‘You probably can’t. It’s connected to a video. They’ve got a stack of movies over there. I watched one.’
‘Jesus. What was it?’
‘Pale Rider. It’s a Clint Eastwood western. That’s all they’ve got, westerns and martial arts movies. It wasn’t very good.’
‘And what’s the rest of the house like?’
‘Their bedroom’s nice. They’ve got a great big bed with a mosquito net canopy.’
‘You went into their bedroom?’
‘I just had a look.’
It didn’t matter. Videos. Why hadn’t Vince thought of that? Why hadn’t we? I went back outside, looked across at Russel and Eve’s house. This was cruel. A television, movies, so close. I wrestled with temptation. Did privacy really matter? I had no interest in the martial arts films, but westerns, they weren’t so bad. I walked down the stairs. I could at least go and see what titles they had, there was no harm in that . . .
There was a noise in the air. I looked up and saw the supply plane coming in on its loop. It was a white cross in the sky, the hand of God, a sign. Stay away from the video, it said.
I did what I was told. I walked over to the Toyota, drove out to the strip.
It was a happy time. Fresh food. Letters. Three full cartons of beer, the bourbon, and the wine. Wayne and I settled into the night’s indulgence. It was always the same. Whatever petty arguments we’d had through the week, they vanished with the first drink on Friday night. Alcohol solved everything. Indeed, the arguments only ever came on Wednesdays or Thursdays, when the alcohol was gone.
We drank. It was a fine night on the back verandah, cloudless, the sky alive with stars. Beer after beer went down. Dinner came and went. The 9 p.m. observation came and went. We had nothing more to do for six hours. Cape Don was all ours, we were Lords. Wayne rolled a couple of joints and we switched to bourbon. The world fell away as it always did. Details became imprecise, concepts vaster. A need for action seized me.
‘We have to do something,’ I said.
‘Like what.’
‘Let’s go for a drive.’
Wayne looked at me. ‘I thought the vehicle was for national park use only. Or if we had an emergency.’
‘I think we qualify for both.’
We stumbled out to the Toyota. We looked up at the lighthouse, the beam sweeping eternally, and discussed the idea of climbing it. A drive seemed better. There was nothing to see up there anyway. We got in. I was behind the wheel. In Brisbane I never drove this drunk. It wasn’t so much that I respected the danger of it, it was because I valued my licence.
This was Cape Don, however. I gunned the engine and took off, fishtailing. We roared down the hill. Wayne had brought the bourbon and coke and the glasses. He poured me a drink. I guzzled it down and weaved my way along the track. Trees flashed by on either side.
I kept the speed up. On one corner we swung wide and careened through the scrub. The Toyota was fitted with a large bullbar. Bushes and small trees vanished beneath it. Power. We were immune. I swung off the road again deliberately. We thumped and crashed through the greenery, dodging the large trees. It was wonderful. This was what we needed. We’d been sitting still far too long.
Then we hit the airfield. Now it was time for the serious driving. I cruised out onto the strip. We were down one end. How long was it? Five hundred metres? A thousand? The important question was to what speed could I get the Toyota before we hit the end of it. I flattened the accelerator, worked through the gears. Wayne was out the window, yelling something into the wind. Red gravel streamed away under the headlights. Through a hundred, up to one hundred and ten, one twenty, one thirty.
‘I can see the end,’ Wayne cried.
I looked ahead. Trees showed up in the dim lengths of the headlights. The end of the strip. Was I on high beam or low? How much room did I have? The speedometer was still climbing. One forty-five. Not so fast in Grand Prix terms, but in an old Toyota on a lonely, drunken night on an airstrip, fast enough. I slammed down on the brakes, locked them instantly. Wayne was thrown against the dash. The Toyota skidded in a long, straight path. We stopped a good fifty yards short of the trees. Red dust billowed past us. Wayne threw himself back.
‘My turn.’
We swapped over. I took charge of pouring the drinks. Wayne U-turned and we were gunning down the strip again.
‘I got to one forty-five,’ I said, ‘And stopped within fifty yards of the trees.’
