The River Baptists

by Belinda Castles

  He nodded towards the door. She touched the baby’s face again. Is this the right way to do it? she asked herself as she followed him. Should I keep her with me? But even his presence in the doorway of her room had made her throat tight, her heart pound in her chest. Get out of the house, get help, she thought. Get him away from her.

  He walked her out of the living room, onto the verandah and down to the jetty, holding onto her elbow. Her back twinged as she jumped down into the boat. He jumped down after her. His back was to her as he pull-started the motor, but it kicked over first time and he was facing her again before she had time to think through the possibilities. Be ready next time, she thought. Shove him straight over.

  She watched his face as they pulled away from the shore. He was concentrating on the shoreline, the trajectory of the boat. I’ve underestimated him, she thought. Simplified him.

  At least he was putting space between himself and the baby. But he was putting it between her and the baby, too. She would be OK, for a little while. Then she would cry, and someone would hear her. Tom? Was he at the pub? She realised putting her faith in Tom was hopeless. And she remembered suddenly—him sitting there, the brown bottle, the metho, the yellow rags. Oh my God, she thought. Then: keep thinking, keep watching. Find your moment, get back to her.

  Kane didn’t look at her. His face was screwed up into the wind. He kept the boat close to the shore, beneath the dark canopy of the bush, and they hugged the point and made their way up the creek. She watched a train disappear into the tunnel on the opposite shore, twenty metres away. No one would know to look at them. She knew that moment of the train journey so well, had made it a thousand times travelling between the city and her father’s house. Sat at the back of the carriage as the train drilled into the earth; the river, the boats on it, the tiny people down there part of the world you left behind. Could she make a signal? No one would see anything but a wave, if that, now it was almost dark, and it would just make him angry. She scoured the water, casting left and right, as far behind her as she dared, waiting for a sign, watching the water.

  Tom’s phone rang insistently in his kitchen. If you didn’t know where it was, it would take you a while to find it among the dirty cups and plates, the crumpled tea towels, the old newspapers on the bench. Dog barked at the phone, and at Tom, who was within sight of the bit of bench where the phone hid, just outside the screen door, a quarter of a bottle of Jim Beam lolling in his slack hand. The other hand nursed another bottle in his lap. There was a smell of methylated spirits coming from it which had set Dog on edge even before the unanswered phone call. The matches lay neatly on the grey plastic arm of the camping chair—a fresh box of long barbecue sticks, bought especially from the general store at the marina the day before. ‘Well, Dog,’ he slurred. ‘Don’t do anything stupid. Just run like buggery, OK, and don’t worry about your old man.’

  He dropped the Jim Beam bottle on the stone beneath his feet. The smash set Dog off again. Tom picked up the matches. Beautiful things, those long ones. The pale wood, the perfect rounded red tip. He struck it, lit the rag in the bottle, chucked it over his shoulder into the kitchen. He heard the glass break. The river, the insects in the bush fell silent for a moment, then there was a whump as the house burst into flames. Despite the state of him, in spite of everything, he had to fight the urge to move, to run, to shout for help. ‘Garn, Dog,’ he shouted. ‘Bugger off, would ya,’ but Dog yapped incessantly in his face. ‘All right, mate, your choice.’

  He could feel the heat from the house. He would have to go in. Couldn’t be sure he’d pass out from the smoke out here; certainly didn’t want it to happen any other way. Except maybe another explosion when the fire reached the chemicals in the laundry. That might do it. But smoke, that was going to be best, stop him changing his mind. Pulling himself slowly to his feet, he had a strong urge to pee. He was broken, and nothing would fix him. Dog intensified his barking as Tom creaked to his feet. ‘G’bye Dog,’ Tom said. He took a deep breath, peering into the flames in the kitchen. The flue above the oven had caught and was billowing a wild blue fire.

  He heard a cry. For a moment it seemed he was a huge being and the sound was a tiny wail from deep at the centre of him. And still he was torn between wanting to be left alone and wanting to be saved. He hesitated for a moment. It was there again, but it wasn’t a cry that would rescue him; it was a baby. Oh Christ, the baby was home. Danny had said Thursday. That was tomorrow. Still, that was the mother’s problem. Nothing to stop her getting away from the fire, getting out on the water, walking far enough along the shore to get the baby out of danger.

