by Kim Scott
The party was at Tommy’s place.
Gerry did not know where he had just been, or why he’d left the party only to now return. Him and Tommy, each with a carton of beer on the shoulder. Last-minute supplies maybe? It was a short walk really, pub to Tommy’s place. They wanted to be relieved of their burden.
A fire flickered in the driveway, flame floating in a metal bowl held above the ground, and close to the opened double doors of a carport. Flames, flickering.
Walking from cold darkness toward a flickering fire and light that seemed so thin, yet thickened as they grew closer, held so discretely within the big doorframe. People moving to music, others at a pool table in the back corner. Maybe thirty souls in all, held in amber light, they shuffled and bumped into one another. Gerry saw Wilfred, Angela, Beryl, his twin, a couple of others from the camp. Mostly new people.
Then he was inside, beyond the carport, come from the other side of the kitchen counter . . . was one among a few people sitting on the floor with tubes of smoke, was it? Vapour?
Another stage of the evening, two people played guitar in the open building. Someone doing percussion on a board. Singing. The sound resonated from the walls, into the street and the dunes and the ocean.
In the framed amber light: people swaying, lazy dancing. Bent over the pool table. Flicker of flame just one side. So he was outside, looking back.
And Dougie. It was like a scene on stage: Dougie, so popular, two or three people hanging off his every word. Someone giving him a drink. Arms around his shoulder, thanking him.
An animated Angela talking to him, to Dougie. Gerry was tempted to tear in there, drag her away, but did not. Angela was singing – it surprised him. Had he been in prison that long? No longer the addled carer for an old woman, no longer locked into a vitriolic and co-dependant relationship, Angela was a woman commanding attention.
Tommy joined her, but his singing fell away and he became confused. Angela lost focus, missed a note, stumbled.
Dougie was gifting little packages. Gerry, at least, had an eye for such exchanges, though on this night nothing was asked in return.
Gerald remembered Milton, smiling dreamily as he stumbled away down the driveway. Muttering, ‘I’m right, I’m right. Just not so young as I used to be.’ He held up the palm of his hand, loosely. ‘You stay. Keep that dirty old uncle of yours out of trouble.’
Apparently, Wilfred was still abstaining. An unopened can of some sort of bourbon mix rested in his right hand, as it had all night. Occasionally, he licked the outside of the can.
‘No, I don’t drink,’ he said, ‘Not any more. My pleasure now is in the not drinking.’ He held the can against his cheek. ‘Restrained desire.’ The young woman laughed at his voice, punched him lightly on the upper arm.
‘You an Elder then?’ the girl asked.
‘Well, I did have a beard,’ said Wilfred, running his fingers across his stubbled face. ‘Had long hair, too. All tied up. And I’m getting on in years, true.’
‘That an Elder? Just means old?’
‘But too dumb to be an Elder – and, us mob down here, no culture of course.’ Wilfred shook his head dejectedly.
‘I seen how your family respect you.’
Wilfred caught Gerald’s eye. Winked.
‘Never met an Aboriginal before,’ the girl said, ‘not to talk to, I mean.’
It was a long time since Gerry Two had been like this. Things fell out of sequence, and cause and effect didn’t quite line up as they should.
A young woman turned to Gerald. ‘He is, isn’t he? An Elder, I mean.’
‘One of our Elders, yeah.’
‘Oh, Doug.’ The girl turned away before Gerry had finished speaking. She followed Dougie down the driveway.
Gerry Two playing pool with Tommy. White ball, coloured ball. Cue and pocket.
Beryl slipped her hand down the back of some man’s jeans. The man jumped, then pushed back into the hand. Beryl squeezed, and put her other hand around to the front of his jeans.
White ball, coloured ball. Cue and pocket.
Beryl? She and the man had disappeared.
‘We never see hardly any Aboriginal people around here,’ Tommy was saying. ‘Maybe at the mine, now it’s started up.’
Gerald saw Angela leaning into one of the guitarists; the woman. Angela?
