I pick up the abandoned rifle on my way towards the shop. The shaft is still warm. Where did she learn to shoot like that? After fifteen years, she still surprises me. Moni remains wedged beside the pumps.
‘It’s alright, love,’ I say. ‘It’s over now.’
The next morning I wake up alone in the caravan. It feels like a prison cell now that the walls have been stripped. I need to finish things with Eddie before we go. One of us has to tell the truth. In six years we’ve never talked about what happened with Father. I don’t suppose we’ll ever really know.
The air is thick and lifeless as I walk over to the service station. It’s a relief to get inside again. A dusty light coats the shelves of the shop, giving the impression of abandonment: the way we cover up furniture in a disused room, the way when people die we close them in a box because we can’t bear to see what is no longer there. I’d give anything for one last glimpse of my daughter.
I drag the curtains open in the sitting room. ‘Eddie?’ What will he do when everyone’s gone?
The room is spotless. My brother’s famous model town is positioned centrally on the table, each building exactly in its place; he must have used a ruler to get that straight a line down the street. The broken base has been glued in two parts. As I look at the model, it strikes me that Eddie has never really grown up.
I go through to the office. The pile of papers on his desk has gone. Detailed plans of Akarula are pinned up on the wall; he has circled in red ink the buildings that are yet to be built. The rest of his life is a mess, but the model town and these plans are perfectly ordered.
‘Eddie?’ With the butt of the rifle I knock on the bedroom door before going in. I hook the handle of the rifle over my shoulder and lift the blinds. Moni’s outside, not far from Eddie’s truck, holding the dead bird in her hands. She’s talking to it, her palm spread flat under its beak. I shouldn’t have fed those birds. Caroline was right. If they’d been wilder, they would have flown off with the first shot.
There is a glass of partly drunk whiskey on the window ledge: Eddie’s. I knock it back. It burns my throat; I feel it coursing through my body. My eyes water as I wait for the burning sensation to stop. The look on her face while he was filming her, while she was buttoning up her blouse. She doesn’t like being in front of a camera, always hated photographs. Why did he film her like that? Some days I look at Caroline and feel as if I am seeing her for the first time.
Resting the rifle on the desk, I stare at the certificate of Land Purchase nailed to the wall and try to figure out where Eddie might be. The best place to start seems to be the street.
Moni has gone when I get outside. I walk through the bare silence towards the bend. Without the rev of an engine, car radios or talk, the whole place seems dead, deader still now that the fence excludes most of the wildlife. I presumed he was going to fence off the old mine; we all did. It was the obvious choice. Instead he fenced in the whole town. Had this idea that we’d be safer that way. Safe from what? He always takes things too far.
When we were children, Eddie and I used to play shoe-cars. I’d be about six this day I’m thinking of, which would make Eddie three. We were revving our shoes around the carpet, beeping horns, the whole lot, and then we got to a supermarket and Eddie’s shoe changed into the shopping trolley and we started loading up. Mother called us from downstairs. I stuck my shoes on. Eddie didn’t know what to do. He told me he wasn’t going to put a shopping trolley on his foot. Things always stuck too long with him; he could never quite let go.
We made a pact in our early teens to get each other out of trouble, a do or die sort of deal. Small things. I saved him from getting a beating for swearing at the milkman by telling Father I had dared him to. He gave me his post office savings when I lost Mother’s purse and had to pay back the contents. Our parents blamed him for the house fire, made him swear he’d never take another photograph. He took his camera everywhere. Drove people mad. Stored his negatives in cardboard boxes in the landing cupboard, which was where the fire started. That’s why he bought the cine-camera. I helped him with that too. We both agreed that moving pictures didn’t count. We stuck by each other, mainly to protect our own backs. People called us the Harvey Brothers. We were unstoppable. And then I turned fourteen, and somehow the age difference started to matter. I was older and responsible; I didn’t want to play his childish games.
If I could, would I get him out of this hole he has dug himself? The answer is no. Edward Harvey can take care of himself. He’ll talk his way out of it, just like he’s done a dozen times before, and then he’ll move on to the next project, never admitting that he failed. Eddie doesn’t fail, he just moves on. Although it won’t be easy this time.
