An Accidental Terrorist

by Steven Lang

  The radio announcer is doing his lead-up to the hour and Jim turns up the volume.

  ‘… I was shitting myself, I still am, see, my hands are all sweaty, listen here it comes now.’

  ‘Police have confirmed two men are dead and a third is critically injured in the southern forests of New South Wales. The fatalities occurred in the early hours of the morning when officers of the Federal Police and Special Branch attempted to apprehend a group of men allegedly engaged in sabotage of logging equipment.

  ‘The injured man has been flown to Nowra Base Hospital where he is in a critical condition. Police fear for the safety of a fourth man, now the subject of a search-and-rescue effort in the region.

  ‘Several incidents of contaminated fuel at logging sites have been reported in the last week and while no group has yet claimed responsibility it is thought the incidents are connected. Allegations have been made to the effect that the perpetrators belong to a group of international terrorists. At this stage police have refused to comment, although it is apparent that one of the men involved is American.

  ‘Police and emergency service crews are searching the surrounding areas for the missing man. They hope he will be able to assist them with their enquiries. They have not yet released the names of any of those involved.’

  She leans forward and turns it off.

  ‘They didn’t say that before,’ Jim says. ‘They just said someone was missing. There were helicopters – ’ and he’s off again, prattling, and immediately her anger resurfaces.

  ‘Just shut up for a minute, would you.’

  Jim breaks off midsentence. She stares out of the windscreen, the cabin of the van abruptly, rudely, silent.

  ‘Now listen, Jim,’ she says, ‘I need you to tell me everything you know about this.’

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ he says. ‘Honest, Kelvin just came to me last night, we were at the main house and he came to me and he said if he couldn’t make – ’

  ‘And you just said, sure, Kelvin, I’ll do that for you. You didn’t ask any questions?’

  ‘Of course I did, but he said he was going to Carl’s and if something came up could I do it and I said yes.’

  ‘Where’s my car?’

  ‘At the main house.’

  ‘Are the keys in it?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t think so.Why?’

  She’s not sure. Her level of anxiety is suddenly rising. According to some weird logic she thinks that if the keys are in the car it means he’s done a bunk on her, that he didn’t intend to come and get her — she hasn’t ruled that out yet — all this stuff on the news, it doesn’t sound like Kelvin. Unless that was the bit of the story he wouldn’t tell her. Had that whole thing been another concoction? Which is stupid because he’s too young to be wanted by the Federal Police. Isn’t he? But then another thought slips in amongst the others, overriding the emotions connected with them and rendering them obsolete. He is one of the ones who is dead.

  She had felt so cramped by him. It had been a relief to be in Sydney, to be in committee — that word which so often fails to live up to all its promising doubles, and which had done so again on this occasion. Days were spent wrangling over small points of order. She’d thought they were winning, that alliances had been made, but once outside of that low-ceilinged room it transpired that nothing had changed. It was all words; the forests remained utterly compromised. In that context Kelvin had seemed more and more attractive. There might be some confusion about his history, but when he was with her he was direct, present, there. He brought her alive.

  She, however, had spurned him. She had had the opportunity to be with him and she had refused it and now it’s too late. She wonders if she should be praying. Dear God.What? Dear God, please let him be alive. If he’s alive she’ll, she’ll, what? Is there some formula appropriate for petitioning the Lord in such circumstances? If he’s alive she will love him for ever and ever. Is that it? Is he dead because she didn’t love him when he was in front of her. Is it her fault? Does she love him at all? Is he even dead? He’s probably not dead, the little shit has probably just run off because he couldn’t handle a relationship with her, because he’s a cheapskate shit, a liar, a bullshit artist, she never loved him and never would even if he is dead, she’s so fucking angry with him for not being at the airport like he said he was going to be and for going out into the forest to sabotage machines like Andy wanted to.

  Andy.

  Andy has been talking about this sort of thing for weeks. If you’re serious about this come up and see me sometime.

  Bullshit. The man’s loopy, he’s a fruitcake, a fruit loop, he couldn’t organise a cake stall.

