The Bluffs : A Novel (2020)

by Perry, Kyle

  He took it from her hand. ‘Nice try.’

  ‘Hypocrite. Uncle Butch said you took weed to all your school camps.’

  ‘Shhh,’ said Butch in a loud stage whisper.

  ‘If you come back with even a whiff of it, you are grounded until you’re thirty-eight,’ said Murphy, glaring at Butch. ‘Your uncle should keep his mouth shut.’

  ‘Maybe I exaggerated, Jaz,’ said Butch. ‘As I remember, he wasn’t always smoking: sometimes his lips were attached to one of the Lindsay girls, and not always her —’

  ‘Ew!’ Jasmine squealed. ‘I’m going!’

  She pulled her camping pack over her shoulders. She picked up Myrtle from the floor and rubbed her face against the cat’s, singing a few lines from James Blunt’s ‘Goodbye My Lover’. Myrtle meowed, and Jasmine squeezed her once more before she let her back onto the ground.

  ‘Just so you know, Dad, I don’t think Miss Ellis is your type. Love you!’ Jasmine slammed the door behind her: not out of anger, but because slamming it was the only way to get the dicky door fully closed.

  ‘She gets that from you, dickhead,’ said Murphy after a moment. He weighed out the next ounce.

  ‘You mean her sticky fingers?’ said Butch. ‘I barely saw her lift that bag and stuff it up her sleeve.’

  ‘No, I meant her — what?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Butch, his smile growing wider.

  ‘Shit!’ Murphy ran to the door, knocking over his chair, leaping over a hissing Myrtle, stumbling out onto the street. The ever-present valley breeze of Limestone Creek brought the country town smell of diesel, smoke and gumtree.

  Up the end of the street, Jasmine was already climbing into the bus. It was a good fifty metres – she must have run the whole way to get so far ahead of him. She scampered up inside.

  Murphy sprinted towards the bus, dodging over broken pavers, a Jack Russell running to a nearby fence and yapping at him.

  The bus pulled away. A magpie called from a gumtree above as he slowed, bare feet aching from the hard pavement.

  Across the street were two young women in matching Adidas jogging gear. They giggled. Peggie and Darcy, the housemates from down the road. He knew them, of course: he knew nearly everyone who lived around here. They had their phones out, the cameras pointed his way.

  He realised he was still in his undies.

  He hurried back home.

  The door was shut.

  He pushed it.

  Locked.

  ‘Butch, don’t be a knob.’ He pounded on the door with his fist, glancing back at Peggie and Darcy, who were waving at him.

  The window beside the door opened and Butch’s face appeared. ‘Hey, everyone!’ he shouted. ‘Murph is outside in his undies!’

  ‘I’m gonna punch you in the balls.’

  ‘There’s a man who is starkers outside! Someone call the cops! Hey, how you going, ladies? Murphy’s looking a bit cold, hey?’

  Peggie and Darcy laughed, a kookaburra took up the call, and the Jack Russell kept barking.

  ‘You’re dead, Butch,’ said Murphy. He stalked around the side of the house and pulled himself over the peeling white fence.

  Their backyard was a tangle of weeds, long grass and scraggly bush. There was a chicken coop in the far corner, a shed in the other, and a rusty Hills Hoist stood in the middle. There was no back fence, the yard backing onto a line of blackberry bushes and white gums. Their property here in the outskirts of Limestone Creek bordered the Western Tiers National Park. One and a half kilometres away, hidden in all that scrub and bush, was his and Butch’s marijuana crop, the route leading there rigged up with homemade booby traps.

  Beyond that rose the Great Western Tiers, steep inclines of blue-grey streaked with columns of rock. Away to the west was Devils Gullet: a rugged prehistoric gorge, with a lookout on the cliffs that offered views of the misty mountains of Tasmania. That lookout was to be one of the locations on Jasmine’s school hike, even though she had been there countless times before. Murphy had even taken her camping to the same spot on Western Bluff where they’d be sleeping tonight: it was only a twenty-minute trip if you had a dirtbike and knew the forestry roads. That was back when Jasmine’s mum, Sara, was alive.

  Murphy stomped in through the back door and into the kitchen.

  Butch wolf-whistled at the sight of him, arms folded across his singlet, joint between his fingers. ‘Why the hell are you single?’