Wayne was hunched over the wheel. ‘I can beat it.’
We roared along. I hung out the window, let the dry air rip at my face. There were things, possibly, to think about. A crash. Death. Injury. None of them mattered. The trees loomed. Wayne screamed ‘One fifty!’ and hit the brakes. Again, the long, perfectly straight slide. A ton or so of metal out of control. The slightest swerve either way and the Toyota, high set and top heavy, would be cartwheeling. We stopped. We were closer, it seemed, to the trees than last time.
‘My turn,’ I said.
We kept at it for what seemed like hours. We couldn’t beat one fifty and we didn’t hit the trees. Eventually we got bored with straight up and down speed. We reverted to fishtailing and circling and doing figure eights. The fine gravel of the airstrip was perfect. Neither of us had ever done anything like it before. We were possessed, we were country yokels. The Toyota leaned and tilted and two wheels were intermittently airborne, but we didn’t roll. It had nothing to do with skill. Only with luck, and with the fact that over a short distance the Toyota was anything but fast.
Finally we packed it in. The bourbon was long gone and we couldn’t think of anything else to put the vehicle through. We headed home. Wayne was at the wheel. He followed my example, curling off the track to destroy saplings and bushes and anything else that the bullbar could crush. Back at the compound he executed one long last slide that brought the Toyota up against the front steps of our house. There was a slight bump of contact, then he cut the engine. We piled out, staggered inside and got ourselves fresh beers. We hit the back verandah.
We stopped. There was a vision there, out on the ocean. A blaze of lights. It was close in, dazzling and huge, like a floating circus. It took us some time to realise what it was—a cruise ship, passing along the coast. It was beautiful, a visitation from the Gods. People were out there, only a mile away. Dancing and drinking and fucking, hundreds of them, thousands. I could hear music, I was sure of it. Laughter.
Wayne and I sat there. Our night was suddenly worthless. We watched the ship, loathing it, envying it. Finally it disappeared around the headland. We started on the beer again. It wasn’t the same.
I was on the three a.m. observation. At two forty-five I headed over to the shack. I was in a sour mood. Fuck the cruise ship. What sort of arseholes went on cruises anyway. I picked up the mike, hit the call button and yelled ‘Cape Don calling. Barometric pressure, 966. Cloud cover total. Maximum wind gust, 350. We’re on lifelines here. The house is gone. The ranger is gone. It’s a fucking cyclone!’
There was only static, as always. I took the pen, the field-book and the torch, and headed out into the night.
TWENTY-TWO
I woke up worried. It was twelve-thirty. I’d missed the 9 a.m. observation. It wasn’t the observation I was worried about. Once the worst of the hangover had been dealt with, I examined the Toyota. There were branches and leaves caught in the bullbar, and in the grill. I pulled them out. There was also a sizeable dint at the bottom of the bar. I tried to remember. Had it been there before? And if it was new would Vince notice? Damage to national park property. Would he care?
I began wondering about other damage we might’ve done—to the bush alongside the track. I had dim memories of the Toyota barging through the scrub, unstoppable. I got in and drove slowly down the hill. I came across a clear set of tracks, verging into the trees. There were saplings snapped in half, flattened ferns, tyre marks in the undergrowth. The carnage was repeated all the way out to the airstrip, on both sides of the road. Damage to
national park property, damage to the national park itself.
Then I saw the strip. All up and down the red gravel expanse there were stark, white skid marks. Some of them, maybe, were made by the planes when they landed—not the circular ones though, or the figure eights, or the dozens of long, straight slashes at either end. Vince would fly in and he’d look down at the strip and he’d see. He’d know.
I drove home and sat on the back verandah. The deck was littered with beer cans and cigarette butts. There were the plates from our dinner, swarming with ants. Underneath the verandah there was already a pile of older cans and bottles. We’d let them drop through the holes rather than clean them away. I felt tired and disgusted. The man with the clipboard was right, we were living like pigs.