  ‘Have you seen Andy?’ she says, the words coming out abruptly in the silence.

  ‘Not since last night, he was at the main house — Saturday night, you know, everyone was there. Kelvin was there too. They left around the same time, now I think about it.’

  He’s right about the cops, though, their new Holdens with their blue and red lights are everywhere, waving them through at the entrance to Cooral Road. Jim’s arms cross over each other on the Kombi’s big steering wheel as they follow the tight corners down into the Farm.

  ‘Let’s go and see Andy when we get home,’ she says. ‘See what he knows.’

  ‘I don’t think we should do that,’ Jim says.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll be there.’

  ‘Well let’s go see,’ she says and he doesn’t reply, just goes pale before her eyes, his mane of black hair stark against the skin. She can smell the fear. Sometimes she’s so gullible. ‘What’s the matter, Jim?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Bullshit.You do know something about this, don’t you?’

  ‘No, it’s nothing, I just don’t want to go and see Andy, that’s all. But we can, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Okay, let’s.’

  She’s not convinced, but the stupid fuck apparently isn’t going to talk. She can’t exactly torture it out of him.

  The road over to Andy’s place was once a fire trail and has never been graded since.The mound of grass down the centre brushes against the underside of the van.The trees have grown too close to the sides, their roots extending into the tracks. When they come around the last corner, getting a view of the clearing and the tent, they see the police are already there. A big Landcruiser out of Eden with lights on the top and bullbars is parked beside the tent, and the nose of some other vehicle is poking out from behind it.

  ‘Oh shit,’ Jim says. He actually stops the van. He turns to Jessica with an expression which says, See, I told you, but which might also be saying simply, Help, please. To her astonishment he puts the engine in reverse and swings his head round to see out the back window, as if he fully intends to back out of there.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  She puts a hand on his arm. ‘They’re probably just asking questions.You can’t turn around, they’ll have seen us by now.’

  He looks back into the clearing.

  ‘I guess so,’ he says.

  He puts the van in first again.

  ‘You shouldn’t have lied to me, Jim,’ she says. ‘Now I don’t know what’s going on, do I?’ She swallows hard. ‘Listen, just follow my lead, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  A man emerges from the tent. He’s in khaki, loose army pants and a polo-neck jumper with leather patches on the shoulder despite the heat of the day. Jessica steps down out of the van and goes to meet him, brushing off her skirt, offering her hand.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he says. He has a soldier’s bearing, a pommie accent.

  ‘We’re just dropping round to see Andy. Is he home? If it’s inconvenient we can come back another time.’ Smiling, innocent.

  ‘You’ll excuse me if I ask your relationship with Mr Weiss?’

  ‘Has something happened to him?’
<
br />   ‘I am sorry but that’s classified information at this time. I repeat my question – ’

  ‘We’re neighbours. I’m Jessica, I live up on top of the hill, over there, and this is Jim, he lives – ’

  ‘That would be Cohen then, wouldn’t it? And you’d be Hadley, Jim Hadley?’ He doesn’t even make the pretence of consulting a notebook.

  ‘That’s correct,’ she says. ‘And you?’

  ‘McMahon,’ he says, as if that was enough for anyone, no rank, no job description, no Christian name. ‘Unfortunately Mr Weiss is unreachable at this time. We are in the process of conducting an investigation. I wonder if you would be prepared to answer some questions yourselves?’

  Polite, to the point. But not to mess with. To Jessica it’s as if she’s shifting from one world to the other and back again.This is like talking to Norton Rawlings, without the sex. She’s glad she’s been in Sydney all week, it will take more than this cop to intimidate her.

  ‘Certainly, Officer. It is officer, isn’t it?’

  A uniformed policeman comes out of the tent carrying a load of books and papers. He stops on the little deck and looks at the trio. A third man follows him out, dressed in a similar fashion to McMahon.

