Bridget Crack

by Rachel Leary

  ...

  This was no ordinary rain. It came across the sky in dark grey sheets, the drops barbed with ice. It punished the canopy, the ground, without mercy. This was weather of a new kind—weather with no name. Whatever it was it grabbed the trees and shook them with an unbridled madness that had them groaning, their smaller branches scribbling in panic while strips of bark were ripped from their trunks and flung to the ground.

  She scrambled up a slope, her boots bloated with water, the dress sticking to her. A rock jutted out from the hill to form a shallow overhang, a space under it that she wedged herself into.

  Daylight faded into pitch-black. Thunder pressed the hills. Lightning spilled across the sky, for a moment exposed the abused, bedraggled world below. Then everything was claimed by darkness again. She lay folded into the hole, watching, shivering. Somewhere close by there was a crash and her heart hammered her chest bone. The silence, when it came, was so thick it seemed to buzz.

  For a while she slept then woke suddenly. Something near her shoulder, something there. The knowing of it sharp in her body. She didn’t breathe, kept perfectly still. It was close to her face now, blackness, darkness, whispering its ugliness. There was another clap of thunder. She pushed herself back against the dirt wall.

  ...

  At dawn she unfolded herself from the hole, stood shaky as a foal. The sky was a soft mewing grey, the air fat and ripe with the stink of life—the sharp perfume of plants, the heady sweetness of soil. The trees were still and quiet, humble after their drenching. She wandered a way, licked water off bark, laboured uphill.

  Another ridge. Tree-covered hills all the way to eternity. All the way to eternity and up its arse. She stumbled along the ridge and stopped. Far off, a trace of something rising into the sky above blue hills. Smoke? Was it? Smoke or just the wish for it?

  She stumbled along without feeling. Her mind freed itself from her body like a rock from a hillside. Thoughts tumbled. Thy will be done. Timmy Crack. Bloody Crack. Others who sin against us. It’s a child’s job to rave at the unfairness of life. A child’s job. Where did you get these coins? Your name. What is your name? Feel this. What? A feather. Shh. Shut up. Shut up!

  Amen. Amen. Please, Amen.

  It was just past dawn and rays of light fresh from heaven sloped through the trees, licking frost from the ground. She was hunched over next to the coarse brown trunk of a tree, head on her knees, the leaves of the lower branches leaning down as if to tickle her back, to wake her or offer advice.

  She had stumbled through dawn, didn’t remember stopping, only the suck of sleep, sinking down into it like a boot into thick mud.

  Something filtered into her darkness now. A sound swam nearer. Something close. The sound found its name—dog. A dog bark. Dog barking. Bridget opened her eyes. There were two dogs running straight at her. She was on her feet in seconds. A man yelled at them to stop, another man behind him. The dogs stopped, turned and looked at the man who had yelled, then back at her, stayed where they were.

  Bridget froze.

  One of the men walked up to her. He wore tan cord trousers, a shirt with a fur vest over it, a hat squashed down over straw-coloured hair. A gun in his hand hung by his side. He stood there staring at her like he was trying to work out what she was. The other one stood behind him, shorter, skinny, also with a gun.

  She seemed to come back to herself for a moment then. ‘Do you have any food?’ She shoved her hand into the dress pocket, held out a small, wet piece of tobacco. ‘Please.’

  The fair one in the vest one frowned at it, looked around. ‘Where’d you come from?’

  ‘I…I was just resting,’ she mumbled.

  He looked around at the hills, squinted at her.

  ‘Can eat me,’ the skinny one said. His hand was working at his belt. ‘Eat this if she’s fucking hungry.’

  The fair one turned around. ‘Get that out, I’ll shoot it off.’

  He turned back and stood there staring at her again. Irish. There was Irish in his accent.

  The other one stopped playing with his trousers, rounded his shoulders, kicked at the ground with the toe of his boot.

  ‘Alright, come on,’ the fair one said, turned around and started walking.

  ‘Wait on a minute, we—’

  He spun around, spat words into the scrawny one’s face. ‘I am waiting for nothing!’

  Bridget stepped back.

  The scrawny one looked at him, bug-eyed. ‘He’ll kill ya. He’ll kill ya, ya know.’

  ...

