Gunshot Road

by Adrian Hyland

  A swelling appeared under the boy’s ribs. I frowned, puzzled. The lump became the focus of Andulka’s attention. He pressed it, squeezed it, lowered his mouth to it and sucked noisily. He closed his eyes, chanted, and then—or so it seemed to my dazzled eyes—reached into the tumescence and drew out a crystal.

  Took a few steps away from Danny, hurled the crystal away to the west.

  He turned back to the boy and squatted, eyes closed, humming lightly. Finally he stood up and turned to me. ‘He want water, he cured proper.’

  Cured? Christ, he was hopeful.

  Danny was dead. Like everything and everybody else connected to this disaster.

  I let my eyes and mind drift out over the eastern plains, lose themselves in the smoke still billowing up from the wreck below. I wondered whether I should climb down and see if any sign of life remained down there. Thought of all the things they’d done; decided not to bother.

  I should be getting back though, I supposed. Alerting the authorities, those of them who were still alive.

  Then I heard a soft groan.

  Looked across at Danny. His mouth moved, ever so fleetingly. My heart skipped. His eyelids fluttered, then opened. He put a hand to his face, rubbed his eyes and blinked, shook his head. I crawled across to him on my knees.

  ‘Emily?’ he whispered.

  ‘My god.’

  ‘Wha’s happening?’

  My tongue was frozen.

  ‘Anything to drink round here?’ The words resonated with a clarity and focus I hadn’t heard from him in a long time. ‘I’m perishin.’

  Half an hour later Danny and I were sitting in the front seat of the blue Rover. His head was swathed in the bandages I’d found in a first-aid kit in the glove box, but he was breathing with relative ease. He moved to one side, touched the window, groaned with pain. I fired up the motor, glanced back at Andulka.

  ‘Gotta get the boy to hospital. You won’t come back with us?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not my place.’

  ‘Mob of whitefellers sniffin round here in an hour or two-you want your privacy, you better bugger off.’

  As we moved away, Andulka put a hand on the sill, leaned into the cab.

  ‘What I bin say to you one day? Take time, listen to country?’ His voice was loud, like that of a man who’d spent too much time on his own. He inclined his head. ‘Look like you getting there.’

  He tapped the vehicle. I put it into gear, moved off.

  I thought about old Gypsy’s lament for the songs of her country. Maybe they were being broken, those songs. Maybe the forces bearing down on them were irresistible.

  But which of us could say?

  Maybe the music was more subtle, more durable, than we gave it credit for. Andulka sure as hell hadn’t given up.

  And as long as that remained so, there was hope for us all.

  I touched the brake. Called back at him, ‘Not doing too bad yourself, old man!’

  He might have grinned, but I couldn’t be sure. He turned away and began methodically working his way back down the hill, the open plains ahead of him.

  Rowing to Eden

  I CAUGHT UP WITH Wishy at the airport. He was nervously pacing the observation deck, the ubiquitous flowers and chocolates in hand.

  ‘Come to join the welcoming party?’ he asked. He seemed pleased to see me.

  ‘No. Like to, but it’s a family affair.’

  ‘Puh! She’d love to see you. They all would.’

  ‘Still…’

  ‘How bout dropping round for dinner tonight?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  He stared off into the distance. A sliver of wind riffled the hairs on his throat. ‘You know that little book you sent Simmie?’

  A leather-bound Emily Dickinson, the complete works.

  ‘She told me last week there’s a poem in there that’s you.’

  ‘Let me guess: I started early, took my dog…?’

  ‘Nope: went something like Wild nights, wild nights…’

  I had to laugh. ‘Stand her in good stead, that book—probably helped her more than the surgery.’

  ‘She likes those poems—and she likes you.’

  ‘Maybe I will come round. What’s on the menu?’

  ‘I was thinking of knocking up a chilli beef hotpot.’

  I frowned. ‘Knocking up or heating up?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘That’s one of mine, Mister Master Chef.’