  They go through the rigmarole. What’s their business there, what’s her mother’s maiden name? He asks the same things of Jim, but more pointedly. When did he last see Weiss, who was he with? Jim has the sense to leave Kelvin out of it, except to add his name to the list of those who were at the main house until late. In order to deflect his attention Jessica reminds him that she’s been in Sydney for a week so she can’t really be expected to account for Andy’s movements. She can’t help boasting a little, she doesn’t think it will hurt, perhaps even impress the man.

  ‘I’ve been in committee in Macquarie Street.’

  But he’s onto her almost before the words are out. ‘I know that Ms Cohen. What interests me is that you’re on your way back from Sydney and you’ve come straight here. How is that?’

  ‘Andy’s a good friend,’ she says, straight out, no hesitation. ‘To both of us. Isn’t that right, Jim?’

  ‘Sure,’ Jim says.

  But McMahon’s eyeing Jim again, a hawk assessing its prey,

  ‘Has something happened to Andy?’ she asks. ‘We heard some reports on the radio. He’s not one of the people who’s dead, is he?’

  ‘Why would you think that?’ McMahon says.

  ‘He is, isn’t he? I can see it in your face. How awful! How absolutely awful.’

  ‘I cannot reveal any information about Mr Weiss at this time,’ he says.

  She puts her hand on Jim’s arm, turning her face in against his chest.

  ‘Oh God,’ she says, mustering tears. She never thought she’d cry for Andy. Jim embraces her and from within his protection, the frail woman, she turns back to McMahon. ‘I think we should go now, Mr McMahon. I’m tired from my journey. This is horrible news.’

  The uniformed cop has come over.

  ‘I haven’t given you any news,’ McMahon says. He holds up a hand to the uniformed man to indicate he should wait. ‘One last question before you go.’

  ‘Certainly, anything we can do to help,’ wiping her tears.

  ‘Jim, you mentioned a Kelvin. Do you know of his whereabouts?’

  ‘Kelvin,’ she says before Jim can speak, measuring her words as evenly as possible, slipping her arm around Jim’s back and squeezing. ‘Didn’t you say you saw him this morning, Jim? Trying to get my car started at the main house?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ McMahon says.

  ‘I lent him my car while I was away. He would have come to the airport to get me, but the muffler keeps falling off.’

  ‘He asked me to go instead,’ Jim says. ‘To pick up Jessica. He wanted to borrow the van, but I don’t lend it.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘This morning, while I was milking the cows. Kelvin headed back down the road, to Cooral Dooral. He lives out there, see. Or he has for the last few weeks.’

  ‘That would be with Mr Tadeuzs?’ McMahon says.

  ‘With Carl, that’s right.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘I don’t know. Seven, maybe a bit later. I was late up because of last night. The cows were already at the bales waiting.’

  ‘You are sure of this?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What was he wearing?’

  ‘Clothes. I dunno. Jeans. A jumper. I didn’t pay attention.’

  ‘Did anything about him strike you as unusual?’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Was he distressed?’

  ‘Not that I noticed. He was looking good I thought. The bruises are healing up fine.’

  ‘What bruises?’

  ‘He had a run-in with a steer about a week ago. His face is a bit messed up, but it’s looking better.’

  McMahon looks at the uniformed man and back at them.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘That’s all I need for now. Will you be at home later if I need to speak to you?’

  ‘Certainly, Officer.’

  They turn to go back to the van and she wonders if they’ll let them get away. She holds Jim’s hand. It’s very cold.

  Jim drives the Kombi up onto the grass and does a wide turn.When they are halfway up the hill she speaks.

  ‘Well done.’

  ‘Thanks.You didn’t do so bad yourself.’

  She is, she registers, in a kind of shock, shivering as if from cold. She wonders if she is about to be sick.

  ‘I think, Jim, I am owed an explanation.’

  Jim drives.

  ‘I really think I am.’

  ‘You are. I know you are, but you can’t have it. Not from me. Please, if I could tell you I would. Don’t ask, Jessica.’

