by Peter Corris
Just for fun I’d picked up the Mirage brochure at the airport—golf course and driving range, tennis courts, acres of swimming pools and three five-star restaurants. I booked into a motel with a swimming pool and a restaurant without stars. The minibar was well stocked and the air-conditioning worked, all I needed. I didn’t play golf, wouldn’t have time for tennis and twenty metres of swimming pool was enough for me.
After a swim and a shower I changed into shorts, sneakers and T-shirt and began the rounds, showing Clinton’s photo down at the waterfront, in the pubs and shops, at the real estate agencies and car rental outfits. Over the next few days, I talked to white people and black people and Asians and mixes of all three, males and females, gays and straights, the drunk and the sober. I talked to a wary, suspicious policeman and to some women in a very welcoming establishment where I could’ve blown my expenses in no time flat.
I picked up his trail at a used car yard where he’d bought an ancient 4WD for a song.
‘That’s him,’ the owner said. ‘Bit rougher, but that’s him all right. What’s he done?’
‘Run away from home. How’d he pay?’
He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘In cash, mate, in cash.’
‘Did he show you any ID? Did you see his licence?’
‘No need. Cash transaction. Vehicle was registered. All above board.’
‘What name did he use?’
‘George.’
‘Was he alone?’
‘Yup.’ He shifted his feet uncomfortably. ‘Look, mate I’ve got things to do . . .’
‘Last thing. Did he say where he was going?’
‘Said he was going bush.’
I got the registration number of the Land Rover and a description—khaki and black, roof-rack, bullbars—and went to a large barn of a place that supplied building materials and camping gear. They remembered George. A young black guy who’d helped him load his purchases remembered the vehicle in detail.
‘Fuckin’ bomb. I told him it wouldn’t get him fuckin’ far but he didn’t pay no notice. Nice bloke, though. Asked me a few questions about the language and stuff, you know. I know fuck-all about that shit. Tell you what, he had a ton of grog on board and lots of tucker—cans and packets and that.’
‘Did he have maps?’
‘Think so, yeah.’
‘Of what?’
He shrugged. ‘Search me.’
Back at the motel I took Roger, the proprietor, into my confidence. I’d eaten at his restaurant, made liberal use of his minibar and praised his swimming pool; he was mine. I explained my mission to him and produced a few maps I’d bought where ‘George’ had most likely bought his.
‘All I’ve been told is that he was going bush and he had camping and cooking gear and plenty of supplies. Where d’you reckon he’d go, Rog?’
Rog studied the maps and chewed over the question very slowly. ‘Blackfella, you say?’
‘Yes. No, not an Aborigine. West Indian. Like the cricketers.’
‘Oh yeah? Well, I can’t see why he’d go bush. Head for a beach more likely.’
I thought about Danny Roberts and Clinton’s day in the bush and how Clinton had pressed for information and was upset at not getting it. He was on some kind of quest and I had the feeling he’d carry on with it up here.
I shook my head. ‘I think the bush’d be right. Say he’s on some kind of survival kick. Where would he go?’
‘He’s a smart bloke?’
‘Pretty smart.’
He put his finger on the map. ‘I reckon he’d head for the Daintree National Park. Very rugged up there, rough as you like, but you can get help if you need it. Should have a permit, but.’
‘I doubt he’d bother with that.’
‘The rangers’d spot him eventually then, but he could get himself pretty well lost in there for a while. Does he fish?’
He had a good teacher, I thought. ‘Yeah.’
‘Plenty of fish. He’d have to carry a lot of fuel. So will you if you’re going in after him, Cliff. And I’d advise you to talk to the rangers first.’
‘Right, I will. Thanks Rog.’
