Five Parts Dead

by Tim Pegler

  When we returned from the drawing room, the men had decamped. We gave chase and Mr Sam intercepted them at the stable where they held Miss Wilton with a knife to her throat. They released her only once they were ready to mount one of our horses—one beast between them as the mare has fallen lame.

  I had to restrain Mr Sam from pursuing them on foot. He is not yet fully restored and tires quickly. Sadly we cannot spare men to search the scrub for them.

  I have signalled for assistance and written a letter to the authorities at Donington, appraising them of the cowardly thieves approaching. We will endeavour to signal the next passing vessel to carry the news, but visibility remains poor.

  At noon we interred Captain Wilton’s body at our small cemetery at Nolan’s Return. Mr Sutton assures me the soil is sufficiently deep here to ensure he will not be exposed by the elements again. We must not have a repeat of the spectre that confronted Miss Lily.

  Construction of the horse-drawn flying fox at the Return is almost complete. This will greatly enhance our capacity to unload supplies, though the need for a replacement beast remains acute…

  FEBRUARY 27

  Commenced with dark gloomy weather with frequent showers of rain from the NW. At 4 squally. At 6 ditto. Extinguished light at 8.

  Mr Sam is almost back to full health but cannot rest at the thought of Ewing and Pierson remaining at liberty. We signalled to a barque sailing west but they did not acknowledge our message. I have told Mr Sam we will send word of the thieves on the supply schooner Yatala but he is determined not to wait.

  FEBRUARY 28

  Commenced with fresh breeze SW by W, drizzling rain and dark gloomy weather. From 4 till 9 moderate breeze at SSW & passing showers of rain. From 9 till noon ditto breeze, misty & overcast.

  I could not persuade Mr Sam to delay his pursuit any longer. The mare remains lame so he departed on foot, headed NE to Donington. Miss Lily bade him a tearful farewell, walking with him as far as the cemetery. He promised to return to the Cape with news of his endeavours. I will write to the Board, commending his diligence and seeking to employ him as an underkeeper, as we could use the extra hands…

  MARCH 4

  Commenced with strong winds from the NNE with frequent showers of rain. At noon, a ship to the WSW.

  Miss Lily appears extremely lonely with Mr Sam gone and often lingers at the lighthouse for companionship in the evenings. Mrs Bellows complained to me directly that it is not appropriate that a young woman spend so much time alone with the male keepers. I laughed and assured her that Miss Lily made the long shifts more bearable. Mrs Bellows stated, ‘That, Captain, is precisely what I am concerned about’…

  MARCH 19

  Commenced with light breeze at NE. Misty till 2. From 2 till 4 wind ENE with passing showers. From 4 till 10, ditto wind. At 11, a vessel came in sight bearing NE, distance 12 miles bound out.

  At 2pm the Yatala arrived. There is no word from Mr Sam. I have sent letters to the Marine Board and the authorities at Donington and made a request for a second horse. Mrs Bellows received a large package that has put her in an unusually high-spirited mood.

  Second and third keepers employed in bringing up oil from the Return—24 gallons. In the process of bringing up the oil the barrow slipped off a stone, capsized the oil tins and burst one. (Wasted 5 qrts of oil.—Cpt SL)

  MARCH 20

  Commenced with moderate breeze at ENE with clear blue sky till noon. Very warm.

  I have deduced Mrs Bellows’ package must have been a new hat and gown as she is wearing these today, despite the temperature and their excessive grandeur in these remote surroundings…

  APRIL 5

  Commenced with moderate breeze SW by W. From 8 till noon, light breezes and overcast.

  The mare is no longer lame. Miss Lily proposed riding to Donington to seek news of Mr Sam. I said we could not spare the horse and the journey was too hazardous for her to undertake alone. We pray that the Yatala’s next visit brings confirmation Mr Sam is safe and the miscreants he pursued are in custody.

  Mrs Bellows continues to parade herself daily in her new outfit. She appears so incongruous in this environment it is almost amusing. However, I sense she deliberately seeks to differentiate herself from the more plainly clad Mrs Sutton and Miss Lily. I fear this provocative campaign may damage morale…

  APRIL 9

  Commenced with strong wind at WNW, dark and gloomy with passing showers. From 4, steady rain and wind gusts at WNW.