  ‘Before the week is out. Okay? And unless Kelvin is dead, which he doesn’t seem to be, the stupid little fucker, stick to that story. We might have to find someone else who saw him too. I didn’t like the way he spoke about Carl. I hope he’s not involved in all this.’

  thirty-six

  He had not meant to sleep and he had slept too long and the waking was difficult. He ached from where he had fallen during that first terror-stricken flight. His face was scratched and sore and filthy, his clothes stiff with blood that was not his own, his head pounding from dehydration, every available uncovered piece of skin swollen from where the insects had been feeding. These things themselves would have been enough to spur him into movement but the sun, also, was well in the west, sending sloping shadows through the trees, and the prospect of another night, of even another hour of darkness, alone, in the forest, was more than he could bear. He had to go down, he had to have water. If the top of the mountain was supposed to grant some sense of power, he could not feel it.

  He dropped off the side of the ridge, finding the beginnings of a gully and following its winding course until pools of water began to form beneath a tight-knit canopy. Even then he did not drink, holding off until he came to a place where at least there was the smallest flow. He laid on his belly then, suddenly quiet taking the liquid in small sips, staring at the magnified pebbles in the tiny pool, their many colours so perfectly matched. Afterwards he washed himself, rubbing the cool water around his neck and shoulders.

  Once again he pulled out the compass and the map. The gully was running in completely the wrong direction. Since leaving the summit he had apparently been heading north. He did not want to risk coming back down on the same side he had come up. He climbed out eastwards onto another ridge, his footsteps on the dry bark drowning out all other sound. Every now and then he stopped to listen, unable to prevent himself from checking to see if he was being followed. He could still sense, or imagine he sensed, it did not matter which, the will of those who hunted, their malevolence.

  After another hour he stumbled upon a granite shelf, bare of trees, the rock exfoliating in wide curving slabs, home to everlasting flowers and a single struggling blackberry with one
half-ripe fruit. He stood for a moment, immensely grateful simply to be in the open. The sun’s last rays still playing across distant hills. Far off there was recently cleared land, its bulldozed winrows measuring out the contours. There was no such thing mentioned on the map, but then there wouldn’t have been, it being too new, these would be places where they were going to plant pines, and if they were the same ones he’d seen between the Farm and Coalwater then he was indeed on Jessica’s mountain and the creek in the valley below would be Gubra Creek. If he could make it there and follow it downstream he would come, eventually, to the Farm. And if it wasn’t the Farm, well, he’d come to something; there would be roads, people, shelter. He had need of food in a way he had never imagined. His body was shaking with the lack of it.

  But the Farm was where he was going. He was running towards Jessica. He wondered if she would even speak to him. During this last day she had become in his mind a scold; it was her voice, like a mother, that catalogued his failures. What could he possibly say to her in reply? ‘I’m sorry, Jess, but I thought the way you were going about this business with the forests was all fucked up. I didn’t tell you, though, because I thought you wouldn’t like it and might stop loving me. Besides, I thought I knew better, I thought I could go out there with a couple of guys and sort it all out with some sugar and diesel. But hold on there’s more, because Carl got involved and he thought he could solve it with some nitroglycerine. But now he’s dead and the cops are after me.’ Despite any critique he gave to himself in her voice it was she he moved towards, desperately and with deep longing. She scared him, but not as much as the darkness and the forest, or the men who searched.

  Perhaps she had been right about the summits of mountains after all, because down on the slopes, where he was, there were no longer any choices, there were just actions taken in response to other actions. He could see that, but also, from within his strange and heightened mood, he could see that it had always been like that. It probably was for everyone. Throughout his life he had thought he was making decisions, agonising over one thing or another, a girl, a job, this or that town, but in fact he’d been impelled by unconscious forces whose roots were right here, in Eden and its surrounds. Forces so strong they’d even brought him back. The only way that he could ever see himself being free of their influence would be if he could do nothing at all for a time, if he could learn to say no to everything; if he could sit like a kind of petulant child and say no, I’m not going to do this, I’m not going to do that, I’m not going to run, or hide, I’m not going to pretend to be this or that person.