Smokey screamed as he fought to drag his mate from certain death.
The tree thundered down on to the utility with crushing finality. The only scream still to be heard was the scream of the wind.
18
Irene huddled beneath the heavy kitchen table and pulled the eiderdown more firmly around her shoulders. The wind was battering the little house as if determined to rip it from the ground and fling it skyward. She felt she was at the centre of this insane vortex, and as the house shuddered around her she could almost sense it was holding its breath – waiting for the moment the roof would be torn away.
The screaming assault never faltered as darkness descended. Hurricane Mary whipped around the house, jostling the stone chimney, tugging at the roof and pressing with all her might against the walls. Rain lashed against the windows and drove through even the smallest of fissures between the slab walls. It punched against the roof in a monotonous pummel until Irene’s head rang with the noise.
Then, without warning it was gone.
She lifted her head and listened. The silence was heavy with menace and just as terrifying as the storm had been. She shivered as she crawled from her hiding place, for within that terrible silence, she could hear the horses screaming.
Stumbling out of the door she almost fell through the gaping hole in the verandah where the planks had been ripped away along with the railings. She grabbed the doorjamb to get her balance and looked down in horror at the murky water lapping the top step.
It was only then she realised the little house was in the centre of a vast lake. Instead of rich, red earth the muddy sheet of water was feeding off several runs of fast moving streams and spreading into the paddocks. The ground was so hard, so dry, it could not absorb the rain and it had become the perfect conduit for these new rivers.
Irene, aware she was trembling, licked her lips. She couldn’t swim – had never even tried to learn despite the years of living in Trinity – for she feared water – feared its power. Yet it was imperative she reached the horses, for she could still hear their awful screaming and the crash and thud of their hoofs as they tried to kick their way out of their prison.
She hesitated, steeling herself for the coming ordeal as she tried to gauge how deep the water might be. Her teeth were chattering as she shoved her feet into boots and eyed the sky. A perfect circle of summer blue was directly overhead, but surrounding this glimpse of normality were the swirling black clouds of the storm past and the storm yet to come. She was in the very eye of the hurricane.
How much time had she already wasted? How much longer did she have before the darkness closed in again? She couldn’t allow herself to think about the consequences of getting caught in the fresh onslaught. It had been her stupidity that had imprisoned the horses – it was up to her to rescue them.
She stepped down into the water and yelped as it reached almost to her waist. It was not only freezing, it threatened to knock her off balance. Fear kept her on her feet – it gave her strength she’d never known – a determination and courage she’d never before realised she possessed. With her arms stretched out to maintain her balance, she forced one foot in front of the other and waded through the surging tide of destruction.
A slender tree swirled past, its spiny fingers clawing at her hair and her clothes, threatening to drag her under as it slowly rotated in the tide. She grappled for what seemed like minutes to be free of it. Her nails were torn, her hair ripped from her skull as she battled to stay alive. A rolling oil drum banged into her, making her stumble wildly before it floated away. The bloated carcass of a kangaroo had become entangled in the tree along with that of a possum, and their dead eyes seemed to be staring at her. She screamed with frustration and fear as she tore at the branches to free herself.
Finally the tree let her go.
Panting with fear and the exertion, she staggered up the gentle slope towards the stable yard through increasingly shallow water. The sky was darkening again, she had only minutes to free the horses and return to the house.
Her hands were clumsy as she drew back the bolts and quickly stepped aside. The mares charged in panic out of their stalls, eyes wild, manes flying. Their hoofs slipped on the wet cobbles as they careered around the yard. They bucked and kicked as they scented the air, nostrils flaring, ears flat. Then they were off – galloping out of the yard, heading for the higher ground in the distance.
Pluperfect had kicked a gaping hole in the door and was screaming his hatred and fear as Irene hurried to set him free. She fumbled with the bolt as he slammed his hoof against the door. He seemed intent upon injuring himself, and she could already see blood staining the puddles on the cobbles.
