For some reason a fire broke out – was the wood stove kicked out from the wall; had a bottle of kerosene fallen and shattered upon it? All were forced to evacuate, out into the freezing night, out to where they could do little but stand barefoot in the sleet and ice and watch the building consumed by the flames. The remains of his father were recovered along with those of one other. They were unrecognisable, no corpse to bathe, no face to turn towards the Ka’aba, no body to weep over.
In the months to follow, Arman, his mother and sister sought shelter from any who dared to help. As the seasons warmed, they lived in the outlying regions with beekeepers and vegetable farmers – the very people once sheltered by his own family. With no work and no home, with spent bullet-shells as common as garden pebbles and cordite the ever-present fragrance, it was unwise to complain, resist or side with anyone. Neither was it wise to be the son of a man who stood up for his people, a son who others expected would now take up the responsibility – or die in the process. Arman was in his twenties then and chose to leave, to start afresh – to rebuild his character as a man of substance elsewhere in the world.
But now, on this strange day in a strange land, all his neighbours had arrived on his doorstep. They pointed the finger; they accused him: you are guilty, Arman Khan, as guilty as any other. And there was some truth to it; he had not told them that he had urged the boy to flee, abandoning his situation just as Arman had done in Yarraville with his cousins – and in Afghanistan. And he had not told them all there was to know about Benton Hattersley.
A DUSTY four-wheel-drive shot past with such urgency that Shaun was obliged to pause until the pitching vehicle speared around the next bend, the whine of its tortured engine fading off like the cry of sentinel falling from the parapet.
He’d been on the road the whole afternoon. He didn’t mind at all. For Shaun, walking alone in silence amid the shadow of tall forest trees was as natural as a bush bee arrowing towards the hive. The sun fleetingly poked its rays through the foliage and currawongs let loose their piping cry, but apart from that, the day passed almost without incident, except perhaps for the discovery of a CD without its case, Pearl Jam – Greatest Hits, which some disgruntled motorist had no doubt ejected through the car window.
He came to a concrete bridge and leaned over the edge to see a trickle of water. He climbed down through a tangle of roadside weeds, stepping on the blackberry canes, and filled his canister. Under the bridge he saw swallows planing in and out, taking insects to mud nests high on the concrete lintels. He did not sit down, the broken glass precluded it, but he stayed long enough to study the scrawls of graffiti: swear words, declarations of love, hatred, the things that Jeannette does and the things DW would like to do. DW had included a phone number. Shaun surveyed the various messages and wondered who might carry a crayon to that lonely spot to write on a lime-leached wall: unremarkable words that no one else would ever see.
As he emerged from the forest, he happened upon a wombat by the side of the road, as round as a balloon, its legs in the air, flies busying themselves at its genitals. On the hill, he saw a farmer astride a motorbike shepherding a solitary cow. When the man came closer, Shaun approached the fenceline.
‘Is it very far to Hembridge?’ he shouted.
The man removed his wide-brimmed hat and pointed it down the dusty road. Not far now, the boy was assured. He knew that his uncle’s turnoff was well short of the town so there’d be little more than an hour to go. Just as well: he’d put a hole in both shoes which had worn clean through his socks.
At last Shaun saw the familiar collection of letterboxes – green, brown and white – that marked the corner of the side-road leading to his uncle’s property. Soon after, the burnt landscape began and Shaun saw blackened sticks standing like spines on a giant sooty insect. It had been more than two months since the fire, and already the charred stems were amassing clumps of growth at their roots and sporting vivid green shoots from their sides. The earth seemed less fortunate, still dry and cracked, the ash blown away. It exposed rabbit burrows, cans and bottles, tangles of rusted wire and corrugated iron. Shaun saw the burnt springs of a mattress and a hubcap still shining. Wooden fence-posts varied from the intact to half burnt to completely consumed, their wired alternations rising and falling across the parchment hills like a page of scribbled music.
