The Reach

by B. Michael Radburn

Taylor opened a minimised Herald story, the picture showing the exposed ribcage of a boat protruding from the riverbank. The headline read: Bodies found in ship graveyard.

  ‘The story corresponds with the police brief I was sent,’ he said. ‘Bodies placed beside each other, several months apart. Any further details will be offered if I take the job.’

  ‘This is becoming a regular event,’ she pointed out. ‘You thinking of changing careers?’

  ‘It’s not a change,’ he said. ‘It’s a … variation.’

  ‘Last time you went for this variation, you let that murderer in Eldritch Falls get pretty close. Are you up for that kind of thing again?’

  He clenched his teeth, trying to mask his frustration. ‘Brian’s daughter could have been that monster’s next victim, Maggie. This isn’t the same. I don’t have any stakes in this case, emotional or otherwise.’

  ‘Not yet,’ offered Maggie.

  He switched the computer off and turned to her. ‘Three dead men in a buried boat,’ he said. ‘I’m intrigued, aren’t you?’

  ‘Sure, but not enough to leave my family for weeks.’

  ‘It’ll be a few days, tops. There’s no guarantee I can help, it just depends what the police want from me.’

  She smiled and kissed his cheek. ‘Like I said. You’ve already made up your mind.’ Then her face became sober. ‘Same deal as before,’ she said.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Family first,’ she said. ‘If things get too hot, you walk away.’ She took his hand and guided him out into the hall. ‘And when it’s done, leave it out there.’

  Taylor stopped and slipped his arms around her waist. She resisted but only for a moment before they kissed.

  ‘I’m serious,’ Maggie said, pulling away. She gently tapped his forehead. ‘Don’t bring it home.’

  ‘Daddy?’

  The call came from Erin’s room, and Taylor felt Maggie draw away further.

  ‘Go tuck your daughter in,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ll make some coffee. Maybe start the fire. It’s getting cold.’

  ‘Daddy?’

  ‘Coming, sweetheart.’

  Erin was sitting up, hugging her brown teddy bear, Smiley, the lamp casting soft light across them both. She rubbed her eyes.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Can I have some milk?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll warm some up for you.’ He guided her back between the blankets and tucked Smiley in beside her. She rolled over and held the bear close with a contented sigh.

  Taylor stood to leave.

  ‘Daddy?’

  Her eyes were closed, her breathing light and steady.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Can a person be born bad? Or do you have to learn how to be bad?’

  Taylor struggled to reply. ‘That’s a strange question,’ he managed. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘No reason.’ She yawned deeply. ‘Claire said that you need to be careful.’

  Taylor felt the usual wave of grief at hearing Claire’s name, more intensely when it came from Erin’s lips. ‘Careful?’ He stroked her silken cheek. ‘Careful of what?’

  But she was asleep and didn’t reply.

  2

  Taylor could feel traveller’s fatigue setting in after the morning’s journey. The red-eye out of Tullamarine and the two-hour drive from Sydney to the ferry crossing outside Devlins Reach had taken their toll. He felt as if he had already done a day’s work as he pulled the white Camry rental up at the stop sign. The ferry was halfway across the river, inching closer, leaning slightly under the weight of the two logging trucks on board. Taylor stepped out of the rental with a mild groan and scanned the road. He was the only one waiting.

  The noonday sun, warm on his face, cast few shadows, stark in a clear blue sky. There was no wind, just the steady drum of the winch and the gentle lapping of water on the concrete ramp. He could smell burned diesel in the air as the ferry approached, its exhaust plume dark, cascading to the deck and dispersing across the water in elusive rainbow swirls.

  Taylor, feeling a craving for caffeine, licked his lips and returned to his car as the ferry’s hull milled against the concrete ramp and its winch motor condensed to a dull idle. A small-statured man wearing oversized blue overalls and a weathered canvas hat limped out of the cab, his eyes in a perpetual squint from too many days on the river. The trucks started their engines as the ferryman opened the gates and looped a rope tether around the roadside bollard. He tipped his hat as the last semi left, and the ferry lifted out of the water, free of their weight. Pointing at Taylor, he waved him on board.

