Red Can Origami

by Madelaine Dickie

  —Never been though. Closest I’ve got is India.

  You’re trying hard to cover your shock. Here you were thinking that he’d probably never left the region, let alone the country.

  —What were you doing in India?

  —We did one of those camel tours in Rajasthan. For a while we were considering running camel tours on the station … You would’ve heard the history, about the Afghans and their camels up here?

  Shock’s shifting fast to shame and the man can tell, explains,

  —The Afghans travelled by camel. They were the first outback traders. These days, there are wild camels running around everywhere.

  The man crosses a boot over his leg, takes off his akubra. You’re surprised at the twists of grey through his hair.

  —And so what did you think of India?

  You’d only ever done a week-long trip to Kolkata from Tokyo. It was a constant assault on the senses—sour curd, ylang ylang and dead dog.

  —It’s bloody crazy. After we did the tour, we were all that sore … One of my uncles suggested we get a massage. Never had one in my life. It turned out to be a massage and facial combo. You know what they used on our faces?

  He’s grinning, willing you to guess. You shake your head.

  —Super glue. We all got a super-glue facial.

  You both laugh, and then become aware that the conversation among the others has stopped, that two of the older women, in voluminous skirts and zebra-patterned shirts, are watching you.

  Lucia breaks the tension.

  —Maybe Clement would like to sing for you, Ava. Gaga, tell Ava the story about this place.

  Clement’s older than Madge, maybe late sixties, with white teeth and distended fingers still enormously strong from decades of station work. Earlier, he beckoned you down to the river, said you needed to be introduced to country. You watched as he chose a stone and rubbed it under his armpits, all the while singing in language. Then he threw the stone into the water and gestured for you to do the same.

  Now he retrieves a set of clap sticks and starts to sing. The song takes the shape of the river. While you don’t understand this language of warbling ns and harder ks, you feel the earth firm and fall, and then you’re completely absorbed: in the smoke from the fire, in this dangerously handsome man next to you, in the stars. Never once in Melbourne or Tokyo did you see a sky like this, where the stars were impossible to count. The sky in the world’s great cities was always formidable, wore a fur of pollution, perhaps flaunted a single, jewel-like moon. But not here. Not on country. Not while this song, this thread leading back to all the old people, unspools around the campfire, then drifts over the sleeping children, the river.

  The old man sings, and you feel safe.

  When he stops, the man next to you says softly,

  —What’s your name, manga?

  —Ava.

  —Righto, Ava, come and I’ll show you how to set up a mozzie dome. We better make sure it’s close to Lucia’s. You gotta be careful of the bushmen. Especially a pretty thing like you.

  You’ve never heard of the bushmen, but, judging by his tone of voice, you sure as hell don’t want to meet one. He helps you up. The old women are still watching.

  —Sorry, I don’t think I’ve caught your name properly, either. You’re Noah?

  He flicks on the torch.

  —Noah Ishikawa, he says.

  When you’re a few paces away from the group, you ask,

  —What was the song about?

  —That old man sang about the Widawurls, our creator spirits. They bring the rain, the storms from the sea.

  You wonder if these are the same spirits that were painted in the cave near the bulldozer.

  —Are they the ones with the big eyes, no mouths?

  —That’s right. That’s them.

  For a moment, the torch beam swings to the river. Way below, it catches the eyes of a croc, bright as fallen stars.

  Before dawn, you’re woken by an urgent whisper.

  —Ava, wake up!

  There’s the smell of a bushfire and in this state of half sleep, it reminds you of east-coast fires tunnelling the roads in flames, churning houses and dreams to ash. You struggle to sitting. It’s Lucia.

  —What’s wrong? Is there a fire? What’s happening?

  —No, no, nothing, she whispers. Just the old men over there. They’ve been up since three-thirty drinking cups of tea. Could you take me to that spot? The one with the bulldozer?

  Your heart slows. Gerro Blue. Of course. You scrunch your hair into a bun and draw down the zip of the mozzie dome, slowly, so as not to wake the children.

