by John Muir
**********
POSSUM NIGHT
There was not much it would seem we had in common. If I was a Libran I might say on the other hand there was a lot we did have in common.
We were all in our mid to late 20's, all married less than five years, all with one or more children and all were old boys of the same high school.
Our occupations varied. Vince, a musical instrument salesman in his father's business; William, or Willy as we called him, an accident insurance salesman; Bob, a prison officer and part time electrician; and myself a late start university student.
In our late teens our common interest was as members of a band playing cover versions of 'pop' music. Spotlights had played down on us many times. The marriage trap and young children meant the intended fame and greater spotlights of the big stage disappeared inside dirty napkins.
In recent years it was rare for all four of us to get together. However one late Autumn I suggested a possum hunt at an abandoned property my parents had once owned many years previously. The other three eagerly agreed.
About an hour after sunset our two vehicle convoy drove past the new subdivision that now occupied what was once grazing area for sheep and cattle on the outskirts of the city. Tonight scattered cloud frequently hid the last half of the old moon’s light causing it to fade in and out.
Bob and Vince in Bob's work utility had followed Willy and me in my car.
A kilometre past the last of the new houses I stopped at the ivy overgrown and almost hidden entry of what had been a long wide driveway. Once flanked by a well trimmed hedge, now uncut for years, it was now so narrow the sides would scrape my car's paintwork.
Without much persuasion, and after instructions of where to drive and park, Bob’s wider work utility led the way. His wide front bull-bars would break much of the uncut hedge and give me a softer path. The two sturdy roll-bars bristled in spotlights, some of which beamed hundreds of metres.
Leading down the long drive, Bob parked where I had told him. Then, to my annoyance, gave the full rein of his eight fixed and hand-controlled lights power against the solid wall of forest. It gave as much glare as any of the stages on which we had performed. The forest wall appeared as daylight in front of us.
It annoyed me because it would disturb any possums on this near side of the forest perimeter. They would be very aware of our presence.
Willy and I got out of the car. Just as I was locking my door a crackling sound emanated from near the front bumper of Bob's vehicle.
A megaphone burst out, "Come on out with your hands up or we're coming in shootin' to get you."
"Shit Vince. Shove it will you. You've already sent everything into hiding."
"Sorry mein Kapitan. I just thought the possums might give up and save the trouble of looking for them," he replied.
Bob, Willy and Vince all burst out laughing.
We unloaded the boot of my car of three .22 rifles, four long barrelled torches, two long bladed hunting knives in sheaths, water-proof footwear, light rain-wear and loads of imagination and expectation. Thankfully they complied with my no alcohol ban.
"Must've been some place in its heyday," said Willy as he looked around.
"It was. This place," I pointed to the right, "was the house the casual workers lived in." I could see all the visible windows onto the veranda were smashed. Wild ivy covered most of the roof, sides of the house and over the veranda. The forest was close enough to start claiming one side of the house in its grip.
We had parked on a large U-shaped concrete court yard nearly surrounded by 20 now dilapidated horse stalls to our left. Hidden behind them were 12 more with their own courtyard.
"Looks like a hayloft," Willy went on, pointing at the construction above the roof level on one side of the U.
"It was." I noticed the old pulley and the arm was still there, but the steps up were broken. "Always used to be possums up there."
We both looked at the crumbling stairs up the side of the building to the loft entry; then looked at each other.
Willy nodded in the negative. "After you Milord."
I gave him a quick two-finger gesture.
In the brightened show of the forest I could see there was a lot of moisture on the leaves and branches. Forecasted strong wind gusts would create some tree noise as branches repositioned and dropped their load of moisture.
There was no breeze at the moment. Sound would carry a long way under the canopy.
"I'll show you what's left of the main house when we go through the path. Now, that was a house."
I looked at the concrete horse trough at forest end of the U-shaped stables. It was still drawing water from the deep bore. Excess water still overflowed the side making the start of a free running creek into the forest. Water cress almost hid the creek before it entered the forest.
I shone my torch into the trough. The water was still crystal clear to the bottom. The trough had a thick coating of dark green algae growth on its inner side. A lot of moss grew on the outside. I put my hand in. It was much colder than I remembered.