A young woman was on Uncle Wilfred’s lap, another leaned into him, breasts against the side of his skull. She twisted around to crouch in front of him, one hand on the other woman’s thigh, looked over her shoulder and said something Gerry didn’t catch.
The billiard balls seemed to be moving of their own accord, doubling.
Dougie was just the other side of the table, looking along the length of the cue right at Gerald. He gave one of those slow smiles he liked to use, the skin crinkling around his green eyes. ‘You look a bit sad, Gerald. Bygones be bygones. Want something, just let me know. All good with the world, you’ve proved you can go without it.’
The balls exploded between them.
White ball, coloured ball . . .
Where was the white ball? The weight of the cue was resting very precisely between the fingers of his right hand now, held quite differently.
Someone bumped against the table. Gerald realised the look on Tommy’s face, the way he was gripping the cue stick.
They resumed the game.
‘But was it rape?’ Tommy took up the conversation again. He was certainly persistent. ‘Why kill someone for that, make all that trouble?’
‘Wow!’ The woman on Wilfred’s lap fell back with surprise and delight. ‘That’s awesome.’
She laughed when the cloth puppet bowed, and flew to kiss her on each cheek. ‘Are you an artist?’ she asked. ‘I’m an artist.’
‘We’re both artists,’ said the other woman.
‘I’m an Elder of puppets,’ Wilfred said. ‘Puppet creatures.’
‘Strings and that?’
‘And others. I could show you another way, but I’d have to put my hand up the back of your dress.’
‘Go on then.’
Dirty old man, just like Milton said. It was disgusting, and no way for an Elder to behave.
*
‘More than rape then,’ Gerry Two was trying to explain. ‘There’s women you can be with,’ he said to Tommy. ‘They shared women, those days. But other women you couldn’t even look at, or else: assassination.’
Angela and her guitarist friend were singing so very sweetly, such beautifully shaped breath. Who knew Angela had such a voice?
‘But rape? Lotta women been raped, not just your old great-great-great-granny . . .
‘Well . . .’ Gerald meant to say, ‘well, you try it,’ but, throwing Tommy onto the pool table, he lost the thread of the discussion. Tommy didn’t know how to fight. Already he’d stopped laughing, had his arms wrapped around his head, was curled up yelling stop, stop.
‘Fuck off, mad cunt,’ is not convincing when someone has you pinned face down on a pool table.
Gerrard was helping lift Tommy’s pelvis, helping get him head down bum up.
‘How about’ – he grabbed an empty beer bottle – ‘I ram this up your arse?’
Gerrard was pulling Tommy’s jeans down past his hips. Tommy pleading, whimpering.
‘Haven’t even started yet, mate,’ said Gerrard, laughing.
Gerald suddenly let Tommy go, and stepped back. Gerry One had Tommy face down on the table, jeans bunched around his thighs. He looked to Gerald. ‘What?’
‘Leave him,’ said Gerald, and walked away. Silence behind him. He kept walking and the voices, though not yet the music, began again.
‘Mad cunt.’
‘My brother, so shut your hole.’
‘Steady now, bruz, be calm.’ Dougie’s voice. Fuck. Fuck them all.
Jogging. The sound of his own breath, a cloud of it around his head, thin moon and stars bouncing, the gleam of sand and sea. He stopped, heard his own breath and the sea hushing him, hushing.
Gerry closed his hand around the grinding stone in the pocket of his jacket that had been moving so awkwardly when he was jogging. Smooth in his palm, it soothed him. Gerry recited the old language, let it move through him. What had he been doing back there? They didn’t understand, none of them.
He would take this stone to the rock pool by the ocean, from where those others must’ve been carried, taken up the river. Gerry would follow in the footsteps of ancestors, follow the river to the Horton property where this stone had been left, and go on to the Peace Park from there. He was not tired. He could sleep later in the day. He needed to do this, make the path back to the old people complete. He turned back to the party; hot-wire a car and get near the river mouth that way.
*
Tilly felt warm hands, more than one pair of hands, devoted to her only. She relaxed, at ease and loved, thawing. Oil and moist ochre were massaged into her skin, an aroma of incense. Sandalwood? Her mouth made the old word for that tree, breath moving from inside out, shaped by throat tongue roof-mouth teeth and lips, words flowed from her.
