by David Cohen
I ignored them and looked for the free bed, but I sensed them glancing over at me every now and then. Maybe I stood out a bit because I was wearing a tracksuit, and because I was probably nearly twice their age. I located my bed, the frame of which was made of hollow metal tubing. As I climbed the ladder to my bunk, the whole structure rattled and shook, causing a souvenir didgeridoo leaning against the lower bunk to slide over, bounce onto the floor and roll under the bed. Fuck it, I thought, I’m not getting down again.
‘Evening,’ said the man.
I nodded.
‘I’m Gus, yeah?’ He spoke with a clipped English accent. ‘This is Jenny and – hold on, let me remember … Eliza?’
‘Eliza, yes.’ She sounded American. ‘Hey.’
‘Hi there,’ said Jenny. I couldn’t place her accent.
I was in no mood for a conversation. I just wanted to lie down.
‘I’m Ken.’
‘You been to Ladakh?’ Gus said.
‘Where’s Ladakh?’ I said.
‘India.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘No.’
‘Awesome trekking, yeah?’
‘I’m not that interested in travelling,’ I said.
Eliza laughed. ‘Why are you here, then?’
‘Because I’m looking for a man named Bruce.’
They glanced at one another.
‘Bruce?’ Gus said.
‘Yeah. Any of you come across someone by that name?’
‘No,’ Jenny said, ‘but we just got here yesterday – me and Eliza.’
‘I got here the day before,’ Gus said.
They studied me in a way I found unpleasantly condescending. They appeared supremely confident. Gen Y wankers.
‘Why are you looking for him?’ Gus said.
‘It’s a long story. Maybe I’ll tell you another day – right now I just need to rest.’
Gus shrugged. ‘Cool.’
I lay back on my mattress. It was like collapsing into the arms of a cloud, and the sheets and pillows smelled like sunshine after the van, which smelled like a toolbox and a gun, mixed with the residues of countless rent defaulters. I put my hands under my head, stared at the ceiling and continued thinking about Bruce. That evil fucker. I could feel the rage bubbling up again. I thought about Leonard Stelzer, Jane McMath and Michael Tan. I thought about Kelvin. I thought about the Ellen-shaped hole in my life. Where had they all gone? I didn’t know, but Bruce surely did.
‘Nobody disappears off the face of the earth,’ I said to myself.
‘What’s that, mate?’ I heard Gus say.
‘Nothing,’ I replied.
I had to keep cool head if I was to find him. I had to think clearly and not be derailed by anger. If I could just recall the name of that caravan park …
I sat up in bed and looked over at my dorm-mates.
‘Do you know of any caravan parks in the Northern Territory?’
‘It’s a fucking big place, yeah?’ Gus said. ‘Can you be more specific?’
‘Not really.’
‘You could ask down at reception, or go to the tourist information centre – but it’s probably closed now. Or you could ask Eric, yeah?’
‘Who’s Eric?’
‘He’s in the bed below you.’
I leaned my head over my bunk and looked down. The bed was empty.
Gus laughed. ‘Not at this very moment. I mean that’s where he sleeps. But yeah, Eric knows what’s what – he’s been all over the joint.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, and lay back down to think. I thought about taking a walk back to reception, but I was so weary I couldn’t even contemplate climbing back down the metal ladder. I decided to stay in bed and wait for Eric.
Gus, meanwhile, had picked up an acoustic guitar from his bunk and was singing a Jeff Buckley song. Jenny and Eliza sang along. I fell fast asleep.
Thirty
I slept until eight-thirty the next morning – if you don’t count the brief interlude when I was disturbed by the shouts of people getting pissed at the bar, or the shouts of pool users who’d got pissed at the bar, or maybe it was a bit of both. When I awoke to the sight of bunk beds with sleeping backpackers of various nationalities and persuasions sprawled out on them, I couldn’t determine, for a few moments, where on earth I was. Then I remembered. The only other person awake was a man tiptoeing around the room, apparently searching for something.
I sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes. He detected the movement and looked over.
