Dancing Home

by Paul Collis

  He went back to thinking of his grandmother, and the old woman in the shop, then what he wanted to do to McWilliams. He kicked his shoe deep into the soft soil in anger. He was kicking McWilliams to pieces. Memories of athletic carnivals, cricket games, of whistles and puffs of blue smoke as the starter’s gun exploded, came rushing back as his eyes closed.

  ‘No more silly games, copper!’ he promised.

  He felt his skin sticky from dancing, and felt himself full of warrior spirit.

  Rips walked over to him, slowly. Rips had his head down, seemingly not knowing how to look at Blackie now that Blackie was painted in mud and dancing up war. Rips held out his hand and offered Blackie a rag from the back seat. Blackie took it and slopped it with water from a puddle on the ground, then wiped himself clean. Rips turned and walked away a little farther down the fence line, giving Blackie his space.

  Meanwhile, Carlos watched the men slyly from inside the car. He chose what he thought was the best time to pinch a bit more while the black men did whatever it was that they were doing out there. He reached, without looking, and found the small satchel beneath the ice.

  Carlos kept his eyes trained on his two companions; he smiled, as if there were nothing going on. His eyes searched for the slightest movement of shoulder, head, hip or leg that would indicate one of the boys was onto him. His heart thumped hard in his chest. Adrenaline surged through his body. His black hair stuck to his forehead. He felt dizzy. Sweat rolled down his forehead onto his nose.

  ‘So far … So fucken good!’ he whispered.

  His nimble fingers prised open the satchel now in his lap. He pulled a little penknife from his shirt pocket and scraped a fair chunk from the decreasing stash. He swallowed the stuff immediately then dropped the knife back into his pocket in one fluid action.

  He didn’t mind the taste of the Force. No, Carlos loved it! Especially stolen fruit. He silently snapped the packet back together and quietly replaced it deep inside the esky … way down beneath the melting ice.

  ‘Toooo easy, man!’ he whispered, grinning a thief’s smile. ‘Who’s stupid now, you fucks?’

  He reckoned he’d look less suspicious if he was out of the car when the blackfullas returned. So he snatched a beer, and by the time Blackie and Rips returned he was leaning casually on the bonnet, swigging grog, as innocent as a choir boy, feeling cool as a cucumber on steroids.

  Blackie was way too lost in his own thoughts to see Carlos doing his stealing, and Rips was way too ashamed about watching Blackie’s dancing to see either, and so Carlos got away with the theft. He heard Blackie say:

  ‘Fuck ’em. Fuck reconciliation.’

  A tree that Blackie stood near heard him swearing, but the tree decided not to say anything. It just stood there doing tree things – swaying, holding soil together, that kind of stuff. Keeping secret things secret.

  Blackie continued to curse the world and himself.

  ‘Fuck everything. And, FUCK ME TOO!’ he swore at himself. ‘Fuck me,’ he repeated.

  Blackie smoked a cigarette and looked at the dark sky. He knew they’d have to make a move if they were going to get to Dubbo before sundown. In Dubbo, he wanted one last big night out before the showdown with McWilliams. He watched the big clouds, dark, purple and grey:

  She walks in beauty, like the night

  of cloudless climes and starry skies …

  He dedicated ‘The Highwayman’ to the sky above, too:

  The wind was a torrent of darkness

  among the gusty trees.

  The moon was a ghostly galleon

  tossed upon cloudy seas.

  The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

  And the highwayman came riding –

  Riding – riding –

  Listening from a few feet away, Rips piped up and said, ‘Wot you talkin bout, Black?’

  ‘Bout shit, bruz,’ Blackie replied, smiling, not realising he’d been heard.

  Rips laughed loud and slapped Blackie on the back. Blackie laughed too. Blackie’s dark mood was lightened by the slap, causing both men to relax a little. They clinked their beer cans together in a celebration of their blackness.

  Blackie quietly wondered what the original Wiradjuri people who owned that country, back before the arrival of the whitefullas, might have thought when they first saw the white ghosts in men’s clothes. ‘Terra nullius, man!’ he yelled at the bush. ‘Terror-shit!’ he cried at the sky.

  Rips laughed at Blackie’s cry. It was more of a nervous laugh, recognising the moment, and joining in with Blackie.

