by Tony Jones
‘If you’re up for some game fishing, the tuna are running now,’ he offered.
‘I’m afraid I’ll be working, Dave.’
‘ABC, eh?’
‘That’s right.’
Anna cursed herself for letting the travel office do the booking. So much for anonymity.
‘Pretty quiet down here,’ Dave said. ‘We done something wrong?’
‘No, I’m just coming down to interview someone. Nothing to do with Eden.’
‘That’s a relief, love. Make sure to bring your swimmers. Water’s clear and perfect. They didn’t call it Eden for nothin’.’
Anna hung up.
They didn’t call it Eden for nothin’. She fell into a brief reverie. Eden as the paradise you can visit but never leave—Wake in Fright by the sea.
In the end she did pack a swimsuit, her most modest one-piece. She dressed in a faded denim jacket, black T-shirt, old jeans, elastic-sided boots. Checking the outfit in the mirror, she reckoned she looked tough enough. She hid a little stash in her overnight bag, rolled a few joints and put four or five bennies in her change pocket, taking one straightaway for the road.
Along with her Nagra, she’d booked out a new Sony cassette recorder from the techs. She added a shoebox full of tapes dubbed from her record collection. With the speed buzz coming on, she loaded the back of the rented station wagon and put the Sony on the passenger seat, plugging in a cassette of the latest T. Rex album, Electric Warrior. Then at last she took off.
Her cash travelling allowance was in an envelope in her pocket; she was alone and on the road. She loved that feeling. Marc Bolan’s rhythm guitar riffs started at high volume; in came the drums, the piano, the bass, the lead guitar and then his grungy, cool voice. He said she was dirty and sweet. He said he loved her.
‘Love you too, Marc,’ she said, outracing the slow-moving traffic.
Anna was high as a kite when she reached Eden. She had stopped on the coast road at sunset and smoked a joint, miscalculating the strength of the weed Pierre had sold her. For the remainder of the journey she had fought the sensation that the camber of the road would take her plunging off the edge.
Now the comforting ordinariness of the town stilled the paranoia. It was like reaching a fortified settlement after a long trek through hostile Indian country. In the last glimmer of dusk the streetlights flickered on enchantingly. The town’s buildings, clustered on either side of a wide main street, were like an Edward Hopper painting.
The hotel was in the middle of the town, above the harbour. There was no way of missing it. She climbed out, stretched her back and looked up.
HOTEL AUSTRALASIA.
She stared at the building as if it were an epiphany. Someone had plonked a featureless white box on top of what must have once been a turn-of-the-century pub, built to service the prosperous whaling town. She saw that what would have been a wide colonial veranda on the second floor, along with all the original architectural detail, had been replaced by this plain, hard-edged structure. What were they thinking? All of it was done, she imagined, in the cause of modernism. The preposterous name was emblazoned right across the top storey in letters six feet high. So … ugly pretty, or pretty ugly? Best appreciated when stoned.
Anna pulled from the back of the car the equipment case and her overnight bag, into which she stowed the cassette player. Because it was getting dark she took off her sunnies to consider the world for a moment in this new light. Then she put them back on and went inside.
Dave the manager was not at the front desk. In his absence, Anna found herself being scrutinised by a weather-worn and weary drudge of a woman with tobacco-stained fingers, who finally lit a cigarette and offered to show her the room.
It was at the back of the hotel. A pair of tall windows looked out over Twofold Bay. Floodlights around the fishing harbour reflected on the black water. Moonlight delineated the horizon and cast a beam over the ocean. One window was open and a sea breeze flowed in.
‘Wanna keep the winda open?’ the woman asked, tapping ash out of it. ‘I was just airin’ the place out.’
‘Yep, I like fresh air.’
‘Nice view in the daytime, anyways.’ The woman brushed hair from her eyes. ‘Kitchen’s closed, but Dave said you’d be hungry.’
The sea and the clear pure air had a calming effect. Anna took off her sunglasses.
‘He’s right,’ she said. ‘It was a long drive. I’m starving.’
‘I’ve put aside a plate of ham and salad. That do ya?’
