‘There’s lots happening, Elton, but not … noisily.’
He turned to his mother. ‘What do you think, Mum?’
‘I think I’m beginning to understand why Morris liked it out here – and you too, Chris. There’s time to reflect. I can almost feel my mind changing gear.’
‘Back to slow,’ Elton said.
‘Is that such a bad thing?’
‘I like things to happen,’ he whined. ‘Nothing’s happening.’
Jess rolled her eyes. ‘Switch off, Elton.’
‘Switch off?’
‘Yes. Close the program, pull out the plug. Put it in Sleep Mode for a while.’
Elton looked again at his mother and she smiled. ‘Just reflect on things,’ she said.
‘It’s what I try to do in the studio,’ Stef said, brushing loose hairs from her face. ‘You can’t create anything, get any original ideas, unless you can lose yourself. But it seems easier here. When nothing is coming at you … Like this,’ she swept her arm, ‘you get a totally different take on things. You’re not being flogged anything, nothing has any expectations of you, nothing cares. It’s as if you are exactly in the present.’
Adele observed a patch of light through the trees. Was Stef making sense? Whether true or not, whether it was a genuine perception or a shallow delusion induced by the absence of city life, she couldn’t really say – and it was hardly the topic of concern. Right then only one thing was pressing and she had no illusions about it: what if the boy just kept on going?
CHRIS DECIDED to return to town to fetch more drinking water and drive the streets once again, questioning locals. He was gone less than an hour, and when the others saw the blue ute churning the dust, they stood craning their necks, hoping to see Shaun in the passenger seat. The man was alone.
Jess slumped onto the canvas chair. A small bug landed and she smacked the table, causing Elton to jump and creating a small hubbub of zigzagging flies. The sun was now high and dappled light spotted the scene, creating the impression of a widespread pestilence. Under the big tree they all ate lunch in silence, chewing slowly on sourdough sandwiches, though Jess hardly touched hers, the corners curling dryly on a red plastic plate.
‘I’m going,’ she said at last, raising her eyes from the crusty triangles.
Her mother stopped chewing. ‘You what?’
‘I’m going.’ Jess straightened her back. ‘To look for him. I’m sick to death of sitting around this stupid yellow table waiting for something to happen. I’m going down the hill where Chris said he might have gone. I’m going to find that little fucker if it kills me.’ She stood up.
‘Jess, we don’t know this bush,’ her mother said, ‘and we are not exactly equipped for it’.
Elton stirred. ‘It would be like looking for a needle –’
‘In a haystack. Good one, Ello. I don’t care. I’m going.’
‘Then we all should go.’ Chris stood up as well. ‘It would give us something to do even if it’s fruitless. We could spread out, keep within sight of each other, head to the northwest, the most likely direction.’
‘Are you serious?’ Elton’s face contorted. ‘The kid could be a hundred kilometres away.’
‘That’s true,’ his uncle said. ‘But it wouldn’t hurt us to do something. And someone will need to stay behind, in case he shows up. That should be you, Elton. To keep a sharp eye out for the boy.’
They prepared a pack with a few supplies and some water. Chris agreed to leave his mobile with Elton. Stef had hers, the only other phone that still had charge. It was after two before they finally hiked off together. And it was not without some apprehension that Elton watched the group receding in the distance, disappearing down the slow incline towards the valley until only a single head bobbed on the ashen crest. And then that too dissolved. Utter silence encroached and Elton tapped on the bonnet of Stef’s car to dispel it. He stood there a long while, his body directed towards the blank horizon, wishing they would change their minds and return – to wait, as they had previously planned.
Shaun was gone; that was the fact of it. Mustn’t he accept that harsh reality? Perhaps in the months to come his young cousin would contact him. Hi, Elton. I’m living on the Sunshine Coast, in a squat by the beach, working in a music store. Tell everyone not to worry. I’m living my own life, just like everyone else should be doing.