  ‘Oh—is it? So many meals in the freezer, I’m getting confused.’

  ‘Everybody wants to welcome her home.’

  ‘Suppose they do.’

  ‘Whole town’s been following her progress.’

  ‘That’s bloody Mardi—mouth as big as her backside. Anyway Em, always a place for you at our table.’

  I’d been spending a lot of time at the Ozolins table over the past couple of months, looking after the twins when Wishy and Loreena were in the States, tending animals and garden when they all went across to join Simone in her recuperation.

  I pointed my chin at the sky. ‘Looks like we’re gonna get some relief at last.’ It had been a terrible summer, dry as a chip, hot as hell. But up in the north-west, fat black clouds were gathering. Lightning flickered in the distance.

  Wishy screwed up his face, gave the sky a cursory glance.

  ‘Nah, it’ll miss us. Too far north. Beginning to wonder if it’s ever gonna rain on Bluebush. There’s a curse on the place—or a rain shadow.’ He returned his attention to me. ‘What’s the latest with Copperhead?’

  ‘Demsky’s lawyers have got him greased up like a pig in a sideshow. He’s slithering out of anything criminal as fast as he can. McGillivray’s a dog at a bone, Feds are pulling the place apart, but the company’s sticking to the script: Brock was a rogue operator, mother company knew nothing about any nuclear waste…’

  ‘Christ—if you’d believe that…’

  ‘Believing and proving’s two different things, Wishy.’

  ‘They worked out where the stuff came from?’

  ‘It’s tricky—not much paperwork, but seems they’ve been slipping it in for years: Taiwan, South Korea, the Philippines.’

  ‘How was it getting here?’

  ‘Some by plane, some by sea. Brock had worked in the uranium industry most of his career; contacts all over the world.’

  ‘I’ve heard the war-cry: cradle to grave responsibility. Mine it in the Top End, bury it in the Centre. And Copperhead’s crying innocent of all that?’

  ‘Trying to; they’re being hit with a shitload of civil charges, though, and the clean-up’s probably going to send them broke. At least there’ll be a clean-up—bastards might have gone on forever if Doc and Jupurulla hadn’t sprung em.’

  ‘Paid a price. Both of em.’ His face grew dark, then lightened. ‘How’s old Jet going?’

  The runaway nun had helped out with the house-sitting. Wishy had met her, seemed intrigued, amused.

  ‘Surprisingly well. She’s linked up with my friend Hazel…’

  ‘The artist?’

  ‘Yep—they’re getting on like a house on fire. Talking about a joint exhibition. God knows what they’ll call it: Blackfeller Yellowfeller fusion?’

  I reached into my saddle bag. ‘Wanted to show you something, Wishy.’

  I handed over the heavy envelope. He examined it, looked at the sender’s name. ‘Who’s Jim Boehme?’

  ‘Professor of Geology at the University of Adelaide. Old classmate of Doc’s as a matter of fact, but that’s by the by.’

  ‘Why’s he writing to you?’

  ‘Read it.’

  ‘Dear Emily,’ he read. ‘Please find attached a copy of the article, as promised. The lab results are better than I could have dared hope. Haven’t had formal acceptance from Nature yet, but I’m assured it’s on the way; our peer reviewers are as excited about it as we are. Albie’s suggestion of a link between the volcanics and the glacials—and the evidence he discovered—is the Holy
Grail of geologists the world over right now.

  ‘You may wish to run this by the family, but I’ve taken the liberty of calling it the Ozolins Hypothesis—it was his field work that brought about the discovery, and his brilliant intuition that showed us its importance. I only wish he was here to see it—but then, who knows? Maybe he is.

  ‘Thanks again for bringing this to my attention—and for your hospitality—tell Magpie there’s a new pair of boots in the mail and that we’re looking forward to the trip to Yankirri.

  ‘Warm regards, Jim.’

  He looked up, bewildered.

  ‘Boots?’

  ‘Jim noticed he didn’t have any when we were out bush.’

