something.

  “Come on, you,” he said. She came to him, all elbows and knees. He held the door of the car open for her and then they drove down the road a distance to where his party would begin their search. When they arrived he had the four men—Harry Clough, Percy Meaney, Ezra Steele and Artie McKinnon—spread out to within calling distance of each other before setting off across the paddock. Grace stayed close by him and, as he had predicted back home, the jeans she had insisted on wearing were too tight and consequently too hot. Soon her T-shirt was soaked through with perspiration and strands of her hair were plastered to the sides of her ever-reddening face. He went to her side.

  “You all right, love?”

  “Yep. I’m all right.”

  “Drink plenty of water,” he said to her, and refilled her water bottle from the waterbag slung across his back.

  “Thanks.”

  They soon left the river-flat paddocks behind and started along a track that wound up into the hills. Pop reckoned that if the boys had taken a wrong turn they might have ended up along there somewhere, but there was no answer to their calls and cooees and no one saw any sign that they had been that way. They continued along the track for another hour before Pop signalled a rest. He refilled Grace’s water bottle and then he climbed up onto a little rise, took out his binoculars, and scanned the valle
y. Away across the river he could see one of the other search parties and further still, down to the south, the sun twinkling off car windscreens in Angel Rock’s main street. He put down the glasses and rubbed his eyes and muttered a quick invocation to St. Anthony and any of his mates who were handy and had nothing better to be going on with.

  By mid-afternoon Grace was nearly spent, but she hid it from her father as a matter of honour. She followed him wearily in under a stand of tall gums. It was cooler in their shade and she immediately felt less faint. She glanced behind her to see if there was any time for a rest before the other men caught up. They were fairly close behind and she sighed inwardly. The six of them were walking in single file across the spur because the bush on each side was too thick. The man immediately behind her, Mr. Meaney, a stocky farmer with very crooked teeth, gave her a shy smile but it was the man following him whose eyes she saw flick from her bottom, up to her eyes, back to her bottom again. She turned and stared at her father’s back. Two words sprang into her head and jigged around like butterflies. He’s looking. He’s looking at me. Darcy’s father. Mr. Steele.

  Her bottom suddenly felt enormously big and round and she tried to walk like a boy, keeping her buttocks clenched and her hips as straight as possible. A red flush of indignation lit up her cheeks, neck, and the tips of her ears. She wanted to spin round and tell him to stop but she knew she wouldn’t.

  They crossed the spur and the bush opened out again and the track ended at a gate in a fence. A creek continued along the flat and three of the men crossed it and spread out along the opposite bank. Pop walked along the near bank and Grace saw with a start that Mr. Steele was now between her and him. She tried to count the men she could see but they kept appearing and disappearing behind trees and then she saw Pop direct her a little further out. She was about to protest, but then marched away when Mr. Steele began drawing closer. She could hear the others calling the boys’ names and she kept her head forward, watching the ground in front of her. She could just see Mr. Steele out of the corner of her right eye, although he seemed intent now on the ground before him and didn’t even glance in her direction. They continued in the same manner for a quarter of an hour until the trees became more dense and she couldn’t see him any more. She kept walking. The calling voices of the others grew fainter and finally seemed to die out altogether. She stopped and listened. Maybe the sound was catching in the trees. She started to walk again and thought she heard Pop shout, but then for a long time there was nothing. The sun dipped in behind a cloud and the stand of trees around her suddenly seemed very dim and eerily quiet. She nearly panicked then and was about to run when a man stepped out from behind a tree, just ahead and to the right of her. At first she thought it was Mr. Steele but, as her heart began thudding in her chest, she saw it was someone else, someone she didn’t recognise at all. He was long-haired and dirty and his eyes were wide. They stood, staring at each other, and then Grace heard Pop’s voice, away off to the left, calling her name. She glanced away from the man for barely a moment, but when she looked back all she saw was a brief glimpse of his back as he darted away through the trees. She ran to Pop, her heart racing and her legs trembling.