Angel Rock

by Darren Williams

  Gibson nodded and watched the girls play hopscotch until Pop spoke again.

  “What will you do now?” he asked, softly.

  “Go home.”

  “Good. It’s the best place to be.”

  They sat for a while longer and then Pop nudged him, indicating a man coming up the street. He was very tall, his limbs ponderous, his shoulders round and his back beginning to bend forward in a hump. He walked with a long but very slow, almost stiff-legged stride. Ezra Steele.

  When Steele saw them he stopped in his tracks and stared. Gibson stared back until the big man turned away, blank-faced, and walked to his car. They watched him as he pulled out and drove away, his head not deviating to the left or right.

  “Now there goes a man with something on his chest, Gibson,” said Pop. “One day I’ll find out what it is, and believe me when I tell you, although I lack a saint’s temperament, I have the patience of the best of them.”

  23

  An hour or so after he’d finished breakfast Tom wandered down to the convent with Ham and sat on the jetty with his legs dangling down over the river. The day was hot and muggy and barely a soul was to be seen out in it. After he’d been sitting there for a while he heard a rapping knock behind him and he turned and looked back over his shoulder. Up through the trees he could see Pop Mather standing before the convent’s side door. The man who’d come to the station house the day before eventually appeared to answer it. Pop spoke to him for a while and then left. Tom turned back to the river.

  A little later he heard a car roar into life behind him and whine its way in reverse back up the long convent drive. Curious, he stood and dusted off his hands and walked towards the convent building. The man had left the door open. Tom went and peered inside. He looked around behind him at the empty garden before stepping into the cool interior, Ham at his heels. It was quiet and peaceful inside the convent but Tom found nothing of interest until he wandered into the kitchen and found Gibson’s photographs spread out on the table like an unfinished hand of patience.

  He recognised Darcy Steele amid the photographs and a vein began to throb in his temple. He put out his hand, wavered for a few moments before picking one up. He looked at it for a second and then slipped it into his top pocket and headed for the door. He went back and sat down on the jetty and looked at the photograph in the bright sunlight. There was something sad and beautiful about the picture and its effect was a little mesmerising. He had just begun to entertain the thought of going back inside and getting another when he heard his name being called. He peered back through the foliage and saw Grace, with Ham in her arms, wandering down to where he was. He swore softly and stuffed the picture back into his pocket and with cheeks suddenly afire he went up to meet her.

  “Tom,” she said, when she saw him, “Pop wants you.”

  “How’d you know I was here?”

  “I thought you might have come to see Mr. Gibson.”

  Tom nodded. “What’s he want me for?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Does he want to send me back to Henry?”

  “Don’t you want to go?”

  “Not without my mum.”

  “He said you could stay as long as you wanted,” said Grace, her tone softening.

  Tom turned and headed back to the jetty.

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “In a while. Not yet.”

  Instead of leaving as he half wanted her to do she came and sat down beside him.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday,” he said.

  “Wasn’t your fault.”

  “Do you think . . . do you think they’ve found Leper yet?”

  “I don’t know,” said Grace, her voice miserable. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe we should go and bury him.”

  Grace didn’t answer.

  “He wasn’t a bad dog really. I saw him once with Darcy. He’d do anything she said. Anything.”

  Grace still said nothing.

  “I know Darcy was your friend,” he said, tentatively. “I’m sorry about what happened. I’m sorry she died.”

  Grace shrugged.

  “You think about her a lot?”

  “Yeah, of course,” she answered, testily, “but I don’t really want to talk about her, all right? You should understand that.”

  “Yeah,” said Tom, nodding, “I do.”

  They sat for a while and then Tom heard a bar of harmonica music come floating down on the breeze. He shook his head and it faded away to nothing, but then, minutes later, he heard it again, coming from somewhere not too far away in brief, airy snatches. He ignored it for as long as he could and then he gritted his teeth and looked at Grace.

