Jasper Jones

by Craig Silvey;

  Jasper quaffs and coughs. Wet-lipped.

  “Is that the one with the big stone heads?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “And they used all their trees to build them, and so they couldn’t make canoes anymore. So then they died because they couldn’t catch any fish.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty close. Anyway, they were the most isolated civilization in history. Completely marooned. Thousands of miles from anywhere else, water as far as the eye could see. So you can sorta see how they might have thought they were the center of the universe. All they knew about were fish and potatoes, and birds, who they worshipped most of all. And off the main headland of the island, there were a couple of smaller rocky outcrops where these birds would nest. And when this started, they saw it as their god’s announcement of the birth of the new year. The eggs were gifts.”

  “Right.”

  “So what happened was, there was this race. All the chiefs from all the different clans on the island would choose their fittest bloke, and they all had to swim out to these rocky outcrops through shark-infested waters to try and steal the first egg of the laying season. Once he had an egg, he had to swim back, climb up a thousand-foot cliff with the egg strapped to his head, and present it to his chief, who was waiting in a stone hut. The chief who received the egg first then became the Bird Man.”

  “Bird Man?”

  “Well, he was like their spiritual leader. Kind of like their god’s ambassador or representative. Like the Pope of Easter Island. And for that year, his particular clan had total dominion over the island. Also, he had to seclude himself from everybody else. He painted his face red and black. He wasn’t allowed to cut his hair or his fingernails. And he had to strap a dead bird to his back.”

  “A dead bird to his back?” Jasper raises his eyebrows.

  “A dead bird to his back.”

  “Probably a good thing he was secluded, then.”

  “Good point.”

  “And best of luck wiping your arse with foot-long fingernails.” Jasper smiles.

  “I never thought of that. But I’m sure he had someone to do that for him.”

  “Now, there’s an occupation, Charlie.”

  “Come on. That’s an honor, not a job.”

  “You can wipe my arse with honor anytime you like, mate.”

  “Only if you tie a dead pelican round your neck for twelve months.”

  Jasper laughs out loud. It looks like his face hurts when it spreads. He touches the side of his mouth with his tongue.

  “Deal,” he says. “We have an accord, Charlie, my boy. I’d shake your hand, but I just found out where its bin!”

  We laugh some more. We have some more whiskey, too, which is much closer to the bottom of the bottle than the top.

  “Still, it’s kind of fascinating, though, isn’t it? When you think about those people trying to answer all those questions just using what’s in front of them on a tiny bit of the world.”

  “Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it, Charlie? It’s all just a big Easter Island. A giant snow dome. Whether it’s Bird Men or sun gods or giant bloody space turtles or Jesus himself. But what I want to know is, why can’t we think like that now about the earth? Now we’ve learned about other planets and stars and galaxies, now we know it’s round and spinning and tied to the sun, now that the earth isn’t all we know. Why are we stuck? And why does everything have to be for us? Why are we so special? There’s no such thing as God, Charlie, at least not how they say. Just like there’s no such thing as Zeus or Apollo or bloody unicorns. You’re on your own. And that can make you feel either lonely or powerful. When you’re born, you either luck out or you don’t. It’s a lottery. Tough shit, or good on yer. But from there, it’s all up to you. There’s nuthin up there that gives a shit if I took a pack of smokes or lifted a tin of beef. I’m left with meself, and I know what’s right and what isn’t. Nobody would ever give me a job in this town, so I had to make things work when I could. Soon as you can walk and talk, you start makin your own luck. And I don’t need some spirit in the sky to help me do that. I can do it on me own. But, see, that’s what I reckon God really is, Charlie. It’s that part inside me that’s stronger and harder than anything else. And I reckon prayer is just trustin in it, havin faith in it, just askin meself to be tough. And that’s all you can do. I don’t need a bunch of bullshit stories about towers and boats and floods or rules about sin. It’s all just a complicated way to get to that place in you, and it’s not honest either. I don’t need to trick meself into thinkin anyone else is listenin, or even cares. Because it doesn’t matter. I matter. And I know I’ll be all right. Because I got a good heart, and fuck this town for makin me try to believe otherwise. It’s what you come with and what you leave with. And that’s all I got.”

