by JH Fletcher
Stella thought, so that is what this is about. With gathering anger, she remembered the evening, four weeks before, when first she had suspected something.
Something’s happened …
He had denied it. Now this.
The bastard.
She looked at her visitor with new eyes. My God, she’s beautiful. She’s like I was ten years ago. The skin, the hair, the eyes. The innocence. Unbearable.
She smiled unpleasantly. ‘Cal’s done it this time, hasn’t he?’
‘Maybe they’ll be right.’
She noted they. As though anyone gave a damn about Hennie. ‘You know better than that.’ She was prepared to hate this woman whose image painted, more graphically than Cal could have done, the sour ravages of time. ‘Why have you come here, anyway?’
‘Because I heard you were his friend. Because your own husband is also involved.’
Friend, Stella thought. That’s one word for it. And studied her from behind her smile. She knows nothing. Nothing. But perhaps is beginning to suspect.
As for Cal … Trust him to pick a ripe one.
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Tell me about you and Cal.’
Got her to sit down. Tried to ease confidences from her, but discovered soon enough that this one would say only what she wished.
‘Have you known him long?’
Had Kathryn learned to guard her eyes as she had her tongue, Stella would have discovered nothing.
‘Not long, no.’
‘But you care for him?’
‘He is a friend,’ Kathryn allowed. She opened her guard a chink. ‘I am worried,’ she said.
‘Aren’t we all?’ But still did not understand why the girl was here.
‘They wouldn’t just forget them, would they? They’ve been sending out search parties. If they’d found out anything, they’d be sure to let you know. Your husband’s involved, after all. I have no status, you see.’ A wan smile. ‘They probably don’t even know I exist.’
So it was news she was after. Liking would be impossible, looking as she did, but at least it made it easier to tolerate her.
‘They haven’t told me much. They’ve been sending out aircraft, but so far they haven’t found anything. Hennie’s chopper’s got a homing beacon, but it doesn’t seem to be working. There’s no sign of them on the route they were supposed to be flying. And of course there’ve been lots of storms, which won’t have helped. I’m sure they’re doing all they can.’
‘It’s this business of not knowing,’ said Kathryn. ‘Although I have no doubts.’
The two men were almost certainly dead, and this child said she had no doubts.
‘How do you work that out?’
‘I know he’s still out there. I can feel him. I talk to him.’
Stella watched. You could never tell. They come on as sane as can be, while all the time … ‘You talk to him?’
‘I can’t explain it. I feel in touch, somehow. If anything happened, I’d know.’
‘You must care for him a lot.’ Which Kathryn neither denied nor confirmed.
Stella was angry, spiteful. That this unknown woman should come here, parading her youth, her concern … There had been times when Stella had believed she could have loved Cal, had she allowed herself.
She resolved to punish. If Cal were truly dead, as after three days he surely must be, her own life would be diminished. What was worse, she would never be able to talk about it, to ease her feelings by parading them, as this young woman seemed willing to do. No, she would have to endure in silence. Well, for the moment there was perhaps another option.
She stood. ‘Come with me.’
And led the way swiftly through the house to a door opening onto the tumble of rocks that formed the island, separating the house from the sea. Brushing aside Kathryn’s protests, she followed a track that scratched the cliff edge before zigzagging up a scrambling slope to the top, a pinnacle of weathered stone that hung suspended between wind and water at the seaward end of the island.
Behind her Kathryn was slipping and clutching above the gaping maw of the rock-fanged drop, but Stella ran as light as air. She ducked under the capstone where there was a space large enough for two to stand sheltered from the elements.
Kathryn joined her, breathless. From beyond the rock came the hollow boom of the surf. Beneath the canopy was a stone tray, damp and mossy, with ferns. Shells arranged before it, like a votive offering.
‘A shrine,’ Stella said.
Kathryn looked at it, and her, uncertainly. ‘For your husband?’
Brassy Stella laughed. ‘For Cal.’
Kathryn’s heart gave one thud. Stopped, as her breath stopped.