  “Can you hear that?”

  “Yes,” she answered, nodding her head.

  “It’s a harmonica.”

  When they heard it again they thought it might be coming from the convent behind them, but the next time it came to them they decided that its source was further away still. They walked downstream a little until a fence stopped them. Here the music was stronger. They crawled under the wire of the fence and crossed a paddock, then another with a little pony in it. The pony came over and sniffed at Ham’s track.

  “I used to come down here with Darcy sometimes,” Grace whispered. “There’s a house further along. It’s where the ferrymaster lives.”

  Tom nodded and they continued on. They followed an old path that wound down through lantana and cockspur and huge thickets of blackberry and then they came to a sun-filled clearing. In amongst the long grass they saw the bleached and scattered bones of half a dozen or more long-dead cattle.

  “It’s spooky,” whispered Grace.

  It was also very quiet and they realised that they couldn’t hear the music any more. Neither of them could say whether it had faded away or just stopped.

  “Which way’s the house?” asked Tom.

  “This way, I think.”

  They started off, but just before they left the clearing they spotted a tawny little kitten, its eyes only just open, taking a few trembling steps out from a jumble of bones. Ham went and licked it and the kitten opened its mouth wide and gave a high-pitched meow.

  “Come on, its mother must be around,” said Grace, nervously. “You shouldn’t get between a cat and its kittens.”

  Tom picked up Ham and they walked on until they could just see the house through the bushes. It was half covered in creeping vines and shielded by a clump of tall tobacco bushes and some of its windows were boarded over. They crossed the open ground just before it and then went up the steps to the front door. Tom knocked.

  “Anybody home?” he called, but there was no answer. They went back down the steps and walked down the side of the house and round the back. Billy Flood was sitting there cross-legged and barefoot before the ashes of a small fire. He had a handful of twigs and leaves in his hand. As they watched he put them to the ashes and blew on them, as if he were the very discoverer of fire and they were at the beginning of history. The fire flared into life and they watched him place more fuel quickly and expertly around the flames, and then, although they’d made no sound, had barely breathed, Billy suddenly looked up to where they were, his eyes dark in the shadow of the old hat he wore. He stood. Grace jumped.

  He was wearing a black dinner jacket in fair condition and trousers to match. In the buttonhole of the jacket was a flower, dried and brown, as if he’d recently been a guest at a very long wedding. It was a rose, as frail as old paper and closed, but the petals’ leading edges were still pouting, shaping to kiss. A loop of frayed twine was slung diagonally across his chest and from it, at his waist, hung a battered little sack. Slowly and deliberately he pulled from the sack a pipe and a round tin. He filled the pipe bowl with tobacco from the tin, tamping it down with the long nail of his forefinger, then he bent over the fire, pulled out a burning twig, and carefully lit the pipe. He puffed away until it was well alight, looking unconcernedly at Tom and Grace through blue wreaths of smoke
.

  Tom put Ham down on the ground and went and stood across the fire from Billy.

  “Why didn’t you meet us where you said?” he demanded.

  Billy shrugged, but he looked almost repentant.

  “We got into a heap of trouble.”

  The information made no impression. Billy lifted a billy of water out of the grass and set it in the fire.

  “Does the ferrymaster know you’re here?”

  “Course. He always helps me out. Gave me these strides,” said Billy, pointing to his pants, “and this here doodie.”

  He tapped the pipe with his finger and grinned a gappy grin. He looked more comical than anything else and Tom had to bite his lip to stop from laughing out loud.

  “This what?” he asked, stepping forward.

  “This pipe here. This here doodie.”

  They stared at each other and Billy blinked smoke out of his eyes as he puffed on the pipe. Tom thought he could see a whole raft of sadness in him. Despite his silly grin it was plain to see, and he wondered whether people saw the same in him.

  “Was that you making the music?”

  “Maybe.”

  Tom chewed his lip and gave Billy a hard stare. Billy couldn’t match it and he hung his head.

