Gunshot Road

by Adrian Hyland

  As we were reversing out, I spotted the police van zipping down the road, the uber-simpatico Harley at the wheel. Danny noticed it as well, stirred restlessly.

  ‘Settle down,’ I told him. ‘There’s nobody going to hurt you.’

  ‘But they do. All of us. I read it in the paper.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘Oh Emily, you have to be careful—they kill you if you know, cut your fuckin throat.’ I glanced at our driver: not the sort of language he would have expected to hear when he set out for church that morning, but he seemed to be taking it in his stride. ‘They killin our country…’

  ‘Who is?’

  A glazed stare, a down-turned mouth. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How are they killing it?’

  ‘Radio waves,’ he mumbled, almost inaudible.

  ‘Radio waves?’ Jesus, he was a mess.

  ‘Something like that,’ he rasped. ‘They’re everywhere.’

  ‘Radio waves? Well they are, but they don’t do much harm as far as I know. Who told you about them?’

  ‘I read it in the paper.’

  ‘Which paper?’

  ‘Oh, I dunno—some whitefeller paper.’ That narrowed it down. He seemed lost in the echo of his own reflection in the window. ‘These whitefellers and their paper: they got so many—newspaper, dunny paper, money, maps an cigarettes.’ He giggled; no humour in it. ‘Light em up, curl around the edges and you burn.’

  He caught sight of the crucifix mounted on the church roof, stared at it, puzzled. ‘Em’ly?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Danny?’

  ‘These kartiya—what for they gotta tear the shade apart? Them and their machine god?’

  ‘Wish I knew.’

  ‘The pastor tell us he come from the desert, this God.’ His gaze turned to the west; he shuddered. ‘I’m thinking he bring it along with him.’

  I tapped the driver’s seat. ‘Let’s go.’

  Our good samaritan glanced back at us, concern and curiosity fighting for possession of his face. He was obviously a decent enough guy but, like a lot of whitefellers at the upper end of the food chain, it was a safe bet he spent his life virtually quarantined from the Aboriginal people he lived among.

  I knew the type. You could go from the air-conditioned office to the exclusive club, then back to the cyclone-wired house and the big dog and barely notice a blackfeller all the while, except to step over the odd one in the gutter.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Bleaker Street.’

  ‘Down past the government offices?’

  ‘You got it.’

  Cockroach capital

  WE CRUISED THROUGH THE Sunday morning streets, reached Bandy’s house in short order.

  He was at home, thank god; he came out, automatically took charge.

  ‘Danny, Danny,’ he moaned when I told him what had happened. He helped him inside, but they’d only got as far as the gate when the boy slipped from his grasp and tumbled to the ground. I rushed to give him a hand, and the driver joined us; between the three of us, we got him up the path and into the house. Once we were inside, Bandy shepherded him towards a spare bed.

  ‘Put the kettle on, Em?’ he called back at me.

  Mr Suburbia and I stood in the kitchen. While I made tea, he looked around the room, eyebrows raised. First time you’ve been inside a blackfeller house, I thought to myself. A couple of cockroaches copulated on the upper wall, a mouse popped its head out of a loaf of bread. A layer of dust coated everything. Welcome to the world.

  ‘Want a cuppa?’ I asked.

  A glance at the crud-encrusted dishes in the sink. ‘Maybe not right now.’

  He cleared a space at the kitchen table, making a neat heap of the litter. Pizza boxes, a folder of chord charts. A scatter of picks, other guitarist’s paraphernalia; an old leather bag, more folders spilling out, looked like it was where Bandy kept his music.

  ‘Sorry,’ the fellow said. ‘I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Emily.’

  ‘Emily. I’m Kevin.’

  We shook hands. From a back room we heard a young boy’s voice, a dark moan.

  ‘Maybe we should have taken him up to the hospital?’ suggested Kevin.

  ‘Don’t think so.’ Bandy had a way of moving up on you, like a stalking bull. ‘Them whitefeller bureaucracies get their claws into you, never know where it’s gonna end. Had that copper come back again, Em.’

  ‘Harley?’

  ‘Still sniffin round about the boy. Don’t worry—I’ve been through this before. I’ll keep an eye on him. Cup of tea’ll settle him down.’

