by Jay Darby
Lionel and Porter had left the house at 9.30am to fly to Broken Hill and were due to return late afternoon. Klose had paperwork to finish, and after that, he’d locate Tommy Davis. He’d heard that Tommy was staying at a cousins’ place near town, and once arrested he’d take him to the police station for an interview. Elders had made serious allegations, and as Lionel had said, the time had come for Tommy to answer them.
Rhodes arrived at the mission, parked the Landcruiser, then wandered down a narrow path towards the river. An elder wearing a cowboy hat sat on a fallen tree. A dozen women and their naked toddlers scampered towards the row of white houses, then stopped to watch Rhodes from a distance.
“Are you Uncle Simpson?” Rhodes asked the man in the cowboy hat.
“Yep, and you’re one of Lionels’ mob, aint ya?” Simpson squinted. “Same flash car and suit…Fellas don’t give up, do ya?”
Rhodes sat next to him. “John Rhode’s my name. And yes, I’m one of Lionel’s mob…” He placed a bottle of gin between them. “For you...”
Simpson eyed him sideways. “Why?”
“In return for a friendly chat.” Rhodes swiveled three-sixty degrees to take in the tranquil scene. “Nice spot, love these old river gums.”
“It’s home...” Simpson examined the gin bottle. “What ya want Rhodes? Tired of talkin’ ta you fellas, and got nothin’ more ta say…”
Rhodes leaned closer to him. “Lionel thinks otherwise, and so do I.”
“Told Lionel, don’t remember who them coppers were. No-one ‘round ‘ere does. Too dangerous ta remember, and too dangerous ta talk to you fellas…” Simpson’s eyes darted left and right, then to bushes near the river.
Rhodes turned to watch the bushes, and listened until a gust of wind rustled them. He turned back to Simpson. “No-one there...” He read the apprehension on his face. “Don’t fear Tommy Davis. We’ll protect you and your family…”
Simpson chuckled. “Fink Davis the only one tellin’ what you fellas are up ta? There’s plenty of others happy ta play lacky…They know what you’ve been told, and soon as you fellas pack up and leave, they’ll make us pay.”
“Who’s ‘they’? Who’s Tommy working for?”
Simpson stared at the ground and dug a toe into grey mud. “Dunno, but they want you fellas gone. Know that much…”
Rhodes watched his hands tremble, sensed his fear. “We’ll move you to a safer place…”
Simpson raised his voice. “And I’m tellin’ ya, Rhodes, I got nothin’ more ta say…”
Rhodes stooped to make eye contact, but the old man turned away. “Understood, you need to protect your family.”
Simpson turned back, kept his head down. “I like you fellas and Lionel, and know youse are tryin’ ta do good…But ya know what, Rhodes?
Rhodes answered by raising his eyebrows.
“Whitey coppers been sayin’ for years they gunna do us Kooris right. But they never do…” Simpson scowled at two boys who’d wandered close. Once they’d ran off, he leaned towards Rhodes and whispered. “Can’t tell ya which coppers hurt our girls all them years ago…But a fella with nothin’ ta lose, and no loved ones ta protect…He might tell ya.”
“Who?”
Simpson turned his head towards the opposite side of the river. “See that biggest hill over there?”
Rhodes followed his gaze. One hill across the river mottled in red, white and grey, rose high above the others. “Yes.”
“That’s Bunyip Hill. Speak ta the fella that sits up there.”
“Bunyip?” Rhodes had read Aboriginal storybooks as a boy. He pictured the Bunyip as a giant, man-eating wombat. “As in, those mythical creatures from the Dreamtime?”
Simpson chuckled. “Mythical ta white fellas maybe…See them flat granite rocks on top?” He pointed towards the hill. “On the right’s the bunyips’ head, ‘cos he’s lyin’ on his side. On the left’s his body. See it?”
Rhodes squinted. “Ah, kind of…”
“People ‘round ‘ere are too scared ta go up there. They say that fella’s a Bunyip’s evil spirit who sleeps all day and swims at night.”
“Who is he?”