I follow the road round to the street, searching the bush for a solitary figure. There is no one. There is no street either. A removal truck is waiting outside the store with a crane-like arm moving into place. There is a second truck parked behind it. I didn’t think they’d take the store until the very end. This must be the end. How can a town just disappear? I think about Mr M as I go past the ghost gum tree, his tree, its branches spread out like fingers.
A blue Chevrolet is parked outside the last house. A balding man – I forget his name, Queeny’s husband – comes out of the house carrying a duffel bag, and throws me a greeting as he walks towards the car, dumping his bag down beside the back wheel. He pumps my hand up and down. ‘Well, this is it. All the best.’ He starts to say something else but gives up, sighing instead. I want to ask him if he joined in the fight, if he made one of those bruises on Mr M’s face, only I haven’t got the nerve.
‘Have you seen Eddie?’ I ask.
‘He was heading towards the mine this morning. We were planning to leave first light. The wife got travel sick fifty yards down the road. She’s psyching herself up for the journey right now. Whenever she’s ready…’ He taps the roof of the car several times before walking back towards the house. ‘By the way,’ he says, turning momentarily, ‘There’s no water. You might tell Eddie. Not that it matters now, I suppose.’
I nod and wave, realising that I didn’t really know any of these people.
Outside what was the general store there are still tubs of flowers, shrivelling now, dead or dying. The limp leaves of the Devil’s Tail look like large drops of blood. And the mini gardens, patches of grass fronting the ghost houses, watered every day at one stage, now yellowy-brown. It won’t be long before it all gets subsumed into the monotonous bush.
There is a slight breeze, and five iron clouds in the sky. I can feel rain in the air as I turn onto the track that leads out to the mine. Eddie took us on the grand tour of this mine when we first arrived, introduced us to everyone. We went down a shaft. Jake showed us how to tap into the rock. It took all of five minutes before claustrophobia set in. (Those drugs have untold side-effects.) Moni didn’t like it much either. The two of us came out and waited for the others to surface. Caroline found a small chip of opal, which caused Eddie to crack open a bottle of champagne. She fell for it, hook, line and sinker – the illusion. Eddie conjured up this illusion and she believed the whole thing.
Me: I’m a servant of facts. My job is to uncover the illusions. But I’ve come to understand that nothing is more fantastic, more beyond the bounds of belief, than the actual facts. I’m telling you what happened as it happened, trying not to cloud things with opinions and perspectives. In the end, that’s all I can do.
Caroline once told me that I had no imagination. I remember the exact day, the time, what I was wearing (jeans and an earthy brown v-neck jumper.) I remember the way she looked at me, with undisguised contempt. I forget now what I was supposed to have done. She said how can you hope to change the world if you can’t imagine something different? At the time, I didn’t understand what she meant. I felt vaguely sorry for her, blinded, as I saw it, by her childish fantasies. Later that evening (there were three stars in the sky) she told me she was pregnant; in the same breath, she asked me if I
minded calling the baby Monica, after her mother, if it was a girl. That’s when I really understood about changing worlds. Nothing had changed and yet everything was utterly different.
Eddie always wanted to change the world, to be the big man. He’s got himself into some shit this time; people are suing. He gave them all a rosy contract, an overindulgent incentive scheme and then didn’t deliver. For once in his life, he might just have to reap what he has sown.
The fence is impressive up close, thick meshed wire with two steel girders running diagonally between the posts. I approach the gates that mark the entrance to the mine, passing the water tank on my right. Just past the gates, I see a large animal lying on its side, partly hidden by scrub grass. When I get close, I discover it’s a pregnant kangaroo, still warm. I press my hand onto her swollen stomach; there’s a faint pulse – the joey inside her is still alive. Since there is nothing I can do, I carry on. People drive like fury along these tracks.