  The Camry bottomed out on the ramp with a crunch. Glad it’s a rental, Taylor thought. The ferryman guided him into the centre of the deck, then made a cutthroat sign with his hand. Taylor killed the engine and watched through the rear-view mirror as the little man untethered the rope. He sat for a moment, considering the papers scattered over the passenger seat; the top sheet was a Bureau of Meteorology radar image showing the deep reds and purples of a dense weather front moving down from the north. He looked out at the blue sky, realising its splendour would be short-lived.

  Taylor gathered up the papers and slipped them into his shoulder bag, then tucked it into the footwell. He stepped onto the deck as the ferryman ambled past the car.

  ‘Hello,’ Taylor greeted him. ‘Beautiful day.’

  The ferryman nodded and grinned as he closed the gates. He had a missing front tooth, and looked to be in his early forties. ‘That it is,’ he replied as he shuffled to the winch house and pushed the throttle, with a plume of acrid exhaust smoke.

  Taylor propped himself against the Camry, content to be outside, somewhere new, although the western high ground was not unlike the hinterlands that bordered his home in Victoria, and he felt every mile between him and his family. The hills and mountains in the distance were a patchwork of ironbark and pine forest, the riverbank lined with she-oaks. Beyond them, downstream, a clock tower peaked above the tree canopy, and there was a scattering of houses on the escarpment, their chimneys wisping white smoke into the clear skies. Has to be Devlins Reach, he thought.

  ‘You’re a long way from home.’

  The comment startled Taylor – he didn’t need the reminder right now. The ferryman, standing beside him, tapped the Parks Victoria patch on Taylor’s shoulder. He took off his hat, revealing cropped hair and tanned scalp, and folded it into his pants pocket. With a raspy cough, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pouch of Drum tobacco.

  ‘I’m doing some work with Parks and Wildlife across the way,’ Taylor said.

  Chin down, the ferryman focused on rolling his cigarette. ‘That work got anything to do with those bodies they found in the boats?’

  There was a hint of a Scottish accent in his speech, surfacing with the odd upward inflection. Taylor wasn’t surprised by how much he knew. The smaller the town, the faster news travelled.

  ‘Yeah.’ Taylor watched the ferry inch across the deeper, darker waters. ‘I suppose the whole town knows about it by now.’

  ‘Uh-huh … It was my boys who found them.’

  ‘That so?’ He gestured with a nod to the clock tower downstream. ‘I suppose the place is crawling with cops by now.’

  The ferryman licked the edge of the cigarette paper and rolled a near-perfect cylinder. Taylor noticed how small his hands were, almost petite, but hardened from years on the ropes.

  ‘Nope.’ The man lit the cigarette and drew on it deeply, skimming ash off the tip with a flick of his little finger. ‘There’s a constable on loan from Windsor and a detective from the city.’ He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I expect more will follow, though.’

  Taylor frowned. One inspector was playing it lean, but then, if the bodies had been there as long as they seemed to have, the forensic trail would be cold. ‘What about your local police?’

  The ferryman laughed, which progressed into a wet smoker’s cough. He recovered, spa
t over the side. ‘The Reach hasn’t had a policeman since 1989.’ He drew in another lungful of smoke. ‘Policing is handled from outside. But you’re dealing with loggers here, and they tend to sort out their differences long before the cops can get involved.’

  Taylor waved the rich smoke from his face and noticed the ferryman wince as he rubbed his right knee. ‘How did you hurt your leg?’ he asked.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,’ the ferryman replied.

  Taylor shrugged. ‘Try me.’

  ‘Afghanistan.’

  Taylor felt a twinge of guilt about his flippant question. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It must have been tough over there.’ He held his hand out to shake. ‘Thank you for your service.’

  The ferryman looked at Taylor’s outstretched hand, chuckled, and pressed his tongue between his wet lips. The chuckle again turned into a horrid cough. ‘Put it away. I wasn’t in the war; I hurt my leg protesting.’

  Taylor frowned. ‘Okay … So, what’s not to believe? You fall over? Roughed up by the police?’

  The ferryman took a minute before replying. ‘My twin brother,’ he said, ‘was over there fighting while I was protesting in Macquarie Street. He was a career soldier, a lieutenant. We were on different sides of that line, you see, but I loved him nevertheless. Then, in the middle of a rally, at the stroke of noon, I felt a tremendous pain in my right knee and fell to the ground. Doctors couldn’t find anything wrong, and I’ve been living with the pain ever since.’