Stella said, cruelly, ‘Every day I pray for his return.’
‘I see.’ Lips white.
Stella seized her by the arm, shaking her. ‘For a year he nearly died of grief. I helped him, then.’ Released her. Said scornfully, ‘Did you think you were the only one who had a claim?’
‘But you are —’ Was going to say married, but it sounded too foolish. She stopped, helplessly.
Stella understood. ‘I am married, yes. If you can call it a marriage, when I hardly see my husband from one year to the next. Cal was desperate,’ she insisted harshly, ‘close to dying. I helped him when no-one else could. Neither you nor anyone.’
‘I did not know him then.’
‘Whatever …’
Suddenly Stella’s anger died. She was weary, weary. Whatever she did or said, however she felt, her time with Cal was over. This child, how clearly she could read it, had stolen the future. If there had ever been a future. Now she felt only resignation, knew she had been expecting this moment for a long time.
The bastard, she thought again. Waits until he’s dead before he tells me we’re through.
‘Come back to the house,’ she said heavily. ‘Let’s have a cup of coffee or something.’
She thought that Kathryn would refuse; indeed, she said as much, but now Stella did not want to be alone. She persisted and eventually Kathryn stayed. They had coffee together, and sat, and said little, but the fact of being together was a comfort.
Eventually, after they had washed up, Kathryn left. Stella watched her as she crossed the bridge and disappeared down the path towards the town.
Later, she knew, she would weep.
The pilot was conscious; more, he was aware. Panic stained the haggard corners of his mouth.
‘I thought you’d done a runner …’
Cal laughed unconvincingly. ‘I was having a look at what’s on the other side of the ridge.’
‘What’s it like?’ Anxiety flecked Hennie’s lips with spit.
‘Much easier,’ he lied. ‘Get across this lot, it’ll be a doddle. Like you always said.’
‘Great …’ But dully; he did not believe, Cal saw, was willing to pretend only to make Cal happier.
‘A good night’s rest,’ Cal persisted, ‘we’ll be right.’
A rusty creak as Hennie laughed. ‘Going to paint it, are you? All this?’
‘Of course. That’s why we’re here.’
‘We’re here because I fokked up.’
‘It wasn’t you. The storm —’
‘I should have allowed for the storm.’
Now it was almost dark. Cal sensed an ebbing in the prostrate body, a settling into the rock on which it lay.
Out of silence Hennie said, ‘Know something? I’m not hungry at all.’
‘Neither am I.’
In Cal’s case it was not true but, in a conspiracy of lies, it was as good a thing to say as any.
‘How many days is it now?’
It took a surprising effort to work it out.
‘Tomorrow will be the fourth.’
‘The one that kills you. That’s what they say, isn’t it? You can last until then, as long as you’ve got water, but the fourth day finishes you off.’ Again Hennie’s fractured laugh whispered in the darkness. ‘If I live so long.’
Cal felt he
had to act out the ritual of encouragement. ‘No need to talk like that. There’s no magic about the fourth day or the fifth or the sixth. Remember what we said? We said we’d take it one step at a time. Play it like that, we’ll get out okay. You’ll see.’
But Hennie said nothing. The night drew close. It was cold. Cal lay on his back staring up at the stars. A speck of light moved steadily across the darkness; one of the many satellites that cluttered the stratosphere. From up there it would look no more than a few metres, he thought. Half a dozen steps to get us out of this place and back to safety. Pity it doesn’t work like that in practice.
Once again he thought what he would do when they were out of the Ranges. A drink, he thought. I wouldn’t mind that. Half a dozen drinks. Maybe I’ll look up that bastard Tolliver and finish the business we started six months ago. Everyone said I was drunk, but I wasn’t. I was sober and he was drunk, which was why I beat him. All over a girl I barely knew.
There was a man at the other end of the bar. Big, with heavy shoulders and a gut thrusting the counter. Cal watched him absent-mindedly. Face round and flushed beneath a greasy combing of black hair, head like a cannon ball. He’d seen him somewhere before. Been here quite a while, by the look of him. Cal turned back to his beer. Whoever he was, it was none of his business.
