‘What now?’ I whisper.
He points to the river and walks on. At the river’s edge he stops again. I follow his gaze; he’s staring at the children who are playing in the water about thirty feet upstream. There are five of them, all long-haired, in various degrees of nudity. They’re chattering happily, passing sticks and large leaves from one to the other, scuttling across the rocks and piling up their finds. They are so focused on their task they don’t notice us. One of the boys has similar hair to the baby in the photograph. ‘Could be,’ Dad mutters.
‘There are too many kids, Dad. We need to wait for some of them to go away.’
‘And why would they do that? Seems like they’re having a good time. Smile.’
We make our way up the river, walking on the thin muddy edge or across the rocks that offer a path through the water. A girl in a brown t-shirt sees us first.
‘Men,’ she shouts. She pushes her long fringe out of her eyes and regards us with suspicion. The children stand tall, alert as a mob of kangaroos.
‘Hey there,’ I call out. ‘What are you building?’
‘I’m getting Finn,’ the girl in brown says, and breaks from the group.
‘Hold on,’ Dad says. ‘Can I show you something?’
She stops mid-stride. ‘What?’
Dad balances on a large mossy rock. He takes out his wallet. ‘It’s a picture,’ he says. He speaks directly to the boy we think might be Beau. ‘Is your name Beau?’
The children are surprised.
‘How do you know that?’ the girl in brown asks. She reminds me of Abby.
Dad keeps his eyes on Beau. ‘I have a picture of you when you were little. Your mother gave it to me. I’m her best friend and she’s sent me here because she’d like to see you.’
‘Is she coming here?’ the boy asks. ‘Maria said she was coming when I was sick but she didn’t.’
‘What’s going on?’ A short-haired woman in denim dungarees marches through the grassy field above us and stops at the top of the riverbank. She flicks her chin towards the children. ‘Up here. Now.’
They bound over the rocks then skit up the slippery slope to her.
She gathers them around her like chicks, folding an arm across the shoulders of those closest to her.
‘What do you want?’ she asks us.
‘He has a photo of Beau,’ the girl in brown says.
The woman stares at Dad. ‘How did you come by that?’
‘Skye gave it to me.’
She softens her face for an instant before it hardens again like fast-drying concrete. She turns her head and shouts, ‘Jackson.’
‘I’ll get him,’ the girl says, and starts to run off.
‘Wait,’ I say. ‘It’s all good. No need for alarm.’
‘Jackson!’ The woman looks behind her to see if the men are coming. And regrettably, they are. Two muscled, stern-faced men walk to her side. They could be brothers: both black-haired and bearded, wearing worn jeans, except one has a tattoo across his chest, a green-and-blue dragon in flight.
The other, in a white singlet darkened with sweat, holds a rifle. ‘Gentlemen,’ he says.
‘I’m John. This is Charlie.’
‘Reporters?’ the tattooed man asks.
‘Nope.’ The man with the rifle takes a few steps towards us, staring down from the bank. ‘I’m Finn, and if you’re who I think you are, you’d better leave.’
‘Skye sent me,’ Dad says. ‘She wants to see Beau. That’s why we’re here. How about you let him come with us, for a visit?’
‘Skye’s dead,’ the tattooed man says, frowning.
My eyes shoot to Beau. He’s shocked.
The woman thumps the tattooed man in the arm. ‘You fuckwit,’ she shouts. She turns to Beau, kneels down and hugs him. ‘Oh sweetheart.’
Finn addresses Beau without turning around. ‘Go with Maria.’
Beau stares at us, mouth open, forehead corrugated in pained confusion. ‘Is Mum dead?’ Maria strokes his hair. ‘Is she?’
Several of the children start to sob.
‘Shit,’ I say.
‘Beau,’ Dad says, his voice breaking.
Finn speaks to Maria without taking his eyes off me. ‘Get them out of here.’
She gathers the children together. As she leaves, she says to Dad, ‘She was my friend.’
‘Then why the hell are you here? Why didn’t you –’ I start.
‘Go!’ Finn bellows. He makes a move towards Maria and she flinches.
‘Beau, get up, sweetie. Come with me.’