His first words were: ‘You haven’t seen a didgeridoo around, by any chance?’
I shook my head; I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about.
‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘It’ll turn up.’
I leaned over my bunk and checked the bunk below. It was empty, but as all the other bunks weren’t, it occurred to me that the man looking for his didgeridoo could well be Eric.
‘Are you Eric?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
I’d been expecting some hardened local type – big, sun-bronzed, at least five tattoos – but Eric turned out to be English like Gus, although he didn’t have Gus’s posh accent. He was tall but skinny, with sparse blond hair and a sparse blond beard, and a head so perfectly oval-shaped that it could have been turned upside down without anyone really noticing the switch.
‘I’m told you know what’s what around here,’ I said.
‘Well, I’ve been here for nearly a month now, so …’
‘You must like it.’
‘I have to say it’s grown on me. People think: Alice Springs – it’s just hot and boring, isn’t it? But in my experience, once you get to know the place, it just kind of … grows on you – although it can be hot and boring.’
‘What do you like about it?’ I said.
Eric picked up an army-surplus water canteen from his bunk and took a sip. ‘I suppose I like the empty spaces and the quiet.’ He thought for a moment and added a completely pointless footnote. ‘I don’t much like crowds or noise.’
Empty spaces and quiet: maybe that’s what had attracted Bruce.
I said, ‘Have you ever —’ but broke off when one of the other backpackers made noises of protest before turning over and going back to sleep.
‘We might be disturbing them,’ Eric said. ‘Shall we continue this conversation in the communal area?’
The bed frame rattled and squeaked again as I climbed down. I was slightly unsteady on my feet as I followed Eric and his water canteen to a semi-outdoor space overlooking a garden. We sat at one of a row of wooden tables. The only other person around was a woman checking her email on a laptop. Everyone else seemed to be sleeping off the effects of Saturday night.
‘Very quiet in here, isn’t it?’ Eric said as we sat down. ‘Just us and that lady over there.’ Much of Eric’s conversation, I gathered, involved stating the obvious or making banal observations, or both.
‘Ever run into someone called Bruce?’ I said.
‘What – do you mean here in Alice Springs, or just in my life?’
‘Well, I’m sure you’ve met someone called Bruce in the course of your entire life. I mean here in Alice Springs – or let’s expand that to the Territory as a whole.’
Eric took a sip of water from his canteen.
‘I’d have to say no.’
‘Baldish, nondescript face. Sometimes wears glasses.’
Eric looked at me. ‘Related, are you?’
‘What?’ I said, irritated. ‘No, we’re not bloody related.’
Eric shook his head. ‘Well, anyway, I don’t think I’ve seen this Bruce,’ he said mildly. He said everything mildly.
‘Where are you from?’ I asked.
Eric told me that he hailed from Devon, and was backpacking around Australia. He’d intended to stay in Alice Springs just long enough to visit Uluru and some of the other main attractions, but had decided to stick around longer. He’d even landed casual kitchenhand work at a local cafe.
‘So I’ve been stay
ing at this place, what, three weeks now. Pretty good, too – quite reasonably priced; comfortable beds. The only thing is, there’s no bath. Pity, that. After hiking or working all day, I love a nice long bath, some Radox maybe – just the thing.’
Is it possible to be intensely bland? Because that’s how I’d describe Eric. He was surrounded by a vanilla-toned aura. But he seemed just the right person to assist me. He was very obliging and not the type to ask questions – or if he did ask questions, he wouldn’t be overly concerned if I didn’t answer them. I’d be a fool to disregard such a clear signpost on the road to Bruce.
‘So you must know the area pretty well, then?’ I said.
‘Well, it’s a pretty big area.’
‘I need to find a caravan park.’
‘Oh? Which one?’
‘I’m not sure, but I have reason to believe that Bruce – the man I’m trying to find – may be living in a caravan park somewhere in the Northern Territory.’
Eric took another sip of water.
‘Why are you looking for this Bruce?’ he asked.
