‘Buddy, I’m not sure that they’ll like that idea,’ my dad says. ‘Although ...’ He rubs his chin, and the waitress cleaning the table next to us looks our way, trying to catch his eye. It’s not unusual. Dad had me at nineteen so he’s not that old or bad looking. But Dad’s lost in thought and doesn’t seem to notice. ‘Kangaroos are pests, anyway, and they’re probably doing everything by the book. I’d be going along like a National Geographic photographer or something; an unbiased journalist. I could ask Bruce and see what he says.’
Oliver looks at me, then back to my dad. I feel my stomach turn.
‘Have you ever been out on a hunt?’ Dad asks Dave.
‘Can’t say I have. Anyway, I don’t think Sky’d appreciate two hunters in the family.’
Dad laughs, but it sounds a little forced.
‘I don’t want him to go back out hunting. Remember?’ I squeeze Oliver’s arm, hard.
‘Ow!’ He rubs his arm. ‘Even if it’s for a good cause?’
I want to say he’s being selfish, that the only good cause is his own personal one, Viola Films, but I stop myself. I watch the waitress, her long shiny black hair loosely plaited, as she returns to the kitchen. I take another sip of my juice, but crinkle my nose; it now tastes like vinegar.
‘Who’s that woman you mentioned? Stella, was it?’ Dave asks.
‘An activist,’ Oliver says. ‘She’s a pretty big deal.’
I need to keep calm. I take a breath. ‘I’ve been following her on social media. She’s interested in what happens to kangaroos and wants to report on it.’
‘I wouldn’t pick up a gun.’ Dad looks pointedly at me. ‘I give you my word, Sky. But I would like to see the kangaroos. If I got some good photos, I could use them for the West Creek Tourism site and they’d be part of my portfolio. And Bruce would know how to find them ...’
I frown, torn between my fear of Dad going out hunting again and doing the right thing. And I do like the sound of my dad having a photography portfolio.
Dad continues. ‘I’d give you guys the footage. But,’ he puts his hand on mine, ‘I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do, okay?’
I don’t answer, trying to get my head around this. Even being around hunters ... the whole thing makes me sick. I need a second to think.
‘Stella’s not one of those extremists, is she?’ Dave asks. ‘Sky, you have to be careful. It’s one thing “rescuing” a little chick,’ he uses his fingers as inverted commas, ‘but it’s another thing associating with people who break the law.’ He looks at my dad for back-up.
‘Dave’s right on the mark,’ Dad says. ‘People can get pretty fanatical.’
Dave looks satisfied. Great, now both my father figures are on my back. At least they’re bonding over something, I guess.
‘They’re not extremists,’ I say. ‘Stella is amazing. She’s a journalist.’ I show them her profile, feeling another pang of shame that I haven’t been deemed worthy enough to join her group. ‘She’s interviewed everyone,’ I say. ‘And she’s been undercover on fox hunts, anti-whaling ships ...’
Dad leans over my shoulder to read the first few paragraphs of an article Stella wrote on horse racing.
‘Check this one out.’ Oliver points to a piece on bullfighters in Madrid. ‘We should do a story on bulls, don’t you think, Sky? And this one.’ He flicks through some more photos. ‘Man, this guy is one cool dude ...’
‘Who?’
Oliver zooms in on a photograph of Stella with her arm around a handsome guy with dark chocolate-brown eyes, tagged as Miguel. I recognise him as one of the Young Activist of the Year nominees. He looks to be in his mid-twenties with shoulder-length hair and arms covered in tattoos. Oliver zooms in closer on his arms.
‘What is that?’ I say, trying to make out the tattoo design.
Oliver zooms out again, squinting at the picture.
Dave, meanwhile, has been running a search on his own phone. ‘Geez, she has a Wikipedia page and everything. Check this one out; she’s standing in front of the White House! I bet the US President wouldn’t have appreciated that young hippie crowd milling about.’
The photograph shows Stella standing in front of a group of people who are holding placards protesting agricultural laws that stop free speech. The picture caught her mid-speech, a loudspeaker pressed to her mouth.
I frown. ‘She’s not a hippie or young. She’s, like, thirty or something.’