  You lead Lucia along the bank of the river, turn left at the creek, walk until the fresh water swallows the salt, and finally you reach the waterfalls.

  —Don’t tell me the bulldozer was around here? It was, wasn’t it?

  You nod.

  —This was a special place, a women’s place. See these pools?

  They’re lit by the softest phosphorescence, bordered by the comb-like edges of the ferns.

  —They’re birthing pools. But we haven’t used them for years. There was a massacre here. The water turned black with blood.

  A massacre. Last time you were here, you saw bones. You break away from Lucia, rush to the freshly flattened road. There’s no sign of the bulldozer, but there are still signs of bone. Lucia joins you, looks down, looks stricken.

  —Could be … ? you trail off.

  —Could be.

  —I can get them tested. I’ve got a girlfriend in forensics in Melbourne …

  Lucia’s shaking her head.

  —It’s dangerous. Taking stuff like this from country. Gives you bad dreams. I’d want to check with Madge and the old people first. For permission, you know?

  Fuck the permission, you think. If these are human bones, if Gerro Blue has desecrated a massacre site, then this could be a huge story.

  Lucia’s taking off down the freshly churned track.

  —Come on, Ava, let’s see where it goes.

  A quick scoop; a pocket of earth. Lucia doesn’t notice. You hurry to catch up and within five minutes the two of you have reached a clearing of levelled earth half the size of an AFL field. There are a couple of dongas, a portaloo, an earthmover, and the bulldozer from before. All the infrastructure has Gerro Blue logos.

  —Looks like some sort of camp, you say.

  —True God it does.

  You take out your phone and start shooting.

  By the river, Madge has just landed a barra, its scales a stormy silver against the mud.

  —One fish in three hours? No, it’s not normal at all. Country’s not happy. Maybe it knows there’s a kartiya here.

  She’s only half joking.

  —There’s a lot more than just a kartiya here, Aunty. Ava and I just got back from Lalinjurra …

  But Lucia doesn’t get a chance to say anything else, because the kids are screaming,

  —Dogs!

  It takes a moment, and then you see them. Three dogs sneaking low through the scrub on the opposite bank. When you recognise the breed, you have a sudden urge to shit and your ribcage goes cold.

  Your sister once had a boyfriend who owned a Belgian Malinois called Buddy. An unsocialised, violent and aggressive dog, Buddy attacked prams, cars and tradies. The boyfriend bragged that Malinois were never intended as pets, that it was a Malinois that sniffed out Bin Laden …

  The tide’s low. A spine of rocks, gauzed in muddy water, makes a bridge between the two banks. The dogs haven’t crossed it yet, stand quivering, waiting, with their scooped-out bellies and black muzzles and muscular shoulders.

  On your side of the river, there’s panic. Madge abandons the barra and limps up the bank with Lucia’s help. The old men wind in their lines. The kids take off at a run across the saltpan.

  And then he appears. A monstrous bull of a man, with long, albino hair, eyes almost folded behind freckled flab and a gun slung over one shoulder. He�
��s levelling his gaze at you and for a moment, he hesitates. For a moment, he weighs the white fact of your skin. Then he snaps.

  —Go on boys, skitcha! Skitcha!

  They flash across the river in a detonation of foam.

  There are hands on your hips, someone’s grabbing you, tossing you over a shoulder. It’s Noah. You can smell diesel and sweat and fear. Though you’re slight, though your breasts are bumping against a back rippling with a lifetime of station work, you’re worried you’re too heavy, that he’s not going fast enough. Ten metres, twenty metres, thirty metres. One of the dogs lunges at his calf: not a serious bite, more a nip, more a taste, but enough for him to stop, swing you down, stand in front of you, between you and the dogs. The Malinois fan out, with bared fangs and bristling necks.

  —He’ll call them off. He always does. We’ll just keep them here a little longer, let the others get back to the car.

  You will yourself calm.

  —Who is he?

  —The White Namibian.

  There’s a gunshot, which boots up salt to the left. You grab Noah’s shirt, a fistful of flowers.

  —It’s okay, it’s okay, he murmurs.

