CHAPTER 16
Forty years ago, Byron Bay was a small seaside hang-out for hippies and bohemians. Now its sandy beaches were lined with the million-dollar homes of jaded professionals and rich retirees.
But the invading urbanites didn't crush all of the local inhabitants. The town still had plenty of surfies, dropouts, New Agers and struggling artists barracooned in the worst real estate away from the coast. Thus people who'd worked and saved all their lives mingled with many who'd done neither.
Gary wasn't surprised Trixie went to ground there. It was a great place to shake off the past and re-invent yourself.
His Pulsar whined and moaned for the whole ten-hour drive to Byron Bay. He started out listening to CDs of the Ramones and Black Sabbath. Half-way, he downshifted to Split Enz. Then he rattled into Byron Bay listening to Johnny Cash sing Folsom Prison Blues, his fingers going clickety clack, clickety clack on the steering wheel.
The tourist season was over, so he got a cheap room at a small motel near Main Beach. The next morning, he strolled up Main Street where shops sold everything from high fashion to surfboards and New Age crystals. Several vegetarian restaurants offered low-taste food to those driving through life in a low gear.
Holistic Health was near the end of the street. The front window was festooned with leaflets advertising classes on yogic dance, naturopathy, meditation and massage.
He went inside. The shop was small and cluttered. The shelves were laden with jars of essential oils and herbal cures, and books on alternative medicine. Incense clogged the air.
A tall blonde in her early thirties, with a weather-beaten face and a nose-ring big enough to moor a ship, approached him. She wore a purple and orange sari. "Can I help, sir?"
Gary considered showing her a photo of Trixie. But, if she knew Trixie, she probably wouldn't admit it and might warn his quarry he was sniffing about. He abandoned that idea.
He said: "Yes. A friend's very interested in aromatherapy. She suggested I buy some essential oils."
"Why do you want them?"
"To relax."
"Well, roman chamomile and mandarin help release anxiety."
She took a jar from a shelf, unscrewed the cap and held it under Gary's nose. "This is roman chamomile. Many people find it very calming."
Gary sniffed a pungent though not unpleasant odour. "How much?"
"$20."
"Fine. I'll buy a jar."
At the counter, Gary handed over his money. The woman recommended he use the oil either as a lotion or pour it into his bathwater.
He said: "Do you, umm, hold any classes on aromatherapy?"
"No. But I might soon. If I do, I'll put a sign in the window."
"Great. Does anyone else in town sell essential oils?"
She looked surprised. "Don't think so. The closest shop is in Lismore."
She put the jar in a paper bag and handed it to Gary, who left the shop. To find Trixie, he now had to wait until she returned to shop on Main Street. He might have to wait a long time, with no guarantee she'd turn up.
He wanted to watch Main Street without attracting suspicion and looked around for a good observation point.
Across the street from Holistic Health was a pub with a "Rooms Vacant" sign. He went inside and asked the barman for a vacant room overlooking the street. The barman checked him into one. Then Gary shifted his gear from the motel where he'd been staying to the pub.
His new room had a lumpy mattress, peeling walls and a mangy carpet. But it was clean and, despite being above the bar, fairly quiet. At night, the loudest noises came from trucks rumbling up the street.
His vigil for Trixie Powell soon developed into a routine. After eating breakfast in a café, he retired to his room and watched the street with binoculars for a few hours. Then he strolled up and down the street for about an hour, before lunching in an Italian restaurant. After another stroll, he sank a few beers in the pub before retiring to his room for another session with the binoculars. The whole day, Holistic Health was rarely out of his sight.
A fascinating cross-section padded up and down the street: wealthy retirees and holidaymakers with Rolexes, Ray-Bans, perma-tans and face-lifts, mingled with riff-raff of all kinds.
The ferals - who lived in isolated communities without electricity or running water - were particularly interesting. The rail-thin men wore shorts and T-shirts and the women wore everything from tie-dyed sarongs to dark crinoline dresses. Most had dreadlocks.
