Blood Is a Stranger

by Roland Perry

  ‘Be careful,’ she whispered, ‘killer toothpaste.’

  One of the inspectors grabbed her recorder.

  ‘Hey,’ she protested. ‘You can’t take that!’

  Another official removed the tapes she made with Utun and Tien.

  ‘I want that recorder!’ she said to the customs official.

  He spoke in Indonesian to the inspectors. They dumped her belongings back into the suitcase. The recorder was last to go in. The tapes were confiscated.

  Rhonda found a place in the line. The official began ushering people past her. She tapped her watch.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she said. ‘I have a plane to catch.’

  Seeing Rhonda’s problem, a big Australian, dressed like a farmer in check shirt and corduroys, stepped forward.

  ‘Let the lady through,’ he said. The tone of his voice forced the official’s hand.

  A young Javanese woman in dark glasses appeared at the counter. She took Rhonda aside. ‘You cannot leave, Ms Mills.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Rhonda asked.

  ‘You are under investigation.’

  ‘Am I under arrest or what?!’

  The woman smiled.

  ‘No,’ she replied, ‘find accommodation and speak to your Embassy tomorrow.’

  O’Laughlin examined the photos and debris.

  ‘Who gave you Burra as a contact?’ he asked.

  ‘A TV journalist, Rhonda Mills.’

  O’Laughlin seemed impressed.

  ‘I’ll have to speak to Richardson,’ O’Laughlin said.

  ‘Tell him I’ve already spoken to the Minister for Aboriginal Affairs,’ Burra remarked. ‘He said he would be informing the PM and ringing Richardson.’

  Cardinal noted Burra’s tact. He made it sound as if he was giving O’Laughlin inside information.

  ‘What did you say to the minister?’ O’Laughlin asked.

  ‘I told him we had evidence that sacred sites had been desecrated, far worse to us than the smashing of a church or an ANZAC war memorial would be to whites.’

  There was a hint of satisfaction in O’Laughlin’s expression as he turned to his men. He ordered his deputy to restrain the convoy. In the meantime he was going to a local police station to phone Richardson. O’Laughlin shook hands with the Bididgee people and Cardinal, and marched off towards the causeway, three of his men close at heel.

  Thunder began rolling in from the north, and Cardinal remembered Judy’s prediction: ‘Storm tonight.’

  It was dark when they arrived outside Jimmy Goyong’s place. Two mangey dogs, who dropped from a mattress on the front porch, greeted them. Burra knocked. No reply. One dog howled.

  It began to pour. Burra pushed open the door and they stepped into the makeshift home. They picked their way through a trail of cans and empty wine bottles. Thunder crashed and lightning illuminated the next room and a body on a bed. Burra found a light switch and groaned in disappointment. The old artist was sprawled out, his handsome moustache stained at the edges with red wine from a bottle on the pillow next to him. Burra slapped him and spoke to him in his language. The man stirred and propped up on his elbows. He rubbed his eyes, which were streaked red. The stench of stale alcohol was overpowering.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you the American was coming?’ Burra said.

  ‘I dreamt I was in the middle of a storm,’ Goyong said as lightning filled the room again. The rain was hammering so hard on the roof that his words were almost drowned out. ‘Maybe I wasn’t dreaming.’

  Burra rolled his eyes at Cardinal.

  ‘I told you to lay off the piss,’ he said to Goyong. ‘I wanted you to do those sketches.’

  Goyong struggled off the bed and stood unsteadily.

  ‘I did, Burra, honest,’ he said. He took a step forward, slipped on a bottle and fell into Cardinal’s arms.

  ‘They’re here,’ he said, launching himself from Cardinal to a cupboard.

  He pulled out sketches, thrust them at Burra and then slumped back on the bed. Burra and Cardinal pored over the six drawings. But they were disappointed. The illustrations were half-finished.

  Burra stood over Goyong. ‘They’re bloody useless.’

  ‘I started them a few hours ago,’ Goyong protested. ‘You know, after the meeting at Kelly’s Clearing. Tom Beena gave me a lift home. He insisted we celebrate. The bastard wouldn’t let me get on with them.’

  ‘The bastard, all right,’ Burra mumbled. He waved the sketches at Goyong. ‘Hell, Jimmy! These are awful! Were you trying to do the guy who was with Bull Richardson or what?’