I put my wet fingers to my tongue. The strong iron taste was still present. Years before everyone used to drink litres of it. It somehow quickly quenched the most outrageous thirsts. I felt guilty that I did not trust my instinct and take a good swallow. Suspicious of too many years that had passed that might have affected the algae and made the water toxic.
Bob switched off the power beams and moved off to join Vince was flashing his torch into the long disused horse boxes obviously in the hope he might get an early prize.
Willy was shining his torch through the accessible windows of the house. “A grubby old mattress in here with a couple of blankets and some empty spaghetti tins,” he said.
“Probably squatters at some stage,” I replied.
Bob was cradling his own bolt-action Remington with an eight-round magazine. I gave Vince my pump-action Browning with the under-barrel 12 round tube-load magazine, and my Gevarm semi-automatic to Willy. The Gevarm had a 15 round magazine and with a rapid pull on the trigger could loose off all 15 rounds in about eight seconds.
I had done lots of shooting in my teens and thought that I would let the city boys have an opportunity.
Safety-first had been drilled into me during my childhood use of firearms, so I repeated my instructions on the safety-catch on each weapon. I insisted they were not to cock the weapon until after they had gone through the safety procedures, even if there was a target in sight. Then, after checking nobody was standing in front of them, they could cock the weapon and apply the safety catch. Holding the torch under the barrel, they should highlight the target with the torch beam and advise they were about to fire, and only then release the safety catch.
“We’re comin’ in shootin’,” yelled Vince.
“Shove it Vince,” we all three replied.
As I would be leading them through the forest, the thought of negligent discharges flying past my ears went through my mind. I went through the safety procedures again. All agreed.
“Possums tend to freeze in the glare of torchlight, so there’s no need to let fly as soon as you see one. The eyes glow reddish so try and hit between them to avoid damaging the new winter pelt.” I knew such hoped for accuracy was a forlorn hope but it might slow the rate of fire down if they were concentrating on their aim.
"If we see a deer, the same procedure applies. If you see a pig, quickly say 'pig, pig', keep one eye on the pig and with the spare eye look for a tree to climb."
The three looked at each other unsure whether I was joking.
"If the pig charges don't worry about your rifle, drop it and take to the tree. The sows’ will give you one hell of a bite if they get hold of you, and won't let go. The boars will simply rip you to pieces."
“If we see a deer, especially a stag with full antlers, again up the nearest tree if he charges. Those antlers will kill you.” I could not remember if it was rutting season or not but I knew the thought would kee
p them more alert.They presumed I was not joking, but I was exaggerating simply to build up a sense of adventure and tension. Nobody had ever seen a pig or deer in the area when I was growing up.
“Feral cats behave differently again, even individual differences.”
"What?" said Willy, "you want us to kill cats?"
"Too bloody right. They'll kill any of the native life. Probably none left in here already. Maybe a few fantails or a skink or two."
"All right with me then."
"Some cats freeze in the beam and then slink off. You'll see their bright green luminous eyes even without the direct light of the torch, different shape from the possums. You'll see anyway."
I presumed Bob had a bit of shooting experience. I told him to follow me as number two. At least I would have his body between me and the other two. I told him to shine his torch only to my left around to 90 degrees off the trail, running his beam slowly from around the base of the tree up into the major branches.
I got Willy to follow next except he was to cover the right side of the trail.
Vince was shirty about being number four and not getting to 'crack off a shot'.
"Vince, if and when the possums hear us, they’ll move around behind the tree away from any light source. That means they avoid getting caught in the beam. You cover both sides of the track that we’ve passed. Pick up what we’ve missed on the side or back of the tree. A better chance than anyone else."
"O.K." He did not sound too convinced, but that was how I wanted the line up.
"Jump, Vince."
"What?" he said.
"Jump high, I want to find out if I can hear you."
Vince did a pitiful imitation of ballet jumps around the courtyard. Holding a rifle while doing it was masterly in itself, but images of a dying swan shot by inexperienced hunters sprang into my mind.
"You've done ballet with the Chinese People's Republican Army boot and ballet company haven't you Vince?" said Willy.