  ‘Ya right there, big fulla. Bet, what can we do? Deys call me a career crim, and you – you jest another wild blackfulla with chips on ya shoulder. Who’s gonna fucken listen to us cunts?’

  Blackie looked at Rips, smiled. And, then spat and threw his half-emptied beer can as hard as he could, and yelled, ‘Fucken dogs!’

  ‘Gee, dey must be fucken rich, those farmer pricks, hey Black? How much ya reckon all dass worth?’ Rips asked. Rips swallowed a full mouthful of beer, burped loud, and shook his head in amazement.

  ‘Dunno. More than me and you’ll ever see in our lifetime, brother. That’s for sure. Come on, let’s git movin. Look at this up ’ere,’ Blackie continued, pointing to the sky.

  ‘I’m with you, big fulla,’ Rips said. ‘Come on Carlos, fuck ya. Less roll … Reb it up little boy. Let’s ride!’ Rips yelled.

  Blackie heard the sound of thunder ringing across the mid-western sky. He looked at Rips and looked at the sky, saying, ‘The drums of war are beatin, bruz, the drums of war. Watch yourself up ’ere, mate. Those cops are dogs! An, an, there’s lota give-ups in Dubbo, bro.’

  ‘Yeah, I know there are bud. Never liked that ’ole,’ Rips replied.

  ‘Me neither,’ Blackie agreed.

  The first soft drops of rain splashed the windscreen as they drove away again towards Dubbo.

  Chapter 5

  Down the Road

  ‘Fuck, star … star … start’n feel crook, Black,’ Rips complained, beginning to feel the ill effects of stale breath and an empty stomach.

  ‘Well, that will hardly do, will it, ya fat bastard!’ Blackie said, already searching for the speed. He found the drugs and offered it to Rips. ‘Want some a dis?’ he asked.

  Overcome with joyous greed, ‘Oh fuck! Yeah, man,’ Rips replied.

  He clapped his hands and leant forward to rest his arms on the back of Blackie’s seat.

  ‘Who ya git that off, Black?’ Rips asked for future reference.

  ‘Big Tamper owed. Gimme a eight-ball,’ Blackie answered.

  ‘How come?’ Rips inquired.

  ‘I looked after his nephew at Silverwater,’ Blackie answered quietly.

  Blackie cut himself another slash from the speed, and offered the bag to Rips, who took a heap of it, and washed it down with his last swig of beer. He smiled a satisfied smile and passed the bag back to Blackie, knowing that soon he’d be flying high, flying away in a fast car. As raindrops hit the windscreen, streaking away to the bottom of the sill, Blackie wondered if his end was nigh. Carlos drove faster than before, as he was getting excited to be getting nearer to Dubbo and to rock’n’roll. Blackie told him to slow down.

  ‘If you kill me Carlos,’ he warned, ‘Rips … You’ll bust him if anything happen to me, ay bud?’

  Rips loved taking the piss outa Carlos.

  ‘Fucken oath I will, brother! Better wake up to yourself, Carlos!’ the big man joked.

  Carlos slowed the car a bit and trying to sound like the dude in Cheech and Chong’s Up in Smoke said, ‘What? Don’t say you guys are afraid of a leedle speed, are you man?’

  They drove through Wellington without any dramas. Blackie breathed a sigh of relief when they hit the Dubbo side of the town.

  ‘Play this one for me, Rips?
’

  Effortlessly Rips hit the C chord on his old guitar. Blackie was peaking, and broke into a song that he made up with Rips when they were in the can.

  Um broke

  I got no dough

  Yeah I’m broke

  Right down to my old broken toe

  When ya got no money

  Ya got no honey

  And nowhere ta go

  Uh, Oh. Uh Oh. Uh, Oh

  Big Rips improvised a little riff that suited the bluesy nature of the song perfectly. Blackie continued:

  One and one is two. And two and two is four

  I’m sittin at the table

  But you’re walkin out the floor

  Yeah, I’m broke

  Got no dough

  When ya got no money

  Ya got no honey

  And nowhere to go

  Rips slipped then into a darker mood. He began singing Zac Martin’s ‘Backroads’, alone.