A little after six he came to his Uncle Chris’s gate which stood untouched by the fire. It was a good sign, but when he approached the house-site, things were less cheery. It was no more than a dark square on the earth, and the only indication that people had ever been there was the odd rake mark in the charcoal. Some distance down the slope he saw a large tract of greenery about the size of a sports field and at its centre stood a huge eucalypt. Beneath it Shaun could just make out a caravan, a silver box skewed between the shrubbery. A desert oasis, the boy decided, though the surrounding landscape was not sand but blackened earth. It contrasted with the foliage, enhancing its greenness – an illusion, Shaun knew, just as a cloud appears faintly pink against a sky of brilliant blue.
He followed a snaking track towards the stand of untouched trees and a parked blue utility came into view. Silently he absorbed the scene: the ute angled there, its tailboard down and a bundle of star pickets leaning against it, eucalypts to the left and right curving strategically through the understorey wattles, the massive butt of the old central redgum thrusting out its gnarly limbs as if holding the bushy riffraff at bay, allowing only the dusty caravan to enter its personal space. Shaun approached the van and knocked gently on the ribbed metal door. He noted the chrome key still in the lock and he stepped back when he heard the floor creak and fingers fiddling with an internal latch. The rectangle of aluminium squeaked open and an unshaven man in his underpants appeared.
‘Yes?’
‘Hi Uncle Chris.’
Shaun could hardly recognise the man. His skin looked grey, his stomach sagged and his hair was stuck to his forehead. His reddened eyes narrowed in the glare that bounced off the shiny door.
‘Shaun?’
‘I’ve come to visit you … Is … is that okay?’
‘Christ, boy. Who brought you?’ He looked out over Shaun’s head, towards the driveway.
‘No one. I walked.’
‘Bloody hell. Where’s Adele?’
‘In Melbourne. She’s very busy. She doesn’t know I’m here.’
His uncle told him to park himself on a camp chair under the tree and then went back inside. Shaun took a seat and looked at the caravan, grey and dinted, ‘Sunray’ sloping along the side. A rake and a shovel stood next to the wheel, a striped towel was draped over a gas cylinder. He heard shuffling, a clatter of dishes and water splashed out through a pipe underneath, burbling into a red bucket. A whistle blew. His uncle emerged with two cups of tea.
ADELE LEANED on the banister and pressed the phone to her ear. The signal was breaking up but the message was clear enough. The boy is here, her brother said. She flopped onto the stairs. How could she have gotten it so wrong? Was she so screened off with her own issues that she had failed to acknowledge the boy? She felt blind to him. Perhaps all of us are blind to each other, she reasoned. Did she see Elton; did he see her? Yet she was diligent with her clients – but then she was paid well to do so. What could have happened that people had forgotten to acknowledge each other?
She recalled a line from a Martin Amis novel. Something about people not going into one another, not going in and bringing the other out: we strike a match at the jaws of the cave and quickly ask if anybody’s there. To Adele, it seemed she had hardly even struck the match.
She went to tell Elton the good news – but he wasn’t in his room. How was it that she didn’t know? She rang the bell at 44 and Stef invited her in. She fetched Elton and Jess, who’d been filling time in the girl’s room, both sitting on her bed and texting each other across the vast expanse of the patterned bedspread. Perhaps it was a distraction from the other issue but Jess was also rather pl
eased to have drawn Elton into such close quarters.
‘We’ve found him,’ Adele said when they appeared.
‘Sweet,’ sighed Jess and felt a sudden stirring. Until that moment she was unsure how she felt about it all. The missing boy was somehow annoying in a peculiar way; it disrupted things. All day she’d repressed some underlying consternation as though she’d misplaced something precious: her favourite boots or the coffin purse from Demonia. Now, a warm feeling permeated. ‘So where is he?’ she asked.
‘He went to his uncle Chris’s – my brother’s place. He caught the train to Ballarat, got off at Ballan and then just walked. Straight into the bush.’
Stef looked visibly relieved. ‘Thank God he’s safe.’ She inhaled deeply and, despite his best efforts, Elton could not help glancing at the rise of her chest.
