by Perry, Kyle
They arrived at a shallow tributary, falling down a jagged dolomite rockface into a deeper stream below. They had approached the falls from the top, and Eliza saw the thick galvanised wire across the span, designed to be held as they crossed. ‘I’ve been here before,’ she said with surprise.
‘Could be,’ said Darren. ‘But there are many like this all over the Tiers, and they all look similar. Although in winter, the streams sometimes change their paths completely . . .’
One of the SES workers – a woman with grey hair – overtook him and walked right to the edge of the falls, peering down. Despite herself, Eliza stepped up onto a slippery rock beside her. The water below was amber brown and rolling with foam and waves, beautiful in the sunlight, treacherous among jutting rocks.
‘Could they be down there?’ she found herself asking the woman, nausea rolling through her belly at the thought.
‘Possibly,’ said the SES volunteer with a heavy sigh. ‘Should we have some divers come check?’ she shouted to Darren above the sound of the falls.
Darren’s feet were steady as he looked down into the base of the waterfall, even as the water rushed over his hiking boots. ‘We can’t search every pool we pass,’ he said, ‘but . . . maybe we can try this one.’
Eliza listened as he called it in, following Darren as he walked to the other side. He was matter-of-fact, detailing the co-ordinates of the waterfall, the route there, his request for divers.
The cable bit into her palm as she crossed, while her mind returned to the rolling, boiling water. We can’t search every pool . . .
The rest of their party followed behind, their eyes on their respective directions, their mouths shut, faces grim.
After half an hour’s walk, they stopped, the sky overcast again and a chill wind starting to blow. ‘Now, I believe this is where Mr Jack Michaels eventually found you, once he’d met up with Miss Carmen,’ said Darren.
A large daisy bush reached over the edge of the trail here, its hundreds of beautiful white flowers early for the season. The smell was sharp and spicy, and the air droned with bees.
Somewhere, we joined the Lake Nameless trail, she thought in surprise. I didn’t even notice.
She felt completely lost.
But she had a pang of memory as she crouched down, pressing a hand to the soft flowers of the bush. She remembered lying here, in the mud and wet. The aroma was wilder than other flowers.
‘This is where they found you.’ said Darren. ‘Any details come back to you?’
‘I think I remember stopping here.’ She looked over to the bush. It was taller than her, taller than Darren, so big it felt otherworldly: like someone had taken it from a suburban garden and sprinkled magic powder on it, making it grow wild and ferocious. ‘I don’t know why, but it felt like the right place to stop.’
‘Probably the flowers,’ remarked the grizzled farmer from their party, scratching behind his knee. ‘Girls like flowers.’
Eliza pinched off one of the flowers, cradling it in her hand. The wild bees buzzed.
This daisy bush protected me from the person who was following me. The thought came to her from nowhere, and then a wild and irrational fear rushed through her. She spun around, staring into the forest, groping for Darren’s hand. Her breath came in heaving pants, her chest tight and throat dry. ‘There was someone else . . . footsteps, I know it . . . someone was hunting me!’
‘Relax, Miss Ellis,’ said Darren. ‘Just breathe. You’re fine. You’re okay.’
‘He followed me here. I remember his footsteps! I do!’ She gasped.
‘Should we call someone? She can’t breathe,’ said the farmer.
‘No, it’s fine,’ said Darren. ‘She’s fine. Aren’t you, Miss Ellis?’ He rubbed her back. ‘It’s okay for you to have a panic attack, you’ve been under a lot of stress. Try to breathe, but take your time – we’ll still be here, ready when you are. Just take your time.’
Slowly, with Darren’s encouragement, Eliza’s breathing began to slow, until she could spit out angrily, ‘I’m not . . . having . . . a panic . . . attack.’
‘Either way, you’re doing a good job,’ he said. ‘There, that’s better. You’re okay.’
‘I’m really not,’ said Eliza, when she could finally speak again. ‘I’m falling apart.’
It had begun to rain, the water icy cold. The other searchers all took off their packs, pulling out raincoats, but Darren let it run down his hair and face. ‘So . . . you do remember something?’
