Liar Bird

by Lisa Walker

  A dirt track headed off to the left. Stopping my car at the junction, I cursed the composer of the stupid directions. I’d have something to say to — picking up the printout, I flicked my eyes down to the signature block of the email — Mac, when I saw him.

  It was a dirt track, but was it the dirt track? Why hadn’t they tied a balloon to a post or something? That would have been the friendly thing to do. Weren’t people supposed to be friendly in the country?

  Gritting my teeth, I turned up the track and was immediately swallowed by darkness. Dense forest enclosed the road, blocking out the last of the daylight. My car bumped and bottomed out a couple of times as I edged forward. It was like that scene in Rocky Horror where Brad and Janet get lost. Any minute now I should come across the Frankenfurter castle … Eventually a cottage appeared in my headlights.

  Hallelujah.

  There were no lights on. Maybe this was Frog Hollow. How would I know?

  Chickens clucked as I climbed out of the car. A wire chicken pen stood beside the house and a hammock hung on the verandah — signs of habitation. So maybe this wasn’t Frog Hollow, but I could ask for directions anyway.

  I walked towards the house — sneaked was a better description. It was so quiet, and I was miles from anywhere. I wasn’t used to being surrounded by so many trees. More and more it felt like the opening scene in a horror movie.

  And then I noticed the arm hanging down from the hammock.

  It looked lifeless.

  I stopped, gnawing my fingernails, something I hadn’t done for years. Surely, if that person was alive, they would have heard me drive up? The arm was suntanned, muscular, with a tattoo of a wolf on the shoulder. No, not a wolf, a tiger. It had stripes — a funny-looking tiger. The tattooist must have been drunk.

  I tiptoed towards the hammock. Pausing a short distance away, I peered over the edge. A man lay inside it. He wore only a loose pair of khaki shorts. A camera was tucked in beside his waist. He was also, as I had suspected, dead. No-one sleeps that soundly. Not at six thirty in the evening. I held my breath, chewed my lip, inspected the body, wondered what the usual protocol was in this situation.

  Behind me the chickens clucked in an agitated way. Why were they doing that? I was suddenly deeply freaked out. Was there someone out there? Behind me? My heart beat double-time as I swung around. I needed to get out of here — report the body.

  Then I heard a sound from the hammock — a moan.

  I turned.

  The man’s eyes opened.

  I screamed.

  ‘What the fuck?’ He sat up.

  I screamed again.

  He rubbed his eyes. ‘Who are you? Can you stop screaming?’

  I stopped screaming. How embarrassing. ‘Sorry. I’m lost. Do you know where Frog Hollow is?’

  The man was slow to answer, like he was having trouble waking up. There was something odd about him, even if he was alive. Maybe he was a drug addict. Probably. Definitely. There was a lot of that around on the North Coast, I’d heard. The heavy stuff too, heroin, ice … Not just coke, like the Sydney PR crowd. I took a step backwards.

  He gazed at my face intently, but still didn’t say anything. I noticed he was sort of cute-looking — for a heroin addict.

  ‘Over there,’ he said eventually, pointing.

  I followed his finger. Another bush track headed off the one I’d driven in on. I’d missed it in the dark. ‘Okay, thanks. Sorry to bother you.’ I backtracked to the car, noting the lack of any polite response on his part. No trouble, pleased to help, welcome to the country …

  I glanced in the rear-vision mirror as I drove off. The arm was hanging over the edge of the hammock again. Great, I’ve got a drug addict for a neighbour.

  I found Frog Hollow at the end of the rutted laneway. It was a tiny weatherboard cottage badly in need of a paint job and about as welcoming as a Sydney airport cabbie. After a few deep breaths I summoned the courage to go in. The key was under the front doormat, as they’d said in the email. As I opened the door a dank, unused smell almost bowled me over.

  My mobile rang; it was Ant. His voice was crackly — the mountains weren’t helping reception. ‘Hiya … Okay? Did you … CD?’