‘He used to work for me and … well, we just have some unfinished business to sort out. I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more.’
‘Oh, no worries,’ Eric replied mildly.
The remark set something in motion.
‘What did you say?’ I said.
‘I said “No worries”. Isn’t that what Australians say? “No worries”?’
‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘I need to think.’
I thought, and then I remembered: that was the name of the caravan park.
‘That’s where he is!’
‘Where?’ Eric said.
‘The No Worries Caravan Park. Do you know it?’
‘No, but I can easily find out where it is – I’ve got a detailed guidebook back in the dorm.’
‘I just hope the place still exists,’ I said. ‘Can you get the guidebook? I need to head off asap.’
‘You’re going today?’
‘Yeah, today.’
‘Because if you could wait until tomorrow, I could go with you. I always like a bit of a drive.’
‘You’d come with me?’
‘Sure thing. It’s just that I have to work this afternoon. But I’ve got the next couple of days off to do whatever. I’ll pay for half the petrol, and I’ll share the driving if you like.’
I didn’t really want to hang around Alice Springs any longer than necessary, but clearly Eric’s offer was further proof that things were unfolding as they should. I sensed, by the very fact that he’d indirectly supplied the missing name, that the universe had brought us together for a purpose – to locate Bruce and then cause him to disappear again, but for good – and I was becoming convinced that if there’s one thing you should never do, it’s ignore the universe.
‘Alright,’ I said. ‘We’ll head out first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Look forward to it.’ Eric picked up his canteen and stood up. ‘Best be off now, though. I’ve got to get ready for work. But first I’m going to carry on looking for my didgeridoo.’
Thirty-one
That night Eric studied his guidebook and determined that the No Worries Caravan Park was located on the edge of the Watarrka National Park, six and a half hours’ drive from Alice Springs.
‘You’ve got to see Kings Canyon while you’re there,’ Eric said. ‘Spectacular place. I’ve been intending to go back for another look.’
The universe, via Eric, had done it again. Obviously Kings Canyon had to be part of the plan. In my head I mapped out, loosely, the order of events.
1.Enquire at No Worries Caravan Park front office as to whereabouts of Bruce’s caravan.
2.Proceed to Bruce’s caravan. If Bruce not there, wait.
3.Lull Bruce into false sense of security. Tell him you’ve come to work things out.
4.Invite Bruce on sightseeing drive to Kings Canyon.
5.Go for long walk with Bruce while Eric does own thing.
6.Produce Heckler & Koch.
7.Force Bruce to confess his crimes and reveal whereabouts of missing persons.
8.Bring matter to a conclusion.
I only disclosed steps 1 and 2 to Eric, but I was sure he’d be as agreeable about steps 4 and 5 as he was about everything else. I’d ask him to wait in the car for steps 1, 2 and 3; steps 5 to 8 would also take place without him. But Eric’s very presence on the Kings Canyon trip would surely benefit me. When I returned alone from my walk with Bruce and told Eric that Bruce had wandered off on his own and apparently vanished, Eric would go along with that. It was the middle of nowhere, after all, and people tend to go missing in the middle of nowhere – or to put it another way, the middle of nowhere has a reputation for swallowing people up.
We prepared the HiAce, loaded it with water, food and other supplies – Eric carried enough sunblock and insect repellent to launch his own small sunblock-and-insect-repellent business – before heading into the outback. As I could only drive the van on sealed roads, we’d have to proceed down the map for about 200 kilometres, then across the map for another 100 or so kilometres, then up the map again for a further 130 kilometres, so our route formed a loose U shape, like the inverted shackle of the world’s biggest padlock.
After 50-odd kilometres on the road, Eric asked, ‘What if Bruce isn’t staying at the caravan park?’
‘Then I’ll have to revise the plan. I know he’s there, though – I can feel it.’
We looked out our respective windows at the nowhere surrounding the highway.
‘So you said Bruce worked for you?’
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘What kind of business?’
‘Self-storage.’
‘Oh, right. Sounds interesting.’
‘It may sound interesting, but it’s not.’