  We pause for a while. I pick at the dry grass by my feet. We share some more whiskey. The bottle makes a wet plinking sound as we pass it back and forth. It doesn’t taste quite so lousy now. And that heat seems to have cloaked my whole body, mostly the front of my brain. It almost feels as though the world is orbiting around me. There’s a slow spin to the trees. A green mesh, a gray mash.

  And I don’t think, I just ask.

  “You’re half Aboriginal, aren’t you? D’you know much about what they believe in?”

  “Nah, not really, Charlie. I never really knew me mum, so I never learned about that stuff. And she weren’t from this town, so I’ve never met any of her family.”

  “Do you remember anything about her at all?”

  “Nah, mate. She died when I was still pretty young.” Jasper clears his throat. He flares up another cigarette.

  “What happened?” I ask, then say, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be asking about all this.”

  “No, that’s okay. You’re all right, mate. Truth is, I don’t know that much. It was a car accident. Real bad one, from what I can gather. Tryin to get my old man to talk about it is like tryin to get him to find a fuckin job.”

  “Maybe it makes him sad.”

  “No doubt, Charlie. But it’s no excuse anymore. He’s just wasting his life and his money. He’s a joke. I’m ashamed of him, tell you the truth. You know, down at the footy club, they talk about him like he’s royalty. Reckon he was a champion in his day. The best player goin around. They reckon he could’ve gone on with it, could’ve gone anywhere. And I look at them like they’re pullin the piss. I can’t even imagine it. He fucked it all up, Charlie. No heart. He just quit. Just like that. It got too hard. Then my mum got up the duff with yours truly, and that was the end of him. He never went back. He hasn’t stepped foot in there for years now.”

  “That’s a real shame,” I say, but I’m slightly distracted. I give my head a brief shake. The world is blurring and stirring further still, and there’s a tribal thrum in my head which is pounding ever louder. I’m in some trouble, I think. I absently look down and try to gather myself. But my vision keeps shifting in a weird fashion, and my belly is roiling. My mouth is pasty. I can’t feel my arms.

  Messily, I up and stumble, like I’m being led by invisible reins. And then it’s like an exorcism. That horrible spirit leaps from my body in a wet, acrid shower. I stop staggering and rest my hands on my knees as that vile shit keeps wrenching my guts. It dribbles off my lips as I groan. And I learn that whiskey doesn’t taste any better on its way out.

  And then I’m just buckling and flexing with my mouth open. There’s no Black Bush left to purge. I feel Jasper’s hand on my back, warm and comforting.

  “You right, Charlie?”

  “No. I think I’m dying,” I sputter.

  “Close,” says Jasper, “but not quite. Here, get this in you.”

  He holds out a jar of water. I shake my head.

  “I can’t. I can’t drink any more,” I say.

  “You got to, mate. You’ll feel better. C’mon, just a bit.”

  Against all my instincts, I grab at the jar and suck at it sloppily. I try to straighten up, to squ
are my shoulders and man up, but I’ve been robbed of balance. I’m back on my haunches again. Trying to breathe deeply.

  Then I realize that the water I’ve been given has likely been scooped from the dam, at the bottom of which Laura Wishart sits still, pale and soft. I can’t help but think of her, swaying like an angel in the water, her hair slowly twisting. Silky and serpentine. Just as quickly, I imagine I’ve drunk odd flecks and flakes of her skin, bits of her body. I retch it up instantly, grunting like an animal.

  My knees are weak, but Jasper steadies me. He leads me back to where we were sitting, helps me down, sits the jar beside me. I’m wheezing, my stomach is sore, but I’m not vomiting anymore. The spinning has eased. I’m not so dizzy. But I still feel like I’ve been beaten up from the inside. I feel weak and embarrassed.

  I hug my knees to my chest. We knock around a little while longer, talking back and forth, though I do considerably more of the listening and grunting of assent. Jasper breaks sticks in his hands, and I concentrate on stopping the world turning like a money wheel. I slowly improve, but my tongue still feels like a dead mollusk and my belly feels like it’s been wrung out like a sponge.