  Assuming a fake cheeriness, I walked down the lino-clad corridor. I didn’t want to worry him or he’d be on the next plane up here. ‘Yeah thanks, darl, great CD, loved it. It’s a pretty little cottage they’ve given me.’ I reeled back at the sight of the kitchen — peeling lino benches, no dishwasher, tworing gas oven, cobwebs over the windows. ‘Very … rustic. Nice garden.’ That was a total lie; there was no garden, just bush right up to the house. I was busting for a pee. ‘Gotta go, snooks.’

  I suddenly missed him. If Ant were here, he would whisk me away to a five-star hotel as soon as he saw this place. ‘Love you.’ I didn’t say that very often, but right now I felt like I did love him, or if not him, our life together. I definitely loved that. Six months at most, maybe five.

  ‘Love … poochy,’ said Ant, as I opened the toilet door, ‘… you biiig time.’

  I folded my phone shut, lifted the lid of the toilet and, for the third time in ten minutes, screamed. Looking up at me from the toilet bowl were two black eyes. The owner of the eyes — a green frog the size of my hand — was doing slow laps around the bowl. My house was not only froggy by name, but by nature.

  ‘Crawk.’

  Yes, it was you, my little listener, soul mate and muse — our very first meeting. Not an auspicious start to our relationship at all. And things did get worse before they got better, didn’t they?

  I slammed the toilet lid shut, then hesitated. What if it wanted to get out? I lifted it again, went outside and peed on the grass. A weird cough-like bark sounded nearby as I stood up. A brown shape the size of a chicken scuttled through the bushes. God only knew what animals were out there. The forest rustled around me — all the way to Queensland and beyond. It was primitive and untamed — the opposite of the Garden of Eden. All that forest, and only a freaky drug addict and me to call it home. It was a scary thought.

  I sniffed the air. It smelt of dirt and rot and bark. I’d never smelt anything like it before. I sniffed again, searching for an odour I associated with the outdoors I knew — grass clippings, flowers, dog poo … Any of these would have done. But nothing about the smell of this air was familiar.

  I ran inside, but it was no better in there. The tiny house was scant protection against such a vast outdoors. There were scuffles and creaks all around me — like the out was coming in.

  A single bed with rusty springs graced the bedroom, but no sheets or blankets. I hadn’t thought of that — for some reason I’d imagined motel-style living. Stupid, really. Making a nest out of my extra-large beach towel and pashmina shawl, I crawled inside.

  My handbag was on the floor next to the bed. I lifted it up by its strap and scrabbled around inside. For a terrible moment I thought I’d forgotten it, but no, there it was, under the phone, tampons, water bottle, lipstick, business cards, hairbrush, deodorant, notebook, pen, headache tablets and peppermints: my lavender. Thank goodness. Opening the lid, I sprinkled a few drops on the towel that was my pillow. This was a habit I’d picked up from Mum in her aromatherapy phase. Men find it irresistible, Cassandra. Just look at Cleopatra. Julius Caesar and Mark Antony wouldn’t have been nearly as much in love with her without the lavender.

  It’s a pity Mum didn’t discover lavender before Dad left. You never know, it could have made all the difference. Anyway, I don’t know if lavender makes me irresistible, but it does help me sleep.

  I pulled out Alice for some bedtime wisdom. ‘Who are you?’ said the Caterpillar.

  That’s what I love about Alice — the philosophy. All right, I admit it: you can take the girl out of Descartes, but you can’t take Descartes out of the girl. The question was one worthy of René himself. Who was I? Was it really me, here in this hideous house? I certainly didn’t feel like the Cassandra I knew anymore.

  But who
was the Cassandra I knew — the shy kid, the punk teenager, the rebellious uni student or the glam PR exec? I thought I knew, but now I wasn’t so sure. Was there another version of me out there somewhere? Could I pretend to be someone else and see what happened? There was something tempting about that idea.

  I curled up under my shawl, listened to the alien sounds of the bush and wondered how I’d ended up here, miles from my natural habitat. Headphones in my ears to block out the noises, I finally fell asleep to someone singing about a bus to Bondi.

  Some hours later I woke up with a start — sweating. It was the dream, the one I’d had every night since it happened — a large and menacing long-footed potoroo lurked outside my window. It opened its mouth in a sinister smile, showing long, sharp teeth. Where to now, Cassandra? it said.