  He shook the driver’s hand. ‘Bandy Mabulu, mate.’

  ‘Kevin Brock.’

  ‘Like to thank you for bringing me boy home.’ He opened the sugar jar, pulled out a handful of money. ‘Can I give you a few bucks for your trouble?’

  Kevin waved him away. ‘Please—it was nothing.’

  ‘Cup of tea, then?’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘Thanks, some other time. The wife will think I’ve been kidnapped.’

  Bandy saw him to the door, came back, went and stood by his son. Danny was curled up on the bed, possibly asleep, but far from at ease. One arm flung across the pillow, one leg dangling over the side. Sweat everywhere.

  ‘Let’s hope he gets some rest,’ I said. ‘He’s had a hell of a shock.’

  Bandy shook his head, weary to the bone. ‘Poor little bastard spends his life in a state of shock.’

  ‘Never seen him quite this bad. And in church! Father Dal Santo didn’t know whether to shit or sing a hymn. When did he come back to town?’

  ‘Late last night.’

  ‘Say why he came in?’

  He ran his tongue along his upper lip, seemed uncomfortable. ‘Wanted to speak to you.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Told him not to hassle you—he freaked out when he heard you were in hospital. Wandered off. Somewhere in there he must have hooked up with his drinking buddies. Next thing I know you’re delivering him back here, zapped out of his brain.’

  ‘Zapped all right. He was raving on about radio waves and fire or some bloody thing.’

  ‘Radio waves? Fire?’

  ‘When we were out west we were following a fire dreaming,’ I grimaced. ‘Powerful stuff, Bandy. Maybe too much for him.’

  Bandy shuffled and cleared his throat. ‘Look Em…I know you’ve been through a terrible time yourself.’ As did the whole bloody town, apparently. ‘I appreciate you taking an interest in the boy, but maybe it’s time you took more of an interest in yourself. He’s my son. Don’t worry. Mighta been a bit distracted from time to time, but I’m still his old man. I’ll look out for him.’

  ‘Course you will, Bandy. I never doubted it.’ I caught the glimmer in his eyes, knew the boy was in safe hands. ‘But he’s not well.’

  Danny rustled in the bed: he was breathing with a sharp, sucking motion, as if some internal fire was sucking the oxygen out of him.

  ‘There’s a doctor up the hospital—Kokinos—Marta; I trust her.’

  Bandy gave that a moment’s consideration. ‘Must admit, be a relief to get help from a professional. You’re sure she won’t rat him out to the cops?’

  ‘She’ll guard his privacy like a tiger.’

  ‘Maybe when he settles down I’ll take him up there.’

  ‘You do that.’

  I drained my cup, rose to my feet. ‘Time I was getting back.’

  ‘Give you a lift, but I better not leave the boy.’

  ‘Course not. I been loafing around in bed all week, walk’d do me good.’

  Mister Suburbia

  IT WAS A SCORCHER of a morning, though. I was pleasantly surprised when I came out the front gate and saw the blue Rover was still there. A tinted window slid down, Kevin’s head appeared.

  ‘Offer you a ride somewhere?’

  ‘Thought the wife was waiting.’

  ‘Didn’t seem right to leave you wandering around
in this heat.’

  ‘You’re a marvel, buddy. If you could run me back up to the hospital?’

  ‘No problem.’

  I made to enter, then hesitated when a jackhammer started up across the road. The Works blokes were on the job again. Or one of them, at least, a whip-thin fellow in a fluorescent jacket who was ripping into the footpath. On a Sunday now—did these bastards never rest? I went over and tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Excuse me!’

  He startled, didn’t seem to appreciate the interruption: the lock of orange hair poking out from under the hard hat bristled.

  ‘Wouldn’t be able to tone it down a bit, would you?’

  He shot me a look that said, quite sensibly, ‘Mind telling me how to tone a jackhammer down?’

  ‘Maybe you could start down the other end of the street?’ I suggested. ‘We’ve got a sick boy in here.’

  The bloke assented with a stringy shrug and I climbed back into the Rover. A late model job, its air-con ice cool, its seats inviting the passenger—even trash like me—to snuggle up and make herself at home.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Kevin as we took off, ‘what was your name again?’

