by Greg McLean
‘Excuse me, I have to . . . I’ll be back in two shakes.’ Mick threw down his mug, splashing coffee to the ground and strode off towards the big shed.
Once he was inside, Bruce turned to Steve. ‘You might not want to get on the wrong side of Mick.’
‘Why? I’m not scared of him.’
‘I’m not talking about being scared of him. I don’t like the guy much either, but he is helping us. He fixed our tyres and he’s going to replace the busted axle. I just think we should play nicely. Soon we’ll back on the road and away from here.’
‘Whatever,’ Steve said.
They all stopped and listened when they heard shouting from inside the shed.
‘Bloody hell,’ Amber said.
‘Shit, I hope he doesn’t come back out here and tell us to get lost, busted axle or not,’ Bruce said.
The shouting continued and there were a few bangs and clatters. Was he in there, swearing at himself? Were they stuck with a madman?
After a few minutes, Mick returned.
He was sweating, his breathing raspy. He was holding a few large bottles of Swan Lager. ‘So, who’s up for a drink, hey?’ he said, sitting back down on his rock. He had a distorted smile on his unshaven face.
‘Is everything okay?’ Steve said.
Mick frowned. ‘How do you mean?’
‘We heard shouting. If I upset you in anyway, I’m sorry.’
‘What? Oh, that! I went to get the beers out of the fridge and, like a drongo, I dropped one of the bottles on me foot. Hurt like a motherfucker. I guess that’s what you heard.’ Mick pulled a small knife from inside his jacket and used the blade to pry off the bottle cap.
‘You don’t own a bottle opener?’ Duncan said, smiling nervously.
‘This works just as well,’ Mick said, slipping the knife back. ‘Who’s for a beer?’ He fixed on Chiyo. ‘Good Aussie beer.’
Chiyo rose to her feet. ‘I think I go to bed. Goodnight.’
Everyone except Mick bid her goodnight and she headed to the trailer where Akira was bunked.
When she’d gone, Mick muttered, ‘Guess the VC don’t like Aussie beer.’
‘She’s Japanese,’ Steve said, sternly. ‘She’s not even Vietnamese, let alone VC.’
Mick grabbed his mug from off the ground, tipped out the coffee dregs and started pouring himself a tall beer. ‘You know about the VC, do ya, Steve?’
‘Of course,’ he said. He cleared his throat. ‘I mean, who doesn’t? It’s on the news every night.’
‘Oh, right. I thought you might have been, you know, in the war.’
Steve said nothing. He looked down at the dark soil.
‘It would be fine if you were,’ Mick continued. ‘I’m not one of those anti-war hippies or nothing. I admire the soldiers over there. Think they’re doing a great service.’
‘I may have been,’ Steve said, quietly.
Mick stopped pouring. He swallowed. ‘Yeah? No shit?’
‘I don’t really like talking about it.’ The big American leant back from the firelight.
‘Here, give me your mug and I’ll pour you some fine lager. That’s the least I can do.’
Steve hesitated. With a shrug, he handed Mick his mug. ‘Just one.’
Jewel got to her feet. She couldn’t sit and watch them toast the heroic soldiers of the Vietnam War. ‘I think I’ll head to bed, too.’
She looked down at Amber. ‘You know which trailer we’re in?’
Amber nodded. ‘Sure, hon. I remember.’
‘I’ll walk you to it,’ Bruce said, getting to his feet. ‘I’m tired. And it would be good to get an early start tomorrow.’
‘You don’t wanna stay for a nightcap?’ Mick asked.
Bruce shook his head.
‘Suit yourself,’ Mick said.
‘I’ll try not to wake you when I come to bed,’ Duncan said. ‘Nighty night.’
‘No need to worry,’ Bruce said. ‘I’m gonna sleep in the Kombi. You can have the shed to yourself.’
‘You’re sleeping in the van?’ Mick said, blinking up at Bruce. ‘Why the hell for?’
‘I like it in there.’
‘But there are plenty of places around here. Sleep in one of the trailers, or hell, in the main shed if you like.’
Mick seemed oddly insistent on the point, Jewel thought. What did Mick care where Bruce slept?
‘No, really, I’m fine,’ Bruce said. ‘Night all.’ He walked quickly and Jewel skipped to keep up.