The mine is roughly three miles of open cuts and shafts, exposed where the top layer of sandstone has been blown off. There is plenty of machinery: puddlers, jack hammers, drills, windlasses, all standing idle. When we were having our tour, Jake explained what they did. I couldn’t tell you now. What I do know is that it will take a long time for this land to recover.
I turn off the main track towards the portacabins. Just before I reach the first one, I spot something glinting in the dust. After brushing away the surface gravel, I find a huge chunk of opal, about the size of Georgie’s hand. I hold it up against the rising sun, the marine greens and blues swim into each other and shine iridescently. Not knowing what else to do, I slip it into my pocket. Some of the miners in this town have made a fortune. A percentage of their finds goes to the company, but the more they hit upon, the more they make. Jake was telling me that on the field a piece of rough opal might be worth anything from $50,000 upwards. Once it’s cut and polished you’re talking $150,000 to $250,000. A gambler’s livelihood. You might hit the jackpot, but most times you’ll barely scrape by. I can’t see the attraction. I’m not saying I wouldn’t like to strike it rich, only with the stakes so high, you’d never be satisfied. This stone might be worth a bit, though.
There is a Lansdowne Corporation Land Cruiser outside the largest portacabin. I cut across the machine tracks and knock on the door. One of the foreman is sitting on a table beside a mega fan, reading what looks like a porn magazine. The room is bare, except for a box of files, a table lamp, and a thin mattress and blanket, which this man probably slept on last night.
‘I’m looking for Edward Harvey,’ I say.
‘You and the rest of us. You won’t find him here. Take one of these.’ Before I can respond, he thrusts a piece of paper at me and an envelope. ‘Fill it in and send it back to us. We’ll look after the rest. Is there anyone else, do you know? My contract’s up today. I can leave a few of these with you, if you like.’
I study the front page – a compensation claim form for the miners. Housing rights. ‘I’m Edward’s brother,’ I tell him.
The foreman tugs at his thick beard, cracks his knuckles, and looks inanely at whatever is just above my head. ‘Sorry, mate, I didn’t realise.’
‘You’re encouraging people to sue, is that it?’
‘It’s company policy to look after the workers. Not up to me. I’m just following orders.’ He offers me a Lucky Strike. When I refuse, he lights one for himself.
‘Does Edward know? Have any of you bothered to tell him?’
‘I’m just handing out the forms. It was your daughter who went missing, wasn’t it?’
I nod, hoping he will have the sense to stop.
‘Got two of my own. Sent them back home when Billy Walker’s woman disappeared. Most of ’em with children left around then. No point in taking chances.’ He draws on his cigarette and watches the smoke curl up in the draught from the fan. He’s not the first person to talk to me as if I’m some kind of idiot. Only an idiot would let his daughters loose in Akarula. Unable to find a parting word, I leave.
Once I reach the main track, I start to run. I should have taken one of those forms to show Eddie. At least he could prepare himself, find some kind of defence, flee the country. I don’t know. I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes. (Never thought I’d hear myself say that.) It’s only when I stop to catch my breath that it dawns on me – Eddie isn’t here. He’s not in the street. I checked the whole way round the service station. I’d have seen him if he was walking through the scrub – you can’t hide. And now I’ve checked the mine. The truck is undrivable – Caroline has seen to that. A pain shoots right down my neck, lodging itself in my gut, the same pain I’ve had this past month. What if he’s gone too? I picture myself ringing Delaney from Eddie’s office. I play the conversation in my head, then there’s the search, the waiting … and then … do we go to Adelaide, or do we stay here because we all know that people don’t just disappear? Adrenalin fires through me; I’m getting ready to run for my life, only there’s nothing to run away from except my own damn fear.
I barely notice the track or how far I’ve gone. I keep moving until I see the water tank – a large steel belly on legs. That’s where he is. He’s fixing the water. There was no one left for him to send out. And he had to walk because of the state of the truck. See how easy it is to get carried away, to let your imagination take over? My shoulders slacken slightly but the clicking sound in my ears gets louder.
A narrow path veers left towards the tank. It’s not a path so much as a trampled-down section of scrub grass. In any case, I shout, ‘Eddie!’ There is no response, but if he’s round the back, he might not hear. Sound gets swallowed up in all this open space, or else it carries for miles. Probably something to do with the temperature.
