by Judy Nunn
‘Stop it, Terence! Stop it!’ She could feel the locket digging into the palm of her hand, and the knuckles of her fingers felt they might break any minute as he crushed her fist. She backed away, trying to wrench her hand from his vice-like grip. For one second she succeeded, but then he seized both her wrists, and dragged her to him so that her face was only inches from his.
‘Is that what you liked, Henrietta?’ His voice was harsh now, demented, his face twisted and ugly. ‘Is that what you liked? Fucking a corpse? A man with one foot in the grave? Is that what you liked?’
‘I only slept with him once!’ she desperately begged. His rage was frightening. ‘Only once! I swear it!’
Did she expect him to believe that? And even if he did, what difference did it make? She’d given herself to another man, she’d had another man’s child, and she’d lied to him all these years. All these years he’d been raising another man’s son! And for the rest of his life he would be forced to recognise this whore’s bastard as his own blood. Whore! Whore!
‘You’re a whore, Henrietta! You’re a whore! Say it!’ She could feel his spittle on her face. ‘Say it, Henrietta!’ he yelled. ‘Say it! I’m a whore! Say it!’
‘I’m a whore,’ the words came out in a breathless sob, she was terrified now.
‘Say it again!’
‘I’m a whore.’
‘Again! Again!’
‘I’m a whore, I’m a whore, I’m a whore,’ she sobbed, her body sagging, but he continued to hold her up, suspended by the wrists.
‘That’s exactly what you are, you filthy bitch,’ he hissed, and he finally released her.
She sank to her knees and, as she did so, she involuntarily clutched the locket to her breast.
Her instinctive reaction was the final straw for Terence. His madness was no longer a mere release of rage and hostility. His madness now had a purpose, and the purpose was murder, it was quite obvious that Henrietta must die.
He pulled her to her feet and supported her as he took the several steps to the edge of the precipice. ‘Stay here with your lover, Henrietta,’ he said, ‘and I’ll keep his bastard son.’
Henrietta’s eyes were wide with disbelief, her mouth open in protest, but she had no time to utter a word. The gentlest push sent her backwards, and the last thing she saw was the look in Terence’s eyes. Not of anger and recrimination, but the burning glow of sheer insanity. Then, as if in slow motion, the world spun as she felt herself fall.
Terence stood, motionless, watching Henrietta’s body bounce from a rock ledge and continue to fall, buffeted about like a rag doll amongst the vegetation of the cliff face, until she was finally out of sight.
His anger had left him, and he felt free of any form of emotion. He wondered vaguely whether he had planned to kill her by bringing her to this deserted place. If so, he hadn’t been aware of his intention. His intention had been to frighten her into admitting the truth. But it was better the way things had turned out. She deserved to die, and this way his secret would always be safe.
He heard the distant roll of thunder, and behind him Blocker whinnied nervously—Blocker didn’t like storms—but Terence made no move, still staring down into the gorge. Her body would never be found, no-one ever came up here. Perhaps a crocodile would get her; in a heavy wet season the odd rogue croc found its way up to the pools of the gorges. In any event he was perfectly safe. But he would miss her, he suddenly realised. He didn’t regret her death, it had been necessary, but he would miss Henrietta. He started to feel sad.
A far-off streak of lightning, another crash of thunder, and Blocker tossed his head and pawed the ground, the storm was getting closer. Terence forced himself to think practically, he must make plans.
He untethered the horses and started to lead them down the slopes. He would camp out overnight at one of the sheds near the mustering yards not far from the base of the escarpment. It was the customary thing to do during a heavy storm, no-one would raise the alarm at their failure to return tonight. Then, in the morning, he would go home with the news of the ‘accident’.
Jackie and Nellie were not unduly concerned when the boss and the missus failed to return. The storm was ferocious and it was natural to presume they would stay overnight in one of the many sheds or barns about the property.
But mid-morning the following day, when the storm had cleared and Florian cantered home riderless, they knew there was cause for worry. Jackie raced through the back door and into the kitchen with the news.
‘Florian come back to the stables Nellie,’ he said. ‘No missus.’