People, flickering shadows all around her; Tilly felt the low warmth of a fire. She felt love too, like something radiating. There were voices, and it was as if they were in a cave, the song was all around her, not fading. And then she was the cave, was resonating, was an instrument for this old language, its tune and rhythm.
Wispy clouds veiled her, and the wind was on her cheeks. Washed in sunlight she realised she was held in the sky, was riding easily on people’s shoulders, high in a gently jostling crowd gathered especially for her. Glistening with oils and ochre, Tilly glowed in the lowering sun. Still adjusting to the roll and rhythm of being carried, she thought she might fall and then she was falling, alone and in darkness, falling . . .
The smell of plastic, the sound of air rushing around her, the grind and rumble of wheels, an engine. Released from dreams, Tilly realised she was on the bus, and it was moving. Her guardians, mute and stiff, kept their backs turned.
Carefully, Tilly slid along the floor and peered out from behind one of the rearmost seats. Two men commanded the vehicle. Lit a sickly green by the dashboard lights, they might have been aliens, but Tilly recognised them all right. Well, sort of. One of the twins.
She stayed where she was, tucked away on the back seat with her head positioned so she could see down the bus aisle.
Dougie’s head moved in the eerie illumination from the dashboard as he checked the rear-view mirror, but of course Tilly couldn’t see his eyes. He spoke to the twin, pointed ahead. Did he say look ahead, don’t turn around?
Where were they going?
She braced herself as the bus turned, and bumped and slew in soft ground, twisting and turning as the driver worked the gears. They came to a halt. The bus idled for a few moments, and then there was just a softly ticking silence. Tilly crawled back out of sight. It sounded like Dougie was already out of the bus.
‘Hey,’ Tilly heard. Twin’s voice. ‘Who’s that?’ He was coming down the bus aisle.
‘It’s me. Tilly.’ She was on her knees, speaking softly because she was hoping Dougie needn’t know she was there.
‘Tilly? How come . . .?’ Then realised the answer to the question he’d not formulated. ‘Sleeping on the bus?’
‘Yeah.’
‘We had no idea. Shit, sorry, Tilly. But Gerrard took off, he’s flipped right out of his tree.’
‘What?’
‘He lost it. Bashed someone, took his car. We saw it back there, so he can’t be far.’
Tilly looked around for Dougie.
‘Don’t worry. Yeah, I know, I know. Dougie won’t bother you again. He’s sorry, Til. Changed man.’
‘Yeah, well . . .’
‘Stick with me. He’s not a problem. It’s Gerrard I’m worried about.’ Tilly felt herself relax. This was Gerald, not Gerrard.
‘I’ll stay here,’ said Tilly.
‘He might top himself, Til. There was a fight, see – I could do with you helping. Another pair of eyes, ears – stay close with me. I’ll make sure Dougie don’t do nothing. Anyway, he’s gone down the beach, I’m gunna check the inlet . . .’
‘Well . . . I dunno.’
‘C’mon, Gerrard’s a dickhead, but he’s my brother. Your . . .’ He used the old word for uncle. ‘He’s a dickhead, but he’s our dickhead. I’ll look after Dougie, don’t worry.’
‘What’s the time?’
‘Late, Tilly. Early. Nearly dawn.’
There was barely a moon, but the two followed a dull and gleaming path, passed among shaggy old paperbark trees, their pale, rough bark mottled clear. Frogs called out, and their song was all around the man and young woman, beneath them, within them. Tilly followed the man’s shuffling footsteps.
‘You drunk, Ger?’
‘Yeah, bit. That’s why Dougie’s driving. I’m wrecked. Dougie don’t touch no stuff.’
The inlet was in front of them, its surface reflecting starlight, and ripples ran from where fish or insect broke the surface. Tilly was unsettled.
‘I dunno if I want to find him. He grabbed me, Ger.’
‘What you mean, grabbed?’
‘Aww . . . never mind. Yell out for him, why don’t you?’
‘Yeah. GERALD!’