  ‘That is strange,’ offered Taylor.

  ‘Damn right. Turns out my brother lost his right leg stepping on a mine that very same moment. He later died of complications.’

  An uncomfortable silence fell between them.

  ‘I said you wouldn’t believe me.’ The ferryman turned and limped away.

  Taylor watched him step up into the winch house, and noticed the long, slender knife and leather sheath hanging from his wide belt. ‘Pig sticker’, the hunters called them. He shook his head in mild amusement. What does a ferryman need with a knife like that?

  The diesel slowed as the west bank drew closer. Another logging truck was idling at the ramp. Taylor stepped back inside the Camry and waited for the gates to open. He waved as the ferryman tipped his hat, stumpy cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, then glanced in the mirror one last time, a small knot cramping in his gut. For the briefest of moments, he wanted to turn the car around and drive through the night back to Maggie and Erin – to home.

  *

  There was still a lot of working day ahead of him, and Taylor was keen to meet with the ranger, James Barlow, before touching base with the police. The marina service station lay opposite the ferry ramp; two boys sitting on a bench watched Taylor drive by. At the intersection was a sign for the national park gates; on the right, another for Big River Logging. He turned left. The sealed road climbed through a forest of ironbark trees but deteriorated to a dirt track two kilometres from the town where it hugged the surrounding hills as it flanked the western side of Devlins Reach below. Taylor noticed the tributary that cut through the hills, craning to see if he could make out the clearing where the riverboats were buried. Then he saw the park gates ahead.

  A wrought-iron portal arched between two sandstone columns, Dharug National Park incorporated in its design. History was present in every moss-covered stone and rust-pitted swirl of iron. A timber gatehouse, with the Parks and Wildlife lyrebird emblem below the ticket windows, divided the road. He pulled up next to it and saw a handwritten note taped to the glass.

  Back in 30 minutes – please proceed to the

  Ranger Cottage to pay entry fee.

  Taylor wondered how well the honour system worked out here, but then, he hadn’t seen another car since leaving the ferry. The cottage was to the left of the gates, surrounded by shoulder-high grass trees. He turned into a gravel clearing beside the front porch, and stopped next to a Parks Land Rover. When he stepped out of the car, a brush turkey peered out from behind the nearest grass tree and trotted away into the bush. Taylor paused. The building was familiar, and he didn’t have to dig too deep to recognise why. It was in a similar cottage in the Tasmanian wilderness that his life had changed forever.

  He thought of those tree roots and their pathway to his memories. It’s never far away. It was like someone whispering in his ear.

  A crow cawed in the trees and he shook off the sensation like cold water from warm skin. He stepped up onto the porch and knocked on the frame of the propped-open door. Inside was a Formica-topped counter with a chorus line of mismatched chairs fringing the walls. The musty scent of rising damp met him as he stepped up to the bench. It was as if the place had just been opened after years of closure.

  Old photos beneath grimy glass covered the walls. They were of sepia men in three-piece suits and women dressed neck to toe playing croquet and archery on the river banks while overdressed children floundered in canoes and splashed in the shallows. The images were not of this time, but definitely of this place. Several dog-eared copies of National Geographic were scattered beside a guest register, a pair of glasses with thin black rims folded on the cover. Beside them was a tarnished brass bell.

  Taylor returned his attention to the glasses, which were in a similar style to Maggie’s. He palmed the bell. ‘Hello?’ he called. ‘Anyone home back there?’ The sound echoed off the stone walls.

  He heard a shuffle of furniture before a petite blond woman stepped into the counter area, a half-eaten sandwich in hand. She paused, staring at him stony-faced for a moment, then shifted to a more cheerful expression, which seemed almost forced.

  Taylor nodded a greeting. ‘Could you let James Barlow know I’m here?’ he said. ‘I’m Taylor Bridges from Parks Victoria.’ He watched her swallow the last portion of her sandwich. ‘He’s expecting me.’

  She suddenly looked annoyed.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Taylor asked.