Once they were away from the fire, Jewel said, ‘You really didn’t have to walk me home. It’s not far to my trailer.’
‘You never know what kind of wild animals are lurking in the desert,’ Bruce said, looking glad to be away from their unsettling host.
‘You mean aside from Mick?’
‘He is an odd duck, that’s for sure.’
‘Dropped a beer bottle on his foot, my arse.’
They passed the rusted mining equipment, useless relics from days gone by. The ground was littered with debris and old beer bottles. Clouds had begun to appear in the sky, darkening the night.
When they came to Jewel’s trailer, she stopped and faced Bruce.
‘So, I guess you want a goodnight kiss?’
He gulped. ‘I wouldn’t say no.’
Jewel leaned forward and their lips met. It was a nice kiss: warm, not too wet. When they parted, Bruce had a slightly stunned look on his round, lightly tanned face. Stunned, but happy.
‘That was nice,’ he said.
‘You know, I bet Amber won’t be coming to this trailer tonight. She’ll bunk in the small shed with Duncan.’
Bruce nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘You can stay in here, if you like. It’d be nice to have the company.’
Bruce didn’t answer. Jewel looked to the ground, thinking she’d pushed her luck. Shit. He thinks they’re sluts, or . . . Then it dawned on her.
‘Oh, silly me. Of course. I know why you want to sleep in the Kombi.’
‘You do?’
‘Sure. I kinda twigged when I saw how worried you were about the panel being loose. And you and Duncan are very intent on getting to Broome on time.’
Bruce pulled her close. It felt good to be close to a warm body in this chilly night air.
‘I see . . . And have you told anyone else about your theories, Miss Clever?’
‘No.’
‘Not even Amber?’
‘Not even Amber.’
Bruce sighed. His breath smelled of coffee. ‘It’s not the weed that we’re worried about, but the man in Broome we’re supposed to meet. He hates it when we’re late. We have a lot of money owed to him, and he’s got . . . well, let’s just say he’ll have some very valuable product that he and his people rely on us to distribute around WA.’
This was heavier than Jewel suspected. ‘What about the dope?’
‘We take that around the various mines up north. We’ve got hundreds of customers who ache for some sweet bush bud to carry them through their long working days. Plus we unload some in Broome, too. It’s a nice bit of extra cash.’
‘So, how much do you have stashed?’
‘About fifteen pounds.’
Jewel breathed out. ‘Wow. That’s a lot of weed.’
Bruce squeezed her tight and kissed her again.
Afterwards, she frowned. ‘Say, you don’t think Mick knows about it?’
A glazed look came over Bruce’s face. ‘You mean because of the way he acted when I told him I was sleeping in the Kombi?’
She nodded.
‘Nah. How could he?’
Jewel smiled. ‘Maybe he smelled the weed when he was checking under the van. You know, like one of those police dogs.’
Bruce smiled back. He reminded her of a young Steve McQueen, only with long hair.
‘I’m sure he was just being cautious, in that strange way of his. Or maybe he was offended, thought I didn’t think his broken-down trailers were good enough. Anyway, enough about h
im. I have an idea,’ Bruce said, one side of his mouth curling to a grin. ‘How about you sleep with me in the Kombi tonight? No sense both of us being alone. That is, of course, if you don’t mind being a little squished in the back.’
Jewel reached down and squeezed his bulging crotch. ‘I don’t mind. But I think Duncan might get jealous.’
The night saw a few more beers downed and tongues loosened, and Mick learned that Steve had been a grunt in the First Infantry. Later, once everyone was asleep, Mick slipped down into the deep cavern.
‘Eddie, are you there?’ he said, standing at the bone altar.
He waited. Wiped cold sweat from his hot brow.
‘Eddie?’
The bones remained silent.
Then: ‘A whole group of tourists, nice going.’ The voice wasn’t Eddie Boong’s. It was more stern, more deliberate. ‘Why haven’t you brought us one yet?’
Mick frowned. The new voice was familiar. Deep, confident. ‘Sarge?’
‘Yes, it’s me, Crack Shot.’
It was funny, but with everything going on – suspecting the Asians of being VC, discovering that Steve was a fellow vet – his mind kept going to his time in Vietnam, the things he and Sergeant Atkin had done.