He sensed the stir and looked up to see the man shouldering his way aggressively through the crowd towards him, his face black with anger. He stopped a couple of yards away, head lowered between his shoulders.
Carefully, Cal put his beer down, muscles gathering beneath his plaid shirt, making himself ready without being too obvious about it. Maybe the man had mistaken him for someone else.
The first words put paid to that idea. ‘You Cal Jessop?’ A voice like a rusty hinge.
Cal said nothing, watching him carefully. He had three inches on Cal and twice his weight. By the look of him, he’d been in a scrap or two in his time, but so had Cal and he was still sober, whereas the stranger, swaying on his feet, was clearly not.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ the man demanded. ‘I spoke to you, mate.’
‘I don’t know you.’
The answer infuriated the man. ‘You’re a bloody liar.’
On the instant, Donald the barman was there. ‘Take it easy, now. We don’t want no fighting in this pub.’
The man took no notice, eyes fixed on Cal’s face, a tiny, half-crazed smile at one corner of his mouth.
He’s not going to back off, Cal thought. Whoever he is. And felt anger at the sheer stupidity of it. He didn’t need this.
‘Kylie Tolliver,’ the man said. ‘Maybe you remember her?’
Of course he remembered her. A warm day in May, summer lingering into the end of autumn. A girl from the other side of Kidman’s Inlet. They’d gone for a walk on top of the Bushranger. He’d bought her a couple of drinks, run her home in his car. She was young, quite pretty. He’d pulled into a lay-by on the way to her place, kissed her, no more than that, and she’d come on like she’d wanted to rape him. He’d been tempted, of course he had, but she was only a kid, no more than seventeen, and he wasn’t in the cradle-snatching business. He’d run her home and her brother, fifteen years older by the look of him, had been waiting, heavy, round head thrust into the open window of the car as he ordered her out. She got out fast, like she was scared of him, and scurried indoors without a word. The brother had given Cal a slow, measured glance and followed her, also without a word.
This man.
Cal had not set eyes on him before or since. And now this, a belly full of beer, a stack of who knew what resentments piled up inside him.
‘Kylie Tolliver,’ the man repeated. ‘I suppose you never heard of her, either?’
‘I gave her a lift home, couple of months back.’
‘What I hear, it wasn’t all you give her.’
‘I never laid a finger on her.’
‘Not what she told me.’ The man drained his pot, set it down on the counter with a bang. ‘Had your hand up her skirt, she said.’
‘She wasn’t wearing a skirt, what I remember.’
‘Likely not, time you’d finished.’
The other people in the bar had drawn back from them now, not wanting to get involved in the trouble they could all see was coming. The sheer stupidity rekindled Cal’s anger.
‘There’s not a word of truth in any of it,’ he said.
Tolliver straightened slowly. ‘You calling my sister a liar?’
‘We’ll have no brawling in this pub.’ Donald again, voice agitated, but he was too old, too ineffectual, and Tolliver took no notice. Cal made a last attempt to pacify him.
‘I’m not calling your sister anything.’
Tolliver almost caught him. He grabbed the empty glass off the bar, splintered the top against the counter and leapt straight at Cal, broken glass outstretched.
There wasn’t more than six feet between them. Cal never knew how he avoided getting the jagged glass full in his face. He wrenched his head sideways, the heavy body cannoned into him and they went backwards across the room, grappling with each other, the hand holding the glass somewhere behind Cal’s left shoulder.
He had to settle things before this idiot had the chance to change his grip on the glass and do some real damage. He was big, all right, but by the feel of him not in good condition. Cal feinted to one side and felt Tolliver’s weight follow him, straightened and kicked his legs from under him. Tolliver fell on his back with a crash that shook the room. The glass flew from his hand and shattered in a corner. Cal stood over him, fists clenched, but Tolliver was winded and didn’t stir.
Donald was shouting from the other side of the bar. ‘Stop it, the pair of you!’