A little later I heard Wayne get up and start clattering around the house. I waited for him to come out on the verandah. He didn’t. Instead I heard the Toyota starting. By the time I got out front it was disappearing down the hill. Where would he be going? To review effects of the night, as I had? It didn’t seem likely. I might be concerned, but I doubted Wayne would be.
Eventually it was time for my 3 p.m. observation. I went over and examined the field-book. Wayne hadn’t made the 6 a.m. or the midday. We had a twelve-hour gap in the weather. Darwin, along with everyone else, would not be pleased.
Wayne wasn’t back by evening. I did his 6 p.m. observation and waited. Still no Wayne, even by seven. I sat on the back verandah and sipped on beer. What if he never came back? What if he’d been eaten by crocodiles? Then there were footsteps on the front stairs. There’d been no sound of the Toyota pulling up. Wayne came out to the verandah. He was red-faced and panting.
‘Where have you been?’ I said, ‘Where’s the car?’
He gulped for air. ‘I crashed it.’
Jesus Christ. ‘What?!’
‘It’s not that bad. It’s just in a swamp. It’s bogged.’
‘What the fuck did you do to it?’
‘Hang on, I’m exhausted. Give me a minute.’ He went off, got some water, flopped into a chair. ‘I’ve been walking for hours.’
‘Wayne, where is the car?’
‘Miles away. Out at the inlet, you know, where we met Russel and Eve during the cyclone.’
‘What the hell were you doing out there?’
‘Nothing. I just thought I’d go for a drive. You went for one this morning, so why couldn’t I?’
‘But out there?’
‘It’s nice.’
‘Nice? What happened?’
‘I’d almost made it. I could see the beach. Then I sort of went off the road.’
‘Off the road?’
‘Uh-huh. Down an embankment. I hit a tree. In a swamp. A mangrove swamp.’
‘My God.’
‘There really isn’t much damage.’
‘Were you in four-wheel drive?’
‘I forgot. I wondered why the thing was sliding around so much.’
‘Well did you at least try four-wheel drive to get out?’
‘Yeah. I’m not stupid. But the wheels just spun. It’s really muddy. Then it was getting dark. I wasn’t gonna hang around in the mangroves at night. There’d be crocs everywhere. So I started walking home. It nearly killed me. I had no water, nothing.’
‘So it’s just sitting there, in the swamp.’
‘Hey, you don’t know what it’s like out there at night. It’s pitch-black, and there’s all these noises. I didn’t know whether it was crocs or pigs or buffalo or what. I had to run the last mile or two.’
I watched him swill down the water. I had no sympathy for him. This was all we needed.
I said, ‘Well what’re we supposed to do now?’
‘I dunno. But I was thinking about it on the way back. How high does the tide come up over there?’
The tide.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Something had to be done. Fast. The first thing I thought of was the other vehicle, out in the shed. I went and looked at it. Its hood was up and the engine was still in pieces. There was nothing else but the ride-on mower they used around the compound. It might make it as far as the airstrip, but no further. It could hardly free the Toyota, in any case.
I went back to Wayne.
‘We’ll have to walk back there. Maybe the two of us can get it out.’
‘Tonight? You’re kidding.’
‘We have to. What if it floods.’
‘Maybe it won’t. Anyway, it can’t float away. It’s stuck on the tree. We can get it tomorrow. I need a beer.’
I watched him go to the fridge. He was incredible. I reined my temper in, thought. He was right, of course. There was no real point in going over there that night. We’d be fucking around in the dark, in the mud, maybe even in water. And there might really be crocodiles. The morning would have to do. Vince was due back in two days. That gave us just tomorrow to sort the mess out.
I brooded over the details. Wayne took his beer and went off to the studio. His stereo boomed out. Obviously he wasn’t worried. Life with Wayne. It was getting to me. I’d never considered myself a tense person, but he was driving me there.
I went to bed around midnight. I was up again by eight-thirty. At nine I was sitting on the front steps with a few bottles of water for the walk. Wayne was over doing the observation. As soon as he was finished, we’d be off. I wasn’t sure what the two of us could do with the Toyota that Wayne hadn’t already done, but there might be something he’d missed. Maybe there was some wood around we could put under the wheels. Maybe he hadn’t tried reverse.