  Another shot, this time to the right.

  The dogs are confused, unsure whether to keep barking at you or to turn their loony eyes to the sky or soil.

  —Stay behind me. He’ll call them back any second now. For fuck’s sake, call them back, you miserable white prick!

  One of the dogs dashes in, sinks its teeth into Noah’s thigh. He shudders with pain and stumbles back against you. With head slightly to the side and eyes averted, he says,

  —We’re gunna try and back away. Keep your arms down and an eye out for sticks. If one of them bites again, we’re gunna need to fight. The skulls are impossible to break, so go for the belly, go for the eyes, go for the soft part across the muzzle. Are you up for this?

  There’s no way you’re up for this. You want to run, hope fear could make you fleet, know it won’t.

  —I’m up for it.

  —Gee manga, you’re a brave little thing, too.

  He meets your eyes then, gives you the kind of naked look you might be gifted three or four times in a life. He reveals himself to you, utterly, without falsity, exactly as he is. He’s challenging you to be equal to it—his depth, his courage and his desire.

  As you turn, you realise Lucia and two men are crossing the saltpan, armed with a shovel, a fishing knife and a gun. The man with the gun aims at one of the Malinois, misses. The dogs startle, but hold their ground. And finally, realising it’s game on, the White Namibian calls the dogs to heel.

  Only then, as the Malinois bound back to the river, does Noah glance down. The left leg of his trouser is redly wet.

  —Jesus, he says. That looks pretty ordinary.

  On the drive home, the kids are subdued. There’s no carping or giggles or exploding cool drink. They’re looking out the troopie’s windows at ridgelines taupe with smoke. Grassfires. You ask if they send the fireys out to deal with them. Lucia says,

  —Only if the fires are threatening stations or communities. Or maybe if there’s an airstrip with aviation fuel lying around. Otherwise, we just let them burn.

  Madge says,

  —Long time ago, Clement was head stockman on De Beer Downs. One night, a grassfire started and the station lost paddocks and paddocks of feed. De Beer Senior accused Clement of lighting the fire, decided to make an example of him. Do y’know what he did?

  You recoil, your heart bunches. Lucia notices.

  —Aunty, she warns.

  —Okay, okay. Another time. It’s been a big morning. The other thing I was going to tell you is that one who bin bit by that dog, he’s son for Clement. Lucia’s brother.

  Lucia’s brother! Your friend’s silent, concentrating. The fires, no longer distant, have crept to the edges of the road, set the trees on either side ablaze. She switches on the headlights. You ask,

  —So what happens with the White Namibian? Do we go to the police? I know one of—

  Madge’s earrings shake in dissent.

  —A couple of years ago, when he shot two of our dogs, Noah reported it to the police. They told him our evidence was inconclusive. That it would be our word against his. They told him that if anything, we’d get done for trespassing. Can you imagine that? Trespassing on our own country! No, there’s no use telling the police.

  You’re not so sure. You’ve got a good working relationship with Jamie, one of the young officers, and you’re on the phone to him every second morning to check for stories: drunk drivers, murders, ice and crime.

  —I know someone who’ll be able to help. The White Namibian shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this.

  Madge sighs, says,

  —Ava, they always get away with this.

  The women pull up at the front of your house. The street’s empty and ash from the grassfires birls across the bonnet of the car. The pavement is a blown-glass red. You slide your esky from the boot, wishing they’d asked you to join them at the hospital, wishing you’d asked if you could come. But it’s too late now. Lucia’s foot’s on the accelerator and they’re gone.

  Across the backyard, the shadows are tropical green. So strange in a place that’s beating back the desert, these islands of suburban jungle, swimming in reticulation.

  You can still smell grassfires, they’re mnemonic: summer road trips, trying and failing to surf, the musty smell of mattresses in the back of vans. You think of the festivals, where the hangovers from the drugs and piss only ever left you a little tired. Since moving to Gubinge, you’ve steered clear of drugs, but everyone drinks heavily and the word hangover has taken on a truly sinister meaning. Here, hangovers get a cyclone rating, category five being the worst; category five being bed-bound for a day, and greyly nauseous for two more.