‘Stop it,’ she shouted. ‘Pluperfect, calm down, boy. I’m here, I’m here.’
He kicked again, harder this time, making the stable shudder and splinter. His screams of fear and rage were terrible to hear and Irene felt sick with remorse. If only she’d let them run free in the first place, she thought as she fought with the bolt and tried to loosen it in between the jarring, crashing thunder of Pluperfect’s hoofs. How could she have been so stupid after all the years of experience to think he would have been safer here in a place he hated with a vengeance? She was just incredibly lucky the whole damn stable hadn’t collapsed and crushed all of them.
The bolt finally slid back and, before Irene could react, Pluperfect barged straight into her. He reared up, the flashing hoofs pawing the air, the whites of his eyes glinting with malice in the fast gathering gloom.
Irene threw up her arms to protect her face as she stumbled back.
Pluperfect’s front hoofs hit the ground with a shuddering crash before he reared again.
Irene’s boots slipped on the greasy, wet cobbles. Arms wind–milling in an effort to keep her balance, she staggered beneath those flailing hoofs.
Pluperfect was well and truly spooked. He’d hated being in that stable – hated the scream of the wind and the thunder of the rain on the tin roof – now he was past recognising the woman who’d loved him with passion – and saw only the whirling arms – another enemy – another terrifying thing to attack. With a scream of terror he lashed out.
Irene, still off balance, saw the blow coming and could do nothing about it.
Pluperfect’s aim was sure as his hoof caught the side of Irene’s head. He snorted as she fell, then reared again, his front hoofs flashing in the remains of the light as they swept down on the sprawled, kicking legs.
With another snort of satisfaction he danced on his toes and raced about the yard. His ears pricked as the rumble of thunder heralded the return of the storm. Gathering the remains of his great strength, he set off after the other horses. At last he was free.
*
‘Sounds like it’s over,’ Giles muttered as he lifted his head from the shelter of his arms. ‘Come on, old chap. Let’s get you to the hotel.’
‘Will I still get me breakfast?’ The eyes were alight with cunning.
‘Only if you get a move on,’ said Giles with an uncharacteristic sharpness. He was worn out and at the very edge of his patience with the old goat. The sound of the storm was still in his head despite the eerie silence, and all this old fool could think about was a free meal.
Gallagher crawled out from beneath the table and shrugged into the disreputable coat. ‘I gotta collect some things first,’ he muttered.
Giles looked out of the window at the carnage in the street. There was a circle of blue overhead, but he was mistaken to think the hurricane was over. ‘There isn’t time,’ he said as he grabbed Gallagher’s arm and dragged him to the door. ‘We’re in the eye.’
Gallagher eyed him with contempt. ‘What’s a Pom know about hurricanes?’ he sneered. ‘In fact, what’s a Pom doing all the way out here anyways?’
Giles was wrestling with the door. ‘Trying to save your skinny, ungrateful arse,’ he retorted. He tried again, but
no matter how hard he pushed, he could not open the door. There had to be something blocking it.
Ignoring the old man he peered out of the window. His spirits sank. The hulk of an ancient tractor was jammed in the narrow alley, effectively holding them prisoner. He eyed the window, his mind working fast. It was their only way to escape.
‘I ain’t climbing out of no window,’ snapped Gallagher. ‘And if you break it, you’ll pay to have it mended.’
Giles gritted his teeth. The ungrateful old sod should be left to stew in his own filth – but Giles knew he would never leave him here alone – it wasn’t in his nature to do so. He tugged at the window, putting all his force into it. But the window was glued tightly by years of dirt and mould and decay. Giles finally lost his temper, picked up a saucepan and slammed it against the glass and rotten wood. It splintered with a satisfactory explosion and he knocked out the remaining wooden struts and slithers of glass.
He swung his leg over the sill and held out his hand. ‘Come on. It’s easy.’
