by Jen Banyard
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Sunday 20:45
The four sat quietly, sipping their tea to the soft hiss of the kerosene heater and the hoots and squeaks from the forest. This time, Pollo couldn’t hear Shorn Connery in any of them, no matter how hard she tried.
Viktor coughed gently. ‘The picture I have painted is perhaps a little too gloomy,’ he said, stroking his chin. ‘After all, we are not too late to protect the bats here in Riddle Gully. Once I complete my survey, we can talk with the council about the development to be linked with this Diamond Jack’s Trail—on the meadow between the forest and the cemetery. This is still some months from commencement.’
‘Gosh!’ said Sherri. ‘I’d forgotten all about Mayor Bullock’s precious tourist centre. Everything seems to have gone quiet on it since I got back from my holiday. So that might impact on the bats, you think?’
Viktor pressed together the tips of his long fingers and nodded. ‘Most certainly. The plans show a large car park and amusement ground, a cafe and an information centre. There is, as well, an extremely unpleasant giant statue,’ he said. ‘The charming meadow and many, many trees at the edge of the forest will be levelled to make way. But alas, this is all vital hunting ground for our Southern Bent-wings.’
His face brightened. ‘However, once I have documented the presence of a critically endangered species, I see no reason why your mayor cannot transfer his development to the other side of the cemetery. The hiking trail will not be far away.’
‘People can walk through the cemetery and say hello to Diamond Jack’s ghost on the way!’ said Will.
‘And as I say,’ said Viktor, ‘we have time up the sleeve.’
Pollo shifted on her crate. ‘Viktor, this is the Diamond Jack Experience Tourist Centre you’re talking about, right?’
‘I believe this is its official title,’ said Viktor. ‘Work is due to commence at the end of winter.’
Pollo rested her tea on the floor and fished her notepad from around her neck. She flicked to one of her last entries, scanned it and looked up. ‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you all this, but there’s less time than we think.’
Will twisted over her shoulder to look. ‘What have you got there?’
‘I was going through those old Coast newspapers you dropped off, Sherri,’ said Pollo. ‘One of the articles was on Mayor Bullock’s announcement that work on the tourist centre had been brought forward.’ She referred to her notepad. ‘So that it could be “fully operational for the spring holiday traffic”. Site preparation was starting within the month, it said.’
Will stabbed at the page. ‘Is this the date the article was written?’ he said. ‘It’s three weeks ago!’
Pollo gasped. ‘That must be why Mayor Bullock was at the cemetery this afternoon!’
‘Mayor Bullock was at the cemetery?’ said Sherri. ‘It would have to be something big to get him off his couch on a Sunday.’
‘He was with another man,’ said Pollo. ‘They were banging in stakes with bright pink tape tied to the top.’
‘Markers for the bulldozers!’ said Will.
‘Mon Dieu!’ said Viktor. He sprang to his feet and began pacing up and down the room, running his fingers through his hair. ‘This would be why two colleagues who were to join me this week found the caravan park fully booked. All the workmen are coming! Ai-yai-yai!’
He paced some more then suddenly shook his fists at the ceiling. ‘But the environmental assessment—it has barely begun!’
Pollo looked at him sadly. ‘That’s probably the whole point, Viktor,’ she said. ‘Let me guess—Mayor Bullock knew that your institute was surveying the area, right?’
‘Correct,’ said Viktor. ‘I wrote to the council seeking permission to use this hut. They took a very long time before deciding to give it to me.’
‘I bet Mayor Bullock was buying time!’ said Pollo. ‘Then, rather than risk your survey turning up anything that could delay his pet project, he rushed construction forward. Sherri and I heard him only yesterday—he’s too good for “red tape”, isn’t he, Sherri?’
‘But there are the compromises!’ cried Viktor. ‘The alternatives!’
‘Oh, piffle!’ Sherri tossed her head. ‘That wouldn’t have stopped him. The mayor does whatever he thinks is best for him. Once the damage is done, it’s done. If he cops a fine, it’s nothing. He’ll call it the price of progress.’
