by Jay Darby
“Yes.”
“Then it’s probably best you stay here. He’s still a dangerous bloke...”
“No, I want to see him go down. I deserve to...”
He’d fought alongside hardened police veterans and battled tough rugby men, but he respected Rosie Davis more than any of them. He removed his jacket, then tucked a white t-shirt into cargo pants and bent to tighten the laces on his New Balance sneakers.
She removed her sandals and wriggled bare feet.
He jammed his Glock into its’ shoulder holster. “Let’s go.”
Porter crept down the path, Rosie followed. He scoured the ground for fresh footprints or any other sign of human activity. Cockatoo screeched overhead from the river gums’ highest branches. They’d covered a hundred meters when the path leveled out.
He saw the river fifty meters ahead, sniffed at the air and stopped. Smoke? He pulled Rosie down to the ground with him, and they hid behind low scrub. A crisp smell wafted to his nostrils, rich with the fragrance of native flowers. He inhaled and smelled smoke again. From a nearby fire?
He glanced up to his left, north towards the town, and saw Bunyip Hill through a gap in the tree canopy. Five kilometers away? Ahead of him, above the river, black smoke spiraled. From a campfire, or a cabin’s chimney? He tried to see what lay ahead but the track turned to the right, and bushes blocked his view. He listened and heard nothing but sounds of nature.
He stood with caution and helped Rosie to her feet, then aimed his Glock to the front. He crept towards the bend in the track and kept his head lower than the bushes. When he reached the bend, he kneeled and peeked around the corner.
He froze, but his pulse raced like the little drummer boy on fast forward. Bill’s grey fishing cabin stood close to the river, less than thirty meters away. A small boat floated on brown water in front of it, shaded by gum trees. Smoke rose from a campfire.
Porter scolded himself. When he’d searched a storage shed at the rear of Bill’s property he hadn’t realized a boat was missing. On the night Bill disappeared, Jim must’ve helped him put the boat in the river and he’d escaped to his cabin. Porter cursed again. When he’d searched the property, he’d also failed to check the riverbank for tire tracks.
He turned to Rosie, signaled for her stay put, then watched the cabin for movement. None. He noticed a row of mulga bush behind the cabin that would provide cover. He dropped and crawled towards it.
When he reached the mulga bush, he stood and listened. Nothing. He shuffled to the end of the row and peered around it, towards the cabin. He saw no-one, and no windows faced him. He ran five meters to the cabin’s rear wall and pressed his back against worn timber panels. He listened again, heard only the sound of waterfowl as they splashed in the river.
He shuffled left, to the corner closest to the campfire. He spun to face the wall, stepped to his right to look around it, then scanned the ten-meter wide strip between the cabin and river. No-one, just a wooden chair next to a campfire and a window on the side of the cabin.
He stepped back behind cover. His nose twitched, smoke caught in his throat and he suppressed a cough. A bead of sweat slid down his forehead, over his cheek and welled in the corner of his mouth. Was Bill in the cabin? Or was he out hunting, or fishing nearby?
He duck-walked around the corner and stopped under the window. He scanned the riverfront in both directions. Nothing. He stood, held the Glock in one hand while the other shielded eyes from the sun. He peered through the dust-caked window. The rear section of the cabin was in shadow, and still. Bright sunlight shone through the front door.
He shuffled past the window, towards the door, and straightened to full height. He took a deep breath, then rushed around the front corner. He gasped and jumped back, grateful he’d rested his finger against the pistols’ trigger guard.
Rosie covered her mouth with a hand and stared at him.
“Almost shot you in the face,” he whispered quickly. “Get back over there…”
“Sorry, I saw the boat and wanted to warn you. Can’t stand it, I need to know if he’s he--.” Her eyes expanded, her mouth fell open. Her warning came too late.
The butt of Bill Thompson’s rifle slammed into Porter’s face. The Glock slipped from his fingers, and he crashed to the ground.