They didn't stay in town for long. Just picked up their dole cheques, bought supplies and puttered off in dilapidated vehicles. Parking tickets were casually flicked into bins.
Gary's ribs slowly healed, he got a tan and started growing a beard. But after two weeks he wondered if he was on a wild goose chase. Maybe Trixie visited Holistic Health while driving through the town to a far-off destination.
Then he saw her.
Just before noon, as he strolled along Main Street, two women headed towards him. Both wore black crinolines and heavy black boots. One was in her mid-thirties, with raven dreadlocks and dark-brown skin. The other was a little younger, with blonde dreadlocks, a pale complexion and haunted eyes. She carried a box of groceries.
Gary suddenly recognised the blonde one. She'd tamed her frizzy hair and lost some weight, but her big round liquid eyes were unmistakable. Seeing Trixie was a huge shock. With great difficulty, he looked away and kept walking.
They strode past and climbed into a rust-streaked Volkswagen Kombi van which backed out and headed north, spluttering loudly and belching smoke.
Gary had parked his Pulsar behind the pub. Heart thumping, he dashed around to it and jumped in. His anxiety made him flood the engine. It took a couple of minutes of sweating and cursing before it farted roundly and roared into life.
Terrified he'd lost Trixie, he tore off after her, ignoring all side streets, gambling she'd stay on the main road until it reached the Pacific Highway.
Approaching the highway, his panic grew. If he didn't catch up with the Kombi before the highway, he wouldn't know which way it turned. Then he took a corner and saw the Kombi tootling along, about a hundred metres ahead, belching smoke like a fleeing battleship. His heart clattered joyfully. After a few deep breaths, he relaxed his grip on the steering wheel and eased his foot off the accelerator.
As the Kombi turned north at the highway, Gary got close enough to read its rusty licence plate and scrawl the number on a map lying next to him. He followed it at a safe distance, pondering what he'd just seen. Trixie's clothes suggested she'd gone feral. Why? Who was her friend? And where were they going? His pursuit of Trixie got curiouser and curiouser.
After about twenty minutes, the Kombi turned onto a narrow bitumen road. To avoid detection, Gary hung back on straight stretches and sped up when the Kombi approached a corner or brow of a hill.
For ten kilometres, the only signs of habitation were a few farmhouses set back from the road. Then the Kombi turned through a gate and parked near a small group of dilapidated buildings. As Gary drove past, he saw a farmer's cottage, several rusting tin sheds, two corrugated iron humpies, an old caravan, a canvas tent and a tee-pee. It looked like a third-world slum that a strong wind could blow flat. Half-a-dozen ferals were moving about.
The road circled around behind a hill. Gary parked behind it, climbed to the top and observed the community below. For thirty minutes, ferals washed clothes, repaired cars, chopped wood and chatted in groups. Several kids played hide-and-seek. He counted about twenty adults and children. But he didn't see Trixie, who'd disappeared into a building. How did she end up in this commune? Did she know someone already there? Or did she just turn up one day and ask to stay?
One thing was sure: she'd found a brilliant place to hide. This place was almost on another planet. He only found her because she got sloppy with her credit card.
There was a good chance that whoever bombed his apartment was also looking for Trixie. So before he told Barbara Thompson where she was, he wanted to f
ind out why she was in the feral commune and who was chasing her.
He went back to his car and used a knife to cut his fan-belt. Then, when it was dark, he trudged up the road towards the commune. He turned through the main gate and saw six adults sitting around a large log fire that was heating a cooking pot. Several small children danced around, yelling and screaming.
The flickering firelight illuminated sun-scorched faces, shaggy beards, nose-studs, nose-rings, nose-bones, dreadlocks and ear feathers. The air was cool, so most wore tattered football jumpers or pullovers. No Trixie. But her shopping companion now wore a football jumper over her black dress.
Gary, now bearded, wore a black pullover, chinos and running shoes, and didn't feel too out of place. Many faces turned to watch him approach.