  It’s only when Jasper rises from where he’s been sitting all night that I frown and tilt my head and I see it. There. Low. On the trunk of the tree. He’s had his back to it all this time, completely concealing it. I hold my breath and question myself. Doubting my eyes. Making certain it’s not some whiskey apparition. Or that I hadn’t seen it there before tonight.

  No. No, I would have noticed.

  Which means, of course, someone has put it there. Recently. My chest tightens.

  “Jasper?” I say, tentatively. And he emerges from inside the tree’s hollow base on the other side.

  “What?”

  And I point and he looks and it is clear he has not seen it, it is clear it is not his doing; it’s not born of his sense of guilt. He steps up to the tree trunk urgently. He kneels. Touches it. Runs his fingers over it lightly. I meet him over there, and we examine it carefully.

  We don’t speak, we just take it in. Right there, scratched into the tree. A single word.

  Sorry.

  ***

  We barely speak as we trudge back. I imagine Jasper’s mind is turning and churning like mine. I wonder what he’s feeling.

  I stumble along behind, my legs heavy and disobedient. My guts are still sickly and tender. I’m tired and queasy, but I’m still buzzing around that word.

  Sorry.

  Jasper was right. Someone had been there. Tonight, maybe. Someone had pushed through, someone had invaded that glade. Somebody else knows about his space.

  Not only that, but someone has more or less confessed. Sorry. An admission of guilt, carved into that tree. Cut into its body, like a tattoo. A word with so much weight. A word that now can’t be taken back.

  I think about how it was written. What was its nature and purpose? To brave the searches, to risk being caught, means that it must have been etched with strong feeling. So was it remorseful? Regretful? Angry? And who was this apology for? Laura Wishart? Her family? Jasper Jones? God?

  One thing is certain, they’re here. Whoever has done this is still in Corrigan.

  It also means they’ve been back there and found her missing. Gone. Taken from where they left her, all traces removed. I wonder if they suspect the police of having found her. Or, if they know about Jasper Jones, whether they assume it was his doing. I wonder then if this means trouble for Jasper. And if this means trouble for Jasper, then it might mean trouble for me.

  We approach Mad Jack Lionel’s place. The lights are out and it is eerily quiet. Could it really be him that did all this? Has he just been out, carving his misgivings? Jasper pauses at the gate again, staring at the house, which slumps dim and deep into the property. I urge him to move on. It’s still dark, but there can’t be long left. We need to hurry.

  When we reach the center of town, I’m surprised and worried by the amount of activity. Jasper must be too, because he turns to me as we duck and slip behind a building to dodge the lights of two oncoming vehicles.

  “This is strange, Charlie. The patrol cars are back. And they haven’t been out this late since the first night. Maybe they got a tip. Maybe they’re out to make an arrest.”

  My chest is drumming as we press our backs flat against the wall.

  “Are you sure? It might be a bunch of blokes driving home from the Sovereign. Maybe they just closed up,” I whisper.

  “I’m positive, mate. Lickered-up miners don’t drive slow like that. And I’ve seen them cars before. It’s a patrol, Charlie. For certain. We got to be careful, orright?”

  I nod. We move out. Walking as quietly and alertly as we can, close to shrubs and buildings. We cut across properties and empty allotments, slipping behind covered areas. My legs are still leaden, but my mind is a little sharper, my vision a little clearer. There’s a sour taste in my mouth. My sweat feels oily. I long to get home. I wish I’d never left.

  The closest call comes at the intersection of Simpson and Bourke Streets, where the patrol car appears without us hearing it first. Seeing the lights, Jasper tackles me down hard and we roll into a drainage ditch at the roadside. I hold my breath as the sheet of white passes. We stay down. Jasper shifts and turns to me.

  “I don’t get it, Charlie. This is real strange. There’s never bin cars out like this. Specially this late. And they don’t usually come through here. I don’t know what’s goin on. But we should probly get back in a hurry, that’s fersure.”

  “It’s not far now. I’m only a few streets away,” I say quickly, distressed.