  ‘I should be used to it by now,’ she said. ‘I’m Ranger Barlow … Jaimie Barlow.’

  ‘Oh shit.’ Taylor flushed slightly, confused by the memory of the James Barlow he’d seen on the Parks website. ‘Sorry. Must have been a typo in my instructions.’

  ‘No typo,’ she said, now smiling warmly. ‘There is a James Barlow in the service, but I’m not him … obviously. I get his emails sent to me by mistake all the time. Thanks for coming, Mr Bridges.’ She gestured around the cabin. ‘Welcome to our park.’

  ‘Please, call me Taylor.’ He scanned the reception room and the office beyond. ‘Pretty quiet posting you’ve got here.’

  She followed his gaze. ‘We don’t get much traffic here at the southern gate. Most visitors enter through Wisemans Ferry, further west. That’s where a lot of hikers pick up the convict-built Old Great North Road walk. The rangers rotate through here monthly.’ She waved her hand dismissively. ‘I don’t mind the solitude. Would you like to rest up, or head straight out to the crime scene?’ she asked, glancing at her watch. ‘Detective Everett is out there now, if you’d like to touch base.’

  He checked his own watch. As tired as he was from the travelling, every minute was another minute away from Maggie and Erin. ‘There’s plenty of daylight left,’ he said. ‘Let’s get started.’

  ‘Not a problem.’ She stepped through the counter barrier, then doubled back for the glasses lying on the guest register. ‘Can’t see a thing without them,’ she added, and slipped them on.

  Taylor let her lead the way. ‘My wife has a similar pair,’ he told her.

  ‘She has good taste,’ Jaimie said. ‘Come on, we’ll take my Land Rover.’

  3

  The khaki Parks Land Rover rattled loudly across the dirt trail until it reached the river road’s tarmac. It was a late model, every clattering panel testament to its hard years. They drove past the marina service station, its Caltex light blinking due to a faulty neon tube. Opposite was the boat ramp, where the ferryman sat on the vehicle deck, waiting for custom. He was cleani
ng his fingernails with the tip of a knife, and peeked up at the sound of their car and tipped his faded canvas hat as they passed. Taylor nodded his recognition.

  ‘I see you’ve met our Carl,’ said Jaimie.

  ‘Yeah.’ Taylor recalled the story about the ferryman’s brother. ‘Quite a character.’

  ‘He tell you about his limp?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Taylor chuckled. ‘You believe him?’

  ‘It’s a great story,’ she said. ‘I’d like to think it’s true. I hear that twins can sometimes feel each other’s pain and emotions. Makes you think, huh?’

  ‘That it does.’

  They approached a sign: WELCOME TO DEVLINS REACH – GATEWAY TO THE HAWKESBURY painted over an abstract image of peaked mountains spliced by a curling river. Below it, POPULATION 320. Taylor smiled when he read the graffiti sprayed in the corner.

  They drove through the town, a hamlet of tired timber buildings with peeling paint and dusty windows. Taylor noticed a flood-level indicator beside the road and saw that a marker on the eight-metre line read: 1988 flood level. They turned left, where a parched concrete fountain stood in the town square. A two-storey red-brick building cast its shadow, Council Chambers set in cement above the arched entrance. Long since closed, its dust-caked windows stared blindly into the square, like the cataract-afflicted eyes of a weary old man. It wasn’t lost on Taylor that the chamber’s clock tower was fixed on ten o’clock. Just like the clock, Devlins Reach appeared fixed somewhere in the past.

  The Royal Hotel was another two-storey building. It looked just as old, but more frequented. The Royal overlooked the levee bank and river across the road, and had mounted on the wall by the front steps a similar flood-level indicator. Several utilities and an empty logging truck were parked out front. The building’s weatherboard cladding appeared to be freshly painted in light grey and burgundy trim, but its new coat could not mask its ramshackle condition.

  ‘It’s quiet,’ observed Taylor.

  Jaimie smirked. ‘Oh, it’ll liven up tonight,’ she said. ‘The pub is the town’s social hub – if you call getting drunk and fighting over a football score a social activity.’ She then pointed to a café two doors down as they passed it. ‘That, and Heather’s coffee shop … You can get a great meal there if you don’t fancy the pub’s counter meals.’