Liar Bird

by Lisa Walker

  Beechville was basically one street — a pub, motel, petrol station, school, general store, council chambers, farming supplies shop, skatepark and … wildlife office — sleepy as. Perfect. It was the type of town you could hide out in forever. I straightened my skirt as I got out of the car. Without the air-conditioning it was warm and humid. A light breeze lifted my hair.

  Over at the petrol station a round-bellied farmer type leaned on the back of his ute, watching me as he filled his car. I waved — I figured I’d better start making friends if I was planning on moving in. His nod was so subtle I’d have missed it if I blinked. As I turned away, a woman joined him.

  I felt a tingling sensation between my shoulder blades. I always know when people are staring at my back. Maybe they didn’t get a lot of passing traffic. Why would you come to a crappy place like this unless you had to?

  The wildlife office was a Queenslander-style weatherboard building. Only one thing spoiled its folksy charm — the graffiti on the picket fence outside. You don’t expect that in the country. I paused, deciphering the scrawl. LOVA, read the black curling letters — it was a gang, I supposed. Or maybe one bored, sunburnt farm kid in baggy jeans and a backwards-facing cap who liked to imagine himself on the bad streets of New York. My brother had been like that as a teenager. He’d retired his spray can since, but otherwise not much had changed.

  Opening the gate, I climbed the creaking stairs to the office. A freckle-faced man — Rodney, his name badge said — showed me through. He seemed startled to see me for some reason.

  ‘Oh, you’re here for the interview?’ He sounded like it was the last thing he would have expected. His eyes flicked over me in a frightened way.

  I nodded slowly, not wanting to make any sudden movements. I suspected Beechville was the kind of place where people were easily startled.

  I totally blitzed the interview, of course. Talk about a laugh — they got me to do a mock news release for a fox-baiting program. I mean who’d run a story like that?

  I tried to sex it up, toying with headlines like The Crimes Foxes Commit and Innocent Victims of a Fox’s Greed. Eventually I settled for Secrets of Better Fox Killing. Anything secret has to be good, right?

  My interviewer — think Steve Irwin in drag — was a dauntingly capable woman, fortyish, brusque. She would have done well in the army. Sam Patton, District Manager, read the words on her shiny badge. A pager on her khaki hip went off several times during the interview. Each time she glanced at it quickly before continuing. She radiated a kind of suppressed energy, like a racehorse at the starting gate. I had no doubt she could have jumped up and run a marathon. Sitting down was clearly not her preferred posture.

  I did ask why she needed a public relations consultant.

  She seemed surprised that I would doubt it. ‘It’s not only this office you’ll be responsible for, it’s the whole region. We’ve got offices all over the place. It’s extremely busy.’ The muscles in her legs tensed, like she was dying to start hosing down all that busyness right now.

  I nodded. Privately, I thought she and I had a different understanding of the word ‘busy’. No-one who’d organised an A-list pirate-themed launch on a pontoon in Sydney Harbour could ever find a place like Beechville busy.

  It was obvious she’d never heard of the astroturf scandal. It’s funny, you feel like you’re the centre of the universe in Sydney, but up here in the sticks that kind of news didn’t rate. I’d flicked through the local paper while I was waiting for my interview. The price of stock — the four-legged kind — and roadworks had featured prominently. I didn’t suppose the Herald even made it to Beechville.

  The front-page story was about a feral pig the size of a pony holding a woman hostage in her house. Apparently every time she tried to go out, it charged the door. Eventually the Rural Fire Brigade had rescued her. Scary stuff. Who knew life in the country was so dangerous?

  I’d put Wazza down as my referee. He’d been delighted. The last thing he wanted was me hanging around casting my shadow on him.

  Sam pumped my hand as I stood up after the interview and almost crushed it. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

  By the time she released me I was ready to cry for mercy. I winced as I straightened my fingers. I knew I’d got the job.

  On the way out I saw the admin guy, Rodney, absorbed in some computer work. A mischievous impulse seized me. ‘Byee,’ I called loudly as I passed his desk.

  He looked up, gasped, turned pale and stuttered, ‘B-b …’

  I couldn’t wait for him to finish, so I waggled my fingers and walked out.