  PART II

  Chapter 6

  Dubbo, Dirty Old Town

  Gradually, the rain eased. Blackie heard five bells ring out from a distant church. Turning into the Dubbo cemetery, the sound of the bells echoed all around. By the looks of the dirt road, now red mud, the rain had been falling for hours. The car slipped and slid all the way, right up to the end of the row which Blackie pointed out.

  ‘Home,’ he declared.

  Carlos looked at him, ‘This dump?’

  Blackie smirked, ‘Yeah man. Love this place. Love every inch of it.’

  Carlos shook his head, ‘Whose country is this?’

  ‘Wiradjuri. Dis all Wiradjuri land ’ere, man. Always was … Always will be, too!’ Blackie answered.

  Looking away, Blackie noticed another car, way over the other side of the cemetery. But Blackie didn’t look long enough to recognise that the car was stuck in mud.

  Inside that vehicle was a young woman, distraught and scared. In the baby seat slept her young baby, blowing little milky bubbles, unaffected by his mother’s dilemma.

  Carlos needed to take a piss, really bad. He jumped from the car as soon as he brought the V8 to a standstill.

  Blackie was caught by surprise and disgusted when he realised.

  ‘Hey! What ya think ya doin man? You fuck off and go over there to the fucken toilet and do that! My grandmother’s buried here!’

  Blackie flew out of the car. He moved towards Carlos with such speed that Carlos slipped over. Blackie threw his can of beer at Carlos. The can missed Carlos by inches and Carlos scurried out of Blackie’s reach.

  ‘Sa … Sa … Sorry brother! Don’ hit me, bra. I didn’t know, bra …’ Carlos cried.

  Blackie couldn’t reach the Spaniard to punch him, so he continued to hurl abuse across the cemetery.

  ‘Fucken kill you, you bastard!’ Blackie yelled.

  Blackie watched Carlos race across the wet ground, slipping and falling in his haste to escape a bashing.

  ‘Ya dirty bastard Carlos!’ Blackie screamed.

  ‘He, he, he’s fucken mad, that bastard!’ Carlos cursed to himself.

  In the back seat of the car, Rips pretended not to see what had happened. But he was struggling to hold back his laughter watching the fleeing Carlos.

  ‘Fucken idiots!’ he whispered, pretending to cough uncontrollably. His eyes filled with tears of joy, and he shook his head when Blackie turned to him.

  ‘See that, Rips? No fucken respect, that little bastard! Fucken kill ’im when he comes back. Don’t they know anything bout sacred sites? Silly bastards?’

  Big Rips tried to look concerned for his mate, and, sensing that Blackie already was beginning to cool down from the blow-up, said, ‘Yeaaah! … Dey silly right, brother. Don’t worry bout it, man. He, he don’t know any better, mate. Don’t hit ’im … we might need ’im later.’

  Rips knew how to calm Blackie down. Blackie’s rage would always quickly evaporate, and in a short while, he wouldn’t be bothered with talking about Carlos anymore. He settled back on the front seat of the car, wanting another line of speed. Rips could see that Blackie was flying high. He reckoned that if he played the understanding and best-mate guy, Blackie would soften, and probably share more of the speed.

  ‘He’s fucken lucky you’re ’ere brother!’

  Rips quickly jumped on the opportunity. ‘Big Rips the man for dem silly fullas, bra. Leave ’im to me. You got important business ’ere! You gotta talk to old Aunt out there, ’steada being fucked round with a silly cunt like ’im.’

  Blackie agreed that Rips was correct on the matter and decided to take more speed.

  ‘Fuck the world, man,’ he said as he fished in the bottom of the esky for the drugs.

  Rips nodded and continued strumming the guitar.

  Hungry for more drugs also, Rips asked, ‘Where’s dat gas, bra?’

  Blackie brought the small satchel out from its icy place and held it up for Rips to see.

  ‘’Ere big fulla. Ab some a dis!’ he offered.

  Blackie had his knife out. His hands were shaking too much to cut an equal amount for both. But he eventually had what looked to be three or four points, and offered them to Rips.

  Big Rips nearly swallowed the whole blade as his mouth enveloped the steel to suck the speed clean from it in one gulp. He sucked the blade a second, and then a third time, just to make sure he got every last speck that was there. He swallowed and winced at the taste of the drug then polished off the half a can of beer to wash it down. Rips burped, shook his head and watched as Blackie swallowed what looked to be twice the amount.