  ‘Yeah, I was,’ he said squinting at his own work.

  ‘What nationality was he?’ Cardinal asked.

  ‘Dunne’

  ‘You told me you thought he was Asian,’ Burra said. ‘Was he Indonesian or Chinese?’

  Goyong shook his head. ‘Burra, you know I’ve seen lots of Indos. He wasn’t one, and he wasn’t Chinese either. Seen lots of them, too. Used to be hundreds in the Territory, way back.’

  ‘How about the Boat People – Vietnamese?’ Burra asked.

  Goyong shook his head, and Burra gave Cardinal a hopeless look.

  ‘Close,’ Goyong said.

  ‘What do you mean, close?’ Burra persisted.

  ‘More like them Boat People who keep driftin’ in.’

  ‘There have been a trickle of Kampucheans since the war with the Vietnamese began,’ Burra prompted. ‘Some of our people have even claimed they’ve seen Thai pirates chasing the Kampuchean refugees in the Gulf north of here.’

  ‘That’s right!’ Goyong said.

  ‘Thais?’

  ‘No. The others.’

  ‘Kampucheans?’

  ‘I reckon,’ Goyong said. ‘I dunno for sure, but . . .” He rolled on the bed. ‘Come back in the morning. Sleep on it.’ He turned his head to face Cardinal. ‘Dream on it,’ he mumbled.

  Cardinal picked up the sketches, glanced through them again and tossed them on the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry, mate,’ Burra said as they drove back along the waterlogged track. ‘He really was going to make a big effort. If it wasn’t for that bastard Beena!’

  ‘You think he deliberately got the old man drunk?’ Cardinal asked.

  ‘For sure. Jimmy would have told someone you were coming to his home. Beena would have learnt about it.’ Cardinal was bitter but more at himself than anyone, for expecting too much from the meeting, and the trip itself.

  ‘Do you think he was telling the truth about the Kam-pucheans?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s not a liar,’ Burra said, ‘and although he does have a vivid imagination, he would want to tell me the truth. He was keyed up about doing those drawings.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘I would like to kill Tom!’

  They drove on in low gear as the ute negotiated potholes and flooded sections of the road. Visibility was down to a few metres as the storm worsened.

  ‘What did he mean by telling me to dream?’ Cardinal asked.

  ‘Older Aborigines like Jimmy believe in dreaming,’ Burra replied. ‘They believe that is reality – that’s where the world’s truths are. Dreams guide their waking time.’

  ‘But I don’t understand why he told me to dream. He is supposed to have seen the Asian, not me.’

  Burra stole a sideways glance at him. ‘He must think the answers have something to do with you.’

  The early model Holden pulled up outside Perdonny’s Jakarta home. The driver opened the passenger door for Rhonda. It was a Roman-style villa hidden by Chinese fan palms placed close to each other to provide privacy. It was also located on the edge of the city to ensure no surprise visits from Bakin, the Indonesian secret police.

  Rhonda, stuck in her hotel room, had rung Perdonny for help, and he had told her to take a circuitous route to his home, which necessitated two changes of taxi and a walk to a rendezvous where Perdonny’s driver, Bani, had picked her up. He had driven at speed through east Jakarta’s slums into open country, the hills and tea pl
antations. Then he had doubled back to the edge of the city and the villa in a secluded spot down a twisting road near the village of Tebuka.

  Rhonda admired the home’s white portico entrance, spacious oval windows and flat roof of fluted tiles. She stepped up to the wooden double-door front entrance, which was ornately carved with Balinese figures. A German Shepherd confronted her. It snarled. The door was opened and a fat servant rushed out to calm the animal. The servant spoke earnestly to the dog. Rhonda stood frozen to the spot. The dog’s manner changed. It wandered over to her, ears down and tail wagging, and wrapped its huge teeth lightly around her wrist.

  ‘Has it been fed today?’ Rhonda asked.

  ‘It’s okay! It’s okay!’ the servant said, fussing around her, and then addressing the dog said, ‘Go to Robert! Go to Robert!’

  Rhonda found herself being led around the side of the villa past amused guards to a backyard with a pool. The dog took her to a table, and trotted away, his job done.

  ‘Handy dog,’ Rhonda said. ‘He’s on my side, I hope.’