Rosie’s screams brought Porter back to consciousness, the piercing noise louder than the shock waves that bounced from one side of his skull to the other. He raised his chest from the ground and rotated his head to the right, towards the screams. He willed his eyes open, but only the left one obeyed. Two blurred figures moved, somewhere near the river. He tried to prise his right eye’s lids apart, but couldn’t. His face fell towards the ground, then back up. Fell, then rose, fell, then rose. Over and over, in time with the violent clash of cymbals that rang in his ears.
He rotated his head to the left, saw the cabin’s front door a meter from him. Where was his Glock? More screams, he looked towards the river. Blurred images came into focus. Rosie thrashed arms and legs as Bill dragged her through shallow water in a headlock.
“Rosie,” he tried to yell but whispered. He rolled onto his left side and dug his right hand into the ground for support. “Rosie…” He winced, slumped against mud and watched her, hopeless.
Bill dragged her up the riverbank by the hair and dumped her next to the campfire, five meters away from Porter. He dropped knees into her gut, then grinned like the big bad wolf. She wheezed underneath him.
Porter pushed both hands into the ground and tried to press himself up. He got halfway, then the spirit level in his brain tilted too far to the right. Cymbals crashed, arms buckled, his chin thudded into hard mud. He urged himself to try harder. Rosie needed him.
He tried again, and fell down again. Experience told him it’d take a few minutes for his brain to re-calibrate and restore balance. But he didn’t have a few minutes…He watched Rosie fight for her life.
Bill straddled her chest and pushed his knees against her elbows. A white-haired praying mantis pinned a lilac butterfly to the ground. She squirmed, snarled and spat. He laughed and wiped saliva from his face.
She rolled her head and squinted towards the cabin. Tearful eyes pleaded for Porter’s help.
Bill glanced at Porter. “Forget it, bitch,” he roared. “That lame dog can’t help you now...I’ll put him down in a minute, but first, let’s have some fun.” He bent and licked her from chin to forehead.
She flung her head from side to side. “Fuck off devil. Get off me!”
Bill reeled away from her and straightened. “Devil?” He cradled her chin in one hand, then smirked. “Well, how ‘bout that, little Rosie’s come back to papa.” He swept a hand over her jawline, down her neck, and across the top of slight breasts.
She freed her right arm and slapped the side of his head, then beat a childlike fist against his chest. “Get your filthy hands off me…”
Bill grabbed her arm and shoved it under his knee. “Ah, my black beauty, still feisty as ever.”
She grunted and wriggled. After a frantic minute, her shoulders sagged into the ground, and she whimpered, as though she’d realized resistance were futile.
Bill grinned, a dingo with a fresh carcass. “You always did put up a good fight.” He ripped the front of her dress, buttons flew into the air, and she screamed as he reached under it. “Do you still fuck like you used to?”
Porter ignored his throbbing head, dug his knees and elbows into the ground, and crawled towards them.
Bill grabbed her throat and rubbed his chest against her bra, seemed oblivious to his presence.
The fog in Porter’s head dispersed and he reached out to drag him off her. But the spirit level in his brain tilted too far again and he slumped onto his chest against mud. He tried to move but couldn’t, his whole body numbed. He watched in futile desperation as Bill choked her, less than a meter away.
Rosie’s eyes rolled back in her head, her body relaxed. She would die if he didn’t let go, and Porte
r could do nothing to save her.
Another man flashed past him and hurled himself onto Bill’s back. A Koori man, black as charcoal, with a knotted beard that hung to his bare chest. His white hair fell down his back to a dirty loincloth. He wrapped his arms around Bill’s neck, an anorexic boa constrictor.
Bill gagged and released his hold on her. He reached both arms over his head and tried to pull the Koori from his back. The man hung on.
Rosie gasped for air, then yanked her arms from under Bill’s knees and clawed at his face. He slammed a fist into her jaw. Her head flopped to the side, eyes closed, and she lay still.
Bill wheezed, his face turned crimson, he threw himself to the side and off her. He pulled the Koori man to the ground and twisted his body. When they stopped rolling, he held him in a headlock from behind and lifted him to his feet.
Porter swayed to his knees and dived at Bill’s legs, much slower than he’d wanted to.
Bill avoided him and drove a heel into his nose.
