The Cloud Forest

by JH Fletcher

  Charlie looked him over: ginger hair, freckled skin, a face with meat in it. Gareth was local, as they all were. He was also big, thick wrists covered in hair protruding from his jacket, but not someone to be scared of. He was big in his body but, Charlie suspected, not in his heart. He knew him by reputation. Basically he was a nothing kid, a show-off whose dad owned the store. People said he didn’t do much with his life. Two or three times a week he gave his old man a hand in the shop but mostly he seemed to lounge about, smacking billiard balls around in the room behind the pub, or getting stuck into the beer whenever someone else was paying. He’d been drinking a fair bit tonight, by the look of him, and Charlie, giving him the once-over, decided he wasn’t likely to present much of a problem.

  ‘You want to do that, I am quite happy.’

  He’d half expected Gareth would back off, big mouth and big fists seldom going together with the Gareth Chisholms of the world, but he didn’t.

  ‘See you outside,’ he said. ‘Now.’

  The girl, her friends beside her, stood with flushed face and shining eyes, preening herself over the two boys she thought were going outside to fight over her. Maybe that was why Gareth Chisholm was going but Charlie’s motives had nothing to do with the girl. He was angry that she and Chisholm should have treated him like dirt; because he was beginning to think he’d made a fool of himself, reading into her response something that had never been there; most of all, with himself for feeling out of place in the country that he was determined — determined! — would be his.

  He watched Chisholm slip out of the door, heard the soft clap as it closed behind him. Inside the hall, the air was suddenly suffocating: a hot combination of sweat, sweet talcum and cheap scent. The gramophone was playing the latest dance tune: ‘I Only Have Eyes For You’. Its harmonies slithered like warm sugar inside his head.

  He couldn’t wait to get into the night air. It would be a pleasure to work off some of his feelings on that smug and cocky face. He clenched his fingers once or twice, feeling the muscles in his arms respond. Then he, too, crossed the hall and went out into the darkness.

  After the brightly lit hall, he could at first see nothing. Then he saw Gareth Chisholm standing half a dozen paces from the door. He had taken off his coat and tie. Arms crossed over his chest, he watched as Charlie walked towards him. He did not speak and it was too dark to make out his features, but Charlie was convinced that his face was wearing the same cocky grin that had infuriated him so much in the hall.

  He would soon knock that away.

  Another step, fists beginning to lift, muscles of chest and stomach tightening, when he sensed the shadow of a movement behind him. He half turned, knowing even as he did so that it was too late, and something hit him a shattering blow on the head. It did not hurt, seemed almost to have passed him by, then he saw the ground rushing up at him. He was lying face down in the dirt, unable either to move or shout, his open eyes staring in wonderment at the dusty earth, while the blows from his unseen assailants fell like hail upon him.

  There was pain, sharp and repetitive at first, then dull and overwhelming, a tide that rose to cover him. There was something else, too: furious self-reproach that he could have walked so trustingly into the trap Gareth Chisholm had laid for him. It had simply not occurred to him that Gareth might recruit others to do his fighting for him, or that they would agree, even if asked. He was enraged, not only by his own foolishness, but by the knowledge that these men who did not know him were doing it for one reason alone. This had nothing to do with the fact that he had spoken to the girl, nor for anything he had done or might have done, but because of what he was. Or, more importantly, was not.

  They went for me because I am not a local.

  It seemed incredible, but it was so, and rage combined with pain so that, for a time, he remained conscious even beneath the blows that continued to fall. Then suffering extinguished even that and darkness came swirling, a bottomless pit into which he fell, endlessly.

  5

  When, inch by inch, he struggled back to consciousness, pain returned to sandbag him in earnest. His head, his whole body, throbbed. He lay, listening to the infinite varieties of his anguish: the smart of ripped skin; the headache threatening to rip the scalp from the brain beneath; the drumbeat of the bruised and beaten body that penetrated far below the surface of his skin to occupy the deepest recesses of flesh and even bone. It was a conspiracy of pain, assaulting not merely his body but his psyche, as though the man who was Charlie Mandate, his individuality and being, had been obliterated beneath the anguish of the outraged and impotent flesh. Then he moved, an inch or even less, his cheek scraping against the dusty ground, and the assorted anguishes took fire together, so that it was only the dryness of his throat that prevented him from crying out.