‘He wants a few days with Chris,’ Adele informed them. ‘Then I’ll hire a car and go up there.’
‘Is he going to come back?’ Jess edged closer to Elton and Adele saw her son step slightly away again.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘And I’m not sure he knows either.’
‘I think he should come back,’ Jess declared. ‘We want him to, don’t we?’
‘Of course.’
‘What if we went in my car?’ Stef suggested. ‘Would that be all right? Would you mind if I went with you? I feel as responsible for this as anyone.’
‘Can I go too?’ Jess reddened, a phenomenon she rarely experienced. ‘I’d like to go as well, if that’s okay.’ She looked at Elton who seemed visibly perplexed. ‘And Elton wants to come with us, don’t you, Elton? To find his cousin.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ Adele said. ‘Let’s make it Wednesday, shall we? Nine o’clock?’
SIMON DECIDED to phone the police and tell them what he knew; he still regarded himself as a teacher so mandatory reporting was required of him. No doubt one or other of those men was at fault – the Afghan seemed particularly guilty, though the nude photos suggested the other one. The cops would sort it out.
Arman felt decidedly ill; everything looked grim. Benton had left – but where had he gone, what had become of him, did he have a place to sleep or did he wander the streets intoxicated? Still, he was gone, banished into the wilderness, which made Arman sad, frightened and relieved. The various emotions challenged one another as he sat at the kitchen table, alone once more. He closed his eyes – but abruptly opened them when he heard the front door close.
‘What’s the problem, old man, you look like you’ve seen a ghost?’
‘You … you have come back.’
‘Of course, Arman. This is my abode, don’t you know? At least for the time being.’
Benton went to the sink as Arman told him of the visit from the neighbours – all of them – and that they were looking for Shaun. He saw Benton’s body tense.
‘They think you chased him,’ Arman added.
‘Chased him? Good God. They’re obviously referring to the other night. I attempted to chat to the boy; does that sound like chasing to you? The boy is troubled, that’s the long and short of it, he needs some counselling.’ He noticed that his monitor had been switched off and he turned it on again. ‘What did you tell them?’
‘Nothing.’
Benton placed his broad palms on the table where Arman was sitting, and leaned in. ‘Don’t lie to me, Arman.’
‘I tell nothing. I tell them you are gone. I tell them the boy is gone. Then they leave.’
‘The boy is gone? Where?’
‘I don’t know. He said goodbye and went towards the Sydney Road; that is all I knew.’
Benton frowned; the boy gone. He’d obviously told the others something, children always talk – it goes with the territory. But they had nothing on him. And the boy’s own aunt was hardly faultless, quite possibly a hooker; she wouldn’t cause a fuss. And the lad himself was at fault: he had witnessed the fall into the creek and made no attempt to help or even to call for assistance. That boy had left him for dead – what if it had been a heart attack he’d suffered?
He went upstairs and started his computer. He inserted a USB stick and transferred his precious files, many years of careful collecting. He cleaned his hard drive and put the USB stick, his sepia postcards and his passport into the side pocket of a travel bag. He pressed in some of his clothes, shoes, a towel and a toothbrush. If the boy could leave, he could leave as well, at least for the time being. He stretched out on the bed and made plans. Which way would the boy have gone?
ARMAN WAS about to report for duty and answered the door in his neat attire. On the doorstep, two uniformed men stood side-by-side, one holding a clipboard to his chest. They waited while Arman fetched Benton.
‘The police are here! He said breathlessly. ‘They want to speak with you.’
Benton sat upright on his bed. ‘You let them in?’
‘Yes, you have to come down.’
Benton had known a visit was always a possibility; he was not without experience of it. He should have left an hour ago. He shoved his travel bag under the bed and followed Arman downstairs. The two officers were staring at his surveillance monitor.
‘It’s for security,’ Benton informed them. ‘We’re hoping the front room will be finished soon, aren’t we, Arman? Benton Hattersley,’ he volunteered and put out his hand.