  She followed them up a slope, lost sight of them as they wound their way around the base of outcrops of rock, some of them as big as a hut. She caught flashes of them as they pushed their way up the hill but they were too fast—she couldn’t keep up. She stopped, leaned against a tree. She took a few steps again but her legs were shaky. She thought she was going to vomit, stopped again. Heat prickled her back, the trees ahead of her went out of focus and her knees gave way.

  Bridget opened her eyes and sat bolt upright. There was something on her—an animal smell to it. A skin, fur. In front of her a big man sat on a rock, a dog asleep at his feet, another dog standing to attention next to him. She was lying near a fire in a dirt clearing. A man squatted next to the fire. She looked around and saw there were two others sitting behind her, both of them watching her. She scrambled to get up. The big man on the rock laughed. ‘Well, how about that, she’s alive.’ His voice rumbled out of him like a wave out of a cave. He was both tall and solid with a thick beard and moustache, fat pink lips among the nest of black hair like something naked and newborn. His coat and trousers were animal skin, raw skin to the outside, the colour of the rock around him. Near where he sat there was a knapsack on the ground, stitched-together skins like his clothes, a gun leaning against the rock he sat on, another one on his belt.

  The fair one by the fire—she remembered him now; she’d asked him for food—told her to sit down. He pulled a chunk of damper out of a knapsack and threw it so it landed on the fur next to her. She picked it up and stuffed it into her mouth, hardly chewed before she swallowed. He walked over with a flask, handed it to her. She guzzled, had only just started when he grabbed it off her.

  ‘Drink it all at once, you’ll be sick,’ the big man on the rock said. ‘Wouldn’ta lasted much longer, would ya, out there, he hadn’t found ya.’ He motioned with his pipe to the fair man, who had gone back to the fire, was prodding coals.

  She stuffed another piece of the damper into her mouth.

  The big one on the rock sat back, blew smoke, watched her, a trace of amusement in his face.

  ‘Told him not to bring her here. Told him.’

  The whiny voice belonged to the skinny ratty-looking man, the other one who she’d seen earlier. She remembered him undoing his belt. Her mind scanned her body—she’d been asleep, she thought. ‘How’d I get here?’

  ‘Knight in shining armour over there carried ya, didn’t he.’ He looked at the fair, sinewy man by the fire, who ignored him.

  ‘Convict,’ the big man said, nodding towards her, part question, part statement.

  She concentrated on getting the damper down her throat.

  He relit his pipe, took a short, sharp draw and exhaled. He watched the man by the fire and then her. He repacked his pipe, smoked. ‘Matt here reckons we should feed everyone, don’t ya Matt? We oughta be a bit more charitable. Keeping everything for ourselves like this ain’t right. Is it, Sheedy?’

  The sinewy one was squatted next to the fire arranging a billy of water over the flames. He didn’t look up. His face was serious.

  ‘Ain’t that so, Budders? We should be more generous.’

  ‘Yeah,’ the ratty one behind her said. ‘Yeah, we should be more generous.’

  The one at the fire—Matt—spoke slowly, his voice steady. ‘Fuck off, Henry.’

  ‘Fuck off, Henry? That’s bloody nice, ain’ it? Fuck off, Henry. Worse manners than a whore, he’s got.’ He stared at Matt’s bent
back, his ice-blue eyes steady. They showed no trace of the amusement that was in his voice. ‘He says you was lost. Tell ya what, I’m lost too. What’s he gunna do for me, eh? We’re all bloody lost.’

  She stuffed another piece of damper in her mouth, fixed her eyes on the flask of water Matt had taken off her.

  The ratty one behind her—Budders—got up, stood with his arms limp by his side. ‘Wouldn’t let me fuck her. Said I couldn’t fuck her.’ He glared at Matt, who was still by the fire.

  Henry laughed. ‘Did he now? Most uncharitable of him.’

  ‘Lost,’ Henry quipped though a haze of smoke. ‘Well, fuck me.’ He eyed her quizzically. ‘Better be warned, he’s hard to get on with.’ He grinned down at Matt, who ignored him.

  After a moment Henry lifted himself off the rock. ‘Leave youse to get acquainted then. Knight and his fair maiden. Not that she’s all that bloody fair. Quite filthy, actually. What happened to ya hair?’

