Most times we let them all go.
Sometimes, when Mum was at work at night, Craig and Mick and I would go out in the truck to shoot roos. Craig told me not to tell Mum. He knew she hated guns. I hated spotlighting. Hated the crack of the gun as it rang out into the night. Hated Craig’s shout of joy when a roo hit the dirt dead or, worse, just wounded. Mick hated the roos. He said they ate the crops and ruined the land. Craig agreed, but I could tell he just liked hunting them down. I only went spotlighting a few times until I started having nightmares and Mum found out where I’d been going. Her and Craig had a fight that lasted from the machinery shed all the way to the front gate. Mick and I heard every word as I tried to sound out my reader words in the kitchen.
Mum hated working on a Saturday night, but apart from that she liked her job at the pub. Sometimes Craig would take me into the dining room and we’d have dinner. My shoes would catch on the carpets which were sticky from spilled alcohol and tomato sauce from counter meals. I never got used to the sour smell of beer. The ceilings were high and there was panelling on the wall. The inside of the pub was dark, even during the day. The only brightness came from the juke box in the corner that was lit up like the carousel at the zoo and a large TV screen in the corner of the public bar so the drinkers could watch the races or the footy. Sometimes I’d sit on a stool at the bar and sip my raspberry drink while I watched Mum wiping down or pouring drinks or ringing up the money in the till. Everyone seemed to like her. They’d call out a joke or a passing hello as she wiped and poured and jingled change back into their hands.
There was one guy named Jock, a friend of Craig’s, who always gave Mum a tip. He said things to her that made her embarrassed, I could tell by the way she ducked her head, but he seemed friendly enough and Mum said it was just harmless fun. I could see that Craig didn’t like it, though. He sat quietly, his eyes narrowing into slits as Jock joked and laughed and pressed extra cash into Mum’s hand.
Then one Saturday night, after the end of footy season, Craig and Jock and another guy called Millsy decided to go spotlighting. Craig said I could go with them if I didn’t tell Mum, but I didn’t want to. Instead I stayed home with Mick, who sat in his favourite brown leather chair, and we watched a war movie that was really boring. It was so boring that I fell asleep in front of the gas heater.
I woke up to the slam of Craig’s truck door outside and the murmuring of voices. Then somebody used the phone just outside the lounge room door. Mick’s chair was empty. I stood up and looked out the window through the gap where the lace curtains didn’t quite fit across the window frame. Craig’s truck was spotlighted in the pinkness of the carport fluorescent light. Millsy and Mick seemed to be fussing around Jock who was half-sitting, half-lying on the back seat. But Craig wasn’t paying Jock any attention. Instead he was sloshing water against the car door as if cleaning his car in the middle of the night was a normal thing to do. He knew I was watching, even before he turned around to look at me peering through the window. When Mick came inside later, I was curled up in front of the heater, my heart still racing like I’d just run a 50 metre sprint. The truck started up again. I heard it go through its gear changes all the way up the drive then stop and idle while someone opened the gate. Then it moved forward again. It didn’t stop, so the driveway gate must have been left open. I was thinking that Mick would be mad, that there was a chance some of the stock would get out. Then the next thing I knew I was awake in my bed and it was morning.
I never saw Jock again. Mum and I left the farm soon after that. I never asked about what happened that night.
36
Christmas Eve
The cemetery was another couple of kays away from Mick’s farm and it was doing a roaring trade. There were at least six cars parked outside its fence boundary as people paid their Christmas respects to relatives and friends.
‘So here we are, the dead centre of town,’ joked Griffin.
Tully sat still in her seat, her seatbelt still buckled over her shoulder.
‘Hey, I was just joking...’ said Griffin.
Tully shrugged. ‘It’s okay. I was just remembering ... come on.’
Tully marched into the cemetery grounds and followed a trail only she could see. At one point she bent down and plucked two fresh flowers from someone else’s plot, then moved forward again.