  ‘Dickhead. I’ll get you back for that.’ Murphy shot his hand out to try and whack Butch in the groin, who dodged just in time. ‘The Hilux keys.’ Murphy patted the wall where they usually hung. ‘Where’d you put them?’

  ‘It’s fine, Murph, she’s a smart kid, she won’t get caught.’

  ‘Where are the bloody keys?’

  Butch laughed. ‘Mate. Calm down. You think you’re gonna keep Jasmine away from the bud forever when it’s her old man’s job to grow it? She’s sixteen, it’s school camp, she’s had a tough year: let her loosen up a bit.’

  ‘Where are the fucking keys, Butch?’

  Butch sighed as he went back to cooking the eggs and bacon. ‘Don’t worry about it, lad. I was only joking.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She didn’t take anything . . . should’ve seen your face though.’ He cackled. ‘I should’ve filmed you out there.’

  ‘You’re a fucking goose, mate.’ He punched Butch in the shoulder, hard. Their other cat, Gus the Muss, skittered away, knocking over a large potted sword fern, scattering potting mix.

  Butch winced, nearly dropping his plate, but the grin crept back onto his face. ‘Skinner is comin’ round tonight and we’ve got a bloody truckload of bud to bag.’ He shoved the joint into his mouth and then pressed the other plate into Murphy’s hands. ‘Get your strength up, lad.’

  CHAPTER 2

  JASMINE

  Jasmine hurried down the aisle of the bus, her heart pounding. Sure enough, Dad had come after her – Butch must’ve seen her take that second bag, the snitch, but she was sure neither of them had seen her swipe the first one.

  As long as Dad didn’t drive up to the school . . .

  She groaned. That’s probably exactly what he’d do.

  A sudden flutter of relief: maybe she’d get suspended and kicked off the camp. The others wouldn’t think any less of her . . .

  No.

  She had to do it. It was up to her to make this happen. She just had to make it through the day without backing out.

  Hopefully Dad didn’t come up to the school . . .

  She felt strangely on display in her Billabong jacket as she walked down the aisle, with most of the other students in their grey-and-green school uniforms. Only the Year 10 girls were permitted to be in casual clothes, as they were leaving for the camp after Homegroup.

  On the back seat were Georgia and the twins, Cierra and Madison – Jasmine’s best friends, her squad, the other three members of their Fab Four.

  ‘Your dad is so hot?’ sighed Cierra, watching Jasmine’s dad through the back window. Cierra had a habit of speaking as though everything was a question, even though Jasmine had tried repeatedly to make her break it. She wore a cobalt-blue wig, cut to a bob just above her ears, even though she was gorgeous in that naturally tanned beach-model way, with freckles and winged eyeliner. Jasmine didn’t know why Cierra felt she needed the wig – Cierra probably didn’t even know herself.

  ‘He’s really not,’ said Jasmine. She slid her backpack into the aisle, manoeuvring the bags of weed, one from each sleeve, into her bag and shoving them down to the bottom. She sat between Cierra and Madison, her identical twin.

  ‘Hey, bitch,’ said Madison, slipping an arm through Jasmine’s. In her other hand – permanently attached – was the latest iPhone and its many cameras. Madison filmed her entire life for her thousands of followers, wearing the most expensive brands, bought and paid for by either ad revenue or her ‘influencer collaborations’. Her natural red hair was styled in long curls that fell arou
nd her face, she had the same winged eyeliner as Cierra, and a luxe Tommy Hilfiger puffer jacket over denim cut-offs.

  Her phone case was lined with LED lights to illuminate her subject, and she trained the camera on Jasmine’s face. ‘So, what do you have to say about this cruel and unusual punishment? A school camp?’ Jasmine saw the mischief in her eyes, the smirk in her volcano-red lips. ‘A hike, and camping, up there in the Suicide Woods. How Wolf Creek.’

  ‘If it doesn’t at least get hot enough for Mr Michaels to take his shirt off, the whole thing will be a waste of time,’ said Jasmine to the camera.

  ‘It’ll probably snow,’ said Georgia from the other side of Madison, matter-of-fact.

  ‘Maybe he’ll need someone to cuddle him, then,’ said Jasmine.

  Madison laughed. ‘That’s definitely going online, Jaz.’ She turned the camera on herself. ‘Hello, Mr Michaels.’ She winked.