  She didn’t say anything and he laughed again, the laugh low in his stomach. The other one—younger than the others, maybe about her age—who hadn’t spoken yet stood up too. Then he and Budders and Henry and the two dogs walked into the scrub.

  Matt squatted by the fire, looking into it with a frown that caused a deep crease like an upside-down Y between his eyebrows. The muscles of his thighs pushed against the fabric of his trousers. Hair the colour of dirty straw stuck to his forehead, a kink just above his right eye. At the back it curled up stiffly below his hat. He swallowed and a large Adam’s apple tracked up his throat, settled again.

  Steam rose from the billy. He picked it off the fire, poured tea into a cup, passed it to her. He poured one for himself and sat sipping it slowly.

  She was suddenly very tired. She could feel her eyes wanting to close but kept them on him. He wiped the back of his hand across his cheek. He poked the fire, sipped again.

  She looked around their camp. A pocket of dirt and rock in front of a shallow cave, above it more rock and either side and below it steep slopes of trees. She wondered which way she should go. There was no sound except bird calls, a slight wind in the trees and the crack of the fire.

  She would go in a minute, would get up and go, after a little rest, just a bit of a rest. How long she had been walking for she had no idea now. There were four nights—no, five—hunger had made everything blurry.

  ...

  She woke to see Henry drop a kangaroo in the dirt on the opposite side of the fire. She sat up quickly. Matt was sitting by the fire exactly where he had been before.

  One of the dogs licked at the wound on the side of the roo’s neck. Henry kicked it in the side. ‘Out of it!’ The dog slunk away.

  Budders pulled out a knife and started hacking at the roo. ‘Not here, for Christ’s sake,’ Matt grunted. ‘Take it over there a bit.’

  Budders dragged the roo off and Henry pulled tobacco out of his pocket, stuffed it in the pipe.

  ...

  Smoke rose into the dark sky. The smell of cooking meat filled her nostrils and saliva welled under her tongue. She swallowed, tried not to appear too hungry. Off to the right of the fire the dogs jerked parts of the animal’s insides down their eager throats. Budders had sat down next to her. A persistent trail of snot came from his right nostril, crawled like a slug towards his lip. Now and then he collected it with his tongue, sniffed loudly without taking his eyes off the meat that hung over the fire on a thick stick.

  Matt passed a piece of meat to her.

  Henry looked over at her. ‘What’s ya name again?’

  ‘Bridget.’

  ‘Bridget. So, ya ran away, Bridget?’

  She shrugged. Had she run away? She wasn’t sure.

  ‘And where are you going now then?’

  ‘Jericho.’ She was trying to concentrate on the meat, on getting it in. ‘Is this near Jericho?’

  ‘That where you were going, Jericho?’

  She nodded.

  Henry grinned. ‘’Fraid you gone the wrong way.’

  Next to her Budders giggled.

  ‘Are you going there?’ She addressed the question to Matt but it was Henry who answered.

  ‘Are we going to Jericho?’ He spoke slowly, paused. ‘Are we going to Jericho, Sam?’

  ‘Nah.’ It was the first time he’d spoken—the younger one, his gaze on the dirt.

  Henry sucked on his pipe, blew smoke. ‘No. No, we’re not going to Jericho.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, looked around the clearing.

  ‘Now that is a good question,’ he said.

  She didn’t look at him, chewed the meat.

  ‘What are you going to Jericho for?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Don’t know?’ Henry said. He looked over at Matt. ‘She don’t know.’ He watched her. ‘Bit hungry, aren’t ya?’ He leaned forward, met her eyes over the fire. ‘Food can be a bit hard to come by out here, can’t it?’

  ‘Leave her alone,’ Matt growled.

  Henry sat back. ‘Just trying to be helpful,’ he said, putting his feet up on a rock. ‘Just trying to be fucking helpful.’

  Later Henry sat smoking, watching Matt as he rolled the rest of the cooked roo tightly in a sack. ‘Matt and I had a fine idea once, didn’t we, Matt?’

  ‘Doubt that,’ Matt said.

  ‘See, he’s a smart bastard. What was it? Lemme think. Freedom. Freedom it mighta been, or some bloody grand idea like that.’

  Matt shot Henry a look of warning.