‘Where’s the boss?’ Nellie asked, instantly alarmed.
‘No boss.’
‘You go find her, Jackie.’ Nellie, as always, took control of the situation. ‘I’ll get Boss Nelson.’ She headed for the telephone in the lounge room.
From the rise a good half mile away, Terence had watched as Florian headed for home. Early in the morning, he’d circled the homestead with the horses to make his approach from a different direction and, a mile or so from the station, still well out of sight, he’d released Florian and urged Blocker into a gallop. To Florian the race was on. The horses ran neck and neck until they reached the clearing which led to the homestead, then Terence reined Blocker in and watched as Florian headed for the stables, the horse slowing to a canter when he realised it was no longer a race.
In the distance, Terence saw Jackie run to the horse. The black man calmed the animal, patting him gently as he led him into the saddling yard, then he eased the girth strap. The horse was snorting nervously, unaccustomed to galloping fully saddled and riderless. Terence watched as Jackie sprinted to the back door of the homestead to alert Nellie. It would have been quicker if he’d gone through the front door, but then even in a crisis Jackie avoided that. It was interesting to note that the black man still moved with the speed and agility of a thirty-year-old, and yet Jackie had to be at least fifty-five, fifty-six, maybe more, who could tell. His hair and his beard were greying, his body had thickened, but he was as fit as a mallee bull. Good old, reliable Jackie, Terence thought. He smiled, everything was going according to plan.
Only minutes later, Jackie reappeared. Terence watched as he returned to the saddling yard.
‘Where you bin, Florian?’ Jackie murmured, stroking the animal’s neck. Florian nuzzled his nose into the crook of Jackie’s arm. ‘Where you bin?’ He knelt and checked the horse’s knees for signs of a fall, then he tapped each fetlock in turn, the animal obediently lifting each hoof for inspection. The horse was perfectly calm now, he was uninjured, his breathing was not laboured and there was little sweat on him, he’d not been overexerted. The missus must have taken a fall not far from the homestead, Jackie thought.
‘You gonna take me to the missus, Florian?’ Jackie whispered as he tightened the girth strap. ‘We go find the missus, eh?’
From his observation post, Terence saw that Jackie was about to mount the horse and go in search of Henrietta. It was what he’d expected, but it must be prevented. He dug his heels into Blocker’s sides and galloped for the homestead.
Jackie saw Blocker and the boss emerge from the bush on the rise. He waved. The boss was safe, that was good, maybe he knew what had happened to the missus.
Terence dismounted at the saddling yard.
‘She’s back then,’ he said breathlessly, indicating Florian, ‘good, I was starting to get worried.’
‘Missus not back, boss. Florian back, no missus.’
Terence stared at the horse, as if momentarily not comprehending.
‘Don’ worry boss, me and Florian gonna find her.’ Jackie flung the reins over Florian’s neck, but Terence stopped him.
‘No, Jackie,’ he said with some urgency, ‘we need to mount a proper search, she could be anywhere, we stayed overnight in the shed at the graveyard.’ He started to stride up to the homestead. ‘When you’ve watered the horses come up to the house, I’m going to ring Buff Nelson.’
‘Nell
ie already ring ’im, boss,’ Jackie called after him. The boss was worried, he could tell. Jackie wanted to assure him that the missus couldn’t be too far away. The stretch of flats known as ‘the graveyard’, where a vast field of termite mounds resembled huge tombstones, was a major mustering area with yards and sheds, and it was miles away to the east. Florian couldn’t have travelled all the way from the graveyard that morning. The horse would have had more of a sweat up if he had.
Jackie quickly loosened the girth straps and watered both horses. Blocker was not sweating heavily either, he too couldn’t have travelled that distance this morning. The boss must be confused, Jackie thought, he sure was worried.
When Jackie returned to the house, he heard the boss on the telephone, and he joined Nellie who was standing listening at the door to the lounge room.
‘I thought she’d just gone for a ride,’ Terence was saying, ‘you know how Henrietta likes to ride at dawn,’ his voice sounded desperate, ‘I waited at the graveyard for over an hour, Buff, and when she didn’t come back …’
There was an obvious interruption on the other end of the line whilst Buff Nelson calmed Terence.