  “Billy, if you won’t show me where to look, can’t you just tell me?”

  Billy considered his request for a few moments and then answered.

  “I can tell you that.”

  Tom waited impatiently but Billy said nothing. “Well, where?” he said finally, exasperated.

  Billy’s forehead creased and he looked down at the fire and threw on a few more sticks.

  “Near a big stand of yellow box. Hard to get to.”

  “Show me. Draw a map in the dirt.”

  “Nuh, too hard. Too many turns and so forth.”

  “Show me, then,” said Tom, his desperation growing.

  “Can’t. Haven’t got enough fuel. Got no money for it.”

  “I’ll get you money.”

  Billy peered at him through the smoke, his eyes narrowing. “Got some money, I’ll take you,” he said.

  “Is it far?”

  “It’s a good way. I got a truck.”

  “Let’s go, then,” said Tom.

  “Now? What about me tea?”

  “Can’t you drink it later?”

  Billy grumbled for a while and then decided that yes, he could. He picked up his boots and started pulling them on. Grace came and stood next to Tom.

  “You don’t have to come,” he whispered to her.

  “You’re not going by yourself!” she hissed back.

  “He won’t hurt me, if that’s what you think.”

  “How do you know?”

  Tom shrugged. “I think he’s probably safer than a dog.” Grace shot him a look.

  Billy set off. “Follow,” he said.

  They headed down to the edge of the wrecker’s yard where cars whose panels no one needed any more stood like deserted islets amid the weeds. Billy’s truck was parked between two rust-ravaged saloons. Billy climbed up into the cab and Grace and Tom followed him. Inside there was a newly tanned kangaroo skin covering a gaping hole in the seat’s upholstery and Grace screwed her nose up at the smell. Billy bent down to the gutted dash and poked about amidst the hanging wires until he found the two he was looking for. He muttered spells and incantations and prayers to the patron saint of internal combustion and then brought the two wires together. After a few anxious moments when the engine sounded like it would rather die than start, the truck belched and blatted into life. Billy cackled with laughter and Tom and Grace looked at each other and then Grace shook her head in disbelief.

  They roared down through the ranks of dead cars and up to the gate that opened onto Springline Road. The yard owner was nowhere to be seen but Tom didn’t care about the reason why. They drove into town and pulled up near Mrs. Coop’s shop. Tom jumped down and ran to the station house and into his room. Relatives, people he’d never met, had sent him money through the post when he’d been found. Pop said he should put it in the bank but he hadn’t yet. There was a lot. Bright-orange twenties and sea-blue tens. He thought two of each would be enough. It seemed like enough for a man to drive clear to Sydney. He ran back outside without seeing Pop. Grace was looking worriedly out through the window. He swung up and shuffled past her.

  “Here,” he said, brandishing the notes. “Let’s go.”

  Billy took the money, then stared at it in his hand as if it might disappear at any moment.

  “Sweet,” he said, when it didn’t.

  They headed out to the crossing and then up the road to Jack’s Mountain. Tom watched everything intently while Grace fiddled nervously with the quarter-glass window. Soon they were in the township and there they stopped outside the little general store. Two petrol bowsers were set into the footpath before it.

  “Better duck down,” Billy whispered. “Folks always think I’m up to no good.”

  They bent down and stared at the filthy floor of the truck while the shopkeeper came and filled up the tank. Billy went inside and paid for the fuel and when he came back he handed Tom a handful of notes and coins and looked at him almost bashfully.

  “Got some more baccy,” he said, as they drove off. “That all right?”

  “Yeah. Fine. You keep it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yep.”

  While Billy drove he pulled his pipe from his pocket and managed to pack and light it with one hand and sometimes with both, steering with his elbows resting on the big wooden steering wheel. They came to a series of creek fords and Billy went roaring through them, the white arches of water finding their way up through ragged holes in the cab floor and wetting Tom’s feet. With all his senses alert and heightened, Tom felt like he was back in the truck with Flynn and Henry.