But Beau sits on the ground, staring at Dad, tears welling in his eyes. Maria lifts him up with a grunt.
‘Beau,’ Dad calls out. ‘We’ll come back. We’re coming back.’
‘No you’re not.’ Finn steps closer to us, and the tattooed man follows. ‘You’re going to piss off out of here and never show your face again.’
I glare at the tattooed man, a person I’d normally spend my energy trying to placate, a giant of a man who could knock me over with a single blow. ‘What is wrong with you? Why would you tell him like that?’
‘I didn’t know –’
‘Shut up.’ Finn glowers at me. ‘This is none of your business.’ He uses his rifle to point. ‘You better start moving up that hill.’
‘He’s a little kid! Who does that?’
‘She left him. Who does that?’ Finn says.
‘Someone who’s scared for her life. Someone who’s too beaten up to carry a child with her.’ Adrenaline is coursing through my veins. I reach into my bag and grab the cold metal handle of the wrench.
‘Get off my land,’ Finn snarls.
I walk forward into the river. The water surges up and over my shoes.
‘Charlie, no.’ Dad grabs my arm. He raises his other hand to Finn. ‘We’re leaving.’
Finn steps closer, rifle held like a hammer. ‘Give me a reason, Water Rat.’
‘Charlie, don’t.’ As Dad pulls me back, his foot slips and he stumbles.
Finn laughs. I steel my arm so Dad can use me to right himself.
We walk up the river towards the bush track we came from. When it feels safe to do so, I turn around. The two men are watching us. Finn lifts his rifle as though he’s aiming at me, and the tattooed man laughs.
When we reach the top of the hill Dad drops onto the ground. I walk away from him and throw up at the base of a tree.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Tuesday 24 December 1974
Charlie
I make my way to the kitchen, where Abby hands me the phone then goes back to washing dishes. At least Ryan doesn’t call as early in the morning as Sal does. I say ‘hello Kuta’ to a rumble then boom of thunder, along with Sarah’s chant of ‘one more sleep’ as she stomps up and down the hallway. I hope Abby’s found a unicorn toy or there’ll be an ocean of tears tomorrow.
Ryan’s calmed down since Sal’s call, but is still resolved to move back to Brisbane.
‘Man, I wish I could send photos through the phone to remind you why you left,’ I say. ‘There’s nothing you want here. The city’s crowded with people in a shopping frenzy, there are cranes everywhere throwing up dodgy skyscrapers, you can’t breathe through the car fumes. And in the burbs it’s the other extreme: dead. I take Abby’s dog for a walk and I’m lucky if I see one old lady pruning her roses.’
‘You’re describing a city with suburbs. I know what Brisbane’s like. But man, you should see how many people have shown up here even in the last week. It’s like they’re falling from the sky.’
‘Good for KD, right?’
‘But shit for Bali. I’m worried about this, Charlie. Things are changing fast here. Beach is littered with crap every morning now, and I have to fight for space in the waves. I heard a guy yesterday talking about how they should put roads down so he can get up north more easily. It’s out of control.’
‘They’ll leave. They don’t get it. Bali won’t change.’
He sighs. ‘
It’s already changed. It’s time for us to move back, try being adults at home.’
‘You’re not thinking straight. Do you remember why we left? Brisbane’s all capitalism, no culture – a police state. The rest of the country still laughs at us, but it’s not funny. It’s never been funny.’
‘Again, this is not news to me.’
Abby and I lock eyes for a moment as lightning quickfires across the sky.
‘Nah, you don’t understand. Petersen’s getting worse. He’s going to run this place until he dies. And we’re too old to endlessly protest about his latest shrugged-off act of tyranny.’
‘People are never too old to care. And you’re getting me fired up about why I should be there, doing something useful.’
‘But you won’t. You’ll take a job in some law firm, get a mortgage and go to the Gold Coast for your holidays. We’ll moan about things and nothing will change. Don’t give up what we have in Kuta, man. It’s still paradise. Get fired up about keeping it that way.’
‘We got seats on a flight tonight,’ he says.
‘How?’ I’m gobsmacked. ‘Christmas Eve?’