  ‘Emily—Tempest.’

  ‘Tempest…? Tempest. Rings a bell.’

  ‘Not an alarm, I hope.’

  ‘Ah yes, the fellow from the Burnt Shirt Mine. Jack Tempest. A relative?’

  ‘Distant. He’s me father.’

  ‘You should be proud of him. He’s a minor legend around these parts; Burnt Shirt’s the most successful small-scale operation in the region.’ A wafer-thin smile. ‘Smart move, then, my giving you a hand. You’ll be worth a lot of money one day.’

  ‘Money! From Jack? I’ll be lucky to get the shirt! You obviously don’t know him personally.’

  ‘Can’t say I do, no.’

  ‘He’s made and lost at least three fortunes that I know of in the past twenty years.’

  He shrugged. ‘Nature of the game, alas.’

  A pause. ‘You in the game yourself?’ I enquired, racking my brain for conversation openers.

  ‘Mining? Yes, more on the admin side, though.’ That figured: he looked like an office johnny.

  ‘Copperhead?’

  ‘In a roundabout way.’

  ‘Mate, everything’s Copperhead if your roundabout’s big enough.’

  ‘King of the Mountain Holdings. We’re strategic management consultants.’

  Another pause. ‘What’s strategic management entail then?’

  ‘Mostly sitting at a computer trying to anticipate mineral prices.’ He shrugged, almost apologetic. ‘A far cry from the world your old man moves in…’

  ‘That explains it.’

  ‘Explains what?’

  ‘The soft hands, the clean fingernails, the flash car…’

  He glanced ruefully at his hands on the wheel. ‘They look after us. We give back, though.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yes. I like to think we make a contribution. Not just to the company: to the community—to the nation. What we dig out of the ground is our biggest export earner. It doesn’t just pay for the car I drive—ultimately, it pays for the way of life we all enjoy—even you.’

  ‘Jeez mate, I come pretty cheap: tin of tobacco, tank of petrol, packet of sausages if I’m lucky.’ He smiled. ‘You’re preaching to the converted, though—remember, my old man’s a miner.’

  ‘Then you’d understand: we work long and hard for the perks—even those of us behind desks—and we take risks.’

  ‘Well, you took a risk this morning…’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Helping a troubled boy in front of that mob in church. And I’m grateful to you for it.’

  He fiddled with his spectacles, uncomfortable with the praise. ‘It was nothing. Should be your first port of call, really.’

  ‘What should be?’

  ‘The church. If we can’t show some compassion to those of our parish who are in need, what’s the point of the whole thing?’

  ‘Pity everybody doesn’t share the sentiment.’

  I settled into the seat, enjoyed the chilled air rippling up my dress. Kevin eased the car out onto the main drag, drove slowly and carefully. ‘We have been encouraging Copperhead to take a more pro-active role in relation to the Indigenous community,’ he expanded. ‘Apprenticeship schemes, land reclamation programs, that sort of thing. Hundreds of employees at the Copperhead: guess how many Aboriginals?’

  ‘Not many.’

  He thumped the wheel; this was something of a hobby-horse. ‘Two! That’s it! And neither of them locals. They’ve been incredibly backward in that regard—and short sighted. Finding staff is the hardest thing about running a remote operation, and yet they’ve got a ready-made workforce sitting on their doorstep. Your young friend back there—what was his name again? Danny?’

  ‘Danny Brambles.’

  ‘And he’s from Bluebush?’

  ‘His country’s down south from here. Stonehouse Creek, out on the Gunshot Road.’

  ‘Stonehouse? Don’t believe I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘You’re not alone there.’

  ‘Well, maybe I could find something for him. Landscaping, mechanics. Do you know what his interests are?’

  ‘Right now? Drinking, smoking and playing guitar.’

  ‘I see.’ He gave the matter some thought. ‘Obviously comes from a decent family, though. Can he read and write?’

  ‘Had a very disrupted education…’ I thought about the song he’d sung out at the shack. ‘Don’t know what his reading’s like, but he’s got a way with words. He’s just a little unstable…’

  ‘Yes, I got that impression.’ He made the turn into Hospital Drive. ‘Did you have any idea what he was talking about?’