  “This is the way? Really?” he asked, a little breathless.

  “Yeah,” answered Billy, suddenly serious. “This is the way.”

  “But it’s the wrong way. It’s the opposite direction to where we wanted to go.”

  Billy could only shrug his shoulders. They drove for what seemed like an hour and then Billy pulled the truck off the road and killed the engine.

  “Round here . . . somewheres.”

  “We have to walk now?”

  “Yeah.”

  They hopped down from the truck and slammed the doors shut behind them. Tom put Ham down on the grass and he promptly went and cocked his leg against the front wheel of the truck and pissed on it.

  They walked in under some trees, Billy looking up and around as they went, and then they came to a gate locked with an old and rusty padlock. They clambered over and when Tom took Grace’s hand to help her down and she didn’t let it go afterwards his heart just about grew wings and flew away. Beyond the gate was an empty paddock, and at the edge of it Tom saw water twinkling in the sun.

  “There,” said Billy, quietly. “The bees were over there, and I found you”—he pointed with his finger and chin—“there.”

  He was pointing to a little bank under some trees. Grace let go of Tom’s hand as they walked over to it but he didn’t even notice. He was looking down at the ground to see if there was some trace of him or Flynn, some evidence, but he could see nothing.

  “Are you sure it was here?”

  “Yes. Sure as sure.”

  Tom walked from the bank to the edge of the creek—about a dozen yards. He could feel Grace’s eyes on him, and Billy’s. The creek was narrow, deep and fast-flowing. He put his hand in the water, looked at the light dancing on the surface. He put his other hand up to the scar on his forehead and rubbed at it.

  “What is it, Tom? Are you remembering?”

  Tom looked at her and shook his head. The memory was as mysterious as an underground stream, as black and snakelike, headless and tailless; a black echo of lightning deep deep down inside the earth— inside him—but unreachable.

  “Maybe,” said Billy, dem
onstrating, “you came running down here, and then you whacked your head against one of those branches yonder.”

  Tom looked, and began walking up and down the bank, staring at the ground, staring at the branches. Grace followed him and Billy went and leant against a tree to pack his pipe.

  “Why was I running?” he asked, but neither Grace nor Billy could answer him.

  They looked around for another half-hour but all they found were the remains of an old campfire a few hundred yards away. Tom looked down at the blackened circle and turned over pieces of charcoal with his toe.

  “What is it?” asked Grace.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. I feel a bit . . . sick.” Tom looked back to the creek. “Maybe he drowned. Maybe he drowned here.”

  Grace took his hand in hers. “We’ll come back with Pop,” she whispered to him. Tom nodded and together they walked back to Billy.

  “It’s not a bad place this,” said Billy, when they reached him. “There’s good honey from them trees. The best.”

  Tom looked up.

  “Should see the sun on ’em in the morning. Beautiful. But down there, along by this creek, lots of old shafts with rotten lids. Big fat seam of gold running under the hill. All gone now, though.”

  He looked back at them and noticed their long faces. He knocked out his pipe against the trunk of the tree he stood by and cleared his throat.

  “Back to town then?”

  Grace nodded, but Billy made no move to leave. Instead, he looked intently at Tom’s face. Grace grew nervous, but then he reached deep into his jacket pocket, pulled something out and handed it across to Tom.

  “I . . . found this,” he said, a little sheepishly, “on the ground here. You know it?”

  Tom took the harmonica from Billy’s outstretched hand and held it up to the light. He turned it round and read the words inscribed in the metal.

  The Miniature Boomerang, they said. Albert’s System. Tangent Tempered Reeds.

  24

  Gibson was sitting at the convent kitchen’s long dining table, shuffling through photographs, off in his own little world, when there came a sudden knock at the side door. Startled, he jumped up to answer it. Pop Mather was there, with a dark look on his face.