He said: "Hi there. Sorry to bother you, but my car broke down just over the hill. Fan-belt's stuffed. I need a lift to the nearest garage. Can anyone help?"
A blond guy in his mid-thirties, with a goatee beard and ponytail, looked up at Gary. He wore an old grey pullover and canvas trousers. "Nearest garage is in Byron, about 45 clicks away."
"Really? Well, I need a lift there and back. I'll pay. Would a hundred bucks be enough?"
The guy's eyes glinted in the firelight. "Sure, man. But I can't tonight, I'm afraid. I'm going to town tomorrow morning. You can come along. My name's Rick."
"Thanks, mine's Gary."
They shook hands.
Rick said: "You had anything to eat?"
"No."
"We're cooking lentil stew. Be ready in about twenty minutes. Want some?"
"Sure, thanks."
Gary sat on a log.
Rick said: "Where you from?"
"Sydney."
"What're you doing up here?"
"Heading towards Brisbane, to visit some friends. I was cutting across towards Nimbin when my car conked out."
"Well, you picked a bad place to break down. What do you do in Sydney?"
"I'm a high school teacher, though right now I'm on holiday." Gary glanced around. "Who owns this place?"
"A farmer who lives over the hill. It's only about 10 hectares, so it's too small for him, but perfect for us. We all chip in to pay the rent."
"How long have you been here?"
"The community's been here for about ten years. But I've only been here about five. I used to be an advertising exec in Sydney and got sick of that. You know, city people think we're strange. But people in suits and ties are the weirdos. Human beings aren't meant to live in cities. We're tribal animals. We're supposed to live together peacefully, in nature. That's what we're doing."
This guy had obviously never heard about tribal warfare. "Sounds smart to me. You guys follow any particular religion?"
A woman interjected: "We believe in all sorts: Buddhism, Animism, Voodoo, American Indian folklore. Take your pick. We've even got a few witches."
Rick looked at Gary. "What do you believe in?"
"I'm a Jedi Knight. I believe in the Force."
Rick laughed. "That's cool. There are so many different realities. You've just got to choose the one that suits you best."
Gary chatted for a while about their community, trying to sound interested. They were remarkably friendly and talked incredibly slowly. He tried to sound laid-back, but his vocal gearbox didn't go that low.
They served him lentil stew with a thick slice of damper baked on the coals. It tasted excellent and he wolfed it down.
He didn't want to seem too anxious to join their group. After eating, he stood and thanked them for the meal. He said he'd sleep in his car and be back in the morning. No one offered him a bed for the night, so he stumbled back to his car, lay down on the back seat, and slept uncomfortably.
A tapping noise woke Gary after dawn. Bleary-eyed, he looked up.
Rick was staring through the car window, wearing the same pullover as the night before. "Get up man, we're going to town."
Gary sat up. A Ford van was parked across the road. Painted on its side in radioactive colours were whales, porpoises, fluffy white clouds and smiling suns.
He stiffly climbed out of his car and locked all of the doors. Then he followed Rick across to the van. In the front passenger seat was a cute woman in her late twenties, with beaded hair, wearing a purple T-shirt and Afghan shorts.
In the back seat were a boy, about eight, and a girl a few years younger. Both wore khaki school uniforms. Compared with their parents, they looked remarkably neat and tidy, though the girl had snot leaking from her nose.
Rick told Gary to climb into the back. As Gary opened the back door, the kids giggled and scrambled over to the other side.
"Hi there," Gary said, provoking more giggles.
Rick got behind the wheel and turned to Gary. "Let me introduce everyone". He nodded towards the woman sitting next to him. "This is Jedda, the love of my life. And these are our kids, Pegasus and Jocasta. I hope you don't mind, but we've got to drop them off at school on the way to town."
"Sure."
Rick slipped the van into gear and it rattled up the road.
The kids opened their lunch boxes and complained about the sandwiches inside. Jedda eventually solved the problem making them swap sandwiches. Then the kids demanded to be taken to the beach after school. Rick said he'd take them if there was enough time.