‘I’d never want to end up in a place like this,’ said Griffin, puffing slightly as he caught up to her.
‘We all have to die sometime,’ said Tully.
‘Doesn’t mean I’d have to end up like this,’ said Griffin pointing to the bleak grey headstones that surrounded them.
‘Like you’re going to know,’ said Tully.
Griffin shrugged. ‘I’d want to be cremated. Have my ashes scattered in a place I liked.’
‘Which is...?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t thought too hard about it,’ said Griffin.
‘I like the idea of someone visiting my grave,’ said Tully. ‘Having someone come and talk to me and bring me flowers.’
‘So you’ve thought hard about?’ said Griffin.
Tully stopped abruptly and placed a flower at the foot of the headstone in front of her.
‘Michael Hamill,’ Griffin read aloud. ‘Is that the guy who owned the farm?’
Tully nodded. ‘Craig’s dad. Mick was always nice to me. Mum heard he’d had another stroke after we left but we didn’t get to the funeral. They let Craig out for that.’
‘Out?’
‘He went to jail.’
‘What for?’ asked Griffin.
Tully shrugged. ‘I can’t remember what for. Can you just give me a minute?’
Griffin walked back to the main path and watched Tully lean forward and touch the headstone. The slight breeze of the day had picked up and gusted about his legs. Even while the sun shone warmly on his back, it made him shiver. Tully finally stood up straight and walked towards him, one flower still in her hand.
‘All done?’ he asked.
Tully nodded and Griffin turned back towards the car.
‘When was the last time you saw Craig?’ Griffin asked as he dug for the keys in his back pocket.
‘I don’t remember,’ said Tully. ‘He and Mum had this huge break up, which is why we moved away from here ... Oh!’
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing. I just had a thought.’
Griffin didn’t notice Tully drop the flower onto a pathside grave. The polish from its black marble headstone had dimmed and some of its gold lettering had weathered away.
Jock McKemmish
Beloved Son
37
December 1998
Tully would never forget the last time she’d seen Craig. She and her mum had moved out of Mick’s farm, a couple of towns away from Craig. Sandy had said later that they should have moved further away, but she’d felt safe with Craig in jail.
Tully was sad to leave behind Mick and the farm and the Guinness Book of World Records and the yabby dam and her special climbing tree. They’d left in October. By December, Sandy had a new job at the local supermarket. Tully and her mother spent days making paper chains and Christmas decorations to make their run-down rental look festive. They talked about going to Melbourne to catch up with Bamps and Nan during the holidays.
It was cold the night he came. Dark clouds had scudded across the night sky and the moon’s light faded in and out as the clouds slid past it. Later Tully had found footprints outside the lounge window and she’d erased them with her foot before her mother found them. He’d probably been watching them through the window. Watching her sit on the floor, playing with her Kris Kringle present. Watching Sandy as she pottered about, safe in her assumption that Craig couldn’t get to them.
Craig had found the spare key under the mat where her mother had left it. The first Tully had been aware of him was when the front door creaked and Craig stepped into the living room.
Tully had looked up from her game and her eyes
had widened.
‘Hello, Craig,’ she’d said. ‘Where have you been?’
Tully hadn’t known about Craig being in jail. She’d found that out much later.
‘What did you say, Tully?’ Sandy entered the room with two mugs of hot chocolate that fell to the floor as she caught sight of Craig. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Well, Sandy, that’s a nice hello. Merry Christmas to you, too.’ The man walked over to the fire mantle and picked up a photo to study it closer. ‘You might wanna clean that up,’ he said, pointing to the chocolate stain spreading out over the carpet.
‘Tully, come here,’ said the woman.
Tully moved to her feet, but Craig restrained her with one hand wrapped around her shoulder.
‘I have a present for you,’ he whispered into her ear.
Tully tried to shrug free but the man held on tighter.
‘You smell like beer,’ she complained.