Gallagher shook his head. ‘I’m too old to be climbing through windows,’ he whined.
Giles climbed back into the shack, grabbed Gallagher by the hand and hauled him to the window. With one arm around his skinny waist, he found a strength he hadn’t realised he possessed and hoisted him from the floor before dragging him through.
Their feet sank in thick mud, the murky water swirling around their ankles.
‘I’ll catch me death,’ whined Gallagher.
Giles glared down at him. ‘One more word out of you, and so help me, I’ll knock the rest of your rotten teeth down your throat.’
Gallagher brushed his coat and glowered back – but had obviously realised Giles meant what he said, for thankfully, he remained silent.
Giles grabbed his arm and forced him into a shuffling run. The storm was closing in fast, the respite merely a few moments of false calm before the assault began all over again – they had very little time to get back to the hotel at the other end of town.
The side street had taken on the appearance of a war zone. Roofs were missing, there were gaping holes in walls and fences had been torn up and scattered. Windows were smashed, screens and shutters left to bang in the remaining gusts of the wind. A sheet of corrugated iron had embedded itself in the wall of a house and a fishing boat was sitting in the middle of the road.
The water was swirling around his ankles as Giles steered the old man around a fallen telegraph pole, and now the wind had dropped to a more gentle pace, he could hear the thunder of the sea as it crashed against the rocks.
‘I gotta rest,’ Gallagher wheezed.
Giles eyed him with concern. He was clutching his chest and fighting for breath. His skin was grey and shiny with sweat, and there was a blue tinge around his mouth. Giles looked up towards the end of the street. They still had a long way to go, and the circle of blue was moving rapidly away, the darkness returning. He would have to find somewhere for them to shelter.
‘You’re not dying on me now,’ he muttered as he put his arm around Gallagher’ waist and half carried the old man across the street.
The house didn’t look too badly damaged apart from the ravaged garden. The roof was intact as far as he could see and the chimney looked as if it could withstand anything. He propped Gallagher against the woodpile and turned the handle.
The door opened on well–oiled hinges, and Giles muttered a prayer of thanks for the Australian habit of never locking anything. He grabbed hold of a sagging Gallagher and struggled into the hall, kicking the door shut behind him.
Giles hauled his burden along the narrow passage and deposited Gallagher gently on the kitchen floor. It was a small house, like every other in this tiny settlement, but it had been built to last. He ran from room to room collecting pillows and blankets. Whoever owned this place certainly took pride in it, he thought as he clutched his booty and returned to the kitchen. Everywhere smelled of polish and the pillows and blankets were freshly laundered.
Gallagher groaned and brought his knees to his chest. ‘Me pills,’ he gasped. ‘I need me pills.’
Giles put a pillow beneath his head and, with a grimace, delved into the greasy pockets of the disgusting coat. He pulled out a small bottle, read the label and put a single tablet under the old man’s tongue. ‘Don’t chew it,’ he warned. ‘Just let it dissolve.’
‘Pommy bastard,’ groaned Gallagher. ‘Think I don’t know that?’
Giles didn’t even bother to reply. The wind was picking up again and he could already feel it buffeting the house. He shoved the table over Gallagher, covered him in a blanket and crawled in beside him. ‘Here we go again,’ he muttered.
The wind howled as it tore up the street and thumped the house in a series of jarring blows. The rain pelted the windows and the roof, the din echoing around the little house and in his head.
There was no warning. Just the shattering crash of glass and timber and the resounding explosion as the chimney took the full brunt of a falling tree. Hurricane Mary swept in to the remains of the little house and tore it to pieces.
*
Sam hugged Maggie and kissed the top of her head. Aware of the curious, knowing looks of the assembled locals, he knew their secret was out. Yet he didn’t mind one bit. Maggie had brought him such joy, such peace of mind – a feeling of having come home at last – that he wanted the world to know he loved her. He smiled as he pressed his face into her hair. The old, solitary, moody Sam was gone forever.