  Now it was that constant waah waah that they did, stopping only to get a lungful. Say she wasn’t there? Or she was asleep? No one seemed to be paying it any attention. ‘Fuck,’ he muttered, and picked through the crap in his yard around to the space between the houses, Dog on his heels. The crying grew louder; no sign of the bird.

  He turned to look at his own house; flames were escaping from the front bedroom window. Behind the house, a tree had caught alight. A thin column of black smoke reached high into the evening sky. Coming round the point of the island was the fire barge. ‘Fuck,’ he said again, and ducked onto her verandah, behind the sheltering trees. The sliding door was open; no sign of her in the lounge room. He went inside. Different to how it used to be. Hadn’t been in here for over thirty years, since the Carmodys had sold Mancini their place and buggered off to grow bananas in Queensland. What a mess they’d left behind them. It was a pretty house now a girl lived there. The crying was coming from somewhere at the back. He walked into the corner of the wall where the corridor began. ‘Bugger,’ he said, holding his head. Dog scampered ahead of him towards Rose’s room. ‘All right, hold on.’

  When he entered the room he saw no one. He stumbled past the double bed to the crib and peered inside. There she was, face red with screaming. He put a finger on her cheek. It looked dirty and old sitting there; you could see the contrast against her pale skin even in the half-light of dusk. ‘Shhh . . .’ he whispered, breathing in close, smelling his own fiery breath. ‘Where’s your mum?’ He placed his hands on either side of the crocheted white blanket she was wrapped in. He couldn’t get over his hands, almost black with dirt and a life outside, creases caked with grease. He could see smudges on the blanket already. He picked her up and cradled her to his chest. ‘We’ll have to worry about her later, mate. Come on.’ She stopped crying as she reached his chest.

  Outside, the barge was pulling up at his jetty. His place was already blackened beyond hope, consumed by reeking fire. He watched Steve unrolling the hose on top of the barge from the dark, hidden verandah, and gave the baby his blackened old finger to clutch. How come I’m still here? he thought, watching her face, her little tongue curling, ready for the next protest. The fire brigade scurried about on the barge in their yellow suits; water rained down on his house. He held the baby to him, felt Dog’s warm dirty fur against his knee. He’d been so close.

  Chapter 21

  As Kane steered the tinny into the creek, out of the open river, Rose tried not to let panic overwhelm her. She had seen no boats out there; the chances were much slimmer that she’d be able to get help on this dark inlet. Should she just throw herself in and swim for it? But she couldn’t outpace a boat, and he was keeping well out from the shore. Even if she got away from him, she’d be stuck in the bush, with a cliff between her and home, or a wide expanse of tidal river to swim, not yet recovered from labour.

  She watched him; he was peering into the darkening bush, looking for something. She saw it before he did, straight lines in the tangle of trees, the corner of a deck, the angle of a tin roof, pale, shining dully. He twitched on the tiller and within seconds the prow hit sand beneath her. Her pulse quickened. Was this the moment? She had to be ready. Better if he provided the chance; less risky than trying to create something. He’s going to have to tie off, she thought. He took hold of her hair. ‘Tie it to a root. Be quick.’
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  She scrambled out of the boat. Her body felt light—she was still adjusting to the absence of baby—but awkward: cumbersome and alien. Her fingers fumbled with the rope in the dark. Where was the root? A weak, unsteady torch beam appeared on the sand in front of her. ‘Come on, Rose,’ he said. She’d always been hopeless with knots, so she wrapped it around the root a few times before tying it and hoped that would satisfy him. No point in tying something she couldn’t undo herself. As soon as she pulled the rope tight he was yanking her upright by her hair and leading her into the trees, turning the torch off as he did so.

  There was a little path; she walked quickly behind him to loosen the tension on her scalp. She could only just make out the forms of the eucalypts. The cicadas were close and loud. She imagined them in her hair. Several times she almost tripped over a root on the sandy path, but he pulled her upright and kept her moving. She was close to him. He smelled acrid, tangy, like he hadn’t showered for days and had been drinking cheap spirits and smoking pot. He pulled her up a rotting staircase onto a gloomy deck. She could make out places where the timber had simply rotted away entirely and large black holes gaped. So this was ‘his place’. She saw a bong made from a fruit juice bottle. Bundaberg and beer empties. A little heap of clothes. A pair of rubber thongs. He let go of her hair and she hovered near the stairs.