Again Jackie was bewildered. ‘Blocker and Florian don’ come from the graveyard, Nellie,’ he whispered, ‘there no sweat on ’em.’
‘You say nothin’, Jackie,’ she muttered. ‘You keep quiet now.’
‘But the boss …’
‘Sssh,’ she nudged him sharply as Terence put down the receiver.
‘Boss Nelson’s rounding up some men and bringing fresh horses in from the home paddock,’ he announced, ‘I’m going to meet him at the graveyard, we’ll start the search from there.’
‘I come ’long you, boss,’ Jackie said.
‘No you stay here,’ Terence ordered. ‘You boss man now Jackie. Stay by the telephone, Nellie, Christ knows how long it might take to find the missus, she could be anywhere.’
Jackie looked at Nellie, but she didn’t return his glance, simply nodding dutifully. ‘Yes, boss,’ she said.
They watched from the back door as Terence returned to the saddling yard and remounted Blocker.
‘Something bad happen, Jackie,’ Nellie said, deeply troubled. ‘He don’ want you with ’im, and you the best tracker around these parts, the boss knows that.’
‘No good trackin’ after the storm.’ It wasn’t that aspect which worried Jackie. ‘But them horses don’ come from the graveyard this mornin’.’
‘I know. The boss and the missus din’ go to the graveyard.’
Jackie looked at her, surprised, how did Nellie know that?
‘I was cleanin’ the windows in the front room,’ Nellie said, ‘and I heard the boss talkin’ to the missus on the verandah, they was goin’ to the waterfall, he said.’ Nellie looked at her husband, her face full of the direst misgivings. ‘He don’ know that I hear ’im, then he tells me they just goin’ to the home paddock.’ She shook her head. ‘Something real bad happen, Jackie. Ain’ no waterfall round here for miles.’
They both knew exactly where the waterfall was. Warai country, the escarpment well to the south, Jackie had often travelled the area on walkabout when he’d visited Nellie’s clanspeople. Why then was the boss searching the graveyard territory to the east?
‘Something real, real bad happen,’ Nellie said, ‘he done something to her, I tell you. You gotta find the missus, Jackie.’
Twenty minutes later, Jackie saddled up Chloe, his whistle at the horse paddock having brought her trotting up to him instantly; each of his favourite mounts had a special whistle. Chloe was a stocky little brumby and she could negotiate slopes like a mountain goat. If Jackie was to explore the escarpment Chloe’s skills would come in handy.
They did. Chloe had no problem at all with the climb, Jackie dismounting only once, where a mudslide from the heavy rain had rendered the slope dangerously slippery. They reached the top of the escarpment in half the time it would have taken a less sure-footed animal.
Jackie dismounted and searched amongst the vegetation for the tell-tale signs of horses. He was not looking for animal or human tracks, they would have been obliterated by the rain; it took him only minutes to find the fresh horse dung and the close-cropped tufts of grass where the animals had grazed. It gave him a starting point. He squatted to examine, minutely, every freshly broken twig, every recently disturbed stone on the rocky ledge overlooking the waterfall. People had stood here, he could tell, very close to the precipice too. Dangerous.
Jackie squatted at the edge of the cliff. He looked down, examining the cliff face and, with a sickening sense of horror, he knew what had happened. A bush on a rock ledge ten feet below had been almost pulled out by its roots, it hung dangling into space. A little further down, several branches of one of the many scrawny trees which grew out of the cliff face were broken. Something, or someone, had fallen, their body cutting a swathe through the vegetation which Jackie’s trained eye could discern with ease.
He knew a way down to the pool, but he would have to leave Chloe at the top. Tethering the horse, he walked a hundred yards or so away from the ledge, and started the steep descent to the bottom of the cliff.
A good half hour later, when he had reached the pool, he doubled back to where he presumed he would find the body of the missus.
The bushes were flattened and there was a thick trail of mud, as if someone had dragged themselves towards shelter. An easy trail to follow, he found her in an instant.