"Up your's too," he replied.
“They wouldn’t have him, he’s not only ugly but he’s still got the timing of a full bladder,” said Bob.
“You've got rattling keys hanging from your belt. Wrap them in your handkerchief, knot it and stick them in your back pocket," I said.
Willy and Bob followed suit. Willy changed the position of a loose hanging metal drink bottle from a belt hook into the back pocket of his jeans.
“Gawd, you’re still a pedantic prick,” said Vince.
"Whatever. We're ready for hunting bear," I said. “Keep about four to five yards apart. If you spot something, just freeze and give two soft clicks of the tongue."
I demonstrated the sound I wanted and they all mimicked it satisfactorily.
"How much bush here?" asked Bob.
"Used to be around four or five hectares of native forest and maybe just over a hectare or two of mixed regrowth around that."
"Can we get lost in here?" asked Vince.
"You could wander around a bit at night. Easy to walk in circles. In the daylight you'd find your way out easy. Too small. It’s pretty much in a square, only a couple of hundred metres or so across."
"I suppose you reckon you wouldn't get lost at night."
"Not a chance." I realised I was boasting, but it felt good being back here. "I grew up playing in this bush every day from five years old until I was ten. The undergrowth might have changed but the main trees'll still be there. I reckon I'll still be able to find my old tree huts, what's left of them."
"Lead on great white hunter," said Bob.
I headed for what to them seemed like a solid wall of forest. Ivy concealed the entry to the former path between the two houses. Pushing it aside I entered into the wonderful dark world of the mixed forest.
Immediately to my torch-lit front was the still existing but much overgrown gravel path to the remains of the main house.
When the others had stepped inside I ran my beam as far as it would extend along the path.
I spoke quietly. "Try and remember what this path looks like, just in case you get separated. You can just follow it out, one way or the other. This end of the creek from the trough follows the path for a while."
"We'll wait until we hear the frogs start before we move off. Then lift your feet high and put them down slowly."
Memory had served me correct. There was a tangle of supplejack and some thick bamboo by the entry. I cut myself a one and a half metre staff of bamboo to push aside cobwebs or check out areas which looked strange. There was always the possibility of possum trappers having left the old style spring-jaw gin-traps in the area. Even the newer ones would be dangerous.
I switched off my torch. The others followed suit.
"Just listen to the sounds of the forest for a while," I spoke just above a whisper. "Listen to the branches shifting, the leaf fall. Don’t add to that noise."
A full five minutes had passed before the first few frogs started up their croaking. A minute later they had all joined in. There did not seem to be as much noise as I remembered from my childhood. Maybe fungal diseases or ozone depleting weather changes had reduced the frog numbers.
A small degree of night vision, whatever was allowed in the already darkened forest, had started to return. As soon as we turned on the torches we would lose it again. I made out the images of the other three waiting patiently and could hear Vince’s slightly asthmatic breathing. Shortly after, I switched on my torch, and started off slowly. The other torches came on quickly and all torch-beams began to light up their designated areas.
To me the procession sounded like elephants on parade. Items of clothing were rubbing against each other, too late to fix that now, foot placement was poor. I stopped, shone the torch at my feet and slowly demonstrated how I wanted them to walk.
I followed the path for about thirty metres and felt satisfied when I saw that the tiny creek from the bore still joined the path at the same place I had remembered. Some fresh water plant-life hid the stream in many places except where a small pool had formed. The frogs in the immediate area stopped croaking as we passed, but I was satisfied our progress was quieter.
I raised my hand to signal stop. Like a Marx Brothers comedy act, Bob, then Willy, then Vince each walked into the back of the one in front. I was thankful no weapons were cocked. Safety catches are notoriously easily switched off, which makes for too many negligent discharges and accidents.
I noticed two boot-prints on the softer creek edge. When the others looked at me I immediately pointed to the canopy making an unspoken suggestion that they should check the canopy. While they played the canopy I crouched to examine the boot-prints. Lack of recent experience meant I could not tell how recently they were made, though they looked fresh with water still filling the indentations.