  I pause, on the cusp of saying more. I want to suggest we split up. I want to tell Jasper he should leave me here and get home as quickly as he can. I know it would be the best idea. But I can’t bring myself to do it. Even though I know what it would mean if Jasper were caught out. But I can’t do it. I can’t. The thought of being out here on my own scares me rigid. And I hate myself for it. I feel like a grubby piece of shit. Selfish and spineless.

  Jasper has no intention of separating. He smiles and winks at me.

  “We’ll be right.”

  Just as we move to rise, Jasper deftly shoves a palm onto my back and shoves me back down hard as another car whispers past. This time it heads up the lazy hill that stretches toward my street.

  “Shit. That one was close,” I say.

  “C’mon, quick. We’ll stick to this side,” Jasper hisses. We run, crouching, soft as we can. Gravel and sticks crackle underfoot and sound loud as fireworks in the tense, hot air. Thankfully, no more cars threaten as we make our way to my street. We round the corner. It almost feels triumphant.

  And then we see it. We both stop abruptly.

  Jasper swears and slinks away immediately, and I press back toward him. He grabs my arm. Holds me firm. Keeps me where I am. They haven’t seen us. Yet.

  “Charlie, don’t say nuthin. Nuthin. Unnerstand?”

  I nod fast. Swallow heavily.

  “But what do I do? What do I do?” I hiss, panicking. My eyes sting.

  “You keep walking. You make somethin up. Just don’t say nuthin about me. You’ll be orright, Charlie. It’s fine, mate. They won’t suspect anythin. You haven’t done nuthin wrong.”

  I breathe out. Look down the street. Then I turn back. Now there’s no choice. He can’t come with me any farther.

  “You’ve got to go, Jasper. Quick! You’ve got to get out of here.”

  He’s already shrinking away.

  “Listen, I’ll come round soon. Remember: don’t say nuthin. G’luck, mate.”

  And he slips away.

  I am shit scared. Poison dribbles into my chest and seizes it.

  I am in real trouble.

  I stare down the street at the scene that confronts me. The scene I’ve been dreading. There, illuminated by the glow of our dim peach veranda lights, are two police cars angled across our lawn. Another two cars sit across the road,
their lights on too. And a cluster of people stand out the front. I recognize our neighbors. And An Lu, standing cautiously to the side, his hands behind his back. I don’t know why, but seeing his quietly dignified figure suddenly embarrasses me. Then there’s my mother. Someone has her by the shoulders, dipping their body in a comforting manner. My father stands with a group of men on our lawn. He is nodding and thumbing his chin.

  I am a dead man walking. I pause. I can’t escape this. My heart is fluttering. My brick is back and made of heavier stuff than ever. It’s a jagged lump of pig iron. Cold. I want to run away. Sneak in from the back maybe, then come out the front and ask what all the fuss is about. But I can’t. It’s too late. I’ve got to get brave. I’ve got to stride up to them, I’ve got to take it like a man.

  But I’m about to be skinned alive. I’m about to be beaten with blunt clubs. I am about to be disemboweled. I have never known trouble like this.

  And just as I move forward, I am spotlit from behind. I jolt and freeze. I am caught, guilty, covered in white. Red-handed. Red-faced. This is it. This is the moment. And it’s dreamlike, surreal, but nothing like I’d imagined. My ears pin back like a frightened animal. It’s a patrol car. And before I can think to react, their horn peals, piercing the night. I see the heads of the folks on my lawn turn toward me at once. I hear the car door slam behind me. My first thought is to distantly hope that Jasper has made it out without being seen. Then I see my mother break her loose embrace and begin running messily my way. She’s screaming my name in a way that cuts through me and makes my spine spark. She’s sobbing. Her hair is ruffled and her clothes are tousled. Her breasts jounce about and her face crumples as she runs right up to where I stand. I don’t even notice the man gripping my arms. But I notice her kneeling down and beating at my chest. Then clutching hard at my face.

  “Charlie! We were so afraid! We were so afraid! Where have you been?” Her face is wet and glossy. Her makeup runs dark columns down her cheeks, a shadow of her tears. She holds my head in her hands and shakes it.