  With heavy rains restricting us from outside toils for the past three days, I overheard Miss Lily express sympathy to Mrs Sutton about how hard it must be to entertain the children indoors. Mrs Sutton replied, ‘For all I care it can rain for a month so long as I do not lay eyes on that ridiculous frock’…

  APRIL 15

  Commenced with steady moderate breeze at SE by E and cloudy till 8. From 8 till noon calm and clear.

  At 10, the Yatala arrived. Making my way to Nolan’s Return I was surprised to hear laughter and indignant screams penetrate the scrub. The mare was tethered, rendering the flying fox stationary, with an irate Mrs Bellows suspended in midair halfway between the jetty and the storerooms. She had apparently been there for some time. When I asked who was responsible for this, Mrs Sutton replied that it was very much Mrs Bellows’ own doing. I took this to mean that she was being punished for her contemptuous attitude towards the other women. Mr Bellows was on duty at the light and did not witness this incident. No word from Mr Sam, the Marine Board or Donington…

  APRIL 18

  Commenced with moderate breezes at ENE with clear blue sky till 4. From 4 till 6 ditto breeze with a heavy dew falling.

  We are all on tenterhooks. The youngest of the Sutton children, Robert, has taken ill with dreadful fever. Raised the signal for medical assistance but he is failing fast…

  APRIL 21

  Commenced with heavy mist and passing showers until 5. Moderate breeze at SSW and overcast from 6 to 10.

  Our signals have been to no avail. Robert Sutton died at 7 this evening. God rest his soul.

  APRIL 22

  Commenced with steady fresh breeze SSW and cloudy till 8. From 8 till noon moderate breeze and passing showers.

  We held a graveside service for young Robert Sutton at Nolan’s Return. Mrs Bellows stood apart from the other women as Miss Lily attempted to comfort Mrs Sutton. I fear our community is splintering. Indeed, Mr Bellows needed urging to assist with digging the grave— stating to me that it was a task for the third keeper. I replied that no father should dig his own child’s grave when another able-bodied man is present. One of the other Sutton children, Maggie, is showing signs of fever.

  Pip looks up, wide-eyed. ‘Can you imagine how awful that would have been? One child dead. Another sick. No chance of a doctor unless a passing ship responds to their signal. Even then it might not be safe to dock.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I nod. ‘They’d be gambling lives against the one they’re trying to save.’

  ‘It must have been agony for the parents,’ Pip says. ‘They couldn’t do much for their kids except wait.’

  She really gets these people. Their lives feel so real when she describes it like that.

  Pip’s eyes are blazing now. ‘And, on top of worrying about their children, they have this other couple, living metres away, treating them like dirt. I mean, how did these people work together? How did they keep the light burning when they could hardly stand to be in the same room?’

  ‘The men probably pretended everything was cool,’ I grin, ‘and just grunted at each other at the end of their shifts. Why talk when you don’t need to?’

  She snorts. ‘That’s the male solution, is it? Ignore a problem and hope it goes away.’

  ‘Something like that. It’s just being practical! If you can’t change a situation, why risk making it worse?’

  Pip eyeballs me and says nothing for a few seconds. I lean back onto the stairs, uncomfortable in the heat of her glare. When I glance back, she
’s still staring my way. Then she opens fire.

  ‘Is that why you lied about the accident, Dan? To the police and to your family and everyone else? Because it was easier to leave things alone than say what really happened?’

  Perspiration erupts all over me. My throat tightens and I retch, fighting for breath. I stand, the tower swaying around me, grab at my crutches and wobble away.

  J: ON FIRE. KEEP CLEAR

  I skip lunch and bunker down in my room. To my relief, Mel and Hiroshi return mid-afternoon with a minibus of sunburnt Japanese surfies. They’ve been to check out a reef break and are now planning a pre–New Year’s Eve party, a sort of backpacker training run, two nights before the real deal. Bonfire, booze, the works.

  Mel, Pip and I grab swags and sleeping bags and leave a note, in case Mum and Dad come back early, telling them we’re camping overnight at the farm-stay with Hiroshi and his crew.

  I thought about not going, doing anything I could to avoid Pip.

  How did she know? Shit, how much does she know?

  I ignore her in the bus and squeeze into an aisle seat beside a snoozy, spiky-haired tourist. He jacks an eyelid open wide enough to acknowledge me then slumps back to sleep.