I did not want to tell the others what I had seen as I had not got permission for our little hunt from whoever the current owners were. Beside that it might be yesterday's, or older, prints from an opossum trapper. He would give us a tongue lashing if we were discovered here without permission.
We soon moved on and I spotted three more boot-prints. Same boots, so only one person. I still kept it to myself, but reiterated the need for silence to the other three by pointing to their feet and putting my fingers to my lips.
I received various sarcastic salutes in response. My misgivings were growing.
The creek soon moved left, away from the path. The knee-high low green undergrowth off the path thinned accordingly. We continued a further fifty metres along the path and emerged outside the canopy.
High grey clouds now completely covered the night sky blocking out the light of the half moon. Torchlight was our only visibility.
I played the torch over the foundations of what was the original main house. Only months after we had sold the property an unexplained fire had destroyed everything above the concrete block foundations.
"Bloody big house," someone muttered.
My mind was in the past. I remembered t
he way it was. Now it seemed so much smaller.
"C'mon," said Willy, who had read my thoughts, "we're hunting, not reminiscing."
"O.K. Let's go," I said. "The old orchards might yield something. It’s getting near the wrong time of year. The fruit on the ground used to bloat the possums, but the buggers still climbed the trees to get the best."
"Apples, plums, nectarines. Others I've forgotten."
I realised I was rambling, but the lack of any sight of possums or cats was worrying. The lack of moonlight was usually good for possums. Maybe there was a recent run by trappers, but the absence of feral cats? Maybe being sold as cat furs. 'A damn good thing,' I thought. It would explain the boot-prints too. The others followed me through the orchard without comment. The old fruit trees were now indistinguishable from the bush regrowth.
Even the old chicken run was overgrown. I did not explain what it once was, but I pointed out some small tunnel entry holes in the ground.
"We used to have weasels or stoats. Rats probably use these now." Even they looked deserted and unused.
Interest in the hunt was rapidly waning. Boredom through lack of any sighting had overtaken the others.
"Maybe at the 'cathedral'," I said, pre-empting questions about the lack of sightings.
Making our way back into the deeper forest, the torches played around in obvious frustration, jerking from one place to another.
We entered a wide expanse of floor area without ground growth, only leaf and branch litter on the floor.
"Here we are."
"What's this?" Vince said.
"The cathedral. Look up above you."
Looking up there were no tree branches to be seen, only a roof totally covered over with ivy. The walls were widely spaced native trees with low undergrowth starting at the edge and getting higher as it moved further into the rest of the forest.
"Feels weird. Why no ground growth here?" asked Bob.
"I've never thought about it. Dunno."
The area was about the size of a small house. Its ivy ceiling about four metres high.
"Anyone know which way they think is back to the cars?" I asked.
Bob and Vince pointed 180 degrees wrongly and Willy was about 90 degrees out. I felt smug as I pointed in the direction I well knew.
"Bullshit," said Bob.
"That's the way we're going back, straight through the middle."
The others shrugged in silence.
"Let's just sit for a while and listen for what might be out there." All the torches switched off.
We were too far away from the creek to hear the frogs. There was still no breeze to cause the branches to move. I was surprised by the lack of any noise; the silence was as if the place had died except for the creek frogs. We had only covered the fringe which took in as much regrowth as native bush.
The lack of any slight scratches through the moss at the base of any of the trunks seemed to indicate a lack of possums, even cats. With no signs of chewed fruit in the orchard it all seemed to indicate a huge reduction in animal life.
Maybe there would be sign cutting back through the native forest in the middle. I definitely did not want to accidentally walk into the patches of stinging nettles which I knew grew in two, or three different patches in the middle. My memory was good, but not perfect, and it was night-time without easily recalled memories of the warning signs. Mainly I doubted I would still be immune from the effects as I had been all those years ago.
The nasty thing about stinging nettles is that you would be in the middle of a patch of it before its affects started. Then you had to walk out of the patch inflicting even more pain on yourself. The after-effects meant days of scratching and applications of creams. Sometimes, thankfully rarely, allergic people were hospitalised.
Because of my thoughts drifting I had lost track of time. Our eyes had recovered a bit of night vision. I stood up and the others followed suit. I was about to move off when the sound of a solid branch breaking immediately followed by a thump snapped our minds to alertness.