  ‘What’s this trip to Yankirri?’

  ‘Magpie’s getting as good as Doc at roping in the chauffeurs. They’re aiming to unlock more country.’

  He blinked, put the letter aside.

  ‘What’s going on here, Em?’

  ‘It was something you said at Albie’s funeral: that his crazy ideas were never going to change the face of outback geology. Well, he’s just changed the face of world geology. That’s crazy for you—one of the few things that can change the world.’

  ‘But I don’t…’ he scratched a temple.

  ‘When I got back from the Gunshot Road, I contacted Professor Boehme, showed him Albie’s notes. Explained his theory, what he’d found. He was up here in a flash, made the trip out west with me and Magpie. The rocks at Dingo Springs pretty well settle the argument: the Snowball Theory’s good: it stands. If only half of what Albie was hypothesising turns out to be correct, it immeasurably deepens our knowledge of how climate changes. Of life itself, really.’

  Wishy stood there, his eyebrows raised, his mouth open.

  Behind him I caught the metallic flash of an incoming aircraft levelling in the cauldron of clouds.

  ‘They’re here.’

  He wasn’t moving.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ I said.

  I turned to go, took a step towards the door.

  ‘Emily!’

  He drew me into a powerful embrace.

  ‘Dunno what I’ve done,’ he said in a gruff whisper, ‘to be surrounded by the people I…I’m surrounded by.’

  ‘Nice of you to say so, Wishy.’ I turned around. ‘While we’re all up close and personal, can I ask you a question?’

  He eased off.

  ‘It’s been playing on my mind ever since I found out about Simone.’

  ‘Yes?’

  I looked him in the eye, determined not to miss a thing.

  ‘Where’d the money come from?’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘All this—Simone being treated at the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center, in Seattle…’

  ‘They’re the only ones who do it.’

  ‘Yeah, and they charge an arm and a leg. I checked em out-private hospital, transplanting umbilical cord stem cells and associated procedures, whole thing wouldn’t have left you any change from a half a million. Then there’s the trips back and forth, the stopover in Hawaii. All seems a bit up-market for a run-of-the-mill bush surveyor.’

  He looked offended. ‘Run-of-the-mill? I’m the boss.’

  ‘Even so.’

  He folded his arms. ‘That was why I took on the job—needed the money. Pay for her treatment, maybe gain a few inches on the pipe dream that we’d ever be able to afford the operation.’

  ‘You’re the regional manager of a government works department, Wishy, not the CEO of BHP. What did you do—hock the office? Auditor’ll love that.’

  He went and stood over near the observation window. He’d spotted the plane, watched it make its approach.

  ‘Emily, you must be the most relentless creature I ever met.’

  ‘Something half done’s a disturbing itch to me.’

  He sighed, spoke to the glass.

  ‘The money came from Albie.’

  ‘You said he didn’t have any money.’

  ‘And from you.’

  ‘I know I haven’t.’

  ‘That first day you came round to our place—you told me to get Doc’s mineral collection valued. Even gave me the name of a dealer: Cockayne?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘Tracked him down. He came up, took one look at the collection, offered us more money than I’d ever had in my life. It was a treasure trove—all manner of stuff in those boxes, names I never heard of: native copper, Gympie gold. I wasn’t hanging round to bargain—we knew what Simone’s treatment was going to cost.’

  It all made sense. Cockayne was as straight as they came; I could follow up with him, but I knew I was hearing the truth.

  Wishy cleared his throat.

  ‘Remember that day I came to see you in hospital…?’

  ‘Not likely to forget.’

  He swallowed hard. ‘Never told you how bad I felt about what happened to you. How it hurt, seein a good woman like you suffering when my own wildest dreams had just come true. And mostly thanks to your help. It’s shame, Em. That’s what keeps us from…’

  His voice caught. ‘Even wondered if I wasn’t responsible in some way—obsessing about my own troubles, not looking after my brother. Letting you push on, do the right thing and cop the consequences.’