  He lay still, tasting the floury dust upon his lips. At least, he thought, there was something in the world beyond pain.

  I wonder what happened to my hat?

  He managed a feeble croak of laughter at the absurdity of it all and, somewhere above and behind him, a woman’s voice said:

  ‘I believe you’re coming round.’

  Hands were touching him, adding to the pain yet easing it, because he sensed that their owner was at least concerned to find out whether he was alive or dead. When he had first come round he would have found it hard to say which state he preferred, the agony of continued life or the merciful obliteration of death, but now he had revived enough to settle for the pain. Which flared again, sickeningly, as whoever it was set about turning him over.

  She persisted, despite his moans and exclamations, until at last he was lying on his back. He stared up, through eyes he could at least open sufficiently to see, into the concerned face looking down at him. It was the older woman with whom he had first danced. As far as he could tell, she was alone.

  ‘What on earth has happened to you?’ She spoke sharply, as though it were his fault that he had been beaten up. ‘You’ve been fighting, haven’t you?’

  Charlie even managed a sort-of smile. ‘That was the idea. But I never got the chance.’

  ‘What?’ She leant closer. ‘What are you mumbling?’ Then straightened. ‘Never mind. I’ll get someone to give me a hand. We’ll soon have you right.’

  She must have gone, not that Charlie cared. Even the pain, persistent and sickening though it was, no longer bothered him. He lay on his back in the dust, feeling the warm air on his face, realising for the first time that he could still hear dance music — he couldn’t have been out of it that long then — and resting, resting, while he remembered what the woman had said — You’ve been fighting, haven’t you? — and thought of the answer, the certainty, now moving to the forefront of his mind.

  Not been fighting, am fighting. Because what had happened this evening was not the finish but the start.

  6

  The woman who had found him didn’t know who had done it; neither did he, or so he said. The local constable came and asked a few questions but got nowhere; by the sound of his voice, had never expected to. All the same, there were repercussions.

  Digby Hackett said: ‘You wanna turn yourself into some bloke’s punch bag, it’s no skin off my back. But if you can’t do your job it’s a different story. Hear?’

  He couldn’t work for a couple of days all the same. He lost his pay and might have lost his job, too, if there’d been anyone handy to take his place.

  Back at work, black and blue and so stiff he could hardly move, he nevertheless went down with the others. The first dive was appalling and, when he came to the surface again and tried to climb into the diving tender, the blood was pouring from his nose.

  ‘When you get beat up,’ Nakamura told him, speaking very seriously, ‘it hurt your brain. No? So you bleed. You be careful,’ he warned him. ‘In Japan, many, many men die from this. Women, too.’

  ‘I’ll get over it,’ he said. Then we’ll see about Mr Gareth Chisholm.

  Nakamura voiced the same thou
ght. ‘You want us to find this man? Work him over for you? Kill him, maybe?’

  ‘Leave it.’

  It was good to have had the offer but he would fight his own battles. He grew stronger. With returning strength, his resolution grew.

  He did nothing, said nothing. Once or twice he saw Gareth Chisholm in the street. He ignored him. The first time, Gareth jumped as though someone had stuck a knife in him. He looked at Charlie furtively then scurried away, and Charlie realised that Gareth was scared of him. Well he might be, he thought with grim satisfaction.

  The second time, Charlie still having made no move, Gareth was more confident, looking him over and taking his time about it.

  Still Charlie did nothing, said nothing.

  The third time, Gareth — convinced, now, that he had Charlie licked — stopped and grinned at him. ‘Keep outa my way. Hear me? You wanna keep your teeth in your head, get off the street when you see me.’