“No torches,” I whispered.
The three rifles were being cocked as silently as they could. No-one applied the safety catches. I did not want to nag and tell them to put the safety catches on even knowing they should. There had been little enough excitement for them this night.
I tried to interpret the reason for the sound and its source. It could be a branch or thick dry twig breaking. It was nearby. But was it branch breaking from a tree and falling to the ground? Or was it something with a misguided footfall.
The sound seemed to be in the direction we would be going back to the vehicles. I could not guess how close to us it was, but it was not far away.
I noticed all three of them look around for a tree to climb if it was a pig. I grinned. In the 'cathedral' there were no tree trunks to climb, only the open ground on which we were standing.
We all waited.Another quieter crack concentrated our attention. The direction of the rifle barrels indicated we were all nervously looking in the same direction.
I grabbed Willy's torch off him for me to be ready to flash two strong beams in the direction. He jumped with fright when I touched him, then settled quickly again looking over the barrel.
Soft, careful, slow regular footfalls started to our front. 'Sheep or cow? Possibly but unlikely,' I thought, starting to doubt myself. I could not pass this thought on, any whisper would carry. Each footfall narrowed the field of fire.
Sadly I was realising that the power and impact of the .22's would only wound a cow, even a sheep. Only a miraculously lucky shot would kill. Hopefully, anything hit might be injured seriously enough so it could not run far. Then we might still find it, even in the night. If not, it would suffer a painful death, or worse, live partly crippled and in pain.
The guilt started to get at me. I should have brought the old Lee-Enfield .303. I hated using it because no matter how hard I pulled it into my shoulder, it still had the kick of a mule. And my shoulder was a long out-of-practise. Admiration for the veterans of both the 'Great Wars' grew every time I used it. I wondered how their shoulders coped using it day in and day out for months at a time.
Another branch cracked to our front. I do not know who fired first but immediately the other two opened up. I switched the beams in the direction of the shooting.
The rapid fire of the Gevarm semi-automatic soon emptied the magazine and the quick pump action of the Browning only took about five seconds longer. Bob stopped about two seconds later when he realised he was the only one still firing.
The other two torches then came on. No result to our front was immediately visible. Some sound of a heavy creature running away came from the bush.
We all looked at each other.
"Shit, it could be a bloody cow or a horse. Re-load," I said.
I handed out the spare boxes of ammunition and then realised I could do it much quicker than Vince or Willy.
Sub-consciously I grabbed the Browning first. It had always been my favourite rifle. I quickly slotted the rounds down the pull-out tube, slid the tube back cocked it and set the safety catch on. The Gevarm magazine slid out easily and that too was soon fully reloaded, reinserted, cocked and safety set in under 30 seconds. Bob too had reloaded, though only having fired six of his eight rounds.
"Let's go."
I did not feel happy about what had happened. It was not hunting the way I used to do it. Perhaps it was only their nervous excitement that caused the emptying of the rifles. Even Bob had got caught up in the frenzy.
"Look for any signs of blood on the low leaves. We probably didn't even hit anything. Keep the safety-catches on."
They followed me in the same order as before, but now much more alert and torches concentrating on the ground for the fallen creature. There was no organised torch sweep pattern as before. They shone the torches where they wanted or sensed that any injured animal or carcass would appear.
We had travelled about halfway through the knee-high undergrow
th of the native forest in the direction towards the cars. I recognised one of the taller trees.
"Hey, that's where I had my main tree-house."
I shone the torch up to the middle branches. There were still some planks high up that had been the floor, though the angles were now different as the branches growth had pushed them askew. The iron sheets of the roof were hanging precariously, ready to fall. If I had seen that earlier I would have guessed at that being the original crashing sound we heard. Rotting rope hung down like dead vines.
Moving the torch further down the trunk, I picked out some rotting wooden footholds nailed into the trunk that had survived the elements.
The others had continued to sweep their torches around at ground level, not interested in my thoughts.
"We have to go to the right of the tree to avoid these nettles." Thankfully I had remembered the where-a-bouts of one patch and concentrated my torch-beam on it.
