Origin

by Greg McLean

‘No, Mick. You’re controlling your anger by doing this. You won’t do anything.’

  ‘No!’ he shouts and steps back, nearly falls off the loft. ‘I’m not controlling anything. You’re controlling it. You’re controlling everything!’

  He unlocks the shackles without looking at her, then turns and runs.

  Driving with unfocused eyes, Mick’s thoughts bounce off the insides of his skull, gouging painful conflicted ricochets within, when he realises there’s a car driving slowly on the lonely road ahead. He might’ve driven up its rear if not for the little flares of light tinging back from it. As he pulls closer he sees it’s sparks spraying out from the exhaust of one of those lurching German Kombi vans, the white flashes like flicked cigarettes hitting the road and spitting towards the dry grass.

  Grateful for the distraction – for anything that’ll take his mind off Rose and his hunt for the knife and the weight of the Others hanging over him and all the rest of that shit – Mick plants his foot and high-beams the driver. Comes up alongside and waves to stop when they don’t pull over. He can see two girls perched on their high seats in the front: long hair in their silhouettes. The Celepˇci brothers’d love this – then he quickly puts that thought from his mind.

  He eases back as they pull to the side of the road, watching the sparks close in case they ignite the embankment.

  He’s squatting by the exhaust when the driver steps out. ‘Hey, love,’ Mick says. ‘Think you got some petrol in your pipes . . .’ Then he realises it’s one of those hippie fellas from the eastern cities. ‘Hell! Thought you was a sheila!’

  The bloke flicks back unwashed hair, smiles patiently. ‘Never get tired of hearing that. So what’s the story?’ The man – boy really, not much older than Mick – has a strange accent. Maybe a Pom, or Nordic perhaps. One of them Swedes. Not from around here, anyway. ‘Something with the car?’

  ‘Yeah, mate. You was flashing sparks all over the road. One of them catches the grass and whoomp!’ Mick mimics a fire erupting with his hand. ‘The whole place’ll go up. Won’t even realise.’

  ‘I see.’ The man doesn’t look convinced.

  ‘Well, you can’t see ’em now.’ Mick crouches and points out the burns on the exhaust pipe. ‘But you can tell where they’ve passed.’

  A face is peering out the side window and the hippie signals it’s okay. ‘Just wait there, baby.’

  Mick squints at the girl in the passenger seat. ‘Least I got that right.’ He waves at her, then turns again to the man. ‘I could take a look for ya, if ya like. Just need to unbolt it, I reckon. Clean it out. Won’t take a coupla minutes.’

  The man glances at Mick’s car then at his passenger again, around at the empty road. ‘I don’t know that —’

  ‘Shit!’ Mick says and runs back past his car. There’s a flare of fire in the grass nearby and it’s only because he stamps it out immediately that it doesn’t take hold. There’s a whole stretch of paddock alongside them, ready to ignite. ‘See what I mean?’ he says, brushing his trouser legs.

  The hippie nods his head off beside him. ‘Jesus, man. Yeah . . . I’m sorry.’ They wait a moment to make sure the fire’s definitely out, and check down the road for more flares. ‘I hope that’s it.’

  ‘Should be right, mate. I’ll just get me tools.’ Mick heads to the ute while the hippie explains the situation to the girl. Mick’s on his back with a rag wrapped around the hot exhaust, unscrewing it with his other hand – losing himself in the easy mechanics of the car after the night he’s had – when the man comes back. ‘That yer girlfriend?’

  The man nods, crouched beside him.

  ‘How do you tell who’s who?’ The man blinks. ‘Nah, just joking. So where you off to? Obviously not from here.’

  ‘On our way to Darwin. Been living in a commune in Perth the last year and —’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A commune. You know, man, a community. All living together as one family, growing our own vegetables. Sharing resources.’

  ‘Sounds like the station I was on. Except we didn’t all have sex with one another.’

  ‘No, it’s not like that . . .’ The bloke cocks his head, unsure whether Mick’s taking the piss. ‘We’re trying to get closer to nature. Live off the land.’

  Mick glances across as he works, takes in the flower tattooed on the man’s neck, the crust of dirt at his hairline, the pallor of his skin. ‘Right.’