  Up ahead the road cuts a groove through thick scrub. The further we travel from the Cape, the taller the trees are. Within twenty minutes, we’re in dense forest. The bus lurches as the driver brakes to avoid a monster goanna.

  I’m getting dozy myself when the engine note changes. We slow and turn left onto a sandy driveway leading to the host farm where the backpackers are staying. We pass a farmhouse and shearing shed before descending into a natural amphitheatre bordered by a snickering creek. A pair of old-fashioned long-drop outhouses lean towards each other under the wings of a couple of ancient blue gums. A cluster of tents encircles a campfire and a United Nations of tourists greet Hiroshi like a tribal chief returning from a hunting expedition. When I see the slabs stacked under the back seat of the bus, I understand why.

  The surfers tumble out. I wait on board, shunting the slabs towards the door and a posse of campers eager to unload the bullion.

  Cardboard rips and cans hiss open immediately.

  I’m stretching, preparing to clamber from the bus, when Mel swoops back inside.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yeah. Why?’

  ‘You kept to yourself this arvo. I wouldn’t have got you to come if I thought you weren’t…feeling up to it.’

  ‘Nah, I’m okay. Just tired. Sick of dragging this cast around. But thanks…for organising this. It’s good to get away from the cottage.’

  ‘Don’t thank me; thank Rosh. He’s the one with the wheels—thank God!’

  She bounces out of the bus.

  Hiroshi sidles over next, a beer in his hand for me. It feels like he and Mel have a welfare watch on me today. I don’t want to think about why that might be.

  ‘No thanks, Rosh. Hey, ummm, beer is big in Japan, right? As in popular?’

  ‘Yes. Is something we have in common. Beer is favourite drink in Japan, too.’

  ‘So how come you use the English word for beer?’

  Rosh repeats the word slowly as he constructs his answer. ‘Bii-ru. Biii-roo. I think beer comes to Japan very long time ago…maybe from the Dutch. We use your word to say it but write it very Japanese way—with characters for wheat and sake. Bii-ru.’

  I smile at him, knowing I should try harder to get to know the guy. If he and Mel…I mean, maybe we will be friends but making new mates doesn’t feel…right, not yet.

  Dinner is a barbecue. It crosses my mind that there’s nothing for Pip to eat, when I spot a lonely side table with bedraggled salads and a tub of maggoty-looking rice. Bummer. Tough life being a vego.

  Most of the backpackers are Japanese but there are Germans, Dutch and Canadians too. Hiroshi seems at ease with everyone, even though he must be younger than many of them. I marvel at how relaxed he is, a natural leader. He’s comfortable in this chilled-out crowd and loving every minute of his life that doesn’t involve a suit, tie and Tokyo subways. I’d be stressed to the max trying to get everyone to have a good time.

  I find myself adopted by a Japanese dude and his girlfriend who seem to think I hurt my leg in a surfing accident. I mime ‘shark attack’ to see how that goes down as an explanation. The pair of them turn so pale the zinc cream on their noses is camouflaged. From their gesturing, I think they’re about to take vows of surfing abstinence, when Hiroshi swings by, merrily translates and tells Toshi and Chika that I’m joking. There’s a moment’s lull before they howl with laughter and bury me in a group hug.

  I’m still untangling myself when someone cranks up a stereo so loud that even sign language is impossible.

  My senses start doing circle work.

  Laughter, clinking bottles, doof-doof dancebeats. Beer, barbecue grease, portaloo pong. Light somersaulting as the fire darts and dances through a smoky veil. Sounds, smells, sights all swirl into a sickening, suffocating memory…

  Back in Travis’s pimped-up Falcon, fishtailing away from the party—Aaron at the wheel of his brother’s car. The guys, hooting with hilarity, bound for the bottle shop. Beery affection. The smell of stale takeaway food containers. And Carlo, who must have swum fifty laps through aftershave.

  I’m there, hoping they won’t notice as I pull my seatbelt tighter, wincing and closing my eyes as the Falcon shimmies through traffic, only slowing briefly when they spot five glammed-up girls waving from a P-plated Camry.

  For a moment, the laughter seduces me. I’m grinning like a sideshow clown, high on theme park adrenaline. We’re road warriors, rebels, risk-takers. Unstoppable.