It crunched, Porter grimaced and fell against mud. He watched him drag the Koori man over the grey riverbank.
Bill held him in a headlock and walked backward into the river. “You think you can stop me, dirty black bastard?”
The Koori’s heels submerged, he squealed like a toddler who hated bath time.
Bill dragged him until the water was waist high, then pushed his head under. “Time for a scrub…”
Porter crawled to Rosie and found a pulse at her neck. Her eyes flickered open. Blood trickled from her mouth, but she managed a weak smile.
Water splashed. The Koori man screamed.
Her forehead crinkled. “Help him,” she pleaded.
Porter glanced to the river. Bill dunked the Koori underwater, pulled him up, then pushed him under again. He scanned the ground for his Glock. Nowhere. Had Bill hidden it?
He pressed up to his knees. “Who is he?”
She shook her head. “But help him…Please?”
He stood, relieved, the cymbals had stopped crashing. He swayed, dropped his iPhone onto the ground, then stumbled towards the river without falling. Self-calibration complete, he ran into the water.
Bill glanced over his shoulder, his mouth fell open. He dragged the Koori through water and faced Porter’s approach.
“Let him go,” Porter said. “He’s nobody, innocent…”
Bill scoffed. “Innocent? Hardly, son, he’s the bastard who killed my Kathleen.”
“Bullshit, we both know who murdered her…”
Bill said nothing, just glared at him then dunked the man under water.
Porter lunged forward and placed his left arm under the Koori’s armpit. He squatted underwater, then exploded upwards and lifted the man’s head above the surface. His left arm extended, his right hand balled into a fist.
Bill froze, eyes and mouth wide, an easy target.
Porter slammed a fist into his temple.
Bill wobbled, then fell face first into the water. Unconscious.
He pulled the Koori man and Bill from the river, then laid them on their sides.
Bill spluttered, groaned, then clutched the side of his head.
The Koori coughed up water.
Porter spotted his iPhone and bent to pick it up.
Rosie stood by the campfire. One hand massaged her jaw, the other hugged her soaked body. “Goodness, Dan, your eye’s bleeding. Are you okay?”
He removed his t-shirt, ripped a bandage from the bottom of it and wrapped it tight around his head. He noticed her ripped dress and threw the t-shirt to her. “Put that on…”
Her smiling eyes thanked him. She put the shirt on, then kneeled behind the Koori man and lifted his head from the ground. “Who are you?” She swept matted hair from his eyes. “Why are you here?”
Bill convulsed, brown water spilled from his mouth.
Porter watched him writhe on the ground, a pathetic antithesis of the intimidating Crooked River Mayor. He saw a weak but cruel old man, to be despised and never pitied.
Rosie held the Koori man’s head in her lap. She locked eyes with Porter, then nodded towards Bill. “You should’ve let that pig of a man drown...”
He stopped beside her, looked down and smirked. “Don’t disagree, but it’s not my decision to make…Besides, men like Bill struggle with defeat. Reckon he’d rather be dead than lose to you…”
The Koori man coughed, then gazed into Rosie’s face.
“Thank you, friend,” she said.
He grimaced, as though painful to talk. “Could’n stop the devil from hurtin’ ya when youse a little one, cousin. But told meself, he’d never hurt ya again...”
Rosie’s bottom lip dropped. “Malcolm?” She shook her head. “Malcolm Davis?”
His black eyes twinkled.
“Where’d you come from, out of nowhere?” Porter said.
Malcolm pointed to his left.
Porter peered in that direction, towards gumtrees that lined the river bank, and saw Bunyip Hill beyond them.
“I was walkin’ through the bush to this hut, thinkin’ to steal some food,” Malcolm said. “Then I run ‘ere when I heard a lady screamin’.”
“I know your voice…You’re from the caves on Bunyip Hill?”
Malcolm nodded, then returned his gaze to Rosie.
“I, I’m stunned...” She stroked Malcolm’s forehead. “I thought you lived in Queensland. But all this time, you’ve been here, in Crooked River?”
“Since I got outta jail…Weren’t stayin’ in no white fellas’ city.”