  He swaggered on, shoulders squared, lord of all he surveyed. While Charlie watched, seeing him go behind the pub, knowing that he was heading towards the room where the billiard table stood. He gave him a minute or two but no one else appeared. Then he followed him.

  The green baize of the billiard table was brilliant under the shaded lights but the rest of the room was in darkness. Charlie slipped through the doorway and stood in the shadows inside the hall.

  Gareth was leaning over the table, squinting along his cue as he smacked a red into the top left pocket. The click of the balls, the crack as the red dropped, were loud in the empty room. He walked purposefully around the table to take the next shot and Charlie came forward into the light.

  Gareth looked at him. Charlie saw a spasm of alarm cross Gareth’s face; then confidence flowed back.

  ‘What the hell you doing here? I told you the other evening. Piss off!’ And grinned, very sure of himself. ‘Unless you want some more of the same.’

  ‘I thought perhaps you could teach me to play this game,’ Charlie said.

  Whatever Gareth had been expecting, it had not been that. ‘Teach you? Listen, mate, why doncha —’

  It was as far as he got. ‘Or perhaps I should teach you.’

  Charlie grabbed the cue out of Gareth’s hands and hit him with it: a good, scything blow across the body that drove him backwards across the room. Charlie went after him at once, crowding Gareth backwards until his back was touching the wall and he could go no further. Gareth opened his mouth — to protest, to cry out? — but Charlie hit him in the gut, as hard as he could, with the butt end of the cue, and the air came whooshing out of his mouth as he doubled over, arms clutching himself.

  Charlie punished him steadily, using billiard cue and fists and, at length, Gareth now lying on the floor, arms and legs drawn up in a futile attempt to protect his body, his boots. Something whose existence he had never suspected had woken inside him, tearing the constraints that had restricted him before. Even with Marcel Chantemps there had been limits beyond which he would not go. Now there were no limits; the treacherous attack on his unguarded back, orchestrated by this man, had freed him from such considerations. Again and again he hit him, never touching Gareth’s face, never speaking, simply breaking him little by little until his sobs and tears were the only sound in the room.

  Only then did he stop. He looked down at his handiwork. Fury, cold and red, gave way to shame, not at having paid Gareth back, but at having permitted himself to sink to Gareth’s level in the systematic and deliberate destruction of another man. Because that was what it had been; a beating like this would have a permanent effect on Gareth, on any man, in his spirit, his body, his expectations for the future. Not on Gareth alone; most of all, it would have an impact on himself. What had passed between them this day, the cruelty and the pain, the loss of self-control, punishment that had been not justice but vengeance, would remain with them both forever.

  And for what? For nothing.

  Charlie turned on his heel and left, walking out into the sunlight and down the street. Disbelief that he could have done such a thing jangled inside his head. He was sick to his stomach, yet knew that regrets, now, were useless.

  7

  Once again, there were repercussions.

  Charlie got back from a trip to the oyster grounds, the lugger Amy II piled high with shells. As they were tying up, Digby Hackett came striding down the wharf.

  He glared at Charlie across the diminishing strip of water that separated them. ‘You get ashore. Now! I want a word with you.’

  Charlie indicated the piled shells. ‘What about these?’

  ‘Leave them.’

  Charlie shrugged and leapt barefooted to the wharf. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Not here.’ Digby turned and led the way to the shack where he had his office. ‘Siddown!’

  Which Charlie, obediently, did.

  ‘Gareth Chisholm’s in the hospital.’

  Charlie kept his face expressionless. ‘That right?’

  ‘Claims he was set on in an alley. Two broken ribs, bruises as black as a nigger …’

  ‘Did he say who did it?’

  ‘Says he never saw them. Like you claimed you didn’t see the bloke who clobbered you —’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Helluva coincidence, i’n’ it? First you get roughed up, now it’s Gareth’s turn.’

  ‘Sounds like someone’s going round setting on blokes.’