I didn’t talk to the rangers, but I did load up on fuel, wet and dry supplies and camping gear. As I stuffed the tent in next to the primus stove I smiled at the thought of what my city friends would say if they saw me. I was no fan of groundsheets and guy ropes. Didn’t like damper. I was notorious for preferring pavements to paddocks, beaches to the bush. To hell with them, I thought and went out and bought a pair of Rossi boots and an Akubra hat. At Rog’s suggestion, I bought a couple of cartons of cigarettes. According to Rog, smokes could buy you useful cooperation in the bush. I hadn’t bought cigarettes for years and wondered if I’d be able to resist temptation when I was sitting at my camp fire with a belly full of tinned stew and an enamel mug of Bundy rum in my hand.
I knew it was a crazy thing to do, head off into a wilderness area with only a guess to go on. I rationalised it to myself by thinking that the kid at the hardware store would be right and that the decrepit Land Rover wouldn’t make it to the Daintree. But in reality I was indulging myself at a rich man’s expense. I could keep a log of my travels, report on information received, play at going bush myself. Why not? The way my life was at the moment, any change, any diversion from the tried and tested routines was welcome. With Glen Withers married, Cy Sackville dead and Frank Parker retired from the police, I had a sense of a phase of my life slipping past me. It wasn’t anything like tragic, but it wasn’t altogether comfortable either. I could treat this trip as a kind of emotional divide between the old comforts and what lay ahead.
But I didn’t entirely rule out the possibility that I might actually find Clinton Scott sitting under a tree in the rainforest.
I didn’t find him although I’d set out on the right track. The country and my inexperience defeated me but I had some luck. I had a few days wandering around the fringes of the national park, camped and coped pretty well with the rough roads, the heat, the insects, the sun, the rain and damp wood. I resisted the lure of tobacco but used the Bundy to put me to sleep in the noisy bush nights. I asked people about the Land Rover and a few claimed to have seen it. I gave them cigarettes. Eventually I entered the national park and was stopped by a ranger within two days.
He told me I was facing a fine and confiscation of my vehicle. I told him my story and showed him my credentials. He was unimpressed. He searched the Pajero for drugs and firearms and looked disappointed when he found only alcohol and tobacco. We stood by our vehicles, two big men in shorts, boots and wide-brimmed hats. He was coming across as tough but something told me that it was partly an act. After a while I sensed what it was, he was lonely.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘I know I’m in the wrong and what I’ve done is dopey. I’ll pay the fine. No worries. But I’ve got a distraught father on my back and I’m trying to do something for him. Are you a father?’
He took off his hat and scratched at where the sweat had matted his hair to his scalp. ‘Yeah, I am. Two boys. Not that I get to see ’em that much.’
‘Well, you understand what this bloke’s going through. His boy’s just disappeared up here.’
‘Old Land Rover?’
I nodded and recited the registration number.
‘She caught on fire.’
‘Jesus. What happened to the driver?’
He wiped the sweatband on his hat with the tail of his shirt and put the hat back on. ‘Follow me,’ he said.
I learned a bit about 4WD driving over the next hour. The ranger seemed to be able to miss all the bumps I’d been hitting and I finally picked up the knack of reading the slopes and ruts in such a way as to anticipate the next trouble spot and avoid it. He kept up a good pace and several times had to stop to allow me to catch up. I was dripping with sweat when we finally pulled up at a small settlement by a creek. It consisted of nine or ten fibro, tin-roofed houses dotted around a two-acre clearing. There were fenced, bird-proof
ed garden beds, gravel paths and clothes lines strung between trees. Two 4WDs parked in the shade looked serviceable, three others nearby looked as if they were cannibalised to keep the others running.
Half a dozen Aboriginal children were playing by the creek, some women were working in the gardens. I saw no men. The ranger climbed down and gestured for me to do the same.
‘Abo reserve, this,’ he said. ‘The men’re off working or hunting, most of ’em. But the old bloke should be round. Go easy. They don’t like whitefellas, especially blokes who look like you ’n’ me.’
‘Why’re we here?’
‘You’ll see.’
We crunched up a path to one of the houses and waited until a woman working in a garden nearby came over to us. The ranger took off his hat and I did the same.
‘Tommy around, Mrs Palmer?’