  An elderly pedestrian leaves her shopping buggy on the road, scuttling to the kerb as we drift past. She drills a stare into me, eyes wide, clutching at her chest.

  And suddenly I’m sinking, sweating, hoping Aaron has the sense to ease off.

  He spins the wheels at every set of lights. I’m gritting my teeth, thankful he’s stopping at all. Then he powers onto Brighton Road, cutting off five cars and flooring it away from them. Seated in the middle of the back seat, I can see the traffic ahead and panic. The others don’t care. I’m the only non-believer in a church full of happy-clappies. Their eyes glint with the spirit within, and I want out. Now. Please.

  But I say nothing. The guys, whooping out their windows. Phan, mooning a taxi loaded with tuxed-up debutantes. The Falcon, slashing towards a cement mixer, collision surely imminent. My breath, rapid and shallow. Can’t. Do. This. Gotta say something. Do something.

  I raise my voice—‘Hey Aaron.’ I can barely hear myself.

  The others are cheering Phan. The cement mixer, so close I can read the fine print on its crusty rear bumper. My voice, shrill with panic: ‘Aaron. Take it easy, man! We’re too close…’

  Aaron ignores me. Swigging from his stubby, he swings the car around the truck, where I can see that four lanes become three beside a tram stop.

  I’m stretching forward. Reaching for the handbrake.

  Too late.

  We hit the concrete wedge guarding the tram stop. The infamous Millennium Falcon actually flies. It soars towards a car coming the other way, bouncing across its bonnet. Tilts. Spears into a power pole with a crunch like an aluminium can.

  The laughter, testosterone tyre music, bull-roaring engine, whistling traffic, neon kaleidoscope blur…

  Stop.

  A moment of nothing.

  The Falcon sighs, dies. Its fluids spill away. Drip, drip, drip. The tick, tick, tick of hot metal. Footsteps outside. Unfamiliar voices. Frantic voices.

  Carlo starts to scream…

  A hand on my shoulder. I almost vacate my skin, whip away like a startled bat.

  ‘Dan? Are you all right? Dan?’

  Stars and party lights pulse, blurring land and sky.

  ‘Dan?’

  I know that voice…

  It’s Pip. Just Pip. Not some wraith coming to claim me, snatch me
away and unite me with my mates. It’s Pip with her dreads tied back, her face pale.

  ‘Dan, you’re shaking! What is it? What’s going on?’

  Pip squats beside me on the bank of the creek. How did I get here? Funny the things you notice when your head’s in orbit: she’s barefoot, there are little mirrors sewn into her skirt, she sparkles like the night sky.

  ‘Dan! Do you want me to get Mel? What’s the matter?’

  I sink back into myself.

  ‘I…umm, it got a bit too much. The music. The beer. It…reminded me of that night. The accident. I’m…not sure how I got down here, to be honest.’

  ‘I saw you walk away from the fire. I thought I’d check out if you were okay.’

  ‘Ta. Yeah…It was…shit. Like living through the whole thing again.’

  ‘Dan…I’m sorry about before. I was…I should mind my own business. You’ve got your reasons for…’

  My mind struggles to hold steady. Thoughts dart like dragonflies.

  ‘Pip, why do you reckon you and Mel are mates? I mean, she’s…Mel. She’s fun and all…you both are.’

  ‘Dan! Did you take something? More pills?’

  ‘Nope. Just…go with me on this, okay?’

  ‘What is your problem?’ She sounds indignant. ‘Can’t I be friends with both of you?’

  ‘No…I mean, sure. Be friends with anyone you like. It’s just that, I dunno, sometimes it’s like, you don’t have a lot in common.’

  She gives me that look I’m getting to know so well, the one where she tilts her head like a cockatoo and locks her eyes on me, one eyebrow arched.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, Mel’s where the action is. She’s like the epicentre of whatever’s going on. And she has all these friends that hang around, sort of like they just want to surf in on whatever good waves happen around her.’

  ‘And? What’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘Well, you’re not like…like those girls. You’re brave and smart and you don’t worry about what everyone else is doing. You, I dunno, find your own waves.’

  Her face softens. Reaching down, she brushes the grass flat with one hand and sits, smoothing her skirt across her knees.