‘Bet you’ve got some stories, though.’
I looked at Eric. He was wearing an akubra hat and his face was a white mask of 30-plus cream.
‘I don’t have any stories,’ I said, ‘and to be honest I’d rather not talk about work.’
I didn’t want to discuss the Bruce situation. I didn’t want to discuss anything; I wanted to focus on the plan. Eric, by contrast, thrived on small talk. I know it’s what you’re supposed to do on a long, boring drive: pass the time conversing with your companion. But it just wound me up tighter.
‘Well,’ said Eric, ‘Bruce or no Bruce, you’ll like Kings Canyon.’
‘I bet,’ I said.
‘You can do a walk right around the rim. Takes a few hours but it’s well worth it. Those rock walls – quite something. They’re very red.’
‘Everything’s very red around here,’ I said. ‘It’s the fucking Red Centre.’
‘You’ve got a point there,’ Eric agreed. ‘But there are green bits, too. And there’s this swimming hole they call the Garden of Eden. So refreshing after a long hot walk.’
Five hours to go and I was already on edge. I worried about what I would do if Bruce wasn’t at the caravan park. Then I worried about what I would do if Bruce was at the caravan park. If he wasn’t, well, that meant he could be anywhere, not just anywhere in the Northern Territory but anywhere in the world, for all I knew. But if he was there, sitting in his caravan …
‘Stick to the plan, Ken,’ I whispered. ‘Stick to the plan.’
The lack of air conditioning made everything worse. As far as I could tell, there were only two temperatures out here: hot and fucking hot. Right now it was hot but steadily climbing towards fucking hot, and it had only just gone ten o’clock. At least the CD player still worked. I put on In the Wake of Poseidon.
‘Like a bit of King Crimson, do you?’ Eric said.
So he knew King Crimson, did he? Maybe things were looking up.
‘I think they’re absolutely brilliant,’ I said.
Eric replied, ‘Yeah, they’re pretty good, as prog goes, but I’m more of a Hawkwind man myself.’
‘Hawkwind? Seriously?’
‘Yeah. Chronicle of the Black Sword – love that album.’
‘I suppose it has its merits,’ I said. ‘But you can hardly compare Hawkwind to Crimson, can you? I mean, the Crimson were musical pioneers.’
‘Hawkwind were pioneers of space rock.’
‘But they hardly have the musical range, the depth … Who is there in Hawkwind to compare with Fripp or Giles or Ian McDonald?’
At that point I noticed that the van was making a funny noise: a faint grinding sound coming from somewhere I couldn’t quite pinpoint. But as we were still moving forward, I chose to ignore it.
‘Well,’ Eric said, ‘I don’t know if you can look at it that way. It’s not so much a question of musicianship; it’s more a question of … expanding the boundaries of the mind and all that. That’s what prog’s all about.’
‘I disagree with that definition and I question whether you can even call Hawkwind prog. Space rock, yes. Psychedelia, maybe. But is it really prog rock? I’m not so sure.’
The grinding noise got a bit louder, but whatever it was, it still hadn’t affected the van’s performance.
‘Prog’s a very broad category,’ Eric replied in that relentlessly cheerful way of his. ‘There’s room for all sorts of bands. There’s a spectrum, you see.’ He measured out an imaginary line with his hands. ‘You’ve got your King Crimson here. You’ve got your Jethro Tull over here. You’ve got your Hawkwind over here.’
‘Prog is not a very broad category. If it was, it wouldn’t be prog. For fuck’s sake – talk about expanding boundaries! If we’re going to make it that flexible, practically anyone can be prog. We might as well include Led Zeppelin.’
‘Oh, Zeppelin are definitely prog.’
I was already close to boiling point. I was on my way to settle matters with a madman, a madman who’d taken the love of my life. The air conditioning was long gone. The weather was fucking hot. The van was making a funny noise. And to top it off, Eric and I were having an argument about the definition of prog rock. What made it more infuriating was that Eric remained agreeable even when he was disagreeing with you.