‘Thanks, that’s fine.’
‘Well, you go ahead and freshen up. Come down to the bar when you’re ready.’ The woman managed a smile. Not a drudge after all. ‘Here’s your key, love.’
Anna lay on the soft mattress and fell asleep.
She woke, her stomach griping with pangs of hunger. She sat up and checked her watch. Almost 10 pm. She’d slept for two hours.
Closing time, damn it! She jumped up, splashed cold water on her face and rushed downstairs. Far from emptying out, the public bar was loud and full. There was a fug of smoke, of stale beer, of inebriated men and their raging hormonal stench.
The noise bounced off the yellowish tiles, but it dropped when she walked into the room. Anna felt all eyes on her—an unexpected opportunity that had just presented itself to a roomful of boozy males. Then the sound levels rose again as if in embarrassment at their collective animal instincts.
She wove through the herd like a city girl in a cattle yard. The gauntlet of flannelette and sweaty T-shirts yielded a pathway to the crowded bar, where bodies shifted to make space for her.
The barman came over.
‘I’m staying here tonight,’ she told him. ‘Is it too late to get something to eat?’
He grinned. ‘Anna from Aunty ABC, right?’
‘You’re Dave?’
‘Yep, kept yer dinner in the fridge.’
‘I thought I’d be too late. Didn’t realise this was a late-opener.’
Dave smiled. ‘It’s not. Doors are locked, but once you’re in you’re in. The “Snake Pit”, Eden’s best kept secret … But don’t go puttin’ that on your radio show.’
Anna made the connection: a roomful of Adams and a solitary Eve. At the end of the bar she noticed a uniformed police sergeant, tie askew, four sheets to the wind. That’s how you get away with things in a small town—free beers for the constabulary.
‘It’s lively this time of the year,’ Dave explained. ‘Blokes down for the tuna. Boat crews who should know better, tree-cutters and farmers and what not. There’d be a riot if we shut the bar. I’ll get your dinner. There’re some empty tables out back. How about a drink?’
‘I’ll have a schooner of Resch’s, thanks.’
Dave set a beer in front of her and started on orders from the backlog of drinkers.
‘So, ABC is it, then?’ asked the man squeezed in beside her at the bar. His thickly muscled arms pressed against her shoulder. It was like leaning against the flank of a racehorse, hard and twitchy.
She turned towards his weathered face; it was not unpleasant when he smiled, and he was smiling now.
‘Yep, you heard right.’
‘What you havin’ for dinner then—alphabet soup?’
Anna took a sip of her drink. ‘Good one.’
‘Reporter, is it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘That’s a bloody novelty down ’ere.’
‘That’s how I’ve always thought of myself,’ she said. ‘A novelty item.’
‘Wipe off the beer moustache, then, and I’ll take you seriously.’
She quickly found the froth on her upper lip and brushed it off. They both laughed.
‘Got me,’ she said.
‘Do you like fishin’, ABC?’
‘Not in the least. The tuna are running, right? I like eating it. Someone else can do the hard work. Is that what you do?’
‘I’ve got a boat, yeah. Tell Dave if you change your mind, ask for Bob Jo
hnson.’
‘I don’t have time for fishing, Bob. I’ve got work to do.’
‘Pity. Where you headed?’
Anna pulled a face. Too many questions.
‘I’ve got to meet someone.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Inland, up the Towamba River.’
‘The Towamba, eh? That’s hillbilly territory up there. Take care—a lot of odd folk on the river.’
Dave returned with her dinner tray. ‘Here’s your supper, love,’ he said. ‘Give her a bit of space, Bob.’
Anna loaded her beer on to the tray with the cling-wrapped plate, some cutlery in a paper serviette and a couple of bread rolls.
She found a table away from the bar. The meal was better than she expected: slices of leg ham, homemade potato salad, lettuce and tomatoes that tasted like they should. She ate fast, slapping chunks of hard butter on the bread rolls and washing it all down with beer. She was so engrossed in eating that she didn’t notice the man pull up a chair and sit down beside her.
‘Hello, Anna.’