  ‘See, forests are disappearing, species are being eradicated every day. All because of man. We’re fucking up this world. I mean, you should know, right? You’re a farmer, so you have to be in tune with the land. You overwork it, the soil’s dead and useless for generations, maybe forever. Some people think this was all fertile out here, trees as far as you could see. Then the Aborigines cleared it over the years, burning swathes of it while hunting, to corral prey. Now it’s completely desolate.’

  Mick barks a laugh as he works. ‘Don’t think that’s what happened.’

  ‘It’s true. Man’s always thought we own the earth, when we’re just one of many species living on it, with no more right than any other to destroy it. Even your farming – I mean, I know you have to feed people, but it rapes the land.’ He doesn’t seem to notice that Mick’s stopped work and is squinting up at him. ‘The earth just becomes a resource to be used up. You have to clear trees? So be it. Uproot soil. Drive out wildlife, gentrify the whole place. That’s what we do. Because humans spread throughout the world as if it’s been put here for our benefit alone. We don’t seem to think about other species affected, or whether it’ll affect future generations if we fuck up the environment. It’s just take, take, take.’

  ‘Grew up in the city, right?’

  ‘Well, yeah . . . back home. But as I said we came here and’ve been living on a commune for the last —’

  ‘So you’ve never lived on the land.’

  The man sees the smile gone from Mick’s face. ‘Ah, I don’t mean to insult you, man. You’ve got a livelihood to follow. And like I said, the population still has to eat. But, see, in the commune we grew our own food and —’

  ‘Killed your own meat, too?’

  ‘We don’t eat meat.’ He screws his mouth like he’s sucked a lemon. ‘Don’t believe you need it. Studies are proving us right now, too.’ His wrists are skinnier even than Mick’s. His neck like a chicken’s, easily snapped.

  Mick takes a deep breath. It doesn’t help the fucking day he’s had, hearing this joker spout this stuff. ‘Out here, maybe you don’t got those choices,’ he says. ‘Reckon you’ll find that out in Darwin. Look, I’m nearly done. Why don’t you go back to your girly —’

  ‘Nah, man, we’re not going to Darwin to live,’ the hippie laughs. ‘We’re heading to the US base there. Protesting the war. What’s happening in South-East Asia, the news reports everyday . . . it’s disgusting. Everyone should be doing anything they can.’

  Mick stands up and stares at the young bloke. He’d just wanted to fix the car and get going. ‘Those chinks getting killed on TV? Well, what the hell’s that got to do with us?’

  The man looks at him like he’s an idiot. ‘They’re talking about escalating, sending even more troops. Two battalions this time. Upping conscription. What’s wrong with you? I can’t believe you’d have so little care for your fellow human beings.’

  Mick wipes his hands slowly. ‘Me dad always said chinks have yellow blood,’ he says. The man doesn’t return his cold smile. ‘Like rats. Same with them Koreans, he said. After what they did to our boys in Timor and Singapore during the war —’

  ‘That was the Japanese.’

  ‘And what fucken difference is that?’ This bloke should’ve just let him go. Should’ve shut his mouth while he had the chance. Should’ve known Mick didn’t need this with everything else going on.

  The man flinches. ‘Ah, listen, thank you for fixing our car. I’ll just get back —’

  ‘You tell me why I should give a shit about some chinks that beheaded
and starved our soldiers not twenty years ago.’

  ‘As I just said, that was the Japanese. And they’ve since recanted, said it was a mistake made —’

  ‘What damned use is that? Still did it, didn’t they? You think just apologising for it later changes anything?’

  The man fixes on Mick’s pulsing temple, mouth open slightly. He takes a step back and Mick heads him off.

  ‘You started the conversation. You fucken finish it, egghead. Explain it to the poor stupid Aussie farmer, eh?’

  ‘I don’t think you’re stupid,’ the man says quietly.

  ‘So you preach like this to everyone? Like you’re so much fucken better? Come to my country and tell me how to think?’

  ‘We just want to make people aware.’

  ‘What’s this “we” crap. It’s you. Maybe I don’t want to think the same way. Ever thought of that?’

  Hearing their voices raised the girl in the passenger seat sticks her head out again. ‘Honey?’ she calls.

  ‘It’s okay, baby.’ The man waves to her, though he’s sweating now. ‘Nearly done.’ He nods at Mick. ‘You’re right. I was wrong to bring it up. It’s just as fascist of me to impose my thinking on others. I’ll remember that next time.’ He starts to turn away and Mick grabs his arm. Pulls him a step out of view behind the car.