“No-one knows. He come from nowhere, years ago, and been lookin’ down on us ever since. Talk ta him, he’ll know who them bad coppers are…”
Rhodes thanked him and strode towards the Landcruiser. Halfway along the path, he realized he didn’t know the quickest way to Bunyip Hill and walked back to ask. Simpson had gone. He turned towards the houses.
A female elder blocked the path. “I’m Aunty Doreen. Help ya?”
He peered over her, towards the houses. No sign of Simpson…And where had she come from? “Where’s uncle Simpson?”
She glanced towards the river where bushes rustled in the breeze, then back to him. “He went for a kip…What you need?”
“How do I get to Bunyip Hill?”
She hesitated and played with her chin. “What ya want goin’ up there?”
He grinned. “I like to climb…”
Her thick brows furrowed. “Up ta you…Turn right top of our road, first right again, then over the bridge, then turn right. Follow that and you’ll come ta Bunyip Hill, just past the Thompson place…”
“Thanks.” He turned and bounded towards the Landcruiser.
“Be careful, fella,” Doreen yelled. “There’s bad spirits up there.”
Rhodes acknowledged the advice with a wave over his shoulder. When he reached the car, he called Klose’s cell phone. He wanted to share what he’d learned from Simpson. No answer. He sent him a message telling where he headed, then sped towards Bunyip Hill.
---------------------------------------------
Tommy Davis crept up behind Aunty Doreen while the Landcruiser disappeared in a cloud of red dust. When she turned towards her house, she jumped and clutched a hand to heart. She tried to walk around him, but he blocked her.
“What ya bin tellin’ that white fella, Doreen?”
“Nothin’ Tommy,” she stammered. “He wanna go Bunyip Hill. I told ‘im how…”
“That all he asked ya?”
“Yep…”
Tommy let her pass and watched her scurry home. He took a phone from his pocket and pressed a contact. The call connected but no-one spoke. He waited for an answer. When none came, he said, “Hello?”
“What do you want?” A male voice crackled through the phone.
“This here’s Tommy Davis from the mission. Fella said ta call this number if there’s troubles with them coppers from the big smoke.”
“And the problem is…?
“One’s bin ‘ere just now, askin’ uncle Simpson questions…I couldn’t get close ta hear what they’s sayin’, but that silly old fool mighta talked…And the copper, when he’s leavin’, asked how he gets ta Bunyip Hill…”
“Bunyip Hill. Why?”
“Dunno…”
After five-seconds, the man said, “Good work, you’ll be well rewarded. And Tommy, I have two more tasks for you…”
“Tell me ‘em.”
“First, delete this number immediately…”
“Yep, right away...What’s number two?”
The man explained the second task.
Tommy swore, then ended the call.
TWENTY EIGHT
John Rhodes followed Aunty Doreen’s directions from the mission and reached Bunyip Hill in less than ten minutes. He parked the Landcruiser off the road and tried Klose’s cell phone again. Engaged tone…Was Klose on a call, or had the surrounding hills blocked his from getting through? He noticed the signal strength on his phone showed one bar, and assumed the latter.
He stepped from the car and raised the shirt collar to protect his neck from the midday sun, then tightened his shoulder holster and checked the Glock inside it was secure. He glanced to the quarry in front of him. It lay at the bottom of a sandstone cliff a hundred meters high. To his right, a red dirt path dissected Bunyip Hill and wound its’ way to the top.
He walked up the steep path, started to sweat within the first minute, and cursed himself for wearing trousers. The soles of his leather shoes were smooth, and he took careful steps, grateful for chunks of jutting rock that helped him push on and upwards. Tufts of spinifex grass and clumps of olive-green mulga bush littered the hillside, their coverage sparser the higher he climbed. House-sized granite boulders defied gravity and clung to the slope, half-buried where they’d landed a million years earlier.
Three-quarters of the way to the top he stopped, breathless. Trickles of sweat stung his eyes and formed salt pools in the corners of his mouth. His nose twitched at the foul stench of fresh animal dung. He looked down at green feces on his shoe, wiped it against spinifex to remove it, then scanned the hillside for the culprit. Bushes rustled to his right. A grey emu darted from its’ hiding place and trotted down the slope.