‘Well, I’ve just been to a wake, so I think you can forgive me. Just this once.’ He grinned up at Sandy, a lopsided grin that blurred around the edges. ‘Dad’s dead, Sandy. I thought you might have made it to the funeral, after all he did for you.’
‘Oh. Oh ... I’m sorry to hear that. We both loved Mick, didn’t we, Pumpkin?’ Sandy motioned for Tully to join her, but Craig held fast.
‘So I came to tell you that. And to give Tully her present. You always liked presents, didn’t you, Tully? There’s one in the car just for you.’
‘Let her go, Craig. Please.’
‘Now when’s it been a crime to give my favourite girl a present?’
‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ said the woman. ‘I’ll ring the police—’
The man hugged the girl tighter. ‘Sandy. You’re so ... dramatic. I just wanted to drop in and give our girl a Christmas present—’
‘She’s not your girl,’ said the woman quietly.
‘But that didn’t stop you using my money to raise her this last year,’ said the man. ‘Isn’t that right, sweetheart?’
‘You’re hurting me,’ said Tully.
‘Let her go, Craig,’ said the woman.
‘Sure, Sandy. Sure I’ll let her go. But not before I get what I came for. Don’t you have a little Christmas present for me? Maybe we can unwrap it somewhere else?’
Sandy’s laughter hit the walls and bounced back into the silent room. It was short and sharp and even as it escaped from her she clapped her hand against her mouth to stop it.
Craig nodded. ‘So that’s how it is,’ he said. Then he moved towards the front door, dragging Tully with him.
‘Mummyyyy!’
‘No!’ Sandy followed them and Craig pulled a knife from his pocket and waved it over Tully’s head.
‘You stupid bitch,’ he growled. ‘Always have to do things the hard way. Now I’m going to give Tully her Christmas present. Meet us in an hour at Stawell cemetery. Give you a chance to think about your Christmas present to me. It had better be the right one. And don’t bother ringing the cops or bringing friends to help you.’ He’d stroked Tully’s hair with his free hand. ‘That would just be a stupid thing to do.’
Tully had struggled as Craig lifted her into his car. Then she’d cowered on the seat as he kangaroo-hopped the car out of the driveway and onto the main road. When they got to the cemetery he’d given her his present—her favourite Guinness Book of World Records from Mick’s office. Much later she’d torn out her favourite page of the man with the incredibly long nails and kept it in her memory tin. She didn’t keep the page to remind herself of Craig. Instead she kept it to remember her mother’s advice.
‘People let you down.’
That night at the cemetery, Tully hugged the book to her chest and watched as Craig wept for his father.
Wept as they both waited for Sandy to come.
The book was only the second present that Craig had ever given her. The first had been the fifty cent piece he’d given her when they’d first met, but she had thrown that away.
She did have a fifty cent piece in her tin, but she’d earned that. Some boy in a park had given it to her when she was four. She was there by herself because her mother had a headache and wanted Tully out of the house for half an hour. The boy and his friends offered Tully fifty cents if she would show them her underpants. They showed her the coin, which was shiny and looked like new. She thought about his offer, trying to remember what underpants she had on. She thought about what she could buy at the milk bar with fifty cents. Then she pulled down her shorts to reveal her underpants with the pink ponies and the boys hooted and hollered and pointed until she pulled her shorts up again and they handed over the money.
She didn’t have time to go to the shop because she was due back home, so she just skipped straight home to find her mother leaning on the sink in the kitchen.
‘What’s that?’ her mother had asked, pointing to Tully’s clenched hand.
So Tully showed her.
‘Where did you get that from?’ Sandy asked.
Tully told her. She thought her mother would be pleased with her for being so clever. Clever that she’d only had to show some boys her underpants to get a whole fifty cent coin. Before she’d even finished the story, though, Tully found herself on the floor near the kitchen table. One moment she’d been standing up holding out the coin for her mother to see and the next she was looking at the fluff gathered around the rubber stoppers on the chair legs. Sandy yelled and cried and pushed things onto the kitchen floor. Finally, Tully crawled right under the table where it felt safe like a cave.