  ‘So what I wanna know is, if me pop’s right and chinks have yellow blood, then why should I care about them? When they isn’t even human.’

  The man stands still, trembles slightly. ‘They are human.’

  ‘You callin’ me dad a liar?’

  And there’s that fear in the man’s face. That fear like a drug. The hippie shakes his head. Mick can smell a waft of body odour from the unwashed matts of hair.

  ‘You’re fucken useless, you know that?’ Mick says, low. ‘No fucken job, give nothin’ back to society but a bunch of horseshit and hot air. Roaming another person’s country on your bullshit holidays. You wouldn’t last two shits out in the bush. Fucken foreigners come here and think you got free run of the land, do what you fucken like.’ He glares.

  The young hippie doesn’t offer resistance – he just stares back with those white eyes. For some reason that angers Mick further. Bloke shouldn’t even be looking him in the eye. Should know his place. If he only knew what Mick’d done. What he’s capable of. He wouldn’t be giving so much lip.

  He’s weak. They’re all fucken weak. Every last one of them.

  And then the man proves it. He glances back at the van, breaks eye contact with Mick. Dismisses him, like he’s no concern at all.

  Mick launches forward and Rose’s knife is in his hand before he realises it – hadn’t even noticed he’d taken it from the loft with him.

  The man holds his hand to the jet of blood as he staggers backwards. Dark floods around his fingers at the side of his throat like a burst dam. He blinks and tries to speak, flailing his fist to stop Mick striking again as he stumbles.

  Mick grabs the man’s chicken wrists and snaps his arms down, sinks his weight onto him like he’s controlling a buck. They collapse to the dirt and Mick straddles him, pinning his arms, pulls the man’s hair back.

  ‘Not so fucken smart now are ya, dirty cunt!’ he rasps into the man’s ear.

  The man struggles like a stuck pig, surprisingly strong despite his wiry frame. He manages to get his fingers beneath the blade and Mick has to put all his strength into the cut. Blood spurts as he severs the ligaments of the hippie’s fingers, but it allows the bloke to grip the handle and pull down.

  Mick begins to pitch forward and he sinks his fingers deeper into the hippie’s greasy hair to steady himself. Grabs a huge handful like he’s riding a bull then slams the man’s head onto the rock beneath. Mick slams again and there’s a crunch from somewhere and a comical grunt as a bit of white tooth shoots out onto the ground. He pounds again and again until the fight’s gone out of the bloke and the hand relaxes around the knife and it tumbles away too. His head becomes doll-like and light beneath Mick’s grip.

  Mick pushes away and sits a few feet off to the side, collects his breath. The hippie’s body lies facedown unmoving as it cools. ‘Rest me case.’ Like one a’them lawyers on the telly. There’s no argument back this time.

  He stands and checks the horizon but the whole world’s his – and at that moment he’s perfectly in control again, that sense of unease gone. A thrill runs through his veins like a drug.

  It lasts long enough for him to look at the van: the girl waiting within.

  He grabs the knife and wipes it clean as he skirts around the van. The girl’s getting out of the car and he comes up quick before she can open the door fully. She’s young, maybe nineteen, twenty, but there’s a fire in her eyes that nearly stops him in his tracks when she sees him alone.

  ‘Where’s Anton?’ she demands. Her blonde hair, white-blue eyes stark against her sunkissed skin.

  He points the knife. ‘Get outta there.’

  She stares at it. ‘What did you do? Where is he?’

  ‘He’s gone. Now come on.’

  She stares at him, then glances at the keys in the ignition. He grabs her arm.

  ‘We just gotta . . . Just let me think about this,’ he says. ‘This doesn’t got to . . . get out of hand.’

  She bucks against him and he has to put all his strength into dragging her to his car. ‘Anton?’ she calls. Her arm is thin in his hand, nice, golden toned. She tries to plant her heels and he wrenches her. ‘Anton!’ she screams and he shakes her good then. Her hair flutters around her face. There are tears in her eyes, but they’re blazing too, and she draws in breath to scream and he gives her a jolt that nearly rips her head off. Not that anyone’s going to hear her.