The wind had dropped and the rain ceased to batter the hotel. Everyone turned their eyes skyward as they listened to the ensuing silence. It was ominous – as if the world was holding its breath.
‘We’re in the eye, I reckon,’ he muttered. ‘Better check for damage. Will you be right?’
Maggie’s face was glowing as she nodded. ‘Don’t be too long,’ she murmured.
He kissed her softly on the mouth and they both giggled as a shout went up and they were applauded with whistles and whoops. ‘Yeah, all right,’ he said with a sheepish grin as he stood up. ‘Show’s over.’
‘Good on yer, mate,’ shouted one of the men.
‘About bloody time,’ yelled another.
Sam could feel the heat in his face as he left the crowded hall and began his tour of the building. He wasn’t used to being the centre of attention, but somehow it gave him a spring to his step, and as he walked around his property he felt ten feet tall.
The boarded up windows were still intact, the stables were still standing, and apart from the water lying in great pools in the yard, the hotel had survived the first onslaught.
Upstairs was the worst, he realised as he stood amongst the debris on the landing. The carpets were sodden where the rain had blown in through shattered windows. The boarding had been ripped away on the northern side of the hotel. Wallpaper hung in tatters and the ancient couch and chairs he’d left up here had been blown across the room and were heaped up in a soggy mass in one corner.
He took his torch and examined the ceiling. There were no bulges or cracks, so the roof must have held. Yet he could hear the splash of water running down the outside of the building and guessed there was a lot of guttering missing. He turned away and quickly went from room to room checking on the boards they’d nailed across the shutters. Any repairs would have to wait until the storm had passed over them – no point in doing anything now, even if there was time.
Giles’ and Olivia’s set of rooms were the last to be inspected, and Sam paused as he checked the window catches and peered out at the ravaged main street. Iron roofs had been peeled back like wrappers on a chocolate bar, palm trees had become embedded in the remains of houses or lay drunkenly across verandahs. There was a ute upended in the front window of the general store, festooned in rolls of fabric and lavatory paper. Cartons and cans and oil drums littered the pavement and newspapers clung wetly to
the hitching posts. Water raced down the street in an endless stream and he could hear the sea crashing in the distance.
If it rained much more they would be flooded, and it would be 1929 all over again, he realised. The water had reached the first floor then, and it was a week before it was low enough to begin mopping up. The landlord and his customers had had to resort to sitting on the roof to avoid being drowned, and they’d been stuck there for over a day before they could be rescued.
Not that they minded all that much, he remembered with a grin – they’d taken two barrels of beer up on to the roof with them – and the shenanigans of getting them down were now part of Trinity’s folklore.
Sam frowned as he thought of the work ahead of them. It wasn’t how he’d planned to begin his new life with Maggie – but he had the feeling it wouldn’t matter, and that between them, they would come through this.
He took one last look at the mayhem. There was no sign of Giles, and he hoped for Olivia’s sake he’d found somewhere safe to shelter. He didn’t want to have to face her with bad news – he was feeling guilty enough already – and if anything did happen to Giles, then it would be his fault for letting him go out there.
Sam checked the latch one last time, and as he turned from the window, he caught sight of the suitcases. Olivia had said nothing about leaving, and Maggie certainly wasn’t aware of any such plans.
He stood there for a moment, barely aware of the rising wind and the first splatters of rain on the screens as his thoughts raced. Olivia had unfinished business here – so why would she leave? And what about Maggie? She would be devastated to lose her so soon after they had discovered one another.
He couldn’t let that happen, he decided as he closed the door firmly behind him and made his way down the stairs. He had to find a way to keep Olivia here. For he was on the brink of discovering the solution to the mystery of what he suspected had brought her to Trinity in the first place.
*
‘Get hot drinks down everyone,’ said Olivia. ‘And advise them to go to the lavatory now before the storm comes back.’
Undercurrents Page 27