Tilly thought, Gerald?
Someone grabbed her from behind. ‘Tilly, I got something for you. Wanna feel it?’
Holding her from behind so she could hardly move, Dougie pushed his pelvis against her.
‘Nothing you haven’t had before, Tilly. Plenty of times. You must miss it.’
The twin was watching her struggle. Gerry One. Gerrard. His eyes glossy, the water behind him gleaming.
She was a fool.
Doug’s hand forced something into her mouth. A pill? It crumbled, Dougie held his palm over her mouth and nose, and she was forced to swallow, something. She spat out the rest when he took his hand away.
Gerrard was holding her arms behind her back.
Dougie held up his hand as if to slap her. When Tilly flinched, he smiled and let the hand fall.
‘I’m not gunna do nothing to you I ain’t done before, Tilly dear. You thanked me, remember, once upon a time.’
Tilly said nothing, tried to express contempt.
Once upon a time.
‘And me too,’ Gerrard said softly, his lips by her ear. ‘You’re not family enough that I can’t fuck you. Is this what you were gunna tell me my brother done?’ and he rubbed his hand between her legs, roughly.
‘There’s no rush,’ said Dougie. ‘We’ll share her. We’ll share you, Tilly. You gunna cry.’
A STONE IN THE PALM
Gerald crouched beside the glittering ocean that reached to the horizon but, right by his feet, held these small, smooth stones just below the surface. In his hand he had one of the stones from the farm; his finger fitted into a hole worn into its surface, and it rested so easily in his hand that it seemed made just for him. But it wasn’t. One of the old people made it, and Gerry wanted to return it, put it back from where, some time eons ago, they’d taken it. He did not know why he needed to do this. He moved other rocks aside, and placed the artefact – for that’s what it was – below the many similar rocks. He took another one from the water, put it in his jacket pocket, and began to retrace his steps to the car.
He was light-headed – the weed, the grog, the argument. Lack of sleep. He’d failed himself, but daylight was coming. There was a word in the old language for this lifting of light, for like when you come out of the forest into a clearing. He said the word now, and turned his back on the ocean. The sun would soon rise somewhere on his right. Be driving back
into it, once he found the car.
Gerald was disappointed in himself. The grog and that. He went through words in the old language; it didn’t seem they could sustain him, not against his own weakness. Weaknesses. Maybe his connection to ancestral country was too long broken. Maybe it was all bullshit.
He stumbled. Stopped. Considered his breathing, concentrated on being aware of himself, named the parts of his body in the old language, tried to remain in the moment.
The trip to Kokanarup had been very special. Not bullshit. That’s why things went awry last night; it had been so intense. He remembered: before they went to the Peace Park thing, everyone was going to the other place, the property where the grinding stones had been collected.
Gerry expected to be disappointed with the Peace Park, the ceremony of its opening, but . . . It was government, it was the big end of a very little town. Still, we have let them down, with the Peace Park, he thought. Let ourselves down. We haven’t done our part (other than being nearly wiped out in the first place, he reminded himself). They could have prepared something special, something true to how it had felt after that first night at Kokanarup, when they had felt so welcomed and reassured. The later visit with all of the mob was good, but not so special. Not so spiritual. The word made him wince, but it was true. If not spirit, then what was it?
The river was otherworldly in the dawn. The word for river in the old language was nearly the same as the word for navel. He liked that; it told you about connection. Words hold everything together. And how viscous the water looked in this light, like something that flowed in the body, some life-giving fluid. The paperbarks were gnarled and shabby-clothed old fellows come to visit, leaning over, bending at the knees to look into the dark water, to see themselves confirmed. They were here, the old people. Gerald could feel them.
He heard a scream. Silence. No frogs, no birds; only a fish broke the surface of the water. Another scream. The first scream had made him notice the silence, now he analysed. It was someone at a distance, but there were voices much closer. Voices he recognised.
*
Tilly was ferocious, enraged; her heart racing, blood pumping, pulse throbbing in her ears. She stopped struggling. Let them do what they would; kill them soon enough. Later. When this was all over.