‘Sal’s dad pulled some strings.’
‘Right, okay. Well, make nice with your family for Christmas, and then let’s get on the plane to Kuta. I’m counting the days until I’m back there.’
He’s noncommittal, but I’m not giving up. I know tourists are invading Bali. We all know that. But they won’t stay: there’ll be some other place to go. Bali is for surfers and people genuinely searching for a better way to live. We have a restaurant, a whole bunch of friends, and the perfect losmen a minute’s walk from the ocean. Giving that up would be insanity. But it’ll be okay. Ryan’ll enjoy concrete footpaths, modern cars and eating different food for a few days then he’ll hear something racist or read a newspaper and he’ll remember why he left. And I’ll join the chorus whenever anything here bugs him.
I want to tell Ryan what’s going on with me, about the car crash and Beau, the commune and the cops, but I don’t want to muddy the waters. I keep to my lines of Brisbane bad, Bali good. When the dust settles here I want to be sure I have a place to go.
Abby is back home from taking the kids to wherever she took them. She lugs a brown paper bag of groceries onto the counter then goes back to the car for the rest. They go through a lot of food.
It’s oppressively hot; a downpour of rain causes the temperature to drop for about as long as it takes to drink a glass of juice, then the sky clears and the sun ratchets up the heat. Then there’s the never-ending pre-Christmas organising to do and drive and buy, which makes it feel stressful in this house. The rush is not mine to deal with so I watch and listen, but I know for sure this is not how my family home will be, if that ever happens.
The days here have felt long, and aside from my excursion with Dad I’m not sure what to do with myself. When Ryan and Sal get here they’ll need to spend most of their time with family, in the beginning at least. I decide to read through the newspaper and see if any bands are playing tonight. Might catch up with some friends I haven’t seen since I was here last.
I try to chat to Abby while she puts her groceries into the pantry and fridge, fills Woof’s water bowl, wipes muddy paw prints off the floor. ‘Where’s today’s paper?’
She makes a grumbling sound to indicate she’s annoyed, though I don’t see how answering a question is such a big deal. ‘No idea, Charlie.’
‘You keep them in the living room, yeah?’
‘Why don’t you get up and go look?’
She’s cranky about something so I drop it. The phone rings before I can search for the paper.
‘I’ll get it,’ I say. I’m worried the call could be something to do with our visit to the commune.
‘Well it probably won’t be Roberts,’ she says as I pick up the phone.
‘Hello? Hang on a sec.’ I cover the receiver with one hand. ‘Why not? Anything I should know?’
She frowns and points at my hand. ‘Don’t do that.’ But I indicate I’m ignoring the call until she answers my question. ‘God, Charlie. So rude. He rang yesterday. I’ll tell you after.’
‘What time yesterday? What did he say?’
‘Charlie, talk to the person who’s on the phone right now!’
It’s Abby’s friend Lou. I pass it to Abby then pace around while she’s talking. I didn’t think Roberts knew about the commune, but maybe he does. It could be that the ‘good cop, bad cop’ thing is a ruse. Maybe someone left the commune right after we did, told Roberts what happened and – no, Abby would’ve said something. But if she inadvertently made it clear she knew nothing about what Dad and I were doing, that’s bad, too. These guys would love to divide us, play us against one another.
‘What’s your problem?’ Abby asks when she’s off the phone. ‘I thought you wanted me to take his calls.’
‘What did he want to know?’
‘Times. He’s as obsessed as Doyle about getting the timeline straight. I was convincing on the phone. I told him about us arguing. As far as I can tell they have no evidence, and I’ve answered for the missing hours. Charlie, this might be okay.’ She flushes.
‘It’s all right. I want it to be over, too.’
At dusk, I’m back in the kitchen again. I went for a walk, read a little, slept a little and now I’m sitting next to Dad at the bench, drinking a cold beer. No bands on tonight and no friends at a loose end. The radio is on but the sound is low. Woof is lying on the floor near my feet, snoring. And Abby is working the stove like a pro, turning the kids’ lamb chops and quickly moving her arm away from the leaping hot fat, checking on their corn cobs and peas boiling in separate saucepans. We could use her at KD.