  Madison’s YouTube channel, MMMMadisonMason, had over 700 000 subscribers. Jasmine knew for a fact that their teacher’s assistant, Jack Michaels, was one of them.

  ‘Don’t call it the Suicide Woods.’ Georgia Lenah had thick-rimmed glasses on a round face, with bright coral lipstick between dimpled cheeks – she might not have been as stunning as Madison or Cierra, but more boys asked her out on dates than any of the other members of the Fab Four. Her Aboriginal heritage gave her a perspective that Jasmine felt was very healthy for the twins: Jasmine and Georgia both tried to act as a counterbalance to the Mason girls’ privileged view of the world.

  ‘Why not? We’ll be walking right by the Hanging Tree,’ said Madison, turning her camera on Georgia. ‘We could call it the Hungry Woods instead.’

  ‘Don’t, Madison,’ called Cierra with a shudder. ‘Not today?’

  ‘You’re scared of the Hungry Man?’ said Madison, camera now on her sister. ‘Up in the hills, he hides and kills, down in the caves, he hides and waits . . .’

  ‘Stop it!’ Cierra squealed, and Madison chuckled.

  Jasmine could already imagine Madison’s video for the day. It’d start with the four of them on the back seat, then footage from the hike, and then some snatches from the campfire. Jasmine was grateful she’d bought a new jacket for this camping trip, because it’d look good on camera: Madison had helped her choose it. It was handy, having an internet-famous friend, someone who was good with angles, make-up and clothes.

  The bus made another stop and one of the Year 12 girls – Yani Hugh, the pastor’s daughter – stepped up into the bus.

  Madison made a noise, pursing her red lips.

  Jasmine’s smile became fixed. Oh, here we go . . .

  Yani walked down the aisle, her skirt flicking, short hair stiff with product, and sat with her Year 12 friends near the middle of the bus. Those girls once thought they’d had a right to the back seat – that was before the Fab Four came along.

  ‘Hey, does anyone smell carrots?’ called Madison over the chatter.

  The bus went quiet. The back of Yani’s neck turned pink.

  The bus driver was half-deaf: he never heard these exchanges. Jasmine wished he would.

  ‘Leave her alone, Madison,’ said Jasmine quietly.

  ‘Ease up, bitch, I’ll be right back,’ said Madison with a smile, heading down the aisle, moving with the sway of the bus, her phone in her hand.

  It was Yani’s fault, Jasmine tried to reassure herself. But that had been months ago. Madison was relentless.

  Madison sat down across the aisle from Yani and her friends, brandishing her phone.

  Yani sunk lower into her seat as Madison insulted her – her looks, her sex life – drawing chuckles from some of the other students. ‘Mmm . . . yep, I can smell carrots,’ finished Madison nastily. Yani didn’t respond: if Madison had her camera trained on you, anything you said could be used against you online. Plus, Madison had other ammunition.

  Madison made her way back to the back seat. Her face was flushed, a wide smirk for the girls.

  ‘You’re such a bitch, Madison,’ said Georgia.

  ‘Yani is literally a whore. We hate her, Georgia,’ said Madison. She snuggled in beside Jasmine and her. ‘For all our new viewers, tell us again what your people call the Great Western Tiers?’

  Georgia sat up straighter, brushing her ringlets back as she slipped into her activist voice. ‘The traditional name for the Tiers is Kooparoona Niara,’ she began. ‘Meaning “Mountain of Spirits”. It was a significant meeting place for three separate mobs. They’d come for ceremonies, to exchange news, and to trade for the sacred ochre – hang on, why are you giving me that look? No! You’re just gonna make this about those bloody portals you think are up there!’

  ‘C’mon, Georgia —’ said Madison.

  ‘No way. They are not part of Aboriginal story. I won’t help you appropriate my culture to —’

  ‘Appropriate your culture?’ said Madison. ‘What about Avengers? You love Thor, who is literally a god for some people.’

  ‘That’s completely different and you know it!’ Georgia’s voice was growing heated. ‘There are no magical spirit portals in the mountains! There is no mystical Aboriginal-afterlife vortex sucking people in!’

  ‘That sounds suspiciously like something someone would say if they were trying to hide the fact there are portals in the mountains —’

  Jasmine, who had heard all this before, turned away, looking past Cierra – who was scrolling on her phone – and out the window.