‘A fossil.’ Dave snorts a laugh.
‘And,’ I continue, ‘she’s written for The New York Times and interviewed people on the BBC. I can’t even believe she’s in Australia right now. She’s going to be speaking at a conference next weekend.’
Dad sighs. ‘You know we sometimes see things differently, Sky.’
‘I know.’ And I do. But I was hoping he’d change. And he has, hasn’t he? He’s stopped hunting, for a while at least. Or have I just been fooling myself and he’ll go straight back to it when he returns to Alaska?
‘I don’t think hunting is inherently cruel. It depends how it’s done. And if kangaroos are overpopulated ...’
Tears prick. ‘But what if it is cruel?’
‘There are laws around it,’ Dave says. ‘A code of practice.’
That doesn’t make me feel any better.
Dad adds, ‘I can’t speak to what happens here. But I can go and see for myself.’
I don’t answer.
‘Although I don’t know how good the images would be at night. I’ve never photographed wildlife before. It would be a whole new thing.’
‘They probably use those huge torches,’ Oliver says. ‘So it’d be bright anyway. And the headlights on the truck would be on.’
‘I’ll only agree to do this if Sky is onboard,’ my dad says.
Dave nods. ‘Totally agree with you, mate.’
Perfect. They come together at this exact moment in parenting harmony.
Dad looks at me. ‘Sky. What do you think?’
Thoughts rush. I don’t like the idea of Dad out hunting, even if he’s not doing the kill. But what if he can find out what Bruce and the guys are really doing? And yes, original footage could draw in more subscribers and help Oliver’s chances at Viola Films. But what if it gets Dad excited about hunting again? Is it worth the risk? I know it would make Oliver happy if I agreed. And maybe I can impress Stella with my activism. If she accepts me into Activists Unite, I can go with Oliver to IAAD next Sunday and we can walk the streets of Melbourne hand in hand. I imagine kissing him on a bridge like lovers in a film. And then, possibly, one day the Young Activist of the Year picture could be of me. I’m still staring into space, thinking, when Dad’s phone rings.
‘It’s Jaxon,’ he says. ‘Awesome! I’ll call him back later. Unless you want to talk to him too, Sky? I’m sure he’d love to speak to you.’ He looks at me, bright-eyed.
‘No, it’s okay,’ I say. I don’t even need to look at Oliver to know he’s fuming. I can almost smell the smoke.
We wait as Dad sends Jaxon a short text, then he puts his phone down and looks up. ‘So what do you say, Sky? Should I join Bruce or not?’
Before I can answer, the waitress appears with the bill.
‘I’ll get this,’ Dad says.
‘Mate.’ Dave slaps his hand on the tray. ‘I’ll take care of it.’
But Dad already has his wallet out and is laying down the cash.
When the waitress leaves, Oliver turns to me expectantly. I feel everyone staring at me, waiting for my decision. What’s the priority here? Dad’s career or Oliver’s success? Or perhaps it’s contributing to Stella’s cause? She says we need to shine a spotlight on kangaroo hunting and my dad’s in the ideal position to make it happen. If I can do something to help kangaroos and impress her at the same time, then ...
I plonk my head into my hands and let out a big sigh. ‘I guess so.’
‘Yes!’ Oliver exclaims. He puts his arm around me and squeezes me close.
I look at
Dad. ‘Only your camera. No gun.’
He gives me a military salute.
Dave gestures to the door. ‘You can ask him now, Adam.’
‘What?’
‘I saw Bruce at the bar as we came in,’ Dave says. ‘Cursing at a cricket match on the TV.’
It’s getting dark when we’re ready to leave with a container of soup wrapped up for Paula. But before we go, we wind back through the dimly lit gaming rooms of the pub, where the floor is covered with an emerald green carpet patterned by brown diamonds. It smells of smoke and drink. Pokie machines bing and light up as three zombie-like elderly men feed them coins.
We spot Bruce and my father walks towards him.
‘Adam, mate! Didn’t see you come in. What you havin’?’ Bruce nods towards the bartender.
I follow Oliver and Dave through the exit door, the sound of a bar stool scraping behind me.
I hope, despite my decision, that Bruce says no.