  A mesh of sunlight catches the cheek of your wine glass. You take a sip and read a text from Ash, sent earlier: How does grilled fingermark, fresh rocket and roasted pine nuts sound? Got a Hunter chardy to wash it down …

  Two days ago, it would’ve sounded sublime. But right now, as the light backs down against a smoky dusk, you’ve got too much to think about. If native title isn’t officially recognised over a place, then were you trespassing, given the locked gate? Could you be fined? You put on a Richard Buckner album and finish the bottle. It doesn’t matter about the trespassing, what matters is the story. Regardless of what Lucia’s family says, if this kind of thing is happening up here, then people should know about it. The White Namibian should be made accountable for what he did. You’re torn over whether to go to the police or to respect Madge’s wishes. Maybe you can sound out Jamie in the morning, present hypotheticals, gauge what action the police might be able to take.

  But, that’s not all, of course. There’s the other story, too.

  There’s the bones.

  Knocked out on white wine, the bones turn your dreams nasty. You’re back in the cave. There’s the mesmeric spill of water and scalped hair; there’s a young man, the skin of his neck concertinaed purple around the letters D.B.

  You wake up with a chalky mouth and a feeling of guilt. You shouldn’t have taken the bones without Lucia or her family’s permission. But it’s too late now and you figure that in the long run, it could be for the greater good. You’ll offload the bones to your friend in forensics today. Who knows? Perhaps they’re cat or cow or bird bones …

  Just as you’re about to swing your legs out of bed, your little sister calls.

  —Ava, I need help.

  ‘I need help’ always spells trouble.

  The first time a call like this came through was when Imogen was in Brazil. She was forty-eight hours into a year-long drift through South America; she was travelling by taxi from the airport to a hostel. At a red light, two men held the taxi up at gunpoint and robbed her of cash, cards and passport. You lent her five grand. She paid most of it back.

  The second time, the call came close to midn
ight a couple of suburbs away in Melbourne. She was vodka-lime-and-soda drunk, and you listened through the tears to learn she’d just been laid off at the magazine where she worked as a marketing assistant. She wasn’t the only one. Twenty other people got the boot as well. She wasn’t worried about finding another job, but she was worried about the ten grand credit card debt she’d racked up, and the two grand phone bill from using her global roaming in Bali—plus inner-city rent, food, money for wine bars …

  —Can’t you ask Mum?

  —What do you reckon?

  You’d both been put to work the second you started high school. Your mum had no tolerance for handouts.

  —Go on then, you sigh. How much do you need?

  —Well, enough to live for the next month or so. And enough to make a repayment to the tax office.

  —The tax office? What for?

  —They sent me a letter. Some shit about not paying off my HECS …

  —Didn’t you tick the box that says, ‘Have you got a HECS or HELP debt’?

  She sighs, noisily.

  —Oh my God, Ava. Can you help me, or not?

  De Beer Senior’s stone bust squares off against the bay. His face is bland in stone and there’s nothing to suggest the cruelty he was capable of. A plaque under his head describes him as a pioneer, a visionary pastoralist, an entrepreneur, successful in the most savage conditions, and finally, an asset to the state of Western Australia. Now, he gazes sightlessly from under a white crown of ibis shit. You remount your bicycle and pedal slowly on to work, tasting wine and worry.

  Jeff’s already in, says,

  —I need to head down to Perth midweek. I’m going to have limited capacity to edit, so make sure your work’s tight.

  He doesn’t give a reason and you don’t ask.

  —Sure.

  —Now this morning, another hundred or so asylum seekers drowned off Chrissy Island. We need colour.

  The Christmas Island tourism office refuses to comment. So do the next two businesses you call. The owner of a fishing charter company is happy to comment, but not to be quoted.

  —This has just been going on and on. Governments, doesn’t matter which bloody one, say they’re gunna do something, but never do. People here are sick of it. We’re sick of the boats. And quite frankly, I don’t care if two are dead, or two hundred are dead …