  She pretended she didn’t see Yani’s shoulders shaking with quiet sobs as her friends tried to comfort her. The whole thing felt particularly wrong because anti-bullying was one of MMMMadisonMason’s biggest themes. But then, a lot of things Madison did in real life went against what MMMMadisonMason said online.

  Don’t worry about it . . . for the greater good . . .

  The houses of Limestone Creek rolled past. Most were run down: fibro joints and dirty brick houses, a community that had risen and fallen with the local mining industry, and then again with the timber industry. These days, Limestone Creek was a mongrel town, part tourism, part ageing population. Rusting cars in overgrown yards, goats on nature strips, houses that doubled as antique-dealers, with colourful flags flying out the front to attract the tourists on their way along the Meander Valley Scenic Route, which led into the pristine, misty wilderness of Tasmania’s highlands.

  Jasmine knew what Limestone Creek was really like. You heard a lot of things about your town when your dad sold weed. Especially in a town that had a population of less than 6000.

  The house they just passed – the mother worked in a clothes shop and the father as a mechanic, and Jasmine knew that they fought, violently. They had a little girl, who got caught up in it once, over a year ago; the father, drunk, smacked her so hard across the face with a bottle she suffered a brain injury. They told everyone she slipped and hit her head in the playground, and even tried to sue the school. When the mother told a friend how it really happened, it got around town, and Dad found out. He told the cops, but as far as they were concerned there was no proof, and they didn’t look any closer.

  A house a little further along belonged to a lawyer. His son ran a woodcraft workshop from the garage, with ‘OPEN’ and ‘SALE ON NOW’ flags out the front. The lawyer was married, but he had still flown in an ‘au pair’ from Vietnam, who was actually his mistress. A girl in Year 11 at Jasmine’s school – Julie Jacobson – was technically his son’s girlfriend, but she also got ‘private tutoring’ from the lawyer.

  How many other stories like that did she know? Riddling the town like cavities in a tooth. Abuse, corruption, sex, drugs . . . Jasmine was going to get out of there as soon as she could.

  That was one of the few secrets she hadn’t told the girls yet. They didn’t understand: they liked being in Limestone Creek, where everything was easy and simple and Madison was a celebrity and everyone rode in her shadow. When you didn’t know about the underbelly, she supposed it was quite a nice place. And Madison was convinced
they were all going to live here together forever, probably in a mansion she’d build with her internet income, and that they’d start some sort of saucy Instagram reality series.

  The other girls didn’t understand how much Jasmine needed to leave, needed to get Dad out of here, too. That she was the only one who could get Dad out of here.

  And then she could also be as far as possible from Madison. Because this was another secret Jasmine had: she hated Madison Mason. Hated her guts, her soul, hated her right down to the cells that made up her marrow, her stupid red hair, her stupid voice, her stupid red smirk.

  Jasmine felt Madison squeeze her arm affectionately, and she turned with a smile, patted Madison’s leg, snuggled closer. I hate you so much, bitch, she thought.

  They were driving through the middle of town now, over the wide stone bridge across the namesake river of Limestone Creek. Built by convicts, the bridge was said to be haunted. One of Jasmine’s ex-boyfriends swore black and blue he’d seen the ghost before, a man wearing a straw hat.

  There were many reported hauntings in Limestone Creek, most of them in the convict-era buildings in the town centre. In the summer there was a ghost tour that ran every weekend, but even now it was on every fortnight, for the tourists who flocked to Limestone Creek in unpredictable patterns. Theirs was ‘the third-most haunted town in Australia’.

  It was all bullshit, as far as Jasmine was concerned. Mr Carswell, Jasmine’s Science teacher, a staunch sceptic, had shown their class a TED Talk about how certain frequencies of sound gave people ‘the creeps’ and caused them to see blurred figures out of the corner of their eyes. Mr Carswell then explained how the wind blowing through the rocks of the Tiers sometimes makes a heavy thrumming noise, which could be contributing to the dubious history of ‘hauntings’.

  They were supposed to design an experiment to test this, but no one really put much effort into it: Mr Carswell was a pushover. And, as Madison pointed out whenever he brought it up, it didn’t explain the Min Min lights that used to be seen up on the Tiers. Mr Carswell would demand photographic evidence of the lights, and then run into a tangent on swamp gas and limestone methane, which Jasmine had googled and had to admit probably wasn’t a real thing.