by Kim Lock
Mercy had only just shut off the engine and stepped out. The driver’s door swung on its hinges; she still had the keys in her hand. Wasabi shot over to a nearby tree, squatted and pooped.
‘Thank you,’ was all Mercy could think to say.
‘No problem. So, happy hour—we’ll see you there? Your mate’s bringing a bottle of whisky, apparently.’ Bert laughed. ‘Like a true Scotsman. So I’m sure it’ll be a great night, even without Pete and Jules.’ He looked so pleased Mercy had to give him a smile. She looked over at Andy’s camper. The canvas awning was pulled out and a small table and chair were set in its shade, but she couldn’t see the whisky-bringing Scotsman.
Finally, Bert frowned at her. ‘Something’s different about you.’
Mercy put a hand to her chopped curls. ‘Just gave it a trim.’
‘Huh? Oh, no, I don’t mean your hair. Can’t put my finger on it, but you seem, I dunno—’
‘Bert!’
‘Oops, that’s me,’ Bert said, and left.
Mercy hurried to clean up after Wasabi before his little turd attracted half the flies in the Northern Territory.
After showering off her coating of red dust and sweat, Mercy clipped on Wasabi’s lead and walked back into town. On one side of the highway was a grocer, petrol station, police station, another petrol station and a shop selling stockwhips, hat bands and leather belts. The other side of the highway was a large grassy park: white-trunked gums, shade trees with thick, sprawling roots like rainforests. Trucks rattled along the highway, pushing hot air, and Mercy felt glad to be resting, relieved to be off the road.
And: it was hot. The heat seemed to come not just from the sun overhead, but from the ground. Heat seemed to radiate from the grass, the trees, the flowers. From the moist, motionless air itself.
Mercy stepped into the air-conditioned grocer with relief.
Standing in front of the fridge, studying its contents and wearing thongs on his feet, a towel around his waist and seemingly nothing else, was Andrew Macauley.
Mercy sidled up. ‘You know, we have standards in this country.’
‘Doctor Mercy! How’s it gaun? Wow,’ he said, taking in her short hair. ‘So that’s what Steve’s knife was for.’ He gave her a smile that she felt all the way to her toes. ‘Now, what’re these standards you’re on about, eh?’
‘These things called “shirts”,’ Mercy pointed out. ‘Miraculous inventions that don’t give poor old ladies coronaries.’
‘Ah, come on now. You’re not old, not yet. This heat is taps aff, so it is.’
It took her a moment. Tops off.
‘I’ve been swimming,’ he clarified, bumping his bare shoulder gently into hers. ‘Are you camping at the thermal springs?’
Mercy nodded, trying to ignore the sudden hyper-awareness of the skin on her shoulder. ‘Bert’s already invited me to happy hour.’
‘Aye, me too.’
‘I don’t think I can get out of this one. He’s been asking me since Crystal Brook. I’ve been antisocial for almost two and a half thousand kilometres.’
‘Don’t worry, Doctor Mercy. I’ll be there. And you can bring your assistance dog.’ He looked around. ‘Speaking of, where’s your assistance dog?’
‘Outside.’
‘Look at you!’
‘I know, right?’ Mercy selected a packet of sausages, placing it ceremoniously into her basket. ‘Like an ordinary shopper. Talking to another shopper, in a very ordinary fashion. That is, you know, if most ordinary shoppers browsed for French onion dip half-naked.’
‘It’s the only way to shop, I find. You should try it.’ He grinned. ‘It’s the liberation you’re searching for, darlin’.’
The Roper Creek wound through thick cabbage palms. Blue as lapis, clear as cut glass, warm artesian water rose from deep underground and poured into creeks and springs. Lily-pads hugged the hot water like a lover.
For a long, hushed moment, Mercy stood on the cobblestone steps and watched the jewelled, steaming water. Any anxiety she’d felt a few minutes ago over leaving Wasabi with Andy was forgotten. Then she couldn’t get her boots off fast enough. She slid into the water like it was her sole purpose in life.
Mercy had the sensation of everything heavy lifting away. As if she was entirely weightless. Aching muscles unwound. Wind-chafed skin softened. The pleasure was so intense she saw stars.