  The footpath back to my car crossed over a bridge. Stopping, I leaned over. The creek below was clear and golden brown; something splashed in the shallows. For a moment I had a strange urge to take my shoes off and paddle. I glanced at my phone — three o’clock.

  Who was it who said three o’clock was always the wrong time for anything? That’s right: Jean-Paul Sartre. Ah, the French philosophers, I hadn’t thought about them for a while … Jean-Paul Sartre, Blaise Pascal and, my favourite, René Descartes … Those guys had loomed pretty large in my life at one stage.

  I looked down at the creek again; I could almost feel the water between my toes. But no, in this case three o’clock was too late. The car lights flashed as I pressed the button on my key. If I was quick I’d have time for a whiskey at the airport before my flight.

  By the time I landed in Sydney there was a message on my phone. They wanted me to start as soon as possible. That suited me just fine.

  Back home, Ant took it harder than I expected. He wanted to come with me, which was cute, but I told him to sit tight. ‘There’ll be nothing for you there, Ant. These people don’t go to hairdressers. You’ll be better off here. You can visit, and I’ll be back in six months. You can still stay in the apartment while I’m gone.’ It was only fair, seeing as he’d given up his studio in Darlinghurst to move in with me only nine months ago.

  I don’t think he believed I was really going to Beechville. He probably thought it was all a front for a secret affair. Even when I was throwing my bags in the back of the Ferrari on Sunday he was still trying to talk me out of it. ‘Where are you going to live? Have you thought of that? There mightn’t be any suitable accommodation.’

  ‘I’m living in one of the ranger houses.’ I glanced at a printout of the email they’d sent me. ‘Frog Hollow.’

  Ant screwed up his nose. ‘You don’t even like frogs, Cassie.’

  ‘Cassandra. And I may like frogs. I don’t know yet.’

  Ant ran his hands through his blond-streaked hair. ‘You won’t be able to stand it up there, Cassandra. They won’t have heard of skinny latte, and I bet their Thai restaurant won’t be authentic.’

  ‘There is no Thai restaurant, Ant.’

  That shut him up. I think he was embarrassed for me.

  There was one thing that couldn’t be avoided before I left town.

  Mum had been leaving increasingly frantic messages on my phone since the scandal had erupted.

  ‘Cassie, what have you done? All my friends are talking about it. Is it a mistake? It must be a mistake. Call me back.’

  ‘Cassie? I haven’t heard from you — how do you attract these events into your life? You didn’t used to be like this. Call me back.’

  ‘Cassie? When are you going to call? You need to work out what you want from life. You know you only need to ask and the universe will provide. Call me back.’

  This last message hinted at a new obsession. Like me, my mother believes there are guiding forces at play in our lives. Unlike me, she isn’t satisfied with allowing a children’s book to channel these forces for her.

  Twirling the car keys in my hand, I dialled her number. My brother Brian answered the phone and for a glorious moment I thought Mum might be out.

  ‘Cass? You are so in the shit. You’ve upset Mum. Mum, it’s Cassie,’ Brian called, dashing my hopes.

  ‘Like you never upset her.’ I can’t speak t
o my family without sounding like a fifteen-year-old. The funny part is, I never used to sound like that when I actually was fifteen.

  At that age I was Blacktown’s sole gothic-punk French philosopher — I think, therefore I am — and so on. Yes, René Descartes and I were very close in those days.

  I dressed in black, head to toe; black lipstick, beret and nail polish too. A copy of Descartes’s Passions of the Soul was usually tucked under my arm and, like all teenagers, I was serene in the knowledge of my superiority to all those around me.

  Why Descartes? It was mutiny, I suppose — a desire to cut myself free from the suburb I inhabited. Dinner might have been sausages in front of Neighbours, but the Paris Left Bank beckoned. I am not one of them, I thought, as I jostled with pimply boys and peroxide-haired girls on the train. I pictured myself strolling along the Seine discussing philosophy and love. Oh to be in love in Paris. Oh to be in love with René Descartes. What a shame he had the face of a walrus.

  A demand to clean your room, Cassie would be likely to bring a retort of what is this bourgeois tidiness thing, Mother? I’d regressed in some ways over the years since, I suppose, but I wasn’t sorry to have ditched the Cartesian philosophy. I mean, who cares if everything is self-evident? It’s all such a downer.