  Perdonny grinned as he climbed from the water and draped himself in a towel.

  ‘Utun won’t hold you more than a day or two,’ he said, ‘otherwise he would have found some reason for detaining you at your hotel, or even in prison.’

  ‘I’m scared to return to the hotel,’ she said.

  ‘You are welcome to stay here tonight,’ he said, ‘but it might be wise for you to make an appearance at your hotel tomorrow, otherwise they’ll suspect you’re preparing other reports.’

  Rhonda was relieved. Perdonny clapped his hands and within minutes a huge meal was laid out in front of them.

  ‘The army joining us tonight?’ Rhonda said, eyeing the food. ‘The tension is making me a light eater. If there’s any light, I start eating.’ Perdonny grinned and asked about her investigation.

  ‘Afraid that has been less than fruitful,’ she said. ‘I blew it by trying to interview Utun. I have to leave. I haven’t uncovered anything.’

  ‘We can confirm that Hartina Van der Holland is staying at her mother’s home in Bandung,’ Perdonny said. Three servants bustled around them serving spring rolls, noodles, vegetables and spice; sesame prawn toast and nasi goreng. The strong crisp whiff of barbecued pork lingered. ‘There are also four other scientists staying at the Savoy Homann hotel in Bandung who are given a police escort to the reactor each morning for work.’

  Rhonda groaned. ‘I wish I could follow up on that.’

  ‘My people will continue to monitor them. There are two local scientists – laser specialists – and two Europeans. We think they’re English or French.’

  ‘And those military exercises at Ujung Pandang,’ Rhonda began, ‘have you learnt anymore?’

  ‘That Kampuchean we saw has a base in Jakarta,’ Perdonny said. ‘We are trying to discover his identity. We know he is in daily contact with Utun.’

  ‘How?’ Rhonda asked.

  ‘He and a squad of six or seven – all Kampucheans -have taken up residence at a disused Embassy in Mentang, a central suburb. They’re having it refurbished and have hired a team of fifty labourers. We have planted one of our people there.’

  ‘You don’t miss a trick!’ Rhonda said. She waded into the food. Perdonny worked up a clockwork smile, which displayed a huge set of teeth.

  ‘We’re trying to have the leader photographed,’ he said, ‘and we are learning his movements. He made a trip to the Bandung reactor this morning.’

  Rhonda stopped eating.

  ‘Thought that would interest you,’ he said. ‘We are tailing him tonight.’

  ‘Where?’ Rhonda whispered.

  ‘The docks at Priok.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Some big meeting with another party. They’ve been preparing for it the last two days. The Kampucheans even questioned my man and other labourers about the docks. Seems the meeting is being made without Utun’s knowledge. Otherwise the Palace would have given them the information.

  ‘You going?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘Could I come?’

  ‘Are you up to it?’ He had reservations after the dangers encountered at Ujung Pandung.

  ‘I’ve had a rough day,’ Rhonda said, ‘and I admit I was worried at the airport. But if I have to stay, I might as well make it worthwhile.’

  ‘See how you feel when you’ve rested.’

  ‘Who’s the other party at the meeting?’

  Perdonny shrugged. ‘Whoever picked the time and place certainly has the Kampucheans jumping.’

  Two hundred Aborigines watched as the last of the convoy carrying the drill snorted away from Cahill’s Crossing en route to Darwin. When the vehicles were out of sight, they began to celebrate around a campfire. It was a stark compound surrounded by a fence topped with barbed wire. Cardinal remarked that it had the austerity of a concentration camp.

  ‘It was my idea,’ Burra told him. They joined the festivities at the bar.

  ‘Has it worked?’ Cardinal asked. He looked around at the growing crowd.

  ‘You saw old Jimmy,’ Burra replied. ‘Alcoholism is one of our worst problems.’

  A police car pulled up. Three cops got out and began to circulate.

  ‘The boys in blue make sure none of the tribe gets too obstreperous,’ Burra said. He handed Cardinal a beer.

  ‘Do you really believe Jimmy saw somebody?’ Cardinal said. ‘Those sketches were woeful.’

  ‘I believe him,’ Burra said. ‘It’s not the first time Jimmy has spotted Richardson with unusual guests.’

  Several blacks wanted to buy Cardinal a drink. He had won honorary status.