The water tugged her gently downstream. Floating on her back, Mercy watched palm fronds slip by. In the trees overhead bats chattered in clumps. And in the sky, thunderheads were forming the size of skyscrapers. Held by the warm water, cushioned by palms, Mercy watched the palms and bats and thunderheads and felt safe, removed. Gliding in this ancient earth-heated water, there was nothing she needed to do but watch. All she had to do was be.
The spring narrowed, turning a corner. Mercy ducked beneath the surface, and when she came up, the spring had opened out into another pool. A sign at the water’s edge warned swimmers to be aware of freshwater crocodiles. Although not the same level of threat as their man-eating saltwater cousins, freshwater crocs can become aggressive if disturbed.
Then it came to her, without warning, as it always did.
A bath: one of the midwives had offered Tamara a bath, to take the edge off the pain. Dutifully Mercy had been informed of this development, and how had Mercy responded? Treading water, she tried to remember. All of these details would be recorded in the notes, both her own notes and those of the midwives, but right now, Mercy’s mind was blank. Mercy had delivered two to three hundred babies a year and Ann Barker, Mercy realised, was right—each labouring woman, each infant, was blended in together, wadded into a series of bradycardias and tachycardias, primips or multiparas, obstructed labours or failures to progress.
Lying on her back, water lapping her skin, Mercy watched a purple-black thunderhead sprawl across the sky, blocking out the sun, casting an unearthly twilight. Thunder growled. Mercy felt the slow ba-boom of her heart. She was alive. She was here, now. But Tamara Lee Spencer and millions of women just like her over the course of human history, was not. And men, too. All kinds of people, all ages. In the past, and now, and into the future. No matter what Mercy or the best, most qualified, most senior of her colleagues did. No matter how people fought it, or denied it, or outraged about it. Death happened. Birth happened. Life happened.
It was as devastating, as transformative, and as simple as that.
If it could have been possible to have more than a quintuple bypass, Mercy was sure Bert’s brother would have had one. Or at least, Bert would claim his brother had had one. Sextuple bypass? Octuple? That’s nothing—Bert’s brother can top that, he’s got failing coronary arteries in abundance.
They were sitting around a crackling campfire: a group of chattering grey nomads, Andy with his man-bun and single malt, and Mercy, Shiraz and sausage dog on her lap. Happy hour had been delayed due to the tremendous, crashing tropical thunderstorm that had poured buckets and raged for half an hour, then ended as abruptly as it had begun. Everything was wet, dripping and steamy. Puddles gleamed with the last reflections of the pink-orange sunset.
The man who had recently come through a triple bypass was a robust, chrome-haired fellow named Graham, and his wife, a thin woman draped in floral scarves despite the humidity, Eileen. Both in their seventies, they’d had to put the van ‘up on blocks’ for six months while Graham recovered from his surgery last year, Graham was explaining.
‘Oh yeah,’ another man piped up. ‘I had a quadruple bypass two years ago. Sure takes it outta you. You know they have to saw open your ribs?’
‘My brother had a quintuple bypass,’ Bert said. ‘Doctors did it in one surgery. Rare as hen’s teeth, that kind of operation. Took all day. They had to bring in another team of surgeons from Melbourne. Practically closed down the operating theatre for a week.’
No one could one-up Bert’s brother for that, so there was a moment of obligatory silence, before they moved on to cancer: who’d ha
d a scare, who’d had something removed and from what part of their body. (Graham: cousin with first stage lung; Quadruple Bypass: prostate; Bert’s brother: had a lump removed from his groin that doctors had been very worried about, only it turned out to be a cyst. Had the pathologists and oncologists completely bamboozled, though, and they’re thinking of naming it after him.)
Listening to their tall and competitive tales of medical woe, Mercy couldn’t help but feel entertained. She sipped her glass of wine, offering requisite gasps, murmurs and sympathetic winces. This was the sharing of battle stories, retiree style. This was how they proved to themselves that they were indeed living the dream. Because why else would you buy yourself a big-arse caravan and drag it around the country, racing a troupe of other big-arse caravans for the best campsite? To prove how damn blissful life is, that’s why. And to acknowledge how bloody short it is, too.