Chapter 8
Oliver and I knock on the door of my father’s studio apartment. Dad texted this morning on his way back from the overnight camping-slash-hunting trip. When he spoke to Bruce at the pub, as fate would have it, Bruce was off camping the following day. Everything happened so fast.
Dad wanted us to meet him here so he can show us what he captured. Nerves zing around my body at what I’m about to find out.
Dad opens the door. He hugs me and slaps Oliver on the back. His hair is dishevelled and grey moons hang like hammocks under his eyes. The smell of campfire smoke wafts from his hair and clothes, so he clearly hasn’t showered yet. He looks exhausted. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news first?’ he asks.
I start to panic. Bad news? Did he end up hunting? He promised he wouldn’t. Swore to me. I feel my hands clench.
‘You didn’t hunt, did you?’ My voice is steely.
Dad puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘No, Sky, I told you I wasn’t going to.’
Phew. I feel myself relax.
The studio above Diana’s store has just space enough for a tiny table with three wooden chairs, a toilet and a bed. I sit down on the chair adjacent to the bed and notice the sheets are tucked taut under the mattress, and the sink, only a metre away from me, is clean and empty. He’s been here a few months and, being the neat freak he is, it still looks as shiny as the day he moved in.
He opens the fridge as Oliver and I sit down at the table and takes out orange juice, sliced bread, jam and a jar of peanut butter. Then he slowly spreads peanut butter onto the white bread. ‘I’m starving,’ he says. ‘And exhausted.’
‘That’ll be me on Friday,’ Oliver says.
‘You’re taking the bus?’ Dad says, now lathering on the jam. They love peanut butter and jelly so much in America that they even have a national PB&J day.
‘Yep.’
‘At least you’ll be in a cool city,’ I say. ‘I’ve never been.’
‘So,’ Dad says as he fires up his laptop and finds a connecting cable from his camera bag. ‘Good news or bad?’
I pause. Usually I’m a get-the-bad-news-out-of-the-way kind of person. But today I want to postpone the inevitable description, or worse, images of the hunt. ‘Good.’
Dad attempts to plug in the cable but drops it on the floor. He picks it up and fidgets with the end.
‘Did Bruce and the guys shoot well?’ Oliver asks. ‘Like, clean shots?’
Dad’s still trying to connect to the USB port. He realises the cable is the wrong way around and swears under his breath.
‘How many did they kill?’ Oliver asks.
‘Hey, the good news first remember?’ I chime in.
‘Where did you camp?’ Oliver tries again.
Dad explains how they drove the convoy of utes down long dirt roads, opening and closing gates in various properties, and arrived early to set up their tents. There was Bruce and Pete, and Ant and his two sons. Ray’s son had the flu, so Ray drove together with another guy from town.
While he’s talking, Dad opens and closes several folders on his computer before he eventually finds the camera file.
We huddle together in front of the computer as he opens the pictures. The first one is an image of a large kangaroo framed by a grove of eucalyptus trees. The light comes from behind, like a halo.
‘That’s beautiful,’ I say.
He clicks through to the next one. Five kangaroos stare at the camera, ears perked, eyes alert.
Dad takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. ‘They knew I was there but weren’t sure what to do.’
‘Were they the ones that were ... you know?’ Oliver asks and I glare at him. I don’t want to hear about the hunting. Not yet.
‘Actually, that’s an interesting question.’
‘Why?’ I ask.
Dad keeps clicking through the images. They are stunning. He’s captured a mob at sunset, black silhouettes against a magenta sky. And a series of portraits of individuals. A grey fluffy face with his tongue half out. Another with one ear swivelled forward and the other ear turning backwards, like blades on a ceiling fan.
‘Dad?’ I prompt. He’s absorbed in the pictures and I notice a thin watery layer on his eyes. It must be the sleepiness.
‘It was such a different experience, I can’t even explain it,’ he says mostly to himself. ‘To see an animal through the lens of the camera.’ He focuses in on one of the kangaroo’s faces and then wipes his eyes. ‘This girl is a beauty, don’t you think?’
‘Instead of through the scope of a gun, you mean?’ Oliver asks.
He nods.
A wave of happiness washes through my brain. I can’t help smiling. Dad loves photographing more than hunting. This really is good news.