The officer sniffed audibly and took out a white handkerchief. ‘Mind if we look around?’
‘Not at all,’ Benton replied. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Arman?’
The uniformed men opened the door to the front room and registered the expanse of compacted earth. Arman wondered what they thought of it. In Australia it was uncommon.
‘Upstairs?’
‘Certainly. By all means.’
They followed the policemen up and Benton noted the sharp crease in their trousers and the shiny black shoes. There was a time when he would have liked to wear a uniform himself and that idea had prompted him to apply for a job as a chauffeur. The policemen went into his room and Benton began to feel a little nervous: they were standing remarkably close to the travel bag he had pushed under the bed.
‘Not much to see, I’m afraid,’ he suggested.
‘Is this your computer?’
‘Yes. Old now; time for a new one.’ He smiled politely. ‘There’s nothing on it that you’d be interested in, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘You’d be surprised what’s on people’s computers, Mr Hattersley. Our technicians can find anything, old or new, saved or deleted. But if it’s clean then you have nothing to worry about, have you?’
They strode along to Arman’s room; neater, airier, brighter – it had a window. At the door, Arman bent to remove his shoes and the others stepped past him. Their eyes alighted on the main features: a chest of drawers, a small dresser and a mantel on which an object was placed, wrapped in a bright cloth. One of the officers approached it.
‘Please do not touch,’ Arman blurted, and the policeman hesitated. Arman carefully exposed the Quran to them before wrapping it again. The policeman stepped back and Arman hastened to move his prayer rug, rolled up by the bed.
‘Do you know the child, Shaun Bellamy?’
‘Yes,’ Benton said from behind them. ‘We both do. Lives next door.’
‘There’s been a report that one of you chased him.’
‘What? You know anything about this, Arman?’
The younger man shook his head and looked at the floor. What had caused him to lie; what mess was he in? It would take very little for his chance in the new country to be ruined. For a moment he saw himself once more running on the streets of Qarabagh, lying awake on the stone floor of his friend’s house.
‘Does either of you know anything that could help us in regard to Shaun Bellamy? Please remember, there’s a small boy at risk.’
Benton proffered his trademark frown, while Arman fixed his eyes on the knotty floorboards and recalled the war-torn country he had left behind.
CHRIS BELLAMY stirred his tea and tapped the spoon twice on the cup’s rim. Shaun dutifully picked up the mug of fawn liquid his uncle had pushed in front of him and took a sip.
‘You like tea?’ his uncle said.
‘Not much.’ Mr Warner had called it boiled leaves.
’What do you like, then?’
‘Tea’s okay.’
They were sitting in the bleached canvas chairs beneath the bulky limbs of the old eucalypt. Shaun looked up at the ancient tree: Red River Gum, the choice of timber for fence posts and railway sleepers. He felt comfortable there in that grassy clearing, sheltered by hopbush, Fringe Myrtle and various wattles. In most directions you could hardly see the endless burnt terrain. A flock of thornbills darted through and Shaun was pleased that they’d found refuge – as he had – right there in the middle of the burning. He sat with his uncle at an old kitchen table that someone had inexpertly painted a pale banksia yellow. Its surface was coated in fine dust and Shaun’s mug of tea left a faint ring. He scrutinised the thin porcelain vessel that featured an illustration of a bird – some unknown variety, not native.
‘Do you think I could stay, Uncle Chris?’
‘Yeah, sure. I can fix you up with a bed, until your aunty arrives.’
‘Do you think I could stay … for a while?’
Chris studied him. ‘Take a look around you, Shaun. It’s pretty primitive, don’t you think? You’d be miserable.’
Shaun surveyed the campsite, the caravan and the wood stacked against it under a tarpaulin. ‘Are you miserable?’
Chris glanced at his caravan. ‘I’m not overjoyed.’
‘You going to build a new house?’
The man looked grim. He explained to Shaun that once the insurance money came through he would probably sell the land and move closer to town. He was fed up with black soot in his pores, up his nose and in every other damned orifice.
The Colour of the Night Page 20