She looked up, startled. This was no fisherman or forestry worker. He might have walked off a sugar plantation in Jamaica. It was the crumpled linen suit that created that illusion. He was unshaven, with the narrow face and deep-set eyes of a serious drinker. Fading contusions gave one of those eyes a purplish-green shading.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said warily. ‘Do I know you?’
The man raised his eyebrows apologetically, took a sip of his drink. Vodka, by the looks of it, a big one.
‘N-No,’ he stuttered. ‘But I know you. And I know what you’re really d-doing down here.’
‘What are you talking about? Who are you?’
‘That’s not important.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Anna stared at him coldly. She’d been here before. They had something about them, these blokes, all of them. They carried the mark, like a brand on their foreheads. ‘I should have guessed. I don’t talk to strangers, especially not spooky ones.’
‘You can c-call me T-Tom.’
‘Did you follow me here … Tom?’
‘No, Anna.’ Tom’s face radiated irony and secret knowledge, the currency of spies. He leaned in close, ready to confide something. ‘It’s the m-merest coincidence, actually. Happens I came here to see the same f-fellow you’re looking for.’
‘And how exactly do you know why I’m here?’
The man drained his drink, immediately looking around to see where the next one might be coming from. Anna saw that he would need a trip to the bar sooner rather than later.
‘Don’t worry, Tom,’ she said with deep condescension. ‘It’s a while ’til last drinks.’
He winked his good eye. ‘That’s s-sweet of you. Clever thing. How do I know why you’re here? I c-could say that we know everything … But you’ve been around the block a few times, so no b-bullshit. Truth is, I recognised you when you came into the b-bar. Put two and t-two together.’
Anna’s curiosity got the better of her. ‘Recognised me? How?’
‘In my world, let’s just say you’re a familiar f-f-face.’
‘Are your people tapping my phone, Tom?’
‘Most probably, I expect. But I’m n-not aware if they are.’
Anna finished the last of her beer and readied herself to get up. Tom put a hand out, fingers splayed.
‘Hold on, Anna, I’ve been here for t-two days already. Saw our f-friend yesterday. How’s that fit with your own t-timetable for getting here? I’m pretty good, but I’m not c-c-clairvoyant.’
‘Well, Tom—if that really is your name—I’ve known men like you since I was a kid and I don’t need to be a clairvoyant to predict nothing good can come of it.’
‘Nicely put. You’ve got sp-spunk. Actually, you can even see that in the old s-surveillance photos, but they d-don’t do you any j-justice … Now, I need a sharpener. Can I b-buy you a drink?’
‘You can’t be serious …’
‘You might need something stronger before you go see our f-friend Petar. He’s in poor shape, almost c-catatonic. I don’t like your chances of getting anything out of him. But I would be interested to know if you do.’
‘Can you really imagine me reporting back to ASIO?’
‘I’m a b-born optimist.’
‘You’re drunk is what you are.’
‘No need to get p-personal. We have c-common interests here, Anna. I know a lot about the K-Katich family. We could help each other out.’ He got to his feet unsteadily.
Anna paused. A deal with the devil was on the table. It felt like a cold wind had blown into the room. She shivered, looked up at the man and smiled thinly.
‘You know, Tom, it’s kind of appropriate to meet a snake here in Eden, but I’m definitely not tempted.’
Tom reached down and put a card on the table in front of her.
‘You might change your m-mind one day,’ he said and headed for the bar.
Anna looked at the card: Thomas Moriarty, Security Consultant. There was a Canberra number on it. She put it in her pocket and went back to her meal.
But it wasn’t long before she was interrupted again. The culprit was a clean-cut young man with a blandly handsome face. Dressed in moleskins and a pale-blue stockman’s shirt, he could have been a farmer’s son. She had noticed him earlier, drinking with the police sergeant, and taken him for an off-duty cop.
He put two beers on the table and pulled up a chair.
‘Got you a drink,’ he said.
Anna pushed her empty plate aside and stared at him for a moment.
‘I must look lonely,’ she said.
‘No, but your drink was finished.’