‘When I went back to the camp, the guys were getting set up for the hunt,’ Dad says. ‘I didn’t tell them about the mob I’d just seen. Actually, I hoped they wouldn’t find them. That’s a first for me.’
I look at my dad and realise the water in his eyes is not from sleepiness.
The rest of the images show the guys around the camp fire, laughing, eating, but mostly drinking. There are a few attempts at capturing the starry night, but they didn’t work out so well.
‘Right.’ Dad bangs the table a little too hard and the orange juice wobbles. ‘Ready for the bad news?’ He closes the images and moves the mouse towards the video file. ‘It was almost dark when we got in the ute, but they immediately found a large male.’ He opens the video file and leaves the arrow poised over the play button.
‘One that you saw before?’ I ask.
‘I don’t think so, luckily. Bruce shot this one. Not the cleanest of kills; it took two, maybe three shots. One in the gut. We drove over to the body. Must have weighed about forty kilos. They slung it on a hook at the back of the ute. First, they gutted the kangaroo, cutting out the intestines, then they cut off the head and tail. Bruce gave Ant the tail to take home for his dog. Supposedly they love gnawing on it.’
‘Dad!’ This is making me sick.
‘Sorry. Too graphic.’
‘Did they only kill one?’ Oliver asks.
‘There were two more. A male and a ...’ Dad pinches the bridge of his nose.
‘Female,’ Oliver finishes. ‘Did you take any pictures or videos of, you know, the kill?’ The question is so insensitive that I glare at Oliver. He returns my look. ‘That’s what we need for our channel, Sky. The whole reason he went out. Remember?’
I remember.
Dad picks up his sandwich, looks at it and puts it down again. ‘I got something.’ He meets my eyes. ‘You okay to watch this?’
I nod. If the kangaroos have to experience this, I can at least pay them the smallest respect by watching it. That’s what I learnt from all the pages I follow. Bearing witness is important.
He presses play. I see a black screen and the light of a torch swinging around.
Dad presses stop. ‘I should tell you the context.’
I nod again. This is stressing me out.
&
nbsp; ‘The last kangaroo killed was a female. Ant did the right thing and checked in her pouch. He pulled out a small joey, barely any fur on it. He gave it to Bruce for disposal. Apparently you’re meant to kill them with a single blow to the head.’
I know this from the fact sheets I have read. Joeys are collateral damage without any value to the industry. They estimate about 800,000 are killed every year, but nobody really knows exactly how many. I shudder.
‘Did you get any video of it?’ Oliver asks.
‘No, buddy, but the video I got is what happened after. Bruce called Pete over; he was standing a few metres away gazing into the sky. Bruce gave him the joey and told him to kill it. Said Pete was old enough now, he had to get his hands dirty, learn what to do. Bruce and the guys turned back to the female while I watched as Pete bypassed the car and walked behind some trees. I kept taking photos but after a while I realised Pete had been gone for a long time. The others didn’t seem to notice and that was when I, for some strange reason, decided to turn on the video setting and go investigate.
Dad presses play again.
The video jerks around, all black with a glow of lights. We hear the grass crunching as Dad walks. There are what look like branches moving around the frame. Suddenly, the video turns from black to a light grey and then a grainy Pete comes into view. He’s staring at the ground. The camera pans down. A shape, a blob, is lying in the clearing. I squint. Long tail, round ears. It’s the little joey, no bigger than a football, it’s legs all dangly and weak. It tries to stand. We see a boot moving, repetitively back and forth. Then there’s a rustle of bushes and a shout.
‘What the hell’s taking so long?’ Bruce’s voice. ‘Have you killed the damn thing?’
‘Yes, dad,’ Pete says.
‘Right then. Let’s go.’
The camera goes black. After a beat, it flickers back on and we can see Pete staring at the bushes. Another crunch of grass, blackness, and the video stops.
‘He was kicking the joey to death?’ Oliver asks. His face has gone pale.
‘Apparently so,’ Dad says. ‘It was his boot in the footage.’
I push back my chair and slump over, resting my head in my hands, my elbows poking holes in my thighs. My chin starts twitching, my heart squeezing into itself.
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