  ‘That is totally beside the point, young lady.’ Mum had snatched the phone off my brother.

  By now I wasn’t sure which point it was beside, but it didn’t really matter. The horse races were on the radio in the background, so I knew I only had fifty percent of her attention. That was plenty for the half-baked script we were following.

  I sighed and delivered my next line. ‘I’m not fifteen anymore, you know.’ I’m not sure that even Home and Away would get away with dialogue like this. Somehow, my family does, though.

  ‘Exactly my point. Come on, Daylight Dancer.’

  It’s hard competing with a four-legged animal for your mother’s attention. No wonder I avoided ringing home.

  ‘I’m very upset, Cassie. Did you hear who won that one?’ she said to Brian.

  I ground my teeth.

  ‘Cassie?’ Mum sniffed.

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘Is it true what they say in the papers?’

  I paused. I couldn’t argue that the facts were true — it was the interpretation that was wrong. Just because I’d done those things, it didn’t make me public enemy number one.

  ‘Cassie. Answer my question.’

  ‘Yes, Mum, but …’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any excuses, Cassie. If it’s true, then you need to ask for forgiveness.’

  I tapped the toe of my boot on the ground; mothers can be so infuriating. ‘Who’s going to forgive me, Mum? Buddha? Shiva? Allah? Or have you moved on — Apollo, maybe, or Ra?’ My mother is devout, but not in a monogamous way. I guess it shows an independent spirit.

  ‘That is totally uncalled for, Cassie. There is no harm in leaving yourself open to the truth in whatever form it manifests itself.’

  ‘No, Mum.’ As in most dealings with my family, after frustration comes guilt. ‘So, what is the truth?’ I bit my tongue to stop myself adding ‘today’.

  ‘Well, I’m very into the Egyptians, as it happens, but I’ve also been reading this fantastic book.’

  ‘A book?’ This was something new. Most of Mum’s information came from television.

  ‘Yes, I saw a program on the telly, then I bought the book. You probably won’t have heard of it.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘It’s called The Secret. Because it’s all about this secret that’s been suppressed for centuries. People in power have tried to keep it hidden. Some of the greatest minds in history were teachers of —’

  ‘I’ve heard of The Secret, Mum.’

  ‘Have you really?’ Her voice was breathless. ‘That’s not coincidence you know, Cassie.’

  ‘Yes, Mum. Anyway, I’m going away for a while so I won’t be able to come to the barbecue on Sunday.’

  ‘Oh, Cassie … I’ve already bought your favourite sausages.’

  ‘Don’t tell me she’s not coming to the barbecue.’ Brian’s voice carried from the background. ‘Typical. Got a better offer, has she? Oh, come on, Golden Dream. Tell her the one about the interrupting cow, Mum.’

  ‘Tell her yourself,’ said Mum.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’ Funnily enough, I was sorry. I hated the weekend barbecue at Blacktown, but now that I was leaving I viewed it through a soft-focus lens of nostalgia. Brian and his crappy jokes, Mum and her pineapple salad, Gladiators on the box afterwards … Who knew when I’d get back there? ‘I won’t be gone for long.’

  But Mum had already moved on. ‘Rhonda, who’s the author of The Secret, says you need to focus on your goal and you will get what you want. It’s the Law of Attraction. I found a fantastic statuette at Kmart yesterday. I went in there thinking, I’m going to find a nice inspirational statue for the garden, and there it was.’

  ‘What sort of statue?’

  ‘It’s a frog. I’ve got it on the bench here, right now. It’s Heqet, the Egyptian frog goddess of resurrection, which is not the type of thing you usually find in Kmart at all. Well, they didn’t say it was Heqet in the shop, but it’s quite obvious. She’s the daughter of Ra. You should try this Secret thing, Cassie.’

  ‘Maybe I will, Mum. Soon as I figure out what I want.’ My mind wandered. This Rhonda Byrne was making squillions from The Secret. My Alice in Wonderland Theory of the Universe couldn’t be any more stupid. Was I missing out on a big marketing opportunity here? The secret they tried to hide … the secret of … Alice. It had possibilities.