Lying on her back, head and shoulders propped up against the protective shelter of the cliff, was the body of the missus. She clutched a fist to her breast and her face was caked with blood. One leg was bent at a horrifying angle, and her whole body was covered in mud.
Jackie knelt beside her, shocked and terrified. Nellie had been right, the boss had killed the missus. What was he to do? Take the body home? The boss would kill him if he did. But he couldn’t leave the missus here for the crocodiles. Jackie was distraught with grief, he had loved the missus. He touched the body, stroking her face and her tangled hair, jabbering in his own tongue all the while.
In the merciful oblivion which had overtaken her pain and clouded her world, the oblivion she had presumed was her imminent death, Henrietta heard him. Or at least she heard sounds. Strange, primitive sounds, and she opened her eyes.
‘Jackie,’ she whispered, her voice barely audible. For just one moment, she was pleased to see him, the kind black man who had been her friend all these years. For just one moment she was glad that she was not going to die alone. But the return of consciousness brought the return of pain, and Henrietta prayed for death to overtake her.
‘Missus,’ Jackie couldn’t believe it, the missus was alive. He was galvanised into action. ‘Don’ you worry, missus, Jackie goin’ to get you out.’ He took hold of her wrist, and every atom in Henrietta’s body shrieked in agony.
‘No, Jackie, no,’ she whispered urgently. ‘You mustn’t move me, please don’t move me.’
Jackie recognised her pain and gingerly he rested her hand back on the ground. ‘We gotta get you home, missus,’ he said. ‘We gotta get you better.’
‘No.’ She tried to sound firm. She was the missus, he must obey her orders. ‘My body is broken, you cannot get me better, you understand?’
Jackie nodded. The missus was dying, and he understood death. He would stay with her whilst she died. But what was he to do after that? He couldn’t leave her.
Henrietta understood his confusion. She closed her eyes as a wave of pain engulfed her. But she must concentrate, she had orders to give. ‘You will not take me home,’ she said, ‘you will leave me here,’ and she slowly opened the fist which she clutched to her breast. In the palm of her hand was the locket. ‘But you will take this with you, and you will tell Nellie to give it to Kit when he is grown.’ She couldn’t stretch out her hand, even opening her fist had been agony. ‘When he is of age, Jackie, when he is twenty-one, you understand?’
Jackie understood and, very g
ently, he took the locket from the palm of her hand. ‘Yes, missus,’ he said.
As he slid the locket into the pocket of his shorts, Henrietta noticed the knife which he always carried in its sheath on his belt. She was grateful that he’d found her, and thankful that when Kit came of age he would know the truth as she’d always intended he should. The locket would tell her son the whole story. But now, as the pain overwhelmed her, she longed to die.
‘Take my breath, Jackie,’ she said, staring at the knife. For a moment Jackie didn’t understand. ‘My body is broken, it cannot be mended. Too much pain, Jackie. Take my breath. Please!’
He knew what she meant and he was shocked. ‘I can’ do that, missus.’
She closed her eyes, feeling the tears well beneath her eyelids. It was a terrible thing to ask of him, she could see it from the incredulity in his face. She tried to take a breath, to control herself, but breathing was agony. ‘Oh dear God, Jackie, help me.’ She opened her eyes and the tears spilled down the caked mud and the blood on her cheeks. ‘Be kind to me. I’ve seen you do it to the steers. Take the hurt away, I beg you, take my breath.’
Jackie knew that the missus was in great pain. Her body was broken and she was dying. He must comfort her. He took his knife from its sheath, but still he sat beside her, tormented and undecided.
‘You can do it, Jackie,’ she gently urged, ‘you can do it.’ And she closed her eyes, arching her neck sideways against the cliff face.
‘I can do it, missus,’ he whispered, and he started to sing. A rhythmic chant which seemed to Henrietta like a didgeridoo. A haunting, primeval sound which she found most comforting. He touched his hand to the side of her face, stroking her cheek with his finger. ‘You sleep now, missus, you don’ feel pain no more.’ And he continued to chant his strange song.