  Part Two

  so many out-of-the-way things had happened lately, that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible

  Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

  Chapter Five

  Of pigs and men …

  The Beechville Wildlife Office was empty when I got there on Monday, ready for work. I was jaded and ratty after a night full of wildlife dreams and noises, but I put on my best PR face as I climbed the stairs.

  Standing at the front counter, I tinkled the little bell. I’d dressed down for my first day on the job — a simple black suit. I couldn’t resist wearing my Jimmy Choo backless sandals but I was pretty sure no-one here would notice.

  Eventually a figure in ranger uniform appeared. As he got closer I realised I knew him. What a surprise — it was the man from the hammock, my strange neighbour. He still looked exhausted. His hair was sticking up from his head like he hadn’t had time to comb it, and a two-day growth blackened his chin. It must be tough holding down a job when you’re a drug addict. He frowned as he saw me.

  It wasn’t the reception I was used to but I smiled brightly — you work with what you’ve got. ‘Hello, you must be the lone ranger. I’m Cassandra. I’m starting work here today. We met last night. We’re neighbours, I guess.’

  He was taciturn to the point of grumpy. ‘I’m Mac,’ he grunted.

  Author of the dodgy directions, no less. Given his mood, I decided to let it pass.

  ‘They’ve left some reading for you,’ he said.

  He definitely wasn’t bad-looking. In a Raiders of the Lost Ark kind of way — square-jawed, broad shoulders in crumpled khaki, curly dark hair, bright blue, if slightly bloodshot, eyes. The uniform did it for me, I must say — sexy as. The waves of irritation that radiated off him weren’t as much of a turn-on, though. I’m sensitive to that sort of thing.

  I followed him across the office. It was small, just a few workstations. The only signs of habitation were the wildlife posters that covered every wall. ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘Been an outbreak of plant hoppers.’

  I nodded sagely. Judging by his tone this was not a good thing. ‘That’s a bugger.’

  Mac eyed me strangely. ‘Yeah, it is. There’s only three of us anyway.’ He paused. ‘Four now. That’s your desk.’

  ‘Okay, thanks. I’ll get straight onto it.’ My desk had not escaped the plague of wildlife posters. Shiny eyes and pointy beaks surrounded me as I sat down. Threatened birds of the North Coast, read the title on one poster. Threatening, would have been more to the point.

  Another poster was adorned with frogs. I recognised my toilet bowl companion — it was a green tree frog. Why wasn’t it in a tree then?

  A note lay next to my computer. It was from Sam — the female Steve Irwin — my new boss, and it looked like it had been written while driving a car with one hand. Hi Cassie. I mentally snorted. Cassandra. Sorry I couldn’t be here to settle you in. The main thing to do is organise the Feral Pig Awareness Morning. I’ve left some detailed notes on the file. See you later, Sam. Her name trailed off the edge of the paper as if she’d run off while finishing it.

  Feral Pig Awareness Morning. It sounded kind of new-agey. I imagined incense burning, pigs in kaftans sipping green tea. Breathe deeply and raise your awareness, piggies. What next? Discover your inner sow? Rebirth as a piglet? It was the North Coast, after all, even if a decidedly un-funky pocket. A giggle exploded through my nose. Mac looked up.

  ‘Feral Pig Awareness Morning,’ I spluttered. ‘Is this for real?’

  Mac frowned. ‘S’pose so. They’re a bit of a problem.’ He turned back to the maps he was shuffling on his desk.

  I bit my lip. Okay. Feral Pig Awareness Morning here we come. It wasn’t what I was used to, but you can cope with anything for a few months, right?

  I flicked through the files on my desk. There was some background on feral pigs and suggested speakers. Sam was obviously something of a control freak. She had listed all the contact details on an Excel spreadsheet. Paper-clipped to the back was a flowchart showing the project management stages for the event. I ignored that. Event management was my forte. Flowchart, shmowchart. Taking a deep breath, I attempted to banish all amusement; this was my job now.