And to prove to Millennials the value of superannuation.
Leaning over, Mercy asked Andy under her breath, ‘What’s the collective noun for a group of caravans?’
Andy pondered it. ‘A swagger.’
‘A gloat?’
‘A boast.’
‘A grandstand.’
Andy asked, ‘What’s the opposite of an apology? A confession?’
‘A flagrant?’
‘An entitlement?’
This went on for a while, back and forth, until Andy finally suggested, ‘An ostentation. An ostentation of caravans,’ at which Shiraz came out of Mercy’s nose and the subject was settled.
‘What about you, Mercy?’ Bert said, as Mercy wiped red wine from Wasabi’s fur. ‘What do you do?’
Mercy said, ‘I work for the tax department.’
‘Don’t we all?’ Quadruple Bypass declared, and everyone rolled about laughing.
Eileen passed around a platter of devilled eggs and Mercy asked if she’d bought them here in Mataranka.
‘No, dear,’ Eileen said pleasantly, ‘I made them.’
Mercy looked down at the tray and imagined hard boiling all those eggs in the poky back of her van. She took one, thanked Eileen, and bit into it. It was delicious, creamy and spicy.
‘Wow,’ she murmured. ‘Amazing. You must have more than one saucepan.’
Eileen gave a happy titter. ‘I have a full kitchen in that ridiculous thing over there. Here, have another.’ And she placed two more eggs into Mercy’s hand. Wasabi sat up, sniffing, and Mercy pushed him to the ground, whereby he immediately began to follow the tray of devilled eggs around the circle.
Flames crackled; a log fell and sparks shot into the fading light. Laughter spilled out. Andy leaned over to whisper jokes to Mercy and she smelled his soap, his breath tickling the soft, short hairs behind her ear. Wasabi trotted up to each person, accepting pats and scruffs and titbits of egg, sausage, crackers and cheese.
It took her a while to name the sensation in her body. A softening, languid and non-urgent. Like she had noticed at Elliot that morning, if she paid careful attention, she could almost feel her mind hustling for something to think about, something to fret over, something to dread. But instead, Mercy felt something else, something other than nerves and disquiet.
It was calm—that’s who Mercy was. That’s how Mercy felt, here and now.
Mercy was calm.
In the end, happy hour went far longer than one hour.
422 km to go
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
7.40 am read Mercy’s phone. No service.
Yawning, Mercy rolled onto her back and stretched. The van felt like a sweat lodge. From outside she could hear the sounds of the other caravanners packing up, readying to race each other for the next camp.
This was the seventh morning Mercy had woken up on this narrow, velour-covered foam mattress, box of ashes watching over her as she slept. How many more would there be? She was only four hundred and twenty kilometres from Darwin. So far, the biggest stretch she had driven in one day had been just over five hundred kilometres, from Glendambo to Marla on the third day. If she got up and started driving soon, it was entirely possible to be in Darwin by dinner time. Provided nothing important fell off the van, Mercy thought, remembering the sagging bumper.
Wasabi snuffled, stretching out along her leg. Mercy had slept without the cat throw. Mosquito bites itched around her ankles and knees. Absent-mindedly she dug one heel into the other ankle, scratching. Her sunburned thighs were peeling and the scab on her knee was starting to itch, too.
What was between here and Darwin? Nitmiluk, she knew. Spectacular, picturesque gorges carved through sandstone cliffs by the Katherine River. Another iconic, world-famous piece of Australia. She couldn’t take Wasabi into the national park but there would be places she could go, lookouts and swimming holes. There would be roads that took her to the feet of the dramatic sandstone escarpments. What else? She decided she would pick up a tourist brochure in town.
Humming to herself, she climbed out of the van and visited the amenities block to wash up. When she returned, Andy was standing in the shade by her van. Her heart tripped against her ribs.
‘So listen,’ Andy said, ‘I don’t know about you, but I could do with a breakfast that wasn’t campervan toast.’