  Blackie went through his routine again, ‘Aww, that’s fucked man. Fuck, I hate the taste of that shit.’

  He tightly secured the satchel, but this time wrapped it snugly in a dirty handkerchief he fished from his jeans pocket, and then placed it deep inside his shirt pocket.

  ‘Ay, ta, ta tanks, my little bra!’ the grateful Rips said.

  ‘No worries son. Rips, I gotta go out ’ere brother. Wanna talk to me nan. Jump in the front, bud, and play this one and turn it up loud man! Her favourite it was,’ Blackie handed Rips an old country CD that his nan had given him years ago for his birthday. He looked so deep into Rips’ eyes that the big fulla got the message that he wanted to be left alone whilst he spoke to his grandmother’s spirit.

  Rips understood that Blackie was wasted and nodded an acknowledgement. ‘I’ll fucken keep that bastard ’ere with me, when he comes back, bra. Hey, he’s been gorn for a while, Black. Don’t tink he fucked off, do ya?’ Rips said.

  ‘Hope not,’ Blackie said softly.

  Thinking about Carlos, Blackie became pissed off again.

  He got out of the car and moved towards the unkempt grave of his grandmother.

  A sorrowful wind had crept up from across the flat plain and wrapped itself around Blackie. Filled with speed and grog and emptiness he stared at the grave and felt the soft coolness of the wind on his face. Standing crooked like his old mate Crusoe stood bent, out of shape, in his raggedy clothes looking like a scrubby hobo, his face wet from tears.

  ‘G’day Nan,’ he breathed.

  He quieted himself, closing his eyes and imagining her standing in front of him. Everything else around him faded in the dark. He couldn’t hear the wind or the music or anything. He stood in a clouded space in an afterworld place. Slowly her ghost appeared. He smiled, and she smiled, and they spoke to each other from another place – a silent place, in silence together. ‘My boy, my boy, my beautiful black boy,’ he heard her say. Tiredness had him unsteady on his feet.

  ‘Aww, Nan!’ he murmured.

  He carefully sat on the grave next to his grandmother’s, straightening himself before he spoke with her ghost again, about the business of McWilliams. He asked her for permission to go to war. But he knew that she would never support that.
He saw her smiling, shaking her head, warning him. He sat back and leant on the headstone, taking in evening for ten long minutes. Smoking as he sat, he began to worry. He stood up and walked back to the car.

  Deftly strumming the guitar, Rips was surprised when he looked up to see Blackie appear at the door.

  ‘Waa … waa … whatcha finished, brother?’ Rips blurted out.

  Blackie knew that his returning to the car had spooked Rips from the way Rips scrunched his knees up and pushed himself hard into the seat.

  ‘Naa. Not yet. Need a charge. Pass us one,’ Blackie asked softly.

  Blackie’s eyes were peeled. He looked across the cemetery towards the car he’d seen on the way in. He was looking for that Carlos.

  ‘Where’s that idiot?’ Blackie asked as he took the beer from Rips’ hand. ‘Keep an eye out for him, man. I want that bastard to drive.’

  ‘No worries, man,’ Rips said.

  Blackie spun on his heels, and without speaking again, headed back to the grave. In the fading light he struggled to see his grandmother’s name on the cross. He scrubbed it with a spitty thumb but still couldn’t make out the letters.

  The wind blew up stronger as he stood and sipped his beer, peering into space. The wind blew him around, tossing his untidiness from side to side. It pushed him forwards and pulled him backwards. But mostly, it pushed him towards the west. He thought about old stories told to him by old people …

  ‘The wind is the message carrier. Be still. Be quiet. You’ll hear.’

  He tossed his beer far away, off into the spare paddock. He straightened up. Standing as tall as his legs would hold him, he closed his eyes and tried to open his imagination up to the wild wind. McWilliams’ name came. He knew he’d meet him soon. The message was there, plain and clear. It came to him on the wind.

  In the toilet block on the other side of the cemetery, Carlos washed his hands and then his face.

  He looked closely, smiled and admired his thin face. He ran wet fingers through his thick, black hair, flicking a few loose strands so as to make them look casual and unintended, uncombed – kind of natural-looking. With the Force surging through his body, he felt so alive, so excited. He gave a low wolf whistle, winked at his reflection, then turned on the balls of his feet and walked out of the toilet block.