‘Someone was following me here.’
‘What do you remember about them?’
‘Just footsteps . . .’ The back of her head begun to ache. She remembered the terror of being followed, the urgency in her chest to reach the girls, the urgency not to lead this hunter to the girls . . .
‘Just think, Miss Ellis. You can do this.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Please. You . . . Can you try?’
‘I’m not remembering —’
‘Eliza,’ he said, cutting her off. ‘I . . . have a confession to make.’
Eliza looked at him. His face was striking now that his hair was wet in the lashing rain.
‘My sister was one of the girls taken in 1985.’
‘What?’
‘Rose. Rose Cahil.’
‘Oh, Darren. I’m so sorry.’
‘No one in my family ever believed Ted Barclay was responsible. And if the Hungry Man is active again . . . I want to stop him. I want to find him. I have to stop him.’ He gripped her shoulders. ‘I need you to think. Really think. Do you remember where you were when you woke up? When you first realised you were being hunted?’
Eliza looked up and down the trail. She pulled herself out of his grip. ‘I don’t think I could even find my way back to the motorbikes, let alone back to where I woke up, where Carmen first found me.’
‘You might be the only one who can help us. We have to find the other girls. If they’re still alive.’
‘Darren . . .’ said the grey-haired SES officer.
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Darren, throwing up his hands. He walked a few steps down the track before coming back. ‘I’m sorry. I just thought it was worth a try.’
He pulled his own raincoat out and handed it to Eliza to slip over her hiking jacket. She slid her pack off, her heart beating fast from the remembered terror. She turned her back and let him help her into the raincoat. She looked into the bush, the heavy raindrops setting the leaves dancing. ‘We’ll come back another time. I’ll try harder. I promise.’
‘That’s all we can ask,’ murmured Darren. Thunder crackled in the distance. He looked towards where it had boomed, raising his free hand to test the wind. ‘Alright, people, time to get off this mountain. And in the meantime, I’ll call Detective Badenhorst and let him know what you’ve remembered.’
CHAPTER 18
CON
Con and Gabriella sat in a café off the main street of Limestone Creek, next to a bay window. The sun was shining, the street outside was wet with rain and slushy snow, and people walked around in T-shirts. Con supposed these locals were used to the changing weather. Or perhaps the drama was exciting enough to get them out of their houses.
Con and Gabriella had been discussing the phone call from Constable Darren.
‘Someone else was up there. We knew that from the head wound. The question is, who?’ said Con.
‘Maybe we just need to wait until Eliza remembers more?’ said Gabriella.
‘I hate waiting,’ said Con. ‘And this diary is less than useless.’
Spread across the table, between their coffees and Gabriella’s second bowl of nachos, were the photocopied pages of Georgia Lenah’s diary.
‘Don’t be petty. What were we expecting? That she’d write out the name of her killer?’ Gabriella picked up another page.
‘It’s not even a diary,’ said Con. ‘It’s just a notebook of ideas for her bloody museum.’
‘The museum was her life,’ said
Gabriella.
Con put aside another sheet, which showed plans for an art gallery for Tasmanian artists. ‘Was this really going to happen? Did they have funding?’
‘Not all of it, but it was under way. When I talked to the mayor, she said that Georgia had supporters all around Tasmania and even on the mainland.’
‘Well, that’s impressive I suppose,’ said Con.
‘The thing is, here in Limestone Creek . . . Well, it’s a bit of a sore spot, these mountains, right? Kooparoona Niara– Mountain of Spirits. This whole area was significant, but the local industries don’t want to remind people of that. Georgia had to deal with opposition from the timber industry and the mining industry – both have interests in this area, and both of them have very smart businesspeople who recognise that a museum about the area’s Aboriginal history could lead to bad news for them.’
‘Was this a big enough threat that they would kill her?’
‘Out here in the middle of nowhere, who knows?’ said Gabriella. ‘But here, look at this one.’ She slid a page across to Con.
Con scanned the page. ‘I’ve read it.’