When the phone rings, I mentally put money on it being Mark calling to say he’ll be home late even though he’d seemed relieved this was his last workday for the year.
Dad is aggravated by the constant ringing. He pushes his chair back, picks up his glass and stands. ‘You get half a dozen phone calls a day! It’s noisier than being in an office.’
‘This is more than normal,’ Abby says, draining the peas into a colander. ‘We don’t usually get calls from Bali or the police. I’d go out of my head if it rang this much every day.’
Dad makes a face that suggests it’s still somehow Abby’s fault, and heads out into the backyard with his book.
I’m not going to indulge his tantrum about modern life but he’s right that it’s noisy in here. Between the cooking sounds, the radio, the TV on full volume in the living room, Woof barking at who-knows-what and the occasional kid shout, I struggle to hear who’s on the phone. I turn off the radio, wave at Abby to keep it down as she calls the kids to dinner. But it turns out to be a call I should’ve let ring out.
‘I hear you and your father took a drive yesterday,’ Doyle says.
While Sarah clambers into her designated seat, Abby lifts the twins onto chairs made high with stacked cushions. She places a small plate of food in front of each of them.
I wish I could take the call in another room. I don’t want Abby or the kids to hear this. In a house this size, you’d think they’d have a second phone.
‘Who’d you hear that from?’ I want Doyle to admit he knows Finn and his henchmen, or Maria.
‘The man in the fucking moon. What does your father want with that boy?’
‘Not sure who you mean.’
Abby looks at me. I cover the phone and whisper, ‘My mate Jason. All good.’
‘Don’t get smart with me,’ Doyle says. ‘What does he have that you want? Did she give him something? A letter, photographs? Maybe I’ll ask him myself.’
Abby cuts the kids’ meat into small chunks and butters the corn, then leaves the room, thinking, I suppose, that I’ll supervise. I ignore Petey’s instantly spilled water and speak quickly.
‘Beau doesn’t have anything. Dad wanted to make sure he was okay. He promised Skye he’d do that.’
‘And all of a sudden he kn
ew she’d lived on a commune and how to get there. Should’ve told me the truth when I asked the first time.’
‘Sure, yes. She recently told him she had a son and wanted Dad to check in on him. Which we did. End of story.’
He’s eating something – is everyone eating right now? – and makes me wait while he chews into the phone. ‘Not quite. It’s been brought to my attention that your brother-in-law is that Four Corners reporter.’ I’m amazed he didn’t already know that. Not much of a cop. ‘Did he send you out there? Because if he did, we have a problem, you and me.’
‘No, we didn’t tell him we were going there. It was only a quick drive to see that Beau was all right. Nothing else there is of any interest.’
‘You lot need to compare notes.’ He goes back to eating and I’m glad I can’t see him. Sounds like his snout is deep in the trough. ‘You see, your brother-in-law is unhealthily curious about what goes on there. Seems to have a keen enough interest in farming that he’s been asking people about it for months. He hasn’t gone as far as trespassing like you did, but he is behaving in a very bloody intrusive manner. And I’m going to have to insist he stick his nose somewhere else.’
I have no idea how to respond to this. If Mark is investigating that commune, it’s news to me.
‘So what’s going to happen,’ Doyle swallows, ‘is that I’m going to offer you a deal. And it’s a good one, so you’ll say yes. See, I’m not exactly sure how you and your sister – maybe your father – are involved in this woman’s death. But you are. I don’t have evidence but I’ve been doing this long enough to trust my gut. I’m prepared to drop the whole thing, and say she had car trouble, blew a tyre, skidded off the road, alone and unaided, if you get your brother-in-law to stay away from Eumundi and anyone involved with that place. Got that?’
‘Won’t that make him suspicious?’ Petey looks up and I turn my back on him, twisting the phone cord across my chest.
‘Not my problem. You’ll find a solution.’
I’m whispering now, but Doyle doesn’t seem to notice. ‘I hear you, I do. And I’m not saying we had anything to do with anything, because we didn’t. But hypothetically, if Mark thinks there’s something going on at that commune he won’t stop poking around because I ask him to. Why would he?’
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