  Working the phones diligently for the rest of the morning, I lined up the program. I was pleasantly surprised by how helpful people were and how easy to contact. It was like they were sitting by the phone waiting for my call. There was none of that phone tag game you play in Sydney. There, it’s almost embarrassing if people can get you on the first call. It implies you’re not busy, which is like admitting you’re a failure. People here seemed fine with admitting they had nothing better planned than attending a feral pig morning. They also seemed fine with chatting on for at least ten minutes in order to ascertain my life history and tell me theirs.

  Mac glanced over in my direction with a frown every now and then. Maybe the office was usually quieter than this. There wasn’t much I could do about that. Building relationships was part of my job. A few people came into the office and he got up to deal with them.

  It was a slow morning, but I did learn a lot about pigs. You never know when that sort of thing will come in handy as a conversation starter. I imagined myself at a cocktail party: Did you know that in dry conditions groups of up to a hundred pigs will gather around waterholes, dahling? Maybe not.

  Mac stood up at twelve o’clock. ‘Keep an eye on the front desk while I’m at lunch, will you?’

  He’d barely left when the bell tinkled on the front counter. I rose, with some trepidation. I’d heard Mac dealing with phone calls and counter inquiries and I wasn’t sure if I was up to it. I hadn’t realised how annoying wildlife was.

  One didn’t really have to think about wildlife in Sydney at all. I know some Americans think kangaroos bound down our main streets, but it isn’t true. I do remember watching a remake of Skippy the Bush Kangaroo in my teens. There wasn’t much on television that escaped my family. That was the extent of my wildlife experience, apart from the odd chip-stealing seagull in Manly.

  Here in Beechville an army of surly wildlife was hell-bent on harassing its innocent citizens. From the bits I’d heard, queries had ranged from angry people who’d:

  (a) been swooped by a magpie,

  (b) had their gardens ruined by bandicoots,

  (c) had their sleep disturbed by possums or,

  (d) had rabbits in their backyard they wanted Mac to catch.

  Mac had dealt with each of these inquiries with incredible politeness. More politeness than he’d shown me, I had to say. A muttered, ‘Dickhead,’ as he put the phone down on the rabbit call was the only sign they were getting to him.

  So, I approached the counter with caution, not sure what I was going to find. Maybe someone with:

  (a) a snake wrapped around them,

  (b) a bat tangled in their hair, or

  (c) a dingo gnawing at their ankles?

  The woman at the counter seemed harmless enough. She was middle-aged, short-haired and wore a T-shirt and track pants. A shoebox was clutched in her hands.

  She looked at me suspiciously. ‘Where’s the ranger?�
��

  ‘He’s out to lunch. Can I help?’

  She pushed the shoebox towards me. ‘Found this swimming in my pool.’

  I took the box warily. It was light and something scuttled around inside.

  ‘I think it’s a Hastings River mouse. You put a brochure out about it.’

  I nodded, not wanting to admit my ignorance. ‘I’ll get the ranger to have a look when he gets in.’

  The woman scribbled her name and phone number on the box. ‘Let me know what it is.’

  I placed the box under my desk and promptly forgot about it in the excitement of getting ready for the feral pig morning. It was scheduled, I now realised, for Thursday. Better get cracking. I looked at my list of things to do. I’d already done almost all of them. On second thoughts I’d better slow down if I didn’t want to run out of work. Perhaps life in the country required a more measured approach to task management.

  Several hours later, in the midst of the mid-afternoon torpor, something ran over my Jimmy Choo sandal. I jumped up, shrieking. A small, furry creature scuttled across the floor and under a filing cabinet.

  Mac leapt to his feet. ‘What was that? It looked like a Hastings River mouse. Where’d it come from?’

  He was quick off the mark — mouse identification in a flash. Pretty impressive. I pulled the box out from under my table. A small hole had been gnawed in the side. ‘Oops.’ I explained about the woman who’d come in while he was at lunch.

  Mac stalked over and snatched the box off me. Her contact details were written on the outside. ‘Shit, Christine Bowles. We’re in for it now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s the most bloody-minded woman in Beechville. She’s a local councillor with a hotline to the Beechville Star. She hates us because she reckons we don’t do enough weed control and … now you’ve lost her Hastings River mouse.’ He was about as happy as a bride with no seating plan.