The school was on the outskirts of Byron Bay. Rick pulled up next to a playground full of screaming kids. Pegasus pushed opened the door and jumped out with his sister hot on his heels. They dashed off without a backward glance.
Gary said: "They look keen."
"They love school," Rick said proudly. "In fact, they're both near the top of their classes. I think it's because they don't spend all their time watching TV or playing video games."
"What do they want to do when they grow up?"
He grinned. "You mean, do they want to drop out like their folks?"
"Yes."
His weather-beaten face creased into a smile. "Don't know. Whatever they do is OK with us. Hey, we rebelled against society. Maybe they'll rebel against us and go straight. That would be a laugh, huh?"
Rick put the van in gear and headed towards town. He glanced at Gary over his shoulder. "Umm, I hope you don't mind giving me the hundred bucks when we get to town. I've got to buy a few things and I've only got Australs."
"Australs?"
"That's the currency we use around here. When someone does something for you - like fix your car - you give him a note saying how many Australs you owe him. It's like an IOU. You can trade them."
"Does everyone honour them?"
"Most do. But sometimes people hand out lots of Astrals and disappear."
"How do you make real money?"
"You mean, the stuff the Government prints?"
"Yes."
"I sell pottery and beads, and get the dole. I know a lot of people reckon I'm a bludger for claiming it. But I work for it."
"How?"
"I clear non-native vegetation from the forests, on my own initiative. That's hard work."
Gary pulled out his wallet and proffered a hundred dollars. Rick snaffled it.
As they turned into Main Street, Gary felt a twinge of embarrassment about being in a technicolour van with two ferals. He was obviously a lot squarer than he thought.
Rick parked in front of the post office, next to a big gold Merc and turned to Gary. "OK, we'll be here for about an hour. See you later."
Gary went off to a garage and bought a fan-belt for his car. On the way back, he did some window-shopping and saw Jedda emerge from a health-food store carrying a couple of bulky grocery bags. He strolled over and asked if she needed help.
"Yes, thanks."
He took the bags and followed her towards the van. Sitting in front of a pub, drinking, were a couple of beefy guys in check shirts and jeans. Both leered at Jedda.
"Hey luv," one said. "Can I crawl into your tent one night? What about it?"
Jedda ignored him and
kept walking. But Gary trod hard on the guy's foot.
The guy yelped and jumped up. "Hey, what the fuck do you think you're doing?"
Gary smelt beer on his breath. "Sorry, didn't see your foot."
"Then keep your eyes open."
"OK." Gary moved up close to the guy and spoke softly. "But if you ever insult that woman again, I'll rip off your head and spit down your neck. Understand?"
The guy looked like he'd just seen a cat bark. "Don't threaten me."
Gary feared the guy would throw a punch while he held the groceries. He was lining up a head-butt when the guy's friend spoke up.
"Forget about it, Ted. It's not worth it."
The man stared at Gary and shrugged. "Yeah, let's get another beer."
They both disappeared into the pub.
Jedda gave Gary a strange look. "Thanks for that. But it wasn't necessary."
"Yes it was. I'm a teacher - I like good manners. Who were they?"
"Loggers. They hate us. Think we're scum. But they're the ones destroying the earth."
When they reached the van, Rick was waiting. Jedda told him what had happened outside the pub.
Rick looked at Gary. "Thanks, man."
Gary shrugged. "It was nothing."
Rick drove them back towards the commune. As they approached Gary's car, Rick turned towards him. "We're having a festival tonight. Why don't you hang around? There'll be lots of people. Maybe a hundred or more."
Jedda said: "Yeah, come along."
Gary said: "What sort of festival?"
Rick said: "For the autumnal equinox. We make a big bonfire and do lots of dancing. It's how we affirm we're all part of a tribe. We move our egos out of ourselves and into our clan."
Sounded like a good chance to meet Trixie. "OK, count me in."
Not Dead Yet Page 17