‘But it sounds like a heap of trouble to go to,’ said Will, ‘just so that Riddle Gully gets a tourist centre. What’s in it for him?’
‘I’d say it’s the glory,’ said Sherri. ‘That preposterous giant statue of Diamond Jack looming over the entrance, for instance—it’s Mayor Bullock, only thirty kilos lighter! And then there’ll be the Diamond Jack Family Tree in the foyer, with the mayor’s ugly mug right at the top.’
‘But this bushranger fellow,’ said Viktor, ‘was he not an escaped convict? I do not understand. Why is he to be honoured in this fashion?’
Pollo, Will and Sherri all looked at one another. Will shrugged. ‘Australians are just like that, I guess.’
‘When the tourist centre’s finished,’ said Pollo, ‘Mayor Bullock will carry on worse than ever about progress and how he’s brought Riddle Gully into the twenty-first century. He’ll want to be re-elected so that he can boss everyone around and have things his own way for years to come.’
‘Oh golly, don’t even talk about it,’ said Sherri.
Pollo wove her scarf between her fingers. ‘There could be another reason he wants the tourist centre so badly. Though it’s just speculation. There’s no proof. I probably should shut up.’
‘Most certainly not!’ said Sherri.
Will nodded eagerly. ‘Just don’t put it in your gazette.’
‘Please, Pollo!’ said Viktor. ‘Feel free to spill the bean!’
Pollo smiled. ‘Well, Mayor Bullock made his money by selling gambling equipment around the countryside, right? Poker machines and stuff like that. The thing is, a few months ago, my Uncle Pete was at a Chamber of Commerce dinner in Maloola. Mayor Bullock was there too, and let’s just say he’d had a few too many. Uncle Pete says he was rabbiting on about Riddle Gully being the perfect place to turn into a mini Las Vegas! Quite a few people suspect that the tourist centre, in his mind, is just the first step.’
‘Gambling!’ said Will. ‘That’d be robbing people worse than Diamond Jack ever did!’ He looked at Viktor. ‘Isn’t there anyone who can stop him? Can’t we go to a judge or something—like they do on TV?’
Viktor flopped down on the camp bed and put his head in his hands. ‘In my experience, Will, life is not like the television show. Court actions take time—alas, more than we have.’
He pressed his palms to his temples. ‘In any event, without us being able to point the pin precisely to the location of the Southern Bent-wings’ wintering cave, no court would listen to our protests. We need the hard evidence that this development will affect them. Without this we are kaput!’ He combed his hair with his fingers. ‘Ai-yai-yai! If only I had begun my survey a few days earlier!’
‘Has anyone got a mobile?’ said Pollo. ‘How about we find out exactly how much time we do have? Sherri is friends with half of Riddle Gully. She could make some calls.’
‘If you rang the caravan park,’ said Will, ‘they could tell you when the workers were coming.’
Sherri rummaged in her picnic basket. ‘Never leave home without it!’ she said, waving her phone triumphantly. ‘You never know when a handsome zoologist might call!’
They waited while Sherri went through the pleasantries with the owner of the caravan park before getting down to business. When she turned to them, her face was arranged in a brave smile.
‘You guessed right, Viktor,’ she said. ‘The park is booked out by a construction company. They’re coming on Tuesday to start work first thing Wednesday. It could be worse though ... we’ve got tomorrow.’
‘Mon Dieu!’ said Viktor. ‘Hectares
can be levelled in the blink of the eye!’
Pollo was thinking. ‘Tomorrow’s the third Monday of the month, right?’ she said.
Sherri nodded. ‘Mmm-hmm.’
‘That means there’s a town council meeting tomorrow night! Anyone can go along!’
‘We could go and stop the project!’ said Will.
‘But this mayor of yours—he always gets what he wants, no?’ said Viktor mournfully.
‘Well, yeah,’ said Pollo. ‘But what Mayor Bullock wants more than anything is to be thought of by the voters as a successful, popular leader. If the whole town objected to the project he might change his mind about what it was that he wanted. What do you think, Sherri?’