‘Should be, Mr Lewis. Reckon he’s down by the creek teachin’ the kids somethin’ or other.’
‘Thank you.’
Lewis restored his hat to his head and we moved off. ‘Get some of those smokes you’ve got in your vehicle,’ he said. ‘Couple of packets. Tommy loves a smoke.’
I got the cigarettes and we began to walk towards the creek. We were still almost a hundred metres away when a figure seemed to rise out of the ground and move towards us. It moved slowly, bent over to one side.
Lewis chuckled. ‘One of the kids must’ve spotted us. Tommy’d try to tell you that he saw our faces in the water or in the clouds, but that’s all bullshit.’
‘What’s the matter with him?’
‘He’s old. Christ knows how old. He was a stockman for donkey’s years. Needs a hip replacement.’
I wondered whether he’d get it. ‘This looks like a well-run place.’
‘It is. They run it themselves. Never any trouble here. Two rules—no whitefella religion and no grog. They’re very strong on the old ways. The boys get initiated and all that. Fucking cruel if you ask me, but that’s the way they want it. Seems to work. No petrol sniffers here, mate.’
The old man limping towards us stopped and we had to go the extra yards to reach him. I thought that was a pretty good strategy for getting the upper hand. Tommy was very, very old. What little hair he had was white and his thick beard was the same except where it had been stained by nicotine. He had been tall but age and injuries had shrunken him. One eye was milky with cataract, the other looked all right. He was rail thin in his clean denim shorts and army shirt.
‘Gidday, Tommy,’ Lewis said. He didn’t take off his hat or offer to shake hands.
‘Mr Lewis. Who’s that with you?’
‘Names’s Hardy,’ Lewis said. ‘City bloke.’
In my shorts, sweat-stained work shirt, three-day stubble and boots, topped off by my Akubra, I thought this description a bit unkind but Tommy nodded as if he could see beneath the surface of things to the essential man within. Still, he was guarded.
‘Gidday.’
I felt that old uncertainty. He had a lot of poise and there was wisdom in the ancient, lined face. I didn’t feel entitled to address him as Tommy so I just nodded and gave him a wary smile.
‘Quiet bloke,’ Tommy said. ‘He all right, Mr Lewis?’
‘Dunno,’ Lewis said. ‘You judge.’
None of my contact with city blacks was going to do me any good here. I felt uncomfortable, ambivalent. The ban on booze and Christianity seemed sensible but I wasn’t so sure about the ritual cutting and slicing. The old Aborigine read me right.
‘I’d say he was a thoughtful bloke, Mr Lewis,’ Tommy said, sticking out a gnarled hand. ‘Call me Tommy.’
I shook a hand as hard and strong as mulga wood.
Lewis cleared his throat. ‘Like to have a bit of talk, Tommy, about that fella your blokes pulled out of the burning Land Rover a while back. Hardy here’s looking for him.’
‘George,’ Tommy said. ‘He in trouble?’
I shook my head. ‘Not from me. His family’s worried about him. His father hired me to look for him.’
The old man moved forward a few steps to get himself into the shade. ‘Sons,’ he said. ‘I had six of ’em. Grog killed three, one hung himself in gaol, one’s here an’ he’s all right. Dunno about the other. They’re a handful, sons. George’s father’s right to be worried.’
‘Why d’you say that?’
‘Payback,’ Tommy said.
14
That knocked for six the comfortable theory I’d been forming—that Clinton’s obsession with Aborigines had taken over from his thirst for revenge. We went into one of the houses and a woman made us tea. The house was sparsely furnished but neat and clean and the teapot and mugs had seen a lot of service. We sat at an old pine table and I shared around the cigarettes, managing to leave the packets on the table. What relation the woman, whose name was Beth, was to Tommy I never discovered, but she was obviously a person of influence in the community and had had a fair bit to do with ‘George’. First, they wanted to know everything I knew before Tommy would expand on his statement and their questions were canny and to the point. I told them almost everything, leaving out Nickless’ suspicions about the kidnapping conspiracy.