He swayed in a warm breeze as he took in the activity around him. Waterfowl splashed in Willy Wonka’s chocolate river. Pink and white cockatoo shrieked in song from branches of red river gums. A wedge-tailed eagle glided through the pastel-blue sky, giant wings silhouetted against a fireball sun, a Lord watching over his brethren.
He shifted his gaze to the opposite side of the river and saw the mission’s white houses through a gap in the trees. To his left, beyond a row of hills, lay Crooked River township. A typical outback town, its’ wide streets ran arrow straight. North to south and east to west, in a perfect square. Down to his right, a few hundred meters from the river, sunlight reflected from the Thompson homestead’s roof.
Once rested, he continued up the path towards the sleeping Bunyip. After five minutes he reached the top, the ground leveled. He walked to the Bunyip’s body and wedged his foot in a crevice for leverage, then dragged himself onto the giant granite boulder. He stepped over the smooth surface then jumped across a short gap to a smaller boulder, the Bunyip’s head.
He spun three-sixty degrees and watched the shimmering horizon, then scanned his immediate surroundings. No evidence of human habitation. If the man did live on Bunyip Hill, where was he?
He looked straight down, to where the Bunyip’s head met a dirt path and noticed a rocky ledge. The ledge wrapped around a cliff face, to a path that seemed to lead to the far side of the hill. He decided to explore further and slid from the boulder.
The ledge was a foot wide and twelve feet long. Rhodes shuffled along it, toes to heel and facing forward, not game to look at the quarry far below. Rock crumbled under his foot. He slipped, his guts jumped to his throat. He flung his arms out to balance, his torso wobbled. He steadied, then stumbled, then leaped forward and landed face first on the path. Safe. His knees trembled as he stood. He followed the path a few meters, climbed over a granite boulder, then made his way through thick mulga bush.
A wall of rock confronted him when he emerged from the bush. It curved upwards, high above his head, like a wave about to break. Unable to go left or straight ahead, he moved to his right through a ravine. He trod carefully, aware of dark caves at the bottom of the rock face down to his left.
After fifty meters he came to a clearing. Rock walls rose three meters on all sides to form a natural amphitheater. He gasped when he saw the Aboriginal art, the hand-drawn picture stories that covered the walls, and took photos.
He checked the signal strength on his phone. No bars this time. He cursed Telstra and wished he’d listened to Lyn Foster when she’d told him Optus had better coverage. Unable to call Klose, he decided he’d drive to the Carinya residence and show him photos of the drawings. They would then return to conduct a thorough search for the man living on Bunyip Hill.
He ran back through the ravine, stepped through the mulga bush and scurried over the granite boulder. He hesitated when he reached the rock ledge. It seemed narrower the second time, and the drop to the quarry seemed further. His right foot landed on the ledge, his heart bounced in his chest. His left heel lifted, ready to take a second step. A thud behind him, the sound of heavy boots landing on dirt. Shit! He froze, a tightrope walker with stage fright, unable to turn and look back. What the fuck, was that?
TWENTY NINE
Detective Lyn Foster swore and slammed her phone onto a dining table inside the Crooked River Hotel. She’d been looking forward to lunch with her girlfriends from the crime scene unit. She needed a long chat, an oily lasagne with garlic bread, and a few glasses of red. But Inspector George Barrett had just called, ordered her to investigate a suspicious death at the mission, and ruined her day off. When she’d protested, he told her everyone else in their office was busy. Like hell they were…She snatched her handbag from the table, snarled at the detectives perched at the bar and stormed out.
As she drove to the mission, she used the car’s hands-free phone to call Fred Klose. She’d volunteered to help arrest Tommy Davis later in the day, but Klose hadn’t bothered to return her message. She frowned when his number rang out. Carinya staff had received constant threats since arriving in Crooked River, and she preferred to know where they were at all times.
She phoned John Rhodes. When they’d spoken earlier, he’d been en-route to the mission. Was he still there, and if so, could he wait for her? Did he know about the suspicious death? Her questions went unanswered because a sweet female voice told her - ‘the number you dialed is not available.’
When she arrived at the mission, the dashboard clock read 1.05pm. She parked, then hurried towards a circle of Kooris huddled near the river. Women and children wailed. Men blocked her path and refused to let her closer, then reluctantly parted to allow entry. Uncle Simpson lay dead on the cracked mud, his gut bloated and his face pale. Tommy Davis knelt beside him.