7
ON THE MORNING of the fourth, the elderly woman who lived opposite the terraces, looked out to see the Greek man peeling newspaper from the front windows. A sign was pasted on the outside of the glass: FOR LEASE. Progress at last. For a while it seemed that the world had stopped. Unknown to them, the woman had become quite familiar with the residents across the road, but lately it seemed that everyone had vanished. She’d grown quite attached to them all: the little boy who came and went at all hours, the young man on the bike. Even the adults had formed a recognisable pattern: the hour the taxi-driver left or the couple returned to 44. But it had all stopped abruptly, and the appearance of the Greek man at work today, heartened her.
It’s going to be a shop, she decided. How nice it would be to have a store opposite – perhaps like the one she’d grown up in. Her father had died of emphysema, and soon after, her life changed abruptly when her mother sold the house and bought the leasehold on a store. Overnight she became a haberdasher and immediately the girl’s status at school had shifted. Haberdashery; no one could spell it let alone understand the occupation, which was clearly professional, like a veterinarian or a pharmacist.
Through the curtains she watched the Greek man a moment longer and then fetched her shopping trolley. She waited for the traffic before pulling it across the road. What was she doing? She wasn’t sure. Perhaps she should go to the shops; at least she could get her prescription filled. But as she reached the large wall-opening, the window still not replaced, she paused. She would not think of talking to a stranger but the man working there seemed somehow familiar. She watched him as he bunched the sheets of newspaper on the newly-laid floor. The light at last filled the interior and she noticed how closely the size of it matched the store her mother had managed.
‘A lot of work,’ she volunteered at last.
Nikos looked up to see her silhouetted in the window frame. ‘Not long t’ go now, though. Be pretty flash soon.’
‘A shop? Is it going to be a shop?’
‘Could be, if I can get the right tenant.’
‘What about a haberdashery?’
‘A haber what?’
‘Sewing things; you know, needles and thread.’
‘Café, more like it. Somethin’ special for the young kids, know what I mean? Flash coffee, poached eggs and spinach, tables on the street. Licensed as well.’ It was just one of Nikos’s visions. He’d also thought about a good restaurant. What about the Afghan bloke? He wasn’t a bad cook and people liked a bit of ethnic stuff.
The woman glanced around once more and then pulled her trolley closer.
‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘Best be off then.’
She did not walk up Ward Street but decided to return home. As she closed the gate she glanced once more at the Greek man cleaning the window-glass and tried to imagine a busy café right there on the corner. Of course; it was the modern ones she should be thinking about, the new generation. It was their interests that needed to be accommodated, not her own silly whims. After all, it wasn’t as if they were watching her.
THE LIGHT was fading when Elton again marched to the edge of the camp. Where the hell were they? Why hadn’t the phone rung? He’d checked it several times and had sent text messages: any news whats happening, but the stupid fucking thing had remained mute. And now the darkness was coming again: the sun was setting on his peace of mind, leaving the anxiety free to enact its devilish pranks. He tried willing the group to materialise, squeezing his eyes tight, but was still taken by complete surprise when dark shapes suddenly appeared, coming up the slope. In the bad light it was difficult to identify anyo
ne at all and for a moment his apprehension tumbled into play once more. At long last he recognised the familiar forms of his mother, Stef and his uncle, but he didn’t budge until they finally reached him.
‘Any sign of Shaun? Where’s Jess?’
Adele looked grave. ‘She’s not here? We lost sight of her in the valley. She took off in a different direction. We thought she might be back already.’
Elton’s eyes widened. ‘You left her out there? With the animals?’
‘Elton,’ his uncle said, ‘this is Australia, son, not the African savannah.’
‘There’s snakes aren’t there? Did you call out?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘For both of them. Don’t worry, son, I’m sure she’ll be all right.’
‘But … but –’
‘We’d better go back,’ Adele said. ‘She might be lost.’
Chris shook his head. ‘Whichever way she goes she’ll eventually hit a road, so there’s not much chance of that. It’s nearly dark. We’ll all end up missing if we go now. I think she’ll be okay. She’ll bed down and we’ll pick her up in –’
‘ You would bed down,’ Adele said, ‘but Jess will be terrified.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Stef weighed in. ‘Jess is strong, don’t underestimate her. We can’t go back, but we can toot the horns and hope she hears. And if we don’t have her in the morning we should call Search and Rescue.’