‘Well then read it again. Properly.’
Con picked up the page and read aloud: ‘I found some more of the surviving descendants of the local mobs today. They live down in Hobart now, but they had stories about Kooparoona Niara. They do have some mythology about these mountains, but nothing like what Madison was blabbing on about, soul traps and whatever, the stupid bitch. Love her though.’
He looked up at Gabriella. ‘I hate how teenagers talk.’
‘Soul traps,’ she said. ‘Like portals, Con. You know what happens around portals? The Oz effect.’
Con read the rest of the page, ignoring her. ‘This is interesting.’ He read aloud: ‘Madison is obsessed with these stories. Like, actual obsessed: I’ve never seen her this excited. She wants to interview these people for a video, but they don’t want to, and I’m not going to put her in contact with them. She asked if I’d talk about it. When I told her I’d need to research it more, she said it’d be alright if I made a bit of it up. I refuse to be part of a video where she makes up fantasies about our stories. So of course, she went ahead and filmed a video where she made them up herself. She thinks she can get through by bluffing, but she doesn’t know a thing about our culture, she just wants to warp it so she can get more views . . . but her videos are getting me attention and exposure for the museum, so I think I have to put up with a bit of it. Hopefully no one in the community hates me for it.’
Con opened his laptop, bringing up a new browser tab and heading to Madison’s YouTube account. It didn’t take him long to find a recent video that looked promising: ‘DID I JUST FIND SPIRIT PORTALS IN THE MOUNTAINS?!!’
He played the video, turning the screen so Gabriella could see.
It was up in the Tiers, on the edge of a rocky cliff, the Tasmanian mountains rolling into the distance. Snow gums clung to the precipice. The camera panned around to Madison and Cierra, standing by three motorbikes. Madison in perfect make-up – green lipstick this time – and Cierra wearing a pink wig.
‘Hi guys,’ said Madison. ‘Today we’re exploring a very special place up in the Great Western Tiers, that we were told about by our very own Georgia, who as some of you would know is the driving force behind the Kooparoona Niara Aboriginal Heritage Museum. Today, however, we’re joined by the Babe of the Year, Jasmine.’
The camera spun around so Jasmine could wave – she was the one filming – and then it returned to Madison and Cierra as they walked to the edge of a cliff. It was a spectacular view. Jasmine showed the escarpment of the cliff itself: rugged ridges of rocks and eucalypts that stretched towards mountains in the distance, and then the camera panned up to show a beautiful sky, pastel blue and streaked with hazy clouds.
‘Tell us what we’ve learned, Madison,’ said Cierra.
‘Well, this cliffside is said to hold one of the gateways to the spirit world. Like a portal. Young men and women used to come here to test their courage, and try to speak to their ancestors on the other side.’
‘How?’ said Cierra. Jasmine pointed the camera over the edge again.
‘Well, apparently there were several ways: one was to hang over the edge of the cliff by your hands – a test of strength. But it was said that one young man who did this disappeared, and then when he returned some time later, he thought it was the same day: he’d fallen through time.’
‘No way!’ squealed Cierra.
‘There were other ways. Other rituals. It depended on what the spirits said, what time you were here.’
‘The spirits spoke to them? And it was this cliff only?’
‘No, but this cliff was special . . .’
The twins continued to speak, Madison chatting about the other portals, about the stories that the local people could tell, followed by the inevitable link back to the Hungry Man disappearances.
‘This is fascinating,’ said Gabriella.
‘It’s completely made up, Gabby,’ said Con. ‘None of those stories are real.’
‘Don’t call me Gabby, Cornelius.’
But then there was a hard cut in the video. It was night time, and Cierra and Madison were alone. Madison wore a fluffy white beanie and white lipstick, and Cierra a white curly wig.
‘We’re here, back at what we’re calling Sacred Cliff,’ said Madison. ‘We’re camping up here tonight. We’re going to try and commune with the spirits . . .’
Gabriella leaned forward with a melodramatic gasp. The girls sat in their tent and squealed at noises, telling ghost stories and legends of people encountering spirits in the mountains. Suddenly there was a strange light outside of the tent, the girls screamed, and the camera went dark.