  At once Digby’s flushed face was still. ‘Don’ play clever buggers with me! You ’n’ me both know what happened. I dunno why, don’ want to know. But I’ll tell you this: that’s the end of it. Any more trouble and you’re out of here. Hear me?’

  At last Charlie was beginning to get his tongue around the Aussie idiom. ‘It was some other bloke.’

  ‘Then you’d better bloody hope he don’ do it again. Or you’re gone. Understand me? You’ll be outa here so fast you’ll think your arse is on fire.’

  There was never any chance of Gareth and Charlie getting matey but at least, with honour satisfied, there might be the chance of an accommodation. For a week or two the hair prickled on their heads when they met in the street. Then they took to nodding as they passed, curt and unsmiling; there were no words, but it was an improvement. Just as well. Broome was a small town; if they were both going to live here there would have to be, if not sunshine and smiles, at least a truce.

  8

  A month later, an evening of sultry January heat with the humidity sky-high, Charlie left the boat after the unloading was finished, the trolleys on their iron rails heaped high with shell. He walked slowly along the wharf while the setting sun painted dark shadows along the salt-bleached planks ahead of him.

  He was tired and looking forward to a wash, something to eat, an early night. He saw a woman, young, blonde hair halfway down her back, walking in the road ahead of him. He did not think he had seen her before. He drew level with her and gave her a sideways glance. No, she was a stranger. A newcomer, then, or perhaps a visitor to the town.

  They did not speak. She did not seem to look at him even, but something about her struck a chord in him and that night, eating his supper in Mrs Ransom’s kitchen, he asked her if there were new people in town.

  ‘Not that I know of.’ She sounded affronted: she, of all people, should know if anything new happened. ‘Why? What made you think there might be?’

  ‘I saw this girl …’ And described her.

  Mrs Ransom smiled, relieved, perhaps, that her early-warning system had not let her down. ‘She’s not new. That’s Wendy Michaels. Henry’s daughter. She’s been away, in the east. Got back last week. Can’t imagine why she wanted to come back to this hole …’

  Although she would have done to death anyone else who dared say as much.

  Henry Michaels, Charlie thought. The man Alan worked for. The owner of the biggest pearling fleet of them all.

  ‘She got a boyfriend or anything?’

  Mrs Ransom laughed merrily at such a suggestion. ‘Course not!
No idea of one either, she got any sense.’ And stuck her elbow, jovially, into Charlie’s ribs. ‘Don’ you go gettin’ no ideas. She’s too smart for the likes of you. Regular little lady, that one. And she’ll be a rich girl, too, one of these days. You steer clear of her.’

  ‘I never gave it a thought,’ protested Charlie, lying.

  Little lady or not, he thought it might be worth keeping an eye out for her, and did. He didn’t see her the next day or the one after that but, on the third day, walking home from the wharf, there she was again, walking down the road in front of him. He decided to do something about it.

  Again he drew level with her. Again he glanced. Again she took, or seemed to take, no notice. But this time …

  ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle.’ Some deep-seated instinct prompted him to speak to her in French. When she looked at him, he smiled and translated, in case she had not understood. ‘Good day, miss.’

  She was tall and slim, a girl about his own age. Her eyes were tawny brown, as glossy-shining as pebbles underwater. Her hair was palest yellow, streaked with auburn. She smiled back at him and he saw the fullness of her lower lip. He thought she was altogether lovely.

  ‘Good day,’ she said.

  ‘Welcome home.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She did not ask how he knew who she was, or the fact that she had been away. Her expression was not shy, or affronted that a complete stranger should have spoken to her on the street in such a way; yet, behind the pleasant smile and shining eyes, her face held a strength that warned him to be careful. This was a woman with a mind of her own, who would form her own judgements about him and anything else that life brought her.

  So for the present he did not push his luck but smiled politely and left her. The incident, for the moment, was over. Yet it was not, because the thought and memory of her stayed with him, her grave smile the last thing he saw as he fell asleep that night.