  ‘I said we don’t have to panic. Your boyfriend took a swing at me. Then ran off into the scrub. Little fucker. Just tryin’ to help you cunts and he’s gotta start arguing with me about fucken troops in Asia. So we’re gonna go look for him. First thing . . . first thing we have to do is get the cars off the road.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  He hesitates, stares at her.

  ‘Where is he, you fuck? What the fuck have you done with him?’

  ‘Stop . . . stop swearing at me. A lady shouldn’t . . . You don’t gotta do that.’ She’s rattling him, and those nice golden arms are surprisingly strong now, their resolve greater than his, and he can’t show her how much effort he’s putting into every step of his weak legs.

  As they pass between the vehicles she tries to look into the darkness beyond the spread of headlights and Mick gives her a yank and opens the passenger door of his ute. She plants her hands either side of the metal. Looks back at him, about to spit something back, and he knees the back of her legs, breaks her stance, and shoves her in. ‘No!’ she screams and he pushes her down on the bench seat, hard, and plants a knee on her back. He sees a thatch of hair under her armpits, smells her. He shakes his head at the waste – she looks a good sort otherwise – and grabs some cabling from the floor. She bucks like a harpy, trying to grab something, anything, with one free arm flailing.

  ‘Just to make sure you won’t run on me too,’ he puffs, bringing both arms back and tying her wrists. He loops the wire through the passenger door’s inside handle. ‘Jesus, stop struggling. I’m just . . . It’s just a precaution. I’m not gonna do anything.’ With her arms yanked awkwardly over the back of her head, she can’t easily sit up, but she turns her head against the seat to gulp a breath.

  ‘Let me go! You said we’re going to look —’

  He cuffs her across the mouth. ‘Stop questioning me! Alright? I didn’t start none a’ this. So just sit there until I get back.’

  She blinks surprise, tastes the blood on her lip. Then those perfect eyes descend with hate again and his balls squirm at the repulsion she’s giving off. ‘Let me go,’ she says, soft, somehow dangerous even from the bottom of the seat.

  ‘Fuck’s sake. I ain’t gonna —’

  ‘You’ve got no ri
ght.’

  ‘Jesus!’ he says, clambering out. He switches off his headlights and slams the door shut, then stumbles to the van on shaky legs. Bitch was harder work than her boyfriend. She’s yelling at him now but he tries to block her out, think of her as a bleating, stupid sheep. Except this sheep doesn’t know its place.

  In the darkness he drags the man’s deadweight corpse to the back of the Kombi and hauls it up over the camping equipment. He scuffs over the blood in the dirt as well he can then starts the van and drives off the road into the scrub. The van nearly bogs in the loose dirt, but then the baked ground firms and the tyres catch and he keeps heading into the plain.

  He continues a mile or two out until it feels a good distance from anything. Then he pulls the car behind a blockade of squat dark belah trees and stands in front of the headlights. His silhouette arcs out over the trees. A dingo howl floats across the plain like a crying ghost on the chill wind.

  ‘Hold up, boys,’ Mick says and heads back.

  He actually hesitates when he reaches the car, but it’s too late to walk away now. He takes a breath, gets ready for the tirade.

  The girl’s still lying on the passenger seat, angry tears streaking the vinyl. He shoves her legs out of the way and she doesn’t try to look at him as he jumps in and pulls them off the road. ‘Don’t know what it is with you bloody foreigners, comin’ here thinking you can do what you like,’ he repeats to fill the silence, as if that’s some justification. ‘Treat us like shit. Like those fucken brothers. Why come here, if ya hate it so much?’

  ‘Anton,’ the girl says. ‘His name’s Anton. And mine’s Mikaela.’

  Mick glances down at her, frowns. Her legs are long, brown, smooth beneath her cutoff shorts. He looks away.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asks, her voice weirdly calm now, too familiar, and he keeps driving, unsettled. He doesn’t want to play this game. Then more softly the girl asks: ‘What did you do to my boyfriend?’

  The van looms in the headlights ahead and he bumps over the ground towards it and comes to a stop, trying to ignore the girl. But he can’t help looking down at her again as he pulls the handbrake, at those long legs leading up and under her shorts, at the mound of her breast pressed against the seat, spilling out of her singlet. She cranes her head to look up at him and he gets a flash of those unnatural pale blue eyes, like an angel’s or something, just staring at him, no fear in them at all now, just challenge, defiance, and he has to get out.