Later, Sandy told Tully to throw the fifty cents away. Tully said that she had. But she kept it. And knowing that she’d kept it made Tully feel both brave and scared at the same time.
38
Christmas Eve
Griffin wanted to go straight home after they left the cemetery at Stawell but Tully begged him to take one more detour. It wasn’t on their way home—in fact it overshot home by at least an hour—but Tully was adamant she needed to be there.
‘I am in a load of trouble, Tully,’ Griffin said, shaking his head as he fastened his seatbelt. ‘Enough’s enough.’
‘So a few more hours is not going to make any difference,’ Tully argued.
‘Don’t you get it? It’s not all about you. I’ve got to get back. I’ve got to explain, with or without you—’
‘I’ll explain everything, to everyone,’ said Tully. ‘It’s just ... I need to find my mum and I think I’ve worked out where she is. And tomorrow’s Christmas. And...’
Tully let her fringe drop a curtain over her face as large teardrops fell into her lap.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Hey.’ He touched her gently on the shoulder and patted her awkwardly.
Tully continued leaning forward even more, her head in her hands. She heard Griffin release his seatbelt and shift in his seat. He continued with the patting, this time on her back, and then she heard it. A small droning noise, muffled against the top of her head. It rose and fell as the patting continued. Tully frowned and mumbled something against Griffin’s shirt.
The droning stopped.
‘What did you say?’ asked Griffin.
‘I said, what are you doing?’ mumbled Tully.
She sat back in her seat abruptly, clipping Griffin’s jaw on the way up.
‘Ouch,’ he said.
‘Sorry, but what where you doing?’ Tully demanded.
‘Nothing,’ said Griffin.
‘Were you ... were you singing?’ asked Tully.
‘Did you wipe your nose on my shirt?’ said Griffin ignoring her question.
‘I did not wipe my nose on your shirt,’ said Tully. ‘What were you doing? Singing? Chanting? Droning?’
‘I was singing,’ said Griffin. ‘It’s what I used to do with Josh when he was a baby. He used to cry a lot at night and I’d pat him and sing to him.’
‘Your brother?’ said Tully. ‘You were treating me like your little brother?’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Griffin. ‘I don’t think of you as my brother.’
‘Well, good.’
‘Why good?’ he said.
‘Well ... because ... well do I look like a boy?’ Tully sat back in her seat and wiped the tears from her face.
‘Is this a trick question?’ said Griffin.
Tully’s arm swung out in a wide arc in an effort to hit him and Griffin caught her before it impacted.
‘Hey, careful,’ he said, still holding onto her.
‘You’re such a pig,’ she said. ‘What were you singing? Before.’
‘You probably don’t know it.’
‘Try me,’ said Tully.
‘Bad to the Bone,’ he said finally letting go of her arm.
‘Bad to the Bone?’ Tully leaned back, her cheeks flushed.
‘You have a better song?’ He leaned back in his seat, secured his seatbelt again, and started the engine. ‘I’ve gotta go back now, Tully.’
‘Fine.’ Tully looked out the window as the car pulled away from the cemetery.
‘You understand, don’t you?’
Tully peeled a sliver of nail from her thumb and didn’t bother to answer.
‘Tully?’
‘You’re as bad as the rest,’ she muttered.
Griffin turned off the engine.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
Tully shook her head.
‘What is it, Tully?’
‘Nothing.’
‘The silent treatment? Do you use this on all your boyfriends—’
‘You’re not my boyfriend!’
‘No. No I’m not,’ he said.
Then he drove carefully back to the main highway.
Hey Tully
This photo of me was taken when I was at the Western Plains Zoo. There were plenty of animals there. Maybe one day we could all go there together.
Hostage Page 10