She picked up the offered beer. ‘Cheers, then.’
‘Name’s Carl,’ he said. ‘Saw you brush off that pisshead. I didn’t come over to try my luck.’
‘Why then?’
‘Thought you might be wanting something for the night.’ Carl lowered his voice. ‘Something special. I’ve got some top-grade hammer, just in from Sydney.’
Anna looked him over. To operate so brazenly, Carl was obviously kicking back to the police sergeant. So, a protected species—best not get him offside.
‘Thanks for the thought, but I’m working tomorrow,’ she said with a smile. ‘Besides, that particular powder doesn’t do much for me.’
‘I can get you some crank if you want.’ He went into full salesman mode. ‘Pills, Buddha sticks, hash, acid? Name your poison.’
‘Cocaine?’
Carl laughed out loud. ‘Ohh! Not much call for that down here.’
‘I’m just pulling your leg, Carl,’ Anna said mildly. ‘I don’t want anything. Thanks for the beer, though.’
‘No worries.’ He shrugged and got up. ‘Plenty of other customers. Thought I’d give you first dibs.’
Anna glanced at the policeman and realised that he’d been watching the exchange with Carl. Had that been a set-up? Still looking at her, the sergeant sculled the rest of his schooner.
There was some back-slapping with his drinking companions, then he levered himself off the bar stool and headed for the exit. The accommodating Dave reached the doors ahead of him, opened the locks and, after some more back-slapping, the sergeant staggered off into the night.
She noticed that Carl had already found another customer, a sinister-looking man sitting alone at the far end of the bar. This must be Carl’s prime time, she thought as she watched the dealer negotiate his sale. His customer had the look of a gypsy, one who’d done hard prison time. He was a tall man, tough, wiry and tattooed, with long, greasy hair that he kept pushing away from his face. They were chalk and cheese, Carl and his customer.
The two men got up together and adjourned to the gents. When they emerged, the gypsy split away; with a foil of smack now burning a hole in his pocket, he hurried to the exit.
The Snake Pit was reaching peak drunk. Everyone seemed to be yelling now. Time to go.
Anna was about to move when Tom Moriar
ty, even drunker, came back and threw himself into the seat next to her. Too close.
‘Quite the small-town scene, eh?’ he said. ‘The crooked c-cop, his pet dealer, stoned woodchoppers, a foreign j-junkie …’
‘And a pissed ASIO pants man.’
‘One for the road then?’
‘No, thanks. I’m going to bed.’
Moriarty put a cold hand on her arm. ‘I don’t suppose I could come and t-tuck you in?’
‘Take your fucking hand off me or I’ll scream, and this mob will probably lynch you.’
Moriarty pulled his hand away as if he’d grasped a live wire.
12.
Anna woke to clear blue skies. It was an unseasonably hot early morning, heading for a stinker. She packed her gear, ate bacon and eggs in the next-door café and headed off in the station wagon. The directions soon took her out of town past a holiday camp and a caravan park. There was a causeway over a river and then for a long time nothing but bush on either side of the road.
As she was drawn into it, Anna had the familiar sense of dissonance. The green density of undifferentiated eucalypts as they crowded the narrow strip of road seemed threatening. She felt as though the vast sameness might swallow her up, erupt into flames and burn her existence away like an impurity in a forge.
She wondered if Marin Katich had felt that he belonged here, if he was torn between the land of his birth and the dream homeland his father had breathed into his imagination. She felt she was moving closer to him. She was anxious about the prospect of seeing Petar again, but there was a stirring of excitement. No matter how different they were, no matter how damaged Petar might be, Marin was his flesh and blood.
She came to the landmarks she was looking for, a second causeway over sandy tidal flats and a distant river on her left. Then the road twisted up a hill, and after a mile she found, at the first exit, the dirt road. She trundled along on the badly maintained dirt until she reached a fork and took the right arm on to an even narrower track.
Now she slowed to a crawl and bounced over the deeply rutted surface, pushing the station wagon towards the edge of the road to avoid the biggest holes, until she came at last around a tight bend and found herself high above the river, blue and calm against the framing of green.