Then there was a high drone coming from the east, and moments later the twin-engine Commission plane was doing the circle of the compound. I watched it, appalled. They were a day early. It flew off towards the airstrip. There was nothing I could do but watch it go. Vince would be left waiting there. Sooner or later he’d realise we weren’t coming to get him and he’d start walking.
Wayne came across from the weather shack.
‘Was that the plane?’ he asked.
‘Yep.’
‘Shit.’
‘We better start walking.’
‘Why? We can’t get to the car now.’
‘We can at least meet Vince halfway. Then the three of us can turn around and go back for the Toyota.’
‘Oh . . . ‘
‘And you can tell him what happened.’
We set off. It was another warm, bright, perfect day. The bush was green and alive. I was in no mood to enjoy it. I was looking at all the damage again. We’d been left alone not even three days. In that time we’d levelled half the native forest, torn up the airstrip and lost the Toyota in a swamp. So much for proving ourselves trustworthy.
We met Vince somewhere around the halfway point. He was still in his full ranger uniform, sweat gathered at the armpits, breathing hard. He was no fitter than Wayne or I, and a lot older.
‘Where’s the transport?’ he said.
Wayne explained. At least the shit would fall on his head, not mine. Vince listened. He wasn’t happy. He turned to me.
‘Why’d you let him go? I told you that vehicle was only for park business.’
‘Me? I didn’t know what he was doing.’
He pointed at Wayne, kept his eyes on me. ‘I already had a fair idea what sort of idiot he is, but you, Gordon, you were supposed to watch things.’
I didn’t reply. This wasn’t at all fair.
‘Anything else I should know about?’ he asked.
‘No.’
He shook his head. ‘Well, let’s get back to the house.’
‘Shouldn’t we keep going to the Toyota. While we’re here?’
‘Fuck that. I’m not gonna walk over there in this heat.’
He started off. We trailed along behind him. If he’d noticed the slashes on the airstrip, or the tracks trampling the bush, he didn’t mention them. That was something at least. Maybe things weren’t as bad as I’d thought. What, after all, were a few skid marks and some be
nt foliage? And we might’ve lost the Toyota, but we hadn’t burnt a house down or anything. Cape Don was still there. The generators were running fine, and we’d fed the dog.
We got back to the compound, went with Vince into his house. One of the smaller bedrooms had been converted into an office, and there was another two-way radio on the desk. It was smaller than the one in the weather shack. Vince informed us that it was for purely local use—for calling Black Point, or Araru, on park business. This time he called up Araru. After he’d given their call sign a few times a heavy, Aboriginal voice answered. Vince asked for Russel, waited.
‘Russel’ll take care of it,’ he said to us. ‘Him and a few of the boys can boat over to the inlet a lot easier than we can walk there. Five or six of them should be enough to get the Toyota out. Then Russel can drive it back here.’
‘That’s that then?’
‘Not quite. If I ever leave you two here again you only use that vehicle to pick up passengers at the airstrip, nothing else.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Keep off the fucking airstrip, and keep on the track. God knows what the others thought when they saw what you’d done to the runway. This is a national park, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s my own fault. I should never’ve left you two here alone. Russel should’ve been around. I should have another assistant ranger. I should have a boat. Fuck, I shouldn’t even be here . . . ‘
Then Russel was on the air. Wayne and I left Vince to it and crawled home.
TWENTY-THREE
The Toyota returned mid-afternoon the next day. And with it Russel, Eve, and about another dozen people. Men, women, kids, all jammed in. I was sitting on the steps as they came laughing and hooting up the hill. They unloaded themselves into Eve and Russel’s house, then Russel drove the Toyota across to Vince’s. The two of them inspected it. I couldn’t see any obvious damage, but they spent some time studying the front wheels. I decided not to join them. I went back into my room to read.
A while later I heard Kevin barking on our verandah. Wayne and I went out. Russel and Vince were there at the foot of the steps, with four other Aboriginal men. Kevin was doing his best to block their way.
1988 Page 14