‘He was a good boy, that George,’ Beth said.
I didn’t want a hymn of praise, I wanted observations and pointers to behaviour. ‘I’m told he was a bit of a drinker,’ I said.
‘No drink here,’ Beth said. ‘Not allowed. George didn’t seem to miss it and he was here a couple of weeks.’
I thought about the rum and wine in my Pajero and hoped none of the kids went poking about. ‘Was he badly burned in the fire?’
‘Pretty bad,’ Tommy said. ‘Body burns mostly but Beth here was a nurse and we’ve got a pretty good supply of medicine and that.’
‘Our people always got burned a lot,’ Beth said. ‘The way we lived it couldn’t be helped. And the boozers were always setting themselves on fire. I know a few bush treatments for burns. George come up all right with a bit of blackfella as well as whitefella medicine.’
‘So he didn’t have to stay as long as he did?’
Tommy and Beth looked at each other. My question had pushed us past the formalities into the territory of real information.
‘Not a lot I can tell you . . .’ Tommy began, stubbing out a cigarette.
I pushed a packet towards him. ‘I know he was very interested in traditional Aboriginal life and the languages and so on. I’ve talked to a Koori bloke down south who said George grilled him about that. And a young fellow at the camping goods store in Port Douglas told me the same.’
‘That’s right,’ Tommy said. ‘He asked a lot of questions and I gave him a few answers. Only a few, mind.’
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘A man with a West Indian father and white mother’s practically a white man.’
Tommy smiled and opened his hands, the cigarette held between his twisted fingers. ‘Sort of. But I told him a few things and Beth did the same.’
She nodded. ‘He talked to me about the black girl who died. Wanted to know if we believed that the dead live on, that stuff, you know.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
Lewis had been quiet, smoking his share of the cigarettes with the other two. Now I could sense his impatience and knew I had to hurry things along.
‘Tell me about the payback, Tommy. I know something of what he had in mind, but . . .’
Tommy sucked smoke deep into his lungs and let it out through his nose as he spoke. ‘Tried to talk him out of it. Told him he was headed for trouble but he wouldn’t listen. He reckoned he was going to find the people who’d killed his woman and kill them.’
‘How?’
I meant how was he going to find them, but Tommy took it a different way. ‘With a spear or an axe,’ he said.
‘Did he say where he’d find them?’
‘Sydney.’
‘Any names?’
Tommy looked at Beth who shook her head. He
put out his cigarette and moved the stubs round in the saucer that served as an ashtray. ‘No names. But I reckon he knew who he was after or had a good idea. I’d say he held that back from me the way I held stuff back from him, you know?’
I nodded. It was convincing if unhelpful. Beth slapped at a fly and Lewis shifted his feet again. Time was running out fast. ‘Just one thing I have to ask,’ I said. ‘Did he have any money?’
They both looked at Lewis, who took another cigarette and lit it with the disposable lighter I’d left on the table. ‘Nothin’ to do with me,’ he said.
Beth, who was a tall, stout-woman wearing a flowing cotton dress, stood and ran her hands around her protuberant middle. ‘He wore a money belt thing around here. He paid me for everything he’d eaten and for the creams I’d used and some more besides. We need it and I took it.’
‘And where did he go?’
Tommy studied me for a minute before he spoke. ‘You talk him out of that payback stuff if you find him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Got a lift into Mossman.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’d say he was very lucky to find you.’
‘My oath,’ Lewis said, getting to his feet. ‘And I reckon you might say the same.’
‘Could I make some sort of contribution to . . .’
Beth flared. ‘We’re not a charity.’
‘I know. I just wanted to show some appreciation for your help. The boy’s father’d want me to do that, too.’
‘I dunno,’ Tommy said.
‘Look, I’ve got some camping gear out there that I won’t be needing any more. There’s a tent and some groundsheets, a primus with a couple of bottles of fuel, jerry cans and stuff. I’m sure you could make some use of it. Otherwise I’ll just have to dump it or sell it for a song.’