‘Why didn’t you phone me?’ Elton said, angrily.
‘No signal in the valley,’ Chris replied. ‘Bloody Telstra.’
Elton looked into the encroaching dark, a pink glow still lingering on the horizon. His eyes scanned that distant extremity, an illusion, he knew: yet another unattainable goal. ‘She might be in trouble,’ he protested.
‘I think she’ll be all right, Elton.’ Stef tried to calm him – and her own nerves. ‘You don’t know Jess. I noticed her marching off on her own and I called. But that wilful girl just waved and kept on going.’
They blew the car horns and stood waiting. Around ten they retired, but this time Elton shared the car with no one.
At first light the three adults gathered once more by the outside table, each taking turns at the wash bowl. ‘Someone should wake Elton,’ Chris suggested, lighting the camp stove and Adele went to the car. She returned soon after. ‘He’s gone,’ she said. ‘Elton’s gone.’
BENTON HATTERSLEY sat on the park bench a hundred metres from where he’d fallen into the creek, just a few paces from where the boy had shot off across the grass, demonstrating a complete lack of confidence in him. What a horrible night that had been. He’d never intended to pursue the boy, not in that way; if only he’d stopped to talk. But the boy ran on and his forward momentum seemed to draw Benton as though some attendant current had swept him up. If only Shaun had been a little kinder. They could have sat together on that very seat in the dying light and talked of their experiences. The boy was a loner like him and no doubt they shared similar disappointments, comparable pain. The man could have helped, he could have offered so much advice. They might have bonded.
Right now that lad could be anywhere, perhaps even nearby. Benton closed his eyes and tried to envisage the boy approaching, coming to offer apologies for his unjustified trepidation, to make amends. Another foolish expectation. He swivelled on the seat and noted a large English tree on the rise to the rear, an elm perhaps, its leafy ovoid structure standing stark against the western light. From the south, voices travelled towards him and he turned again to see three children coming along the bike path at the bottom of the slope. A dog tagged along, stopping to lift its leg at particular features – a shrub, a post, a fallen branch. The trio strolled by, not fifty metres below him, chatting in childlike animation. Such candour, such simplicity in a world far more complicated than it needed to be.
Was there any point going on? If only his grandfather could see him now: the last of the Hattersleys, no property, no peers, no credibility. Too bad. He taught me everything, Benton had informed others, but in truth he hated the old man. If he’d had the opportunity now, he would barge into that manor house, tear down the florid coat of arms with the two stags rampant that hung over the old mantelpiece and piss on it. He would take his grandfather’s bejewelled sterling-silver riding crop and send it spinning into the lake; that precious instrument handed down through generations and utilised unsparingly, to strip the skin off Benton’s five-year-old buttocks because he’d forgotten to use the cutlery in its correct order, because he would not ride the pony given him, because he consistently fell asleep at the desk. He remembered, with some bitterness, the sacking of Spencer, the kindly servant who had put aside the serving tray to dry the boy’s eyes on his own kerchief. And how Benton had cried, for hours, alone, bereft.
Too bad if his family had been ashamed of him: the regrettable result of a biological accident. If only he’d had a father, if only the businesses had fared better, if only their nobility had somehow remained intact. Perhaps then, those adults in his life might have been a little more generous, a little kinder. Too bad; too bloody bad.
Benton sat gazing at the ground, breathing lightly through his mouth, the crease in his forehead acquiring renewed prominence in the glancing afternoon light. His attention drifted to a large bug of some kind that had settled on a reed of grass, and when it took flight the stem sprang like a metronome. He saw a young woman meandering along the bike path, both thumbs pressing digits on her smartphone as though massaging its delicate spine. Perhaps he needed a similar device, a plaything that clearly offered the lonely and alone a little distraction, and at least the illusion of comfort and security.
It was not an unusual condition for Benton – loneliness – but right now he felt positively singular; the last of a dying species. Wasn’t he worth preserving? He was not a bad man.