Lyn ignored the hysterical screams that demanded she leave. “What happened?”
“The silly old fool fell in the water ‘bout twenty minutes ago,” Tommy said. “He weren’t like the rest of us, never learnt ta swim. Fished ‘im out too late…” He dropped his forehead onto Simpson’s purple chest and sobbed. After a minute he stood and pointed at Lyn. “See I told youse this would ‘appen, that these white fellas from the city would bring us bad luck. Doreen saw Uncle Simpson talkin’ ta one of ‘em just before, and evil water spirits punished ‘im for it…”
The gathering yelled at Lyn with growing rage. She moved to Aunty Doreen. “You spoke with one of the Carinya guys? How long ago did he leave?”
Doreen glanced at Tommy. He glared back, as though daring her to answer.
“Maybe, an hour?” Doreen said. “He was goin’ ta Bunyip Hill...” She waved Lyn away, her voice got louder. “Leave girl, before them evil spirits take more of us.”
Lyn looked down at Simpson. Her Coroners’ report would say he’d drowned, and there wouldn’t be an autopsy. Tommy and the other elders would never allow the body to leave the mission. They would bury Simpson in sacred ground, next to his ancestors.
With the investigation complete, Lyn turned her attention to finding Rhodes and Klose. Why hadn’t they answered their phones? The mourning Kooris threatened violence. She stepped out of the circle, towards her car. “Doreen, why’d Rhodes go to Bunyip Hill?”
Doreen stared with sad black eyes.
Tommy pushed past her and stood in front of Lyn, reeking of alcohol. “Go! We don’t want ya ‘ere. You’ve caused enough bloody misery already...”
Five minutes later Lyn drove fast towards Bunyip Hill. She phoned Klose, wanting to tell him that she’d seen Tommy Davis. No answer. She tried Rhodes’ phone, wanting to know what Uncle Simpson had told him. Again, no answer.
She passed the Thompson property then slowed into a corner. She braked hard as she came out of it, narrowly avoiding a red ute parked halfway across the road. Jim Thompson’s private car? And was that a Carinya Landcruiser parked in front of it? She got out and strode towards the quarry at the bottom of Bunyip Hill. Where was John Rhodes? And what was Jim Thompson doing there?
Jim stood in the middle of the boulder-strewn quarry with his back to her. He wore a whit
e polo shirt, khaki shorts, and flip-flops. She crept towards him, then froze as a rock crunched under her heel.
Jim turned, a devious smile on his face. “Woah Foster, looking good. Love you in tight jeans...And your tits…” An obnoxious grin as he stared. “You should show ‘em off more often. That skimpy top’s perfect...”
She’d learned to ignore taunts from Crooked River’s chauvinistic baboons. “What’s going on?”
“Was next door saying g’day to mum when the job came through ten minutes ago. Young fella from up the road called it in…He was walking his dogs when they ran over and found it.”
“Didn’t hear any jobs over the radio…His dogs found what?”
“The job wasn’t broadcast, the station called me.” He stepped aside to reveal what his massive frame had hidden.
She gasped and muffled a sob with her hand. She stumbled towards John Rhode’s crumpled body. “Oh my God…” She noticed the blue rubber gloves on Jim’s hands. “What happened?”
He peered towards the top of the cliff. “He fell, no doubt…Fuck knows what he was doing up there?” He sniggered while he wrote in his notebook. “Weird bastards, this Carinya mob…”
She scoffed. “He was a cop, like us. And my friend…”
He shrugged and pointed to Rhode’s limp body with his pen. “A clumsy, dead friend. Climb in those shoes, of course you’re gunna come tumbling down…”
She gritted her teeth. “The Carinya guys have been threatened, he didn’t fall.” She bent over Rhodes to examine bloody pulp at the rear of his skull. “How’s this trauma to his head possible? When he’s landed over the rock, and his back took the brunt of the fall?”
He kept writing. “His head hit first, then momentum pitched him forward, and he stayed on his back. That’s what my report’s gunna say anyhow…”