  Henry stood up. ‘Told ya, can’t say nothing to him. Worse than a bloody woman he is.’ He walked past Matt, knocking him as he went. A few yards from the fire he climbed up onto a rock, pulled a fur over his broad shoulders.

  Matt pulled a blanket off the top of a knapsack where it had been rolled and tied. Henry’s voice came from the rock he was sitting on, gun by his side. ‘You ain’t rutting where I can hear ya. Don’t wanna listen to your pig grunts. Piss off somewhere.’

  Matt ignored him, spoke to Budders. ‘Give her your blanket.’

  Budders looked surprised. ‘Ain’t giving her my blanket. Give her yours.’

  ‘Give it to her, I said.’ He reached behind Bridget and smacked Budders on the side of the head.

  Budders rubbed his head. ‘Piss off.’

  Matt grabbed Budders’ blanket.

  ‘Give it back!’ Budders jumped to his feet.

  Matt stood next to her. ‘Get up.’

  ‘I’ll be cold. Give it back, I’ll be cold,’ Budders snivelled. ‘Stupid whore,’ he muttered.

  Up on the rock Henry chuckled.

  She followed Matt around the side of the overhang to a patch of dirt between two rocks. He put his blanket down, a gun next to it. She stood there, holding the blanket he’d given her.

  ‘I’m going to the main road, to Jericho.’

  Matt had lain down and now rolled onto his side towards the gun, facing away from her.

  She sat down. It was cold but she couldn’t bring herself to pull Budders’ blanket over her.

  ‘It won’t kill you,’ Matt said, still with his back turned.

  ‘I’ll go in the morning then. Can you show me the way? To the main road?’

  No answer.

  She left the blanket on the ground, but after a while the desire for warmth was stronger than her repulsion. She pulled the blanket over her knees but stayed sitting there, looking out into the dark, the sky a great bowl of stars, cold pouring down out of it. His back was still to her. He was breathing deeply. Henry was still up on the rock. No sound from Budders over by the fire, or from Sam. Eventually she lay down. She lay there awake, her body stiff, waiting for any movement from Matt, from the other side of the rock.

  ...

  Bridget woke to light, to the four of them talking. She lay still and listened.

  ‘She can come with us till we get to Jacobson’s.’ Matt’s voice. ‘Take her out to the road from there.’

  ‘You ain’t taking her to the road. Don’t be
bloody stupid.’ Henry, she thought, the voice deep.

  ‘She’s gunna slow us down.’ That was the young one, Sam.

  ‘Stupid bitch got lost—she can deal with it.’ Budders.

  ‘Who asked you?’ Matt. Then: ‘Told you: I’ll deal with her.’

  Henry said something that she couldn’t quite hear.

  She heard them all move and then Matt came around the rocks. She was shivering, the morning cold enough to split brick. He threw her a coat. ‘Get up, we’re going.’

  ‘Can I have something to eat?’

  ‘Sam, get something.’ He called it over his shoulder.

  Bridget went around to the fire and Sam gave her a chunk of meat and a piece of damper. She swallowed it all as quickly as she could.

  Matt was kicking dirt onto the coals. She pointed to the water flask that was over by a rock now. ‘Can I’ve some of that?’

  ‘Get it yourself,’ Matt said.

  She walked over next to Henry, who was tying a rolled fur to the top of a knapsack.

  She gulped down water from the flask. Matt took it off her, shoved it into a knapsack he held. He and the other men hoicked their full knapsacks onto their backs. Then he turned around and started to walk down the hill, the two dogs and the three other men following him. She stood there by the ring of rocks where the fire had been. Around her, endless hills like ocean.

  She went past the fireplace and into the trees where the men had gone.

  ...

  A frypan, the rolled blanket and a coil of rope were all tied to the outside of Matt’s knapsack. The skin on the back of his neck was dark with dirt. She could smell him: sweat and dirt and something else—personal and undefinable, slightly sweet but sickly. She hung back to avoid the intimacy of it.

  Matt moved fast down the slope. She lost him, heard a dog bark and headed in the direction of the sound.

  She found him stopped, waiting. As soon as she saw him he started again and she ran to catch up.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  He didn’t turn around, didn’t answer.

  They came out of the trees and crossed a slope strewn with rock. The rocks slipped out from under her feet. Matt was ahead of her, about to enter the trees on the other side of the slope. She had to run not to lose sight of him again.