A disconcerting nausea rolled in, its toxins spreading through his arterial system, the perspiration emerging on his skin. He felt chilled. He saw Arman’s dark face, his worried look. You are sick, Ben. Sick, sick, sick. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, attempting to dispel the queasiness. We are all different, Arman, he’d replied. Yes, that was it: no two had the same interests, the same predilections. Some people loved dogs, others cats; some people didn’t like animals at all. What did he love? He loved … innocence, that’s all, the untrammelled beauty of youth that had never been his. He thought of Shaun again and it stirred his blood.
A police van cruised down towards the creek. It stopped at the bike track, the red tail-lights illuminated. It was no more than seventy metres away and Benton watched the passenger window go down and a blue-sleeved elbow emerge. A plume of smoke issued into the still air. Benton breathed deeply and used a small handkerchief to pat the dampness on his chin. The brake lights went out and the vehicle stood still. Benton closed his eyes and saw the boy’s troubled face, the repulsion. He was not a bad man.
Perhaps he should march straight down to that police vehicle right now. I’m the one you are persecuting, he could tell them, I’m the one you are trying to convict. He stood up and faced the white van. He sighed again, straightened his back and walked purposefully in the opposite direction.
ELTON WALKED as well. He crossed the ashen plains of the Outland – clearly razed by some diabolical evil, all life extinguished – and on into the bowl of the valley. He had been there many times, a land accessed from Azeroth through the Dark Portal in the Blasted Lands. It was here that the Burning Crusade took place. But all that was irrelevant now, there would be no battles with any opposing faction, it was a Quest that he must complete this day: find the girl. She was a warrior in distress, one he knew well. Hadn’t they opposed the unseen forces together?
There was little time to waste and he took his bearings. A skilled navigator, he knew that the sun rose in the east and that north would take him away from the seas dominated by the Pirate Dread. Towards the west a dark forest lay, surely the abode of Spore Walkers and Corehounds; the girl would never go there. Ah
ead of him, there were two valleys. The one to the right had been explored by the others. The second, more treacherous, was where he’d concentrate his search, and he clambered down now into a scoured-out cleft, its clay-lined sides twice his own height, down almost into the Underworld, where he’d be unseen by all who surveyed.
STEF, ADELE and her brother walked to the edge of the campsite and looked down the long incline that sloped into the valley. In the distance through a pastel haze the forest could be seen, just a thin line of darker, shimmering terrain, so far off that it was impossible to imagine Shaun, let alone Jess, ever venturing there. And now Elton – if there was anyone to be truly worried about, it was he. Three missing; could it get any worse? They called, a trio of tenors and altos vociferating into the emptiness. Sometimes a faint echo returned which gave the illusion of reply, but when they paused for breath the silence merely emphasised their frustration. To venture out again would only complicate things. They called once more and then simply returned to the caravan. At the table, Chris wrote down the number of Emergency Services and placed it near his mobile. At 11 a.m. they would call.
ELTON CALLED as well. His voice travelled down the narrow ravine that dictated the direction of his search. He wished he’d stayed above it where his voice might carry further but it was impossible now; he could not escape the deep cutting, the walls of eroded earth rising sharply on either side. At times, little crests of panic passed through him, nauseating swells that rose then settled, only to rise again, threatening to sweep him away. No tokens or honour points were available now, no help from the guild. It was all up to him and him alone. It wasn’t the first time he’d quested in country such as this, but never with the sense of blood in his veins, with sweat on his palms, a shortness of breath and rubble slipping beneath his feet. He could do little else but descend.
At last he emerged from the fissure onto a steep grade that dropped further into the unknown. He peered into the distance and panned to the east and west. Below him, a ribbed landscape spread out where decades of erosion had scoured a series of deep fluted gutters into the rust-red earth. It was complicated terrain, hostile and unforgiving with no clear path. And it was here that Elton’s resolve weakened: where exactly was he; what dangers awaited; where was this leading? Perhaps he should retreat while he still could – but what of Jess?
The Colour of the Night Page 24