  ‘God knows. Radio waves? I’m pretty sure it’s not them that’s frying his brain.’

  The driver concurred with a wry smile as we pulled into the hospital car park.

  ‘Well, thanks for your help back there, Kevin.’

  ‘A pleasure, Emily. Look, I meant what I said about the boy. I’ll have a word with Personnel—see what we can find.’

  He gave me a sympathetic toot as he drove away.

  A job for Danny? I thought. Good luck.

  Visiting hours

  I WAS PLEASED TO see a familiar, dust-caked Toyota outside the building, the Parks and Wildlife logo on her door. I walked into reception, spotted my man engaged in an animated conversation with Doctor Marta.

  I walked up behind them, spoke softly. ‘Hey, Jo.’

  He spun round, engulfed me in arms and stubble.

  ‘Still haven’t had that shave,’ I mumbled from under his beard. ‘Feels like a porcupine jumping on my head.’

  ‘Emily, I’ve been so bloody worried about you.’

  He looked me up and down, then crushed me again.

  ‘Eh, slow down,’ I grimaced. ‘Like to come out of this with a few bones unbroken.’

  ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been driving round half the night looking for you.’

  ‘As have our security people,’ frowned Marta.

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Emily Tempest apologising?’ Jojo turned to the doctor. ‘What have you got her on?’ Marta looked a little taken aback herself.

  I shrugged: ‘Just wanted a bit of fresh air. Didn’t mean to cause you any grief.’

  ‘Somebody said they spotted you at the Memo dance. I searched the usual haunts. Lot of unusual ones.’

  ‘Did you try the Gutter Camp?’

  He scratched his beard. ‘Not that unusual.’

  ‘Or the Catholic church?’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘As it were.’

  He held me at arm’s length, regarded me suspiciously.

  ‘Not on the road to Damascus, I hope?’

  ‘Don’t worry Jojo, take more than a psychopathic coke-head to turn me on to the Lord. Poor young Danny Brambles was in there…’

  ‘Rosie
’s boy?’

  ‘Yeah. Totally wired, he was. Trying to borrow money from the collection plate. God knows what he’s on. Never seen anybody hit the skids so fast.’

  He stared upwards, narrowed his eyes. ‘Wasn’t that long ago, he was the quickest thing on the Bluebush basketball court. Knew he’d been drinking, but I saw him out bush a while back…’

  ‘Stonehouse?’

  ‘Near there, yeah—out hunting with his grandparents. Thought he was looking good.’

  ‘Well he’s looking bloody awful now.’ I shrugged. ‘Not that I can talk—let’s get out of here.’

  ‘You want to discharge yourself?’

  The doctor rattled a stethoscope. ‘I wouldn’t recommend that, Emily, not yet. You’ve had a terrible experience; we’d like to keep an eye on you for a few more days.’

  ‘What is this, the Hotel California?’ I put an arm around Jojo’s waist, drew him in close. ‘Thanks Marta, but I’ve had all the hospital I need right now. Jojo’s spent long enough dragging bilbies back from the edge; bout time he did the same for me.’

  ‘Her Master’s voice,’ said Jojo. ‘Sorry doc, I think we’re on our way. When Emily sets her mind to something…’

  Marta frowned. ‘On your concussed head let it be, then—and I’ll note on your file that it’s against my advice. You need rest. Jojo, bring her back if there’s the slightest change in her condition. And I’ll take those stitches out on Thursday.’

  A hospital pass

  AS WE WERE HEADING through the front door we bumped—literally—into Wishy Ozolins lumbering in from the opposite direction, his mouth grim, his arms laden with flowers and chocolates.

  ‘Emily,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I was just coming to visit you.’

  ‘Made it by the skin of your fingers.’

  ‘You going home already?’

  ‘Time off for bad behaviour.’

  ‘I—heard what…I mean, about your…’ His voice caught.

  I put him out of his misery. ‘Shit happens, Wishy. Fortunately, most of it happened to the shit.’

  He gazed down at me, his expression almost paternal, his blue eyes damp and swimming with emotions I found it hard to decipher. Affection, which was welcome—I liked him too. And pity—inevitable, perhaps, but from my perspective the less of it the better.