  ‘What sort of guests?’ Cardinal asked.

  ‘We know Bull has hosted some representatives of the French nuclear industry,’ Burra said with a sly grin, ‘even though this country is not supposed to be selling yellow-cake to the French.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Cardinal asked as he unwrapped a cigar.

  ‘Meaning Bull would be working out a way of selling the yellowcake to a third party who could pass it on to the frogs. We know he has done the same thing with a key rep. of Colonel Gadaffi’s.’

  ‘Your government let a Libyan come here and negotiate with him?’

  ‘They had a trade delegation here last year,’ Burra said. ‘It was supposed to be buying buffalo meat and hides.’ He winked at Cardinal. ‘Just like the French.’

  Cardinal slept on a couch in the living room at Burra’s home. For the second time he dreamt of the morgue and the shallow grave near Lucas Heights. He woke up around five feeling disturbed and wrestled with the nightmare about Harry. It concerned the gold ring on the corpse’s left hand. He remembered it being on Harry’s right hand.

  There were other things about the dream that bothered him. In it the corpse had a face that was not his son’s. It also spoke to him, but he couldn’t remember the conversation. The corpse was shorter than his son and had black hair.

  Cardinal had to get up. He pulled on some shorts and crept out of the house. The rain had stopped. A cool breeze carried fresh smells of bottle brush and myrtle.

  Cardinal went back inside for a cigar and remembered he had a photo of Harry tucked away in a folder. His son had his right hand on Cardinal’s shoulder. A ring was visible on the little finger. Cardinal went outside again, lit his cigar and tried to think rationally. He didn’t need a psychiatrist to tell him that the dreams were manifestations of his own inability to accept his son’s demise. The ring, he told himself, could be explained. Other photos might show that Harry sometimes wore it on his left hand, although Cardinal had it fixed in his mind that it had always been on the right. Cardinal turned to see Burra behind him.

  ‘You couldn’t sleep?’

  ‘No,’ Cardinal said, reluctant to divulge the reason.

  ‘Whites have trouble accepting death,’ Burra said, ‘whereas for us it’s a part of life.’

  ‘It’s going to take time,’ Cardinal said, puf
fing smoke. It hung in the air like a grey apparition.

  ‘I want to take you back to see Jimmy,’ Burra said.

  Cardinal shrugged. ‘Let the old guy sleep.’

  ‘He gets up before six to start his work. He’ll be sober.’

  Cardinal shook his head.

  ‘If for no other reason,’ Burra persisted, ‘I want you to see his gallery. You might want to buy some of his stuff. He’s damned good.’

  ‘I would rather we got an early start for Darwin.’

  ‘I thought you dealers gave artists a break?’

  ‘Okay,’ Cardinal said. He laughed.

  It was still dark when they arrived at Jimmy’s. One of the dogs howled his usual greeting and then returned to his mattress. They picked their way through the bottles and cans, and a couple of young blacks who did not even begin to stir. They found Jimmy.

  Burra turned on a light and slapped his face.

  ‘Jesus, Burra!’ Jimmy protested, ‘what the fuck are you doing? Can’t you let a genius sleep? How can I get up in the morning if you buggers keep comin’ around to hound me?’

  ‘It is morning,’ Burra said. ‘I want you to do those sketches.’

  The old man groaned and turned over. ‘Come back at lunchtime.’

  ‘Mate, this guy’s a buyer. You ought to show him your gallery. He may buy some for an exhibit in New York.’

  ‘New York, eh?’ he croaked. ‘Terrific, man.’

  Seconds later he was back to sleep.

  ‘I’ll show you the gallery,’ Burra said, shaking the old man. He pulled his legs off the bed.

  ‘Let him be,’ Cardinal said.

  ‘No, bugger it!’ Burra said. ‘He’s going to help.’ He threw Jimmy’s arm around his shoulder and walked him into an adjoining gallery that was cluttered with incomplete oil paintings. Burra admonished the old man for not finishing so many of his works. Cardinal was in his element. He picked up a painting. It was a mushroom cloud billowing over Mount Brockman and the Green Ant boulders. Good brushwork and colour, Cardinal thought. He wondered if he could sell a few in New York. He selected three more while Burra made coffee for the old man.

  ‘I would like to buy these,’ Cardinal said, lining them up.