“You’re not the only one who owes him your life,” Porter told her. “He helped me hide when blokes tried to kill me.” He smiled at him. “Cheers mate...”
Malcolm said nothing. He made brief eye contact then looked away.
Rosie beamed at Porter. “Have you forgotten, Dan?”
“About what?”
“That Malcolm is Lionel’s father…”
He rolled his good eye towards Malcolm, tried to say to her – ‘you tell him.’
“I already know Lionel’s dead,” Malcolm said. “Was at ‘is burial...”
Porter frowned. “Didn’t see you there…”
“Did’n wanna be seen…”
“Fair enough, and for what it’s worth, he was a top bloke...Shame you never met him, but you can be proud.”
Malcolm raised his head from Rosie’s lap, then moaned as she helped him to his feet. He stared up into Porter’s face. “Am proud of ‘im. And no, he never knew me as ‘is dad, but we spoke all the time.”
Rosie smiled, as though she understood.
Porter heard Lionel’s voice, and listened to him speak about Aboriginal spirits and the wise elders who guided him. Had they sent him to Crooked River to find his father? He started to tell Malcolm, then Bill spluttered and convulsed. His line of thought jumped from Bill to the Knights of Alba, to the reason he’d come to the cabin…The wooden chest. The Cumal files.
He glanced towards the cabin, tightened the cloth around his head. “Watch Bill…Gunna search it.”
She nodded, stepped forward with tear filled eyes and hugged Malcolm.
Porter rushed to the cabin and stepped inside the dank room. He swept his phone’s torch from left to right, back and forth. Fishing rods against a wall, tins of food and empty whiskey bottles on a bench top, a wooden rocking chair, mounted rifles, work boots, a jemmy bar and other tools on the floor, overalls hanging from a hook, a stack of newspapers in the corner, a pile of kindling and an axe by the door. A cow skin rug…
But no wooden chest…
He crawled around the room’s perimeter. His hands probed the timber wall, he hoped to uncover a hiding place. He found his Glock in a dark corner and holstered it. His injured eye throbbed, his bones ached, and the pain became unbearable. His lungs craved air. He left the cabin, let the sun warm his face, and sucked rapid breaths.
When he’d filled his lungs, and his heartbeat slowed, he cleared his throat and spat at the ground. He�
�d had a gutful of unfair rules. It was time to play dirty, same as the crooks did. One way or another, he’d make Bill Thompson tell where he’d hidden the Cumal files. He strode towards the campfire.
Rosie stood alone on the riverbank and gazed into the cloudless sky.
He stopped, spun, and scanned all directions.
Bill, and Malcolm, had disappeared.
FIFTY FIVE
Porter ran past Rosie, to the spot where he’d left Bill Thompson lying on the riverbank. He saw two blood-covered rocks. Thin splatters of blood fanned the ground, and a thicker trail of blood led towards the river. He followed it to the water’s edge, then looked out across the brown river. Bill Thompson floated face down in the middle of it, and a bright-red cloud billowed from his head.
He spun towards Rosie, noticed her blood covered hands. He pointed at them and strode towards her. “What have you done?”
She met his glare, chin raised. “You said it wasn’t your decision to make, if the white devil lived or not.” Her voice shook. “Malcolm and I invoked ancient laws of these lands. We decided…”
He gritted teeth and hissed. “Fuck!” Bill was likely the only person who’d known the whereabouts of the Cumal files, of where they’d been hidden. With him dead, he’d never find them. “Where’s Malcolm?”
“Gone…Said he’s leaving this district, and never coming back.” She trudged to the river and bent to wash her hands.
Porter said nothing, watched Bill’s limp body bob up and down in the water. He’d just heard a confession to murder. But if ever questioned regarding Bill’s disappearance, he’d deny any knowledge of it. If anyone had earned the right to administer their own justice, as judge and executioner, it was Rosie Davis.
He turned to her. “Don’t reckon we should leave him in the river…Won’t the body be found?”
She shook her head. “He’ll float close to the edge soon enough…Dingos will wait till dark, drag him from the water and tear him apart. They’re very efficient eaters, and don’t leave any bones or scraps…”