When I get nearer the tank, I notice that the ground is wet. A small pool of water sits on the impervious surface. The tank plug is loose; a continual thin stream of water leaks out. Someone must have unscrewed the plug. I find a good-sized stone and bang on the side of the tank, which rings hollow. At least the pump still works. I screw the plug back in.
‘Eddie!’ I walk right round. Who would have deliberately sabotaged the water system? I step back to take a look at the top of the tank and find that the ceiling cap is off.
I start to climb the ladder. The iron rungs are red hot. At the top, I try dragging the cap back on. It’s heavy and scorches my hands. I have to haul myself up to the top rung to get more leverage. I peer down to see how much water is left inside. It’s so black in there; I can’t see a thing, only white lights bouncing off the surface. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust. Gradually the specks of white light disappear and I can see a shape, a body, a man’s body. Eddie is curled up like a baby on the bottom of the tank.
I freeze. Can’t think. I hang onto the edge of the opening to stop myself from falling in. My hands burn, my hat slips off and drops down into the water. An inch or two of water, not enough to drown a man. Not enough… Eddie? What’s going on? What are you doing down there? ‘Eddie!’ His name bounces back at me. A searing pain in my gut. I forget to breathe. What have you done? And then I roar, as loud as I can, to wake him up, to make him look at me: ‘Eddie!’ In the silence that follows, a horsefly lands on my arm and bites.
Eddie couldn’t swim, never learnt. Water terrified him. I stare down that hole until my mind goes blank. My brother’s shape appears and disappears as the sun slips in and out of the morning sky. And I am suddenly cut free. The air seems to dance around me.
I climb down the ladder with no sense of how far I’ve gone or when I will reach the bottom. The rungs don’t burn anymore; I have no sensation left in my fingers. When I finally stand on the ground, it feels hollow. Clouds multiply, and a wedge-tailed eagle makes that hawking guttural cry.
Why? Why?
After a while, I lose all sense of myself, feeling light and let go of. We didn’t talk about Father. If we’d have talked… It was Eddie who found him, the year of the big snow. We’d
gone to visit after Mother phoned. She said: ‘Your father’s gone.’ No explanation. Father was slumped on a deckchair in the greenhouse, which was empty, being winter, and spotless. Every seed tray wiped clean. I didn’t notice the blood and the cuts so much as his moustache: frozen solid. There was a bottle of gin knocked over at his feet. The autopsy said he had large amounts of medication in his system and had probably contracted hypothermia. When the police emptied his jacket pockets later on, they found a queen of hearts playing card folded over. On the back was scribbled ‘Please forgive me, Margaret. Give my love to the boys.’ Eddie and I made our final pact that day, not to talk about it to anyone, not even to each other. As far as I know, Eddie kept his word.
Retracing my footsteps back through the scrub to the main track, I sense God, not some religious God, but that tidal force that moves through us, destroying and creating simultaneously. I feel it, almost see it – a blade of grass cutting through stone – overwhelming and impossible. Why did he unscrew the plug, just enough so he had time to drown? To let us know? Was this his way of saying goodbye? Did he know that I would find him?
When I get to the street, the bald man’s car has gone and so have the last two houses. It’s like a pseudo town, phantom houses with invisible walls. Was it because he couldn’t bear to lose his town? When we were young he had this dream, this belief that anything was possible. We both did, for a while, like all kids. But then Eddie went ahead alone. He did it; he made the dream. A boy with a balloon who kept hanging on, rising higher and higher, never thinking of what might happen when the balloon finally bursts.
I arrive at the service station and walk between the pumps. Caroline waves a spade in the air, calling me over: ‘We’ve been waiting for you. Where’ve you been?’ She’s kneeling on the ground at the foot of Red Rock Mountain, a few yards from the caravan. Moni is knelt down beside her. In a flash it dawns on me that someone could have done that to Eddie. Someone could have murdered him.
Swimming on Dry Land Page 14