‘It’s stopped.’
Cal picked up a jug of water from the counter and slopped its contents in Tolliver’s face. He opened his eyes and groaned.
Cal leant over him, putting his face down into his. ‘Get up!’
Tolliver licked heavy lips. He didn’t stir.
‘Have it your way …’
Cal bent, got a grip on the man’s great carcass and hauled him to his feet. He spoke contemptuously into the stupid, stunned face. ‘Next time you fancy waving broken glass around, choose someone a bit older. Someone around eighty. That’s more your mark.’
Tolliver’s expression did not change. ‘I’ll get you, you bastard. I’ll get you. Never you fear. I got friends in these parts. I’ll get you.’
On and on in an imbecilic monotone until Cal’s temper snapped and he clouted him across the face with a blow that nearly took his hand off.
‘Shut your mouth!’
And the same, open-handed, on the other cheek. ‘Come after me with a broken glass again and I’ll kill you.’
Tolliver swayed and would have fallen had Cal not held him up. He yanked open the bar door, half-pushed, half-threw him out into the street and turned back to the silent room in time to see Donald putting down the phone.
One of Tolliver’s mates was prepared to swear that Cal had started it. As for the girl … No-one knew the truth of that. This bloody artist, thinks he’s so damn smart, got a name for trouble where women are concerned. Look at the papers, you don’t believe me.
The cops decided to make something of it and it had ended in court. Some doubt about the evidence saved him. Even so, the magistrate told him he was lucky to have missed a spell in jail.
‘We shall not tolerate violence, do you understand me? The fact that you are a well-known personality only makes things worse. You have a responsibility.’
Yes, sir. No, sir. Of course, sir. Cal froze his feelings, his expression, while Tolliver grinned and grinned.
* * *
Now Cal watched the stars, remembering. It would be nice to sort him out, certainly. Not that he’d make a very good job of it at the moment. Have to get his strength back first. Knew that in any case he would not waste time and energy in fighting. Those days were over, thank God.
Kathryn, he told
the stars. I shall spend my time with Kathryn.
FOURTEEN
The next morning Hennie was alive still, but would not be climbing the iron range at their back, nor any other range.
‘How’s the feet?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
Cal knelt and looked at them. The shoes were wrecked, both soles flapping, the uppers ripped. Above the leather the ankles were puffed and dark. Cal didn’t like the look of them at all.
‘They’re my best shoes,’ Hennie said. ‘Real leather.’
If they’d been canvas runners, they’d have been a better bet.
‘We’d best get them off.’
The previous evening Hennie had refused, indignantly. Now he made little resistance.
‘I’ll never get them on again.’
He spoke half-heartedly, knowing he was going nowhere.
Cal loosened the laces, tried to ease the shoes off. They would not come. He tugged at them.
Hennie screamed. ‘God, Cal!’
‘I’ll have to cut them.’
‘They’re my best shoes …’
As though they would be fit for more than the bin, in any case. Yet even now Cal hesitated. To travel on bare feet was clearly impossible; cutting off Hennie’s shoes would be like handing him a death sentence. No wonder he wanted to hang on to them.
Once again Cal looked at the ominously swollen ankles, the dark shininess that had travelled an inch or two up the flesh of both Hennie’s calves. Made up his mind.
‘No help for it, mate. They got to come off.’
He opened his knife. As delicately as possible, he sliced through the ragged leather, pulled the shoes away.
The stench made him sit back. He could barely believe what he was seeing. Hennie’s feet were twin explosions of agony. Blood, dark as toffee, had solidified over them like a second, burnished skin. Where the dried blood had cracked, the torn flesh showed yellow, with an overall hue of purple and black. It might have been simply the worst bruising he had ever seen but, with sinking heart, Cal knew it was something far more ominous than that. He turned the left foot with feather-light fingers, while Hennie gasped and writhed with contorted face. From toes like charred meat, veins ran in dark and ominous lines to just above the ankle. He looked at the other foot: the same. The stench brought bile to his throat.