  ‘Listen, Kane. I need to know what you’re going to do. The baby needs me. She’ll need feeding very soon.’ She felt the mozzies beginning to bite. The cicadas increased their volume. Her breasts were tingling; the flesh felt like someone was pricking her with tiny needles. He was standing at the balustrade next to her, his foot tapping the rotten floorboards, saying nothing, chewing a finger. Fall through, she thought. And then, where is the knife? Which pocket? ‘You said you wanted to talk. I’m here now. Tell me what you need to tell me.’

  ‘Give me a minute. We’re gonna do this right. I’m gonna talk. You’re gonna listen.’

  ‘OK. We can talk. And then I need to get back to the baby. People will be looking for us soon, when she cries. You know, I won’t say anything, if you take me back now. We’ll just forget it happened. I’ll make something up.’

  He looked at her, almost absentmindedly, then looked away. He seemed to be having trouble concentrating. She let the thought enter her mind: if it’s just sex he wants, I’ve done it before, would it make any difference to do it again? But her stomach turned over sharply at the thought. It would make all the difference in the world. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Don’t move. I’m gonna work out how I want this to go.’

  She backed against the unsteady railings and edged her way down to the floor, keeping as much distance between them as she could, checking beneath her for gaps in the decking. He sat down opposite her, maybe a metre and a half between them, reached for the bong and began to pack the cone from a pouch he pulled from his pocket. ‘We need to relax,’ he said. ‘Can’t think straight if you’re not relaxed, can you.’

  Danny tore across the river on the water taxi towards her house, churning up the water, bouncing over the chop. It was almost dark, but he could see smoke gusting in the high wind across the water from where her house should be. He’d smelled the smoke from the other side. The others had said it must be a burn-off, but he’d had this feeling.

  Smoke obscured a stretch of perhaps five houses on the shore a hundred metres ahead. No way to tell which one it was coming from; perhaps it was all of them. As he approached he saw that the fire crew were still there, on the barge, moving about in the smoke. Above them on the hill the smoke had a red core. Now, this close, he could see which house it was in the fire barge’s beams. Old Tom’s—blackened, ruined, smoking quietly. He let out a long breath, then wondered about Tom. There was no ambulance or police here, just the fire barge. Was he over at the pub as his house floated across the river in a million cinders? Hope you’re insured, mate, he thought, but what were the odds, a bloke like Tom?

  There were no lights on at her place, but he motored towards it quietly. She wasn’t due home yet, but he’d better check she’d cleared out if she was back, give her a lift if she needed one. There were little flares of red in the bush behind the houses. Firemen’d have to get onto it fast to stop it charging up the cliff, in this wind. Walking down the jetty towards the dark house, smoke in his eyes, in his lungs, he thought he saw movement in the shadows on her verandah. ‘G’day, Dan,’ Steve called from over on the barge.

  ‘Tom all right?’ Dan called back.

  ‘Not here, so I guess so. His house is rooted, though. There’s no one over there,’ he gestured to the house. ‘It’s been quiet the whole time.’

  ‘OK. I’ll just double check.’

  Steve lifted a hand in the air and began talking into his radio. Danny heard a strange sound that seemed to come from the verandah, a little snuffle, not quite human-sounding. He stepped onto the first stair quietly, slowly. Why would she still be here? What was she doing? His heart thudded. ‘Rose?’ he whispered, not knowing why he was whispering. There was a low growl, and then Dog had hold of the left leg of his pants, gripping the fabric quietly.

  ‘Shhh, Dog,’ whispered a voice in the shadows. ‘Only Dan.’ Dog continued to growl but dropped his grip.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Shhh,’ he said again. ‘Baby’s asleep.’

  ‘What?’ He stepped onto the verandah and saw that Tom was sitting in the darkness on one of Rose’s wicker chairs, cradling a little bundle. ‘What are you doing?’ he whispered. ‘Where’s Rose?’

  ‘Don’t know, mate. Gone. Bub was crying so I came and got her.’

  ‘What happened to your house?’

  ‘Gone, mate. All gone.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Where is Rose? Why are you sitting here in the dark?’

  ‘Told you. She’s gone. And . . .’ His voice cracked.

  ‘Are you all right, Tom?’ Danny stepped closer. The face in the shadows was dark and old and broken. He took the baby from him, caught the scent of her skin, put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. ‘Why haven’t you told them you’re here?’