‘It’s good to hear your voice, skipper,’ Mick said. ‘But where’s Eddie?’
‘It’s me now. So, what’s the status with our sacrifices?’
‘I’m working on it, sir,’ Mick said. ‘It’s gonna take some time. It’s tricky . . .’
‘The land is getting restless. We’re thirsty – we need the blood.’
Mick nodded. ‘I know,’ he said, voice echoing around the cavern. ‘Soon. Very soon. If it wasn’t for that bastard, Bruce . . .’
Mick clenched his fists. He’d had it all planned. Invite them to stay in the trailers and sheds around the mine, and then, once they were all asleep, take the bag with the rifles. Then, after he had given the land what it wanted, he’d have free rein to do as he pleased with what was left.
But Bruce wanted to sleep in the van. Damn him. He probably chose to sleep in there to protect his weapons. Mick had a mind to go over there and bash in his head.
He could kill Bruce and take the guns anyway. He grinned.
‘No . . . be smart,’ Sarge told him, as if reading Mick’s thoughts. ‘Be careful. The other one, Duncan, may have a weapon on him. Steve maybe, too.’
‘I don’t think they do . . .’
‘Think isn’t good enough, Mick. Do you know for sure they don’t?’
Mick looked to the ruby earth and shook his head.
‘And what if they kept the guns and ammo separate? By the time you found the ammo, the others may already be on to you.’
‘I can handle them,’ Mick said, looking back up at the bone temple. ‘I’ve got me own guns.’
‘Always the reckless one,’ Sarge said. ‘Got you in some trouble, didn’t it, Crack Shot?’
Mick nodded, then brightened. ‘But I always came out on top.’
‘Don’t I know it. Stretch too.’
Mick’s grin widened. Fucken Stretch.
‘Still, we don’t want you screwing this up.’
‘I agree,’ Mick said.
‘You’ve nearly blown your cover a couple of times.’
Mick sighed. They almost tripped him up with the phone issue. He forgot he was supposed to be the local mechanic. He would have to think about things like that, for next time. There’s so many things you gotta cover, even if you try to keep the yacking to a minimum.
‘Be smart, but bring us one soon. We’re counting on you, Mick.’
‘I know. I won’t let you down, Sarge.’
And he wouldn’t. He had ideas about how to proceed.
Paramount was separating the men: eliminating Bruce and Steve first, and then taking control of their weapons.
‘Tomorrow night. I’ll bring you a sacrifice tomorrow night.’
‘Good. We’ll be waiting.’
Looking at one of the skulls, Mick was sure he could see it smile at him.
8
Vietnam
October 1966
‘. . . and by the time we reached the camp, the bloody White Mice were just about close enough to kiss our behinds. Well, we got to the entrance, and wouldn’t ya know it, the bloody boom gate was down! I shouted to Brownie, “What the hell are we gonna do?” And Brownie just says, “Duck!” So we bobbed our heads, flew under the gate, and once we were in the camp, we jumped off the Lambretta and ran to our tent.’
The boys at the table howl with laughter.
‘You showed them damn Yanks,’ Nobby says through a mouthful of potato and gravy.
‘All that over a simple punch-up,’ Sluggo says. ‘Christ, sounds like you had half the police in Saigon on your tail. And all you guys got was a week confinement?’
‘A small price to pay,’ Brownie says. ‘Those bloody American soldiers think they’re hot shit. Well, we showed them how we Aussies fight.’
‘I’m just glad we made it back to camp before curfew,’ Woody says, taking a draw from his can of VB. ‘We would have really been in the shit otherwise.’
Sitting quietly at the table, Mick washes his dinner down with a warm can of Foster’s. He smiles as he listens to Woody and Brownie’s adventures, but his mind is on the nearby village. He’s been laid up for the past week from a bout of malaria, so he hasn’t been back to the village with a bin. Now that he’s feeling better, he’s eager to go back for more.
‘Hey, I got a letter from Phil’s mother today,’ Jacko says.
The guys at the table fall quiet. The sound of the rain is loud and constant on the mess’s roof.
‘How’s he doing?’ Woody asks.