‘I think the man needs a good psychiatrist,’ muttered Sherri. ‘But yes, I agree. The only thing that stops him from doing exactly as he pleases is public opinion.’
‘So,’ said Will, ‘if we could somehow find the bats’ wintering cave tonight...’
Pollo grinned. ‘And convince everyone in Riddle Gully to go to tomorrow night’s meeting, then...’
‘Bongo!’ yelled Viktor. He leapt from the camp bed and began striding around the room, shrugging into his long black coat and collecting his equipment. ‘Who is coming with me?’ he cried.
Pollo threw up her hand.
‘Count me in,’ said Sherri.
‘And me!’ said Will, yanking on his T-shirt. ‘And after we’ve found the cave, I’m going to design something that’ll make everyone go to the meeting. I already know what I’m going to paint!’
Pollo swung round to look at him. ‘On paper, right?’
Will looked startled. ‘Well ... err ... yeah, of course. What else?’
‘Oh nothing! Just checking!’ Pollo looked closely at Will until he found something fascinating on the ceiling to study.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Sunday 21:05
HB was in the lounge in front of the TV unit, jabbing one remote control after another towards it, when Angela, carrying two glasses of wine and Will’s sketchpad, came in to join him.
‘Where’s the lad when we need him?’ muttered HB. ‘I’m darned if I can find that episode of The Force he said he’d record for me last night.’
‘Just as long as everything’s working for the Golden Summers finale tomorrow,’ said Angela, handing HB his drink and curling on the couch beside him. ‘It’s the wedding you’ve been waiting for, eh?’
She patted HB’s knee. ‘Leave that for a second,’ she said, opening the pad and pointing at a sketch. ‘I found this in Will’s room just now. As much as I don’t care for the subject matter, it’s a remarkable likeness, don’t you think?’
HB put down his glass and took the pad in both hands. ‘Golly! It’s Clive all right. It’s remarkable!’
‘He’s got so much talent, that kid,’ said Angela, ‘but he keeps it all to himself.’ She took a sip of wine. ‘Come to think of it, though, I did find a flier for that art academy in Maloola in the bin. I presume Will picked it up from somewhere. The place sounds wonderful but you need to submit a portfolio to get in. That would have scared him right off.’ She sighed. ‘Just as well in a way. It costs the earth. There’s no way I could afford that kind of money.’
HB sat staring at the sketch.
Angela knuckled him in the chest. ‘I feel like I’m talking to myself! Are you listening at all?’
HB’s sigh was long and heavy. ‘You know, I wish you hadn’t shown me this in a way,’ he said.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well...’ HB shifted in his seat. ‘I’m not entirely sure that he has kept his talent to himself ... so to speak.’
‘So to speak?’ Angela leaned back to look at him. ‘What are you getting at?’
HB passed the sketchpad back to Angela. He leaned forward and, forearms on his knees, began cracking the knuckles of each finger in turn.
‘HB?’
‘You know how some bloke came into the station with a description of an odd-looking person trying to clean off that graffiti?’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Angela, slowly taking a sip.
‘Well, love, I didn’t mention this to you but,’ HB screwed up his large nose in dilemma, ‘from what the bloke who took the report told me, it sounds like it could have been Will.’
Angela spluttered her wine. ‘What? But it was a young woman, wasn’t it?’
‘It was someone in a dress and a blonde wig. That’s all,’ said HB in a flat voice.
Angela put aside her glass and crossed her arms. ‘But why would you even put Will there in the first place? He’s a good kid!’
‘Angela, love,’ he said gently, ‘there are a lot of things about Will’s behaviour this weekend that don’t add up. I didn’t say anything at first because I didn’t want to spoil your birthday. I figured I’d already done enough in that regard.’ HB gave his middle fingers an especially hard crack.
‘You need a lot more than behaviour that doesn’t add up before you hang a criminal offence on a kid.’ She had bumped down to the other end of the couch and was pressed against its arm, glaring at HB.