  ‘I don’t want them to know.’

  ‘We’ve got to get food for the baby. We need to get her away from the fire. We need to find Rose. What are you doing?’ It was like trying to extract important information from a small child without scaring him. Where’s your mum? Why are you alone?

  ‘I burned my house, didn’t I?’

  ‘Oh Tom. OK. Look, we need to get the baby food. They’re going to know if you started it anyway, sooner or later. We might as well get it over with now.’

  Tom nodded. ‘You won’t tell them . . .’

  ‘We’ve got to tell them something. We’ve got to get help.’ He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice, the rising panic.

  ‘No. I was—meant to be in it. I’m sick, you see. No hope. You won’t tell them that.’

  Danny looked out across the river over the baby’s head. Smoke was billowing from Tom’s place under the fire barge’s hose. The baby was beginning to let out little whimpers. ‘Not if you don’t want me to. You silly old bugger. Come on, we’ve got to go now. We need to find Rose before the baby gets hungry.’

  Danny saw as he helped Tom down the steps that he was frail in a way he’d never noticed before. Even the meanest old buggers got old. Steve was standing on the barge, watching him, hands on hips. ‘What you got there, mate?’

  ‘It’s Tom, with Rose’s baby. She’s not here. We need to get Tom to Alf’s and find Rose.’

  ‘OK, Dan. You want to take the baby to someone and I’ll take Tom? I’ll get one of the guys to have a look around behind the house. I’ll call Alf on the radio.’

  ‘OK.’

  Tom’s head was bowed. Under Danny’s hand, he felt his shoulder tremble. ‘It’s all right, Tom. You’ll be OK. We just need to find Rose. That’s all anyone’s going to worry about tonight. It was an accident.’

  Tom looked into his face. He nodded quickly. ‘That’s right, Dan. It wa
s that bloody grease trap. Should have cleaned it months ago. Shouldn’t keep that metho there, neither. Wouldn’t be told. You’re a good man, Dan. Good son, too, I bet.’

  Ha, Danny thought. Steve was walking over from the shell of Tom’s place towards them. ‘Off you go, Tom,’ Danny said. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  ‘He’s always hated me,’ he muttered, nodding in Steve’s direction.

  ‘He’s a good bloke. He’ll see you right. Listen,’ he said quietly. ‘Tell him the truth, about you being sick. He wouldn’t drop you in it, if he knew.’

  Tom nodded and shuffled away. Danny watched his frail old form disappear in the gusting smoke. As he walked back past Tom’s decimated house he held the baby close against his body, hurrying carefully towards his boat.

  You could never tell what was going to happen with pot. With Rose, it made her go to sleep. With someone like Kane, it might just as easily sharpen him up, galvanise him. He smoked it any time of day, while he was eating breakfast, fishing, whatever. He seemed to use it like other people used coffee. He passed her the bong. ‘No thanks,’ she said. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark. There was a half-moon out. His arm was pale, thin as he held out the little bottle.

  ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘It’ll relax you.’

  Why would I want to relax? she thought. She drew from it as shallowly as she could, keeping it in her mouth for a moment, before breathing it out in his direction. His hand was in his pocket, fiddling with something. The knife? ‘You know, I thought you were the prettiest girl on the river when I came here. Didn’t mind about the kiddie. Why’d you start avoiding me? It’s like you’re embarrassed or something.’

  She heard the complaint in his voice, the injured pride. She handed him back the bong. ‘No, no. I should have talked to you, I know that. I’m just not ready for anything. I’ve had a—complicated time.’ You bloody idiot, Rose, she thought. Why hadn’t she talked to him as soon as it had happened? But there’d never been a need before. Her previous encounters, in the city—on the river, too, with James—were inconsequential. You’d be laughed at if you even bothered to try and let someone down gently afterwards. Or so she’d thought. What damage had she quietly done, without knowing it? She could see the wreckage now: Billie, Kane. Who knew what other litter lay in a trail, quietly strewn behind her? Shame nudged at her, but she resisted it. It would sap her energy to feel too sorry for him. He had kidnapped her. She would find out why; she would give him a chance to back away from the edge he’d pushed them towards. The pot was distracting her, taking her wandering off the path she needed to stay on. A mosquito bit her and she slapped it.