“Looks harmless enough,” someone said.
“Try walking through it if you don’t believe me.”
Just as I was about to move on I noticed a small damp dark stain on one of the nettle leaves. I leaned in closer and bent down with the torch-beam directly on the mark. The light showed it was red and fresh.
“Shit, we definitely hit something.”
Certain my immunity from the nettles had gone after all these years I refrained from touching the nettles.
The others were mumbling and flashing their torches in various directions.
“What do ya reckon it was?” asked Vince.
“Gawd knows, at the pace it must’ve taken off it’ll be well gone. Could’ve been anything; a sheep, a lost cow or a horse. Let’s crack on in this direction where it seemed to be going and keep your eyes peeled for more drops.”
About 20 minutes later we crossed the creek again, thanks to a last second recognition, we avoided another patch of stinging nettle, and we were almost back to the vehicles without spotting any further blood marking.
I finally spotted a possum on the ground at the base of a big tree trunk about fifteen metres to our front. I switched off my torch.
"Listen," I said. "If you want to shoot a possum, one shot each. Aim for the head. They're bloody hard to kill. Even if it's been hit, it'll still cling to the tree with the last of its strength. Hitting it anywhere but the head or neck will ruin the pelt."
Murmurs of agreement came back.
I switched on my torch. It took a few seconds to spotlight the possum which had started up the tree, but froze at two metres when I shone the beam on it."
"O.K., one shot each."
I'd barely got the last word out when all three .22's opened up again. Pieces of wet bark and tree sprayed up around the possum. The Gevarm and Browning soon emptied their magazines and again Bob stopped with two rounds left in his Remington.
The possum still clung to the tree.
"Shit," I yelled at them. I wondered how many bullets had hit it. Unlike a human, it did not make a sound to reflect its pain. I could see small trails of blood trickling down the tree from under its stomach. There appeared to be no hits to the head.
I grabbed the Browning off Vince, slipped out the tube and began reloading. The possum tried to move higher in the tree, then slipped a few centimetres before recovering and made up for the height lost.
Bob fired his last two shots without affect.
I moved closer, to about five metres, pumped a round into the chamber and fired into its head. It hung briefly before losing its grip and fell to the ground.
The others were all chattering as they moved forward, stopping just as quickly as the possum began to stagger away.
I ran forward, put my thick boot hard into its back and pushed it into the ground to prevent it turning over and clawing or biting me. Then shot it once more in the head from a few centimetres away.
It finally stopped its struggle. The frustration and anger surged inside me as the others were rambling on about "hard to kill," "unbelievable," and so on.
Using the barrel, I rolled it over. Many shots had penetrated its dark grey back and had come out through the light grey front.
"Big game hunters eh? Look at the pelt. Ruined. Full of holes. Not even good enough for a home-made Davey Crocket hat."
Willy had been examining the claws by pushing on the leathery footpads with the barrel of his rifle. "Shit, look at the size of those." I was pleased that I could not spot a pouch; then I noticed the scrotum. It was male. I could not remember if they had a breeding season. If so it would have been spring not autumn.
"Anyone want to take home the trophy?"
I looked at each of them. Negative nods followed.
I inexplicably gently pushed the carcass close in to the base of the tree. Then thought of the possibly wounded sheep or cow or whatever we had hit; hurt and terrified standing frozen as a statue in some other part of the forest.
"Let’s get out of here." They followed me silently the last few metres before we broke out into the yard where the vehicles were parked.
I made sure all the rifles were unloaded before I put them in the boot. The others chatted about meeting up again, maybe for a few drinks. Or even a night with the guitars and drums to reminisce.
With everything packed away, Bob led the way out in his utility and I followed.
I hoped Willy had not mistaken my silence for rudeness as I drove him back to his place. As I dropped him off we said our subdued "goodnights," "see you soon," "give me a call," etc.
My wife wondered why I did not say much to her when I got home. It was not late, only a little after 10:30 p.m. She was already in her warm fleecy nightgown.
Thinking about the old homestead,” I said. “Nothing’s like it used to be."
"Well," she replied, presuming I was referring to the band members. "You're all older now, different interests and responsibilities."