‘Well, take the way he suddenly shot off tonight. Going on a night trek with a friend? I didn’t want to interfere, love, but he hasn’t got any friends here, has he? And telling us that if Clive rang, to say he’d gone to Antarctica. What the dickens was that about?’
Angela tossed her head impatiently. ‘So he’s been a little edgy. That doesn’t mean he’s a criminal.’
Staring at the carpet, HB said, ‘My bottle of turps is missing. I went to find it in the shed today and it was gone.’
Angela said nothing.
‘And then the description of this person came in. Love, the blonde wig sounds like the one you were wearing when you fertilised Clive’s motorbike. How could I forget it? It was the first time I ever laid eyes on you.’
After a long silence, Angela spoke, her voice shaking slightly. ‘Curly blonde wigs are a dime a dozen.’
‘Maybe.’
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked its way through the minute.
Suddenly Angela got up and marched out. HB stared at the blank TV screen, listening to her thumping from room to room, opening and closing cupboards and drawers. For his stepson’s sake he hoped she’d find the silly wig, that he was wrong. But, having crossed the line he had tonight, would Angela forgive him if he was?
Sometime later, Angela returned, blinking back tears. HB held out his arms. She sank into his lap and HB wished there was twice as much of him to hug her with.
They’d been like that a while when the phone rang. HB levered himself up to answer it. He returned to the lounge room, holding the phone out to Angela.
‘It’s Clive,’ he said. ‘I told him Will wasn’t home but he wanted to have a word with you. I didn’t mention Antarctica.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Sunday 21:05
Viktor and Sherri were to go by Diamond Jack’s Trail back to the old railway bridge and the clearing, leaving the forest further along the gorge to Pollo and Will. Pollo knew that the kangaroo trail behind the hut that she and Will had used earlier in the day cut through the bush in the right direction. They’d take that.
‘We shall meet back here on the hour,’ said Viktor, ‘unless we hear from one another first, yes? Pollo and Will, you have my mobile telephone?’
Will patted his pocket. ‘Yep.’
‘Excellent! Then let us depart. Happy hunting, my friends!’ Viktor and Sherri strode off down the track, leaving Pollo and Will alone on the edge of the softly creaking forest. Pollo switched on her torch and led Will behind the cabin, where the light spilling from within barely reached the ground. No more than five metres off, the tangle of trees and bushes merged into dense blackness.
Pollo pointed. ‘The roo trail’s back that way somewhere,’ she said. ‘We follow it a little way, then there’s a sidetrack to the gorge.’
‘You sure you’re okay to do this?’ said Will.
Pol
lo nodded.
‘We’d better ... you know ... get going then,’ he said.
Pollo swallowed. ‘Will? Would you mind if we ... I mean ... I promise I won’t write anything or think anything of it...’ The hand not holding the torch hung loose at her side. Will took it and Pollo breathed more easily. It was possibly the hand that had graffitied the school but it was the hand of a friend nonetheless. ‘Thanks,’ she mumbled.
‘No worries,’ said Will. ‘Just keep thinking of what Clive says—“Everything’s the same at night as in—”’
‘Already on it!’ said Pollo.
They plunged into the forest and found the thin trail, just wide enough for a kangaroo to push through.
‘You sure you don’t want me to go first?’ Will offered.
‘Thanks,’ said Pollo in a small voice, ‘but if you miss the turn-off to the gorge we could end up spending the whole night out here.’
The bushes, many laced with tiny thorns, were head high. Every few paces, spider webs dragged across their faces. Pollo was soon forced to drop Will’s hand in order to push her way through. They pressed on, Pollo casting the torch beam in a figure-eight motion, never able to see everything at once.
Suddenly she stopped. ‘Did you hear that?’ She swung round to Will, who was chasing a spider off his neck.
Will looked up. ‘No? What?’
They stood motionless. From somewhere in the distance a low mournful sound penetrated the thick undergrowth.
‘That!’ said Pollo.
‘Definitely bushrangers...’ whispered Will, ‘...dying in terrible agony!’