Jacko sighs. ‘She says he’s doing well, but I think she was just being polite. She wrote things like “keeps to himself, but otherwise he’s back to normal” and “sometimes has difficulty getting around”. I think she doesn’t want to tell us the truth. Or maybe admit it to herself.’
‘Well, Buck got hit pretty badly,’ Stretch says, sucking on a cigarette. ‘Got a lot of shrap in him. I bet he’s having trouble getting around. Probably needs help getting on and off the crapper.’
‘That’s real nice talk,’ Sluggo says. ‘Show some respect, will ya?’
The others at the table murmur in agreement.
‘What? I’m just sayin’.’
‘Speakin’ of letters,’ Nobby says, ‘you guys should see the one I got from my girl.’ The medic whistles. ‘Puts Playboy to shame.’
‘Just don’t wake me during the night while you’re admiring your letter,’ Woody says.
Mick smiles absently at the remark, but his mind is thinking about the things he could do to the village girls with his knife.
‘Give you a packet of Salems if ya show it to me,’ Sluggo says.
‘Fuck no,’ Nobby says. ‘None of you grubby buggers are getting your sticky fingers on my Lucy.’
‘It wasn’t my sticky fingers I was planning on putting on the picture.’
The men guffaw and Nobby flicks some soggy mashed potato at Sluggo.
‘Hey, Crack Shot, everything okay?’ Jacko asks. The section commander is sitting opposite Mick. ‘You’ve been quiet tonight. You still suffering from the headaches? You feel sick?’
Mick shakes his head. ‘Nah, I’m over the malaria. Just thinkin’, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, thinking about how he doesn’t get any letters,’ Stretch says through a plume of smoke.
Mick shoots Stretch a venomous look.
‘Why don’t you get any letters, Mick?’ Stretch says, leaning back. ‘Got no family? No loved one back home to send you a perfumed letter and a photo of herself showing her holy blessing?’
‘Fuck you,’ Mick snaps.
‘Yeah, lighten up, Stretch,’ Jacko says.
‘I’m just concerned about Mick’s morale, that’s all. After all, a digger looks forward to letters from home most of all. And if a digger doesn’t get any,
well, that can do a lot to fuck a soldier up.’
‘I’ll fuck you up if you don’t shut yer trap.’ Mick wraps his fist around a table knife and his knuckles bleed white as he tightens his grip.
Stretch flicks his gaze from Mick’s right hand back to his face. He opens his mouth, but instead of a retort, he sucks on his cigarette.
Talk eases back to other letters from home, but Mick doesn’t listen – the voices are white noise. He’s preoccupied with thoughts of blood and violence – towards the girls in the village, and towards Stretch.
Mick’s standing under the canvas roof of the mess, smoking a Marlboro and looking out at the rain pouring down.
‘Game tonight in our tent,’ Woody says as he hurries past him from inside.
‘May as well give you the rest of these smokes now,’ Mick says, and Woody winks as he dashes into the downpour.
The mess is almost empty when Stretch stops beside Mick.
‘Bloody rain. It never ends,’ the nasho says.
‘It will in a month or so,’ Mick replies. ‘And then you’ll all complain about the heat and the dust and wish for rain again. Me, I like the rain. I find it comforting.’
‘What the fuck do you know about tropical weather? I thought you were from Western Australia?’
‘I am. But I grew up in Queensland.’
Mick turns and looks at the second scout. He’s grown even thinner in the two months Mick has been here. The 21-year-old is pale and has heavy bags under his eyes. Along with exhaustion from lack of sleep, Stretch has a bad case of crotch rot, and he’s been plagued with chronic constipation – his groaning has been giving Mick restless nights.
Mick looks at him. ‘What’s your problem, Stretch? You ride me at every opportunity. I know you lost a good mate early on, but Christ, get over it. We’ve still got a long ways to go together, and it’d make things easier if we just got along.’
Stretch huffs. ‘You mean like you and Sarge?’
Mick flicks his stub to the rain. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I know about your little jaunts outside the wire. The root bin and all that.’
Mick looks around. The mess is empty, just the diggers clearing the plates and shit off the tables. ‘Don’t talk so fucken loud,’ Mick says.
‘Ah, relax,’ Stretch says. ‘The sarge knows I know. Hell, I used to go out and dump the bins at the tip at the beginning. But I got tired of getting my cock gummed by the old witches.’