"You're probably right." I left it at that.
I spent a long time in the shower washing everything from my hair to the soles of my feet. When I joined her in bed, I snuggled my back into her, pulled her arm over my waist and surprisingly fell asleep quickly.
It was mid-morning when the phone rang.
“Have you heard the news?” said Bob.
“What news?”
“About last night.”
“Us?”
“Maybe. Hell I hope not. The police arrested an escapee at our local public hospital. He’d got away from a top security prison in the far north a few weeks ago.”
“What’s that got to do with us?”
“They didn’t know he’d come south. He broke into a sporting goods shop, stole some serious weapons and robbed a couple of petrol stations all up north, then just disappeared.”
“Same question, so?”
“Apparently he’d been hiding in a deserted farmhouse near some horse boxes and some bush. The address they gave sounds like it was where we were.”
I stayed quiet, my thoughts racing.
"Wait 'til this arvo," he said. "The details will be in the paper. I think we’d better shut up about where we were and what we were doing."
“Yeah,” I replied weakly but was very curious.
"I'll ring the others and tell them," he went on.
The day was lecture free, so I studied at home without much success, my mind drifting easily. Local radio repeated the recapture story but gave no details. It was early afternoon when I walked to the local suburb and skimmed through the morning editions of the newspapers. No mention of an escapee.
The stationer noticed what I was doing. “About 45 minutes before the next delivery,” he said.
I spent a few minutes window-gazing the local shops to pass the time. The butcher thought I was strange spending so much time looking at various cuts of meat on a laminated carcass size cut-out of a crosscut sheep and another of a crosscut cattle beast. Each showed where the various cuts of meat were from.
I was back in the stationers when the paper delivery truck
arrived. Both afternoon papers reported the recapture of the dangerous escapee, both with the headlines on page one and a fuller report on page two. I bought both papers and walked home as quickly as I could.
Simon Keating had escaped from the maximum security prison after serving two years of a twelve year sentence for armed robbery of three banks, six service stations, eight counts of demanding money with menaces twelve counts of assault with grievous bodily harm, eight counts of car theft, five of home invasion, and seven of breaking and entry.
Police were surprised he was in the local area. He had reported to the out-patients wing of the hospital suffering from respiratory and joint swelling complications from a bad case of stinging nettles.
The treating doctor, a recent returnee from the Iraqi war, contacted police when he became suspicious of what appeared to him as a very recent bullet graze high on the cheekbone and following on through the ear. He felt more sure when examining the nettle stings on the legs and noticed a new and untreated small calibre entry and exit wound through the calf of the patient.
After his arrest, though initially denying he was the escapee, eventually he confessed, but wanted to know how police and the armed offenders’ squad had found out about his bush hide-a-way, a place where he had worked as a stable hand over 15 years previously.
He had been fired from his employment and so a couple of years later he returned and set fire to the main house. That explained a few things.
I tried to recall the name, Simon Keating, but could not. Though my father was dead I would ask my mother about it next time I spoke to her.
Keating said he heard the warning broadcast over the megaphone and retreated deeper into the bush to consider his situation. He had decided to surrender and was coming out of the bush when the armed offenders’ squad opened up with a fusillade of shooting.
I doubted that explanation, we had been at the furthest possible point from our entry when we opened up. He could not have known we had swept around the edge to the other side where the 'cathedral' was located.
He then decided not to surrender and ran back into the forest. It was only then that he had run through the stinging nettles and soon after began to suffer dizzy spells, and breathing problems as well as the excruciating pains of the itching.
After outpatient treatment for wounds and nettle rash he was returned to custody for further sentencing on his recent crimes and break-out. He had summonsed a lawyer who announced he would be seeking compensation against the armed offenders’ squad for unnecessary violence in trying to apprehend him when he was trying to surrender.
The police were mystified by his claim as there was no activity that night by any of the squads. The police psychologist, from his earlier sentencing, said Keating was a clinical case of a pathological liar, but still could not give an explanation of the recent wounds.
Although I would occasionally see the others by accident, and individually in the street, and interspersed with the occasional phone call, we never ever got together again as a foursome; and we never discuss that night.