  I took a moment to absorb what he said. I linked my arm in his, dragged him out onto the deck.

  ‘Don’t need anyone to be responsible for me, Wishy. Usually manage to make a balls-up on my own. Come on, they’re touching down.’

  We watched the plane complete a mirror-smooth landing, taxi to the ramp. The door opened. A flight attendant was moving into position, but before she could get there, a little blonde figure draped in leis came bouncing out, leapt up onto the railing, slid down the ramp.

  A thinner, darker one appeared at the top. Looked around. Folded her arms and breathed deep.

  I smiled, turned to the exit. Paused.

  ‘Wishy!’ I called back at him.

  ‘Em?’

  I blew him a kiss. ‘Dunno what I’ve done either.’

  I climbed into the new Moonlight Downs Police Cruiser, drove slowly back to town along the road that curved past the dam. On an impulse I turned the car’s nose in, pulled up at the water’s edge.

  I got out and leaned against the bull-bar, looking at the leaden water. Wiped a little of the sweat off my face. Purple clouds swivelled round the hills. They’d done that a lot this summer, but, like Wishy said, the rain had a knack of falling somewhere else.

  I thought about the last time I’d been here. Brutally violated, trying to wash my soul clean.

  I’d resolved never to come back; but damn it, you let the past imprison you, you’ll die in that jail.

  A dark wind rippled the water. The air was electric.

  I took a look around. Not many other cars out here today, despite the heat and the humidity. Was that the Christian Fellowship vehicle over there, a spindly figure at the back tinkering with a dinghy and glancing anxiously at the sky?

  I wondered what he or any of the other drivers would think of the newly appointed Moonlight Downs ACPO skinny dipping?

  Who gives…?

  I ripped off my uniform, ran at the water and dived.

  By the time I came up for air, visibility was reduced to about fifty feet: the surface was boiling and the clouds were unleashing a torrent of fat black globules, sheets and walls, a world of water.

  I’d never seen anything like it: it hammered into my mouth, my eyes, into the dam, onto the crookback hills, the parched plains. It swung with a joyous, musical energy that threatened to dance or damn and make new beings of us all.

  Acknowledgments

  As always, my greatest debt is to my Indigenous friends from Central Australia who opened their hearts to me and shared their stories.

  I’ve been pestering people all over the country to make sure the details in this book are correct. My thanks to:

  Marion Anderson

  Galen Halverson

&nbs
p; Gavin Mudd

  Maree Corkeron

  Brian Davey

  Phil Hyland

  Simon Maddin

  John Dunster

  Daniel Franks

  Daniel McIntyre

  David Nash

  John Bell

  Joy Bell

  Patricia Rich

  Gerard Roche

  Riva Bohm

  Jim Green

  Nat Wasley

  Wojciech Dabrowka

  Graham Brown

  Herb Evans

  Roger Woods

  Apologies to anyone I’ve left off. It’s due more to my chaotic record-keeping than to any lack of appreciation for your efforts.

  Of the many books consulted during the writing of Gunshot Road, two deserve special mention: Snowball Earth by Gabrielle Walker, Bloomsbury Publishing, London, 2003; and Rock Star by Kristin Weidenbach, East Street Publications, Adelaide, 2008.

  Five friends have looked at this work in its various guises:

  Bruce Schaeffer, Steve Manteit, Danielle Clode, Will Owen, Jane Simpson. Thank you all.

  Mandy Brett, editor extraordinaire.

  Mary Cunnane, agent extraordinaire.

  The Literature Board of the Australia Council for the Arts.

  Susan Bradley-Smith and my other colleagues at La Trobe University.

  To the mob at the St Andrews pub, Helen and Stan, Kerry, Linda, Jo and Drew—thanks for keeping the coffee hot and the office quiet.

  Finally, most importantly, to my beautiful girls, Kristin, Sally and Siena: you inhabit every word. Well, the nice ones anyway.