Con snorted. ‘Notice how Cierra wasn’t in the shot when the light hit the side of the tent?’
‘Shhhh,’ said Gabriella.
Now the video moved to Madison and Cierra, lying in sleeping bags. Daylight streamed in through the open tent flap.
‘Guys, we saw something up here last night,’ said Madison, face pale, cheeks drawn. Her make-up was smudged. ‘We think that the spirits actually spoke to us – we think we have a way to reach the spirit world . . . but we aren’t allowed to talk about it yet.’
‘Don’t sound so dramatic,’ said Cierra, nudging Madison in the side, her voice shaking. ‘We don’t even know if it was the spirits.’
‘It’s just a coincidence that we both had the same dream?’ said Madison, pushing her back.
‘This is crazy . . .’ said Cierra. Her fear, if feigned, was perfect.
‘We need to think about how to share it, and who to share it with.’ Madison eyed the camera. ‘We better go. See you soon.’
Con paused it just before the end. ‘Look there, there’s something written on the outside of the sleeping bag. In white lipstick.’
‘The word is kundela,’ read Gabriella. ‘What’s that mean?’
A quick Google search returned their answer. ‘In Australian Aboriginal culture, it’s a bone used to curse people,’ said Con.
There was silence.
‘This is the best case we’ve ever had,’ whispered Gabriella.
Con closed the laptop. ‘Enough of that bullshit. Let’s go see her.’
CHAPTER 19
ELIZA
It was five o’clock in the evening. Eliza and Tom sat on the couch, both watching the video on their phones. Sarge was on the other side of Eliza, sandwiching her between the hulking dog and the hulking man, the smell of dog and Tom’s sweat mixed with his David Beckham cologne heavy in her nose.
She kept trying to think about anything other than her memories.
How close was I to . . .?
The video they were watching had been posted by a public Facebook page called ‘Justice for the Limestone Four’. It had been shared by thousands.
The video was a splice of the Facebook Live video of Kevin Mason confronting Murphy outside his house, including Murp
hy’s damning confession – ‘We don’t sell weed to minors’ – followed by new footage of Murphy leaving the police station, punching a journalist, and being set upon by a mob. The end of the video displayed Murphy’s home address and a photo of his house.
‘I always thought Murphy was sketchy,’ Tom muttered.
‘Don’t,’ said Eliza. ‘Don’t you dare.’ She scrolled through the comments. ‘This is horrible . . .’
I have to tell someone, she thought, still shaky from the trip to the mountains. Before this gets even further out of hand . . .
‘Madison has posted her own video in response,’ said Tom. Eliza watched on his screen:
‘I know Jasmine’s dad, Mr Murphy, and I can promise you, he would never have taken the girls. Yes, I know that was my dad in the first video, making accusations against him, but he’s wrong: Mr Murphy is not that kind of man. He would not have done this! Please stop accusing an innocent man. For the sake of my friend – whose name we can’t say anymore – for the sake of her memory, we can’t waste time chasing the wrong people. If you want to confront Murphy, then come confront me first. My address is 23 Wirrawee Way, Limestone Creek.’
‘She just put her own address up on her video? Is she insane?’ said Tom.
The front door opened: Monica was back from visiting Wren at Tom’s mother’s house. She was in tears again, her make-up smudged, her hair in disarray.
While Monica came and kissed Tom, Eliza left the lounge room, heading into her bedroom, arguing with herself. Jack and Jasmine. It was time for her tell the police.
Did she have a right to? Was it truly even her decision?
She took a post-it note from her desk and quickly scribbled on it.
I give permission for Eliza Ellis to do what’s right.
Signed, E. Ellis
So that was that.
Con Badenhorst had left her his business card. He picked up on the fourth ring.
‘Detective? It’s Eliza Ellis.’
‘Everything alright?’
‘Yes . . . I mean, no. Not really. There’s something I should’ve told you. But you have to promise me, no one can know it was me who told you.’