‘I miss toast,’ Mercy told him. ‘I only have a saucepan. It’s a bit hard to cook toast in that.’
‘All right then. I need something other than toast, you need toast. It’s only an hour to Katherine. Would you be up for a wee convoy?’
‘A breakfast convoy?’
‘Aye. The best kind.’
Mercy reminded him that an hour for him was an hour and a half for her.
‘I’ve factored that in.’ He patted his flat belly. ‘Already had a bowl of cereal for the road.’
Mercy smiled. ‘Okay. It’s a date.’
‘A breakfast date?’
‘The best kind.’
Mercy pulled onto the highway at eight thirty am. No service. She tossed her phone into the door pocket.
The heat was stupendous. The sun was a white hot ball in a flawless sky, roasting the bitumen a molten silver. Mercy rolled the windows up, trying to keep out some of the heat, only to roll them down again a few minutes later, desperate for a breeze. Sweat slicked her spine and the backs of her thighs, turning the seat cloth into a swamp. Eventually she settled for the windows halfway.
The dog sat up on the seat, tongue hanging out in a long pink ribbon. After a while he retired to the deeper shade in the back. Mercy thought of the box of ashes under the bed; poor Jenny Cleggett, flaming hot once again.
Andy was driving ahead; she could just see his van further up on the highway, a white speck in the heat haze. She thought of him sitting comfortably in the air conditioning, man-bun dust free, snug white T-shirt.
Ninety minutes later, the highway split into a dual lane. More traffic appeared. Warning signs bristled up on the roadside: alcohol prohibitions, quarantine restrictions, flood threat levels.
WELCOME TO KATHERINE.
DARWIN 320
Mercy’s phone began to ping.
A truck passed on Mercy’s right and slipped in front of her, obscuring Andy’s camper.
She glanced down at her phone, buzzing like an angry insect. She looked up but she still couldn’t see Andy. It had not occurred to them to pre-arrange a meeting location; they had both just assumed ‘Katherine’ was accurate enough. But Katherine turned out to be a small metropolis, with branching-off streets, clusters of industrial stores and cars everywhere. Vehicles boxed Mercy in on all sides; the traffic slowed. Her phone was almost vibrating itself right out of the door pocket.
Mercy could feel her pulse ticking. In front of her, brake lights glowed as traffic came to a halt. At a standstill, with hot exhaust-filled air coming in through the window, Mercy picked up her phone.
Twelve voicemails.
Nine unread emails.
Thirty-six messages from Eugene.
Frowning, Mercy opened her voicemails. Setting the phone on her lap
, she switched it to speaker as the traffic moved off and she craned forward, looking for Andy.
‘Mercy, it’s Eugene. Please call me right now, it’s urgent.’
‘Mercy, I’m getting worried. Legal said they can’t get hold of you either.’
‘Mercy, you need to call me immediately. They’ve moved up the date of the inquest. It’s Monday. As in, this coming Monday.’
Mercy slammed on the brakes. The phone shot from her lap and clattered into the footwell. Behind her a horn blared angrily.
‘Oh god,’ Mercy said.
Yanking the wheel, she lurched into a parking space. The engine stalled as she lifted her feet from the pedals, scrambling for her phone, knocking her forehead against the steering column.
She listened to the rest of the voicemails, all from Legal. She clicked through to her emails, eyes scanning frantically. She read Eugene’s increasingly hysterical text messages, ending with:
MERCY. INQUEST MONDAY 28 OCT. CALL ME NOW.
Mercy glared at the date on her phone but it didn’t change. Yes, today was Thursday 24th October. The coronial inquest into the death of Tamara Lee Spencer wasn’t in two weeks, like she had thought all along.
It was in three days.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Traffic trundled past. Mercy’s hands shook as she swiped through to Eugene’s number.
He answered on the second ring. He was mad as hell. ‘Where the fuck are you?’
‘Katherine,’ she answered.
‘I’m looking at a map.’ She heard the swish of paper that confirmed he was indeed looking at an actual physical map, like the old man he was. ‘Okay, that’s at the top, right? Near Darwin? Can you get to Darwin?’