  ‘I’ll stick the sausages in the freezer and we’ll have them when you get back.’

  ‘That’ll be great. Thanks, Mum. Bye.’

  I placed the phone down carefully and picked up my handbag — time to go.

  So that is how I was ejected from the Garden of Eden. Is it any wonder there was no love lost between wildlife and me?

  Chapter Four

  Who are you?

  I can’t say leaving Sydney didn’t hit me hard. It was my town and I loved it. Sadly, it no longer loved me back.

  It’s not like I’d never been anywhere else. I zipped up to Noosa or Byron once a year, and down to Melbourne every now and then for the clothes and music. I’d done the tax-deductible PR conferences in Europe, America and Japan. But every time I flew back into Sydney it was a homecoming.

  I hadn’t always felt that way — not when I was growing up in Blacktown. What shy, gothic, René Descartes-reading teenager does? I’m not sure there even were any other teenagers who shared my interests. If there were, I never met them. It was lonely out there in the west. When people talk about their school days I generally go quiet. There’s not a lot I want to remember, really.

  But the new and improved Cassandra fit Sin City like a cork in a champagne bottle. Only someone had shaken the bottle and out I’d popped — bang — onto the dreaded Pacific Highway heading north.

  I was uncomfortable, like I’d been in the bath and someone had pulled the plug. It wasn’t life threatening, but … I was definitely losing buoyancy. The Country. The Country and me. The idea was outlandish. I felt like I might be about to fall right through the centre of the earth, like Alice, and come out where people walked upside down.

  Ant — that sneaky bastard — had given me a special compilation CD. He’d slipped it in my hand as he kissed me goodbye and I’d tossed it onto the passenger seat.

  I pushed it into the CD player at Hornsby and almost did a U-ie as ‘Darlinghurst Nights’ started. After that came ‘From St Kilda to Kings Cross’, ‘Miracle (in Marrickville)’, ‘King Street’, ‘Khe Sanh’, ‘Sydney from a 727’…

  He surprised me sometimes, Ant. Just when I thought I’d got him figured out, he pulled a stunt like this. He wasn’t relying on his own attractions to bring me back; he’d got the whole city on his team.

  I dialled our number on my car phone as I drove ov
er the Hawkesbury River. I was officially out of Sydney now. It was lucky he wasn’t home or I might have said something I’d regret later. As it was I contented myself with, ‘Hey, big boy — nice move on the CD. Be good.’

  Six months, I told myself again. Six months max.

  I was still singing along to ‘King Street’ as I drove into Beechville. After ten hours on the road I was ready to put my feet up. Whatever form of comfort was on offer in this godforsaken town, I wanted it, and I wanted it now.

  Beechville looked like it had been struck by the Black Death — not a soul in sight. I’d thought it was quiet when I came up for the interview, but it had been like Pitt Street rush hour compared to the way it was now. Only a couple of cars outside the pub suggested any sort of life — but not as we know it, Jim. I drove through without stopping. A grassy paddock with roaming cows fringed the town and then — all signs of human presence ceased.

  Amazing.

  I was used to a city that never ended. You could spend all day driving in Sydney and never leave it. Here it was in and out, just like that. In. Out. It suddenly hit me: there was more bush than town, more out than in. It sounds obvious, but it was a revelation — a disturbing one.

  They’d told me ‘Frog Hollow’ was on the left, ten minutes out of town, on the way to the border. I pulled over to the side of the road after ten minutes and got out of the car, sliding into my sandals. It was almost dark. The sun had already sunk behind the mountains. A black shape loomed out of the sky and flapped past me, almost brushing my face. Ew, a bat. I jumped, squeaked and climbed back in the car.

  Look for a dirt track, the email had said. This direction had seemed okay at the time, but out here in the middle of nowhere it now revealed itself as ludicrously vague. Turning on the headlights, I drove slowly, looking for turnoffs. There were no friendly cottages or beaming farmers to give directions — nothing except bush right up to the edge of the road.

  The corridor of trees reminded me of a program I’d watched on lost tribes of the Amazon. This was the kind of forest you could hide a group of cannibal pygmies in without anyone ever knowing. I heard drumbeats, then realised my CD was still playing softly. I turned it off, my ears scanning for threatening sounds.