Prophets and Loss (A Johnny Ravine Mystery)

by Martin Roth

  * * *

  Old Albert’s sudden passing, just the previous day, was the reason I now found myself aboard the morning Tiger Airways budget flight from Melbourne to Alice Springs. I was squeezed between a German backpacker who had spent the entire two hours of the journey so far listening on his MP3 player to a techno band playing at high volume the same half-dozen songs over and over, and a lady, next to the aisle, who was even now unscrewing her third miniature of Johnny Walker. It was eleven o’clock in the morning.

  Possibly emboldened by the whiskey, she turned to me and made some kind of enquiry.

  I was deep in my thoughts, and in any case the whine of the powerful aircraft engines made hearing difficult. In a slow and deliberate gesture that I hoped indicated my aversion to in-flight conversation I inclined my head towards her and raised my eyebrows.

  She repeated, “Are you an Aboriginal?”

  I shook my head.

  “You’re very dark. But you look more Latino.”

  “I’m from East Timor.”

  “That’s Indonesia. Was.”

  I nodded.

  She seemed to be a short woman, possibly my height, although skinny. Aged around forty, I guessed. She was wearing a simple white peasant blouse with short ruffled sleeves, blue jeans and knee-high black boots. Her long black hair was lush and shiny, and from a distance she probably looked striking. But up close her face was lined and cracked, like a dry desert riverbed, as if she had played a lot of outdoor sport in her youth. Or had done a lot of crying.

  “Why did you come to Australia?” Her voice was slow and just a little slurred.

  “To look for my father.”

  And because I was tired of all the killing, and needed a quiet life, I wanted to say. But I didn’t.

  This must have been too difficult for her. She looked away, and I guessed she was returning to her own reflections. She seemed to be gazing along the aisle towards the cockpit, as if somehow in there were located all the answers to the mysteries of life. But then she turned back to me. “The Aboriginal people are very spiritual.”

  I couldn’t imagine what response was required. I nodded, and she again went silent.

  I didn’t have to be flying budget. Wolfstead Gannon was my client, and he was a man of wealth. He had made his riches in the seventies and eighties as lead singer and songwriter for the hugely political Nunnachucks pop group, which toured Australia, and occasionally the world, preaching a chart-topping message of green, sustainable living and reconciliation with our Aboriginal population.

  Then, eschewing the traditional pop star post-career of drugs, alcohol, depression, broken marriages and tax evasion, he had astutely invested his considerable earnings in real estate, the stock market and his own lines of fashion clothing and health food products, and was now a regular on the BRW magazine Rich List, with a fortune of several hundred million dollars. When he felt in need of a top-up, he organized another of his revival tours. It was a wonder he didn’t have his own private jet to transport me.

  Yet despite this considerable wealth, Wolfstead somehow managed to maintain his credentials as a prophet of the green revolution, of simple living and of the need for reconciliation between our Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal peoples. It was an image he sculpted lovingly – taking part in protest demonstrations, appearing for free at benefit concerts for worthy charities and even issuing his own media releases on pressing issues of the day.

  Now, it seemed, his image was under threat, and all because of the death of Old Albert. An urgent and mysterious phone call from him the previous evening had summoned me to grab the first available flight to Alice Springs. He needed my help. I was still trying to wrap my brain around his strange message when the woman spoke again.

  “You look sad.”

  What’s there to be happy about? I wanted to reply, but I said nothing. I was wishing that I’d packed a meal. Tiger was one of those post-modern airlines that charged even for water and peanuts.

  “Do you live in Alice Springs?” she asked.

  “Melbourne.”

  “You don’t look like one of them…” She waved an arm vaguely, indicating the other passengers. Most gave the appearance of being young backpackers, like the German next to me by the window.

  “I’m on business.”

  “We don’t have business in Alice Springs. Only tourism. And art.” Now she was looking at me expectantly, her tired and watery eyes blinking hard.

  I was suddenly distracted as a kid ran up the aisle and bounced off the service trolley. He looked embarrassed. Then he touched his forehead and realized a bubble of blood had appeared, and he started bawling. Someone – his mother, presumably – rushed forward and grabbed him.

  I looked again at the lady. “Do you know a painter named Old Albert Wallaby Walker?”

  “He’s famous. Everyone knows him.”

  “He died yesterday.”

  She was silent for a while. “He was a very old man.” At the airport in Melbourne I’d bought that morning’s The Age newspaper, and had found inside a tiny report of the death. I showed it to her. She read it aloud in a slow monotone:

  The death has been reported from Alice Springs of celebrated Aboriginal painter Old Albert Wallaby Walker. Though his year of birth was not known, he was believed to have been in his mid-eighties.

  He lived in Papunya for many years, and was associated with the famed Papunya art movement, although more recently he had based himself in Alice Springs.

  His art works, particularly those depicting stories related to the Kurtal rain spirit, are in leading public galleries in Australia, and he also acquired a degree of fame internationally. He was found dead in his home on Monday. The cause of death has not been given.

  She handed back my newspaper. “He was an old man. Were you his friend?”

  “I’m a private detective. A client wants me to find out how he died.”

  The mention of my occupation usually sparked sudden interest, if not excitement. Private detectives carry an aura, like jungle explorers or popular novelists.

  But she simply said, “The Aboriginals are spiritual people.” She looked at her whiskey glass, then back to me. “Are you spiritual?”

  That was a leading question. “I go to church.” It wasn’t untrue. Even if recently I kept finding excuses not to bother getting out of bed most Sunday mornings. It had been a while since I felt spiritual.

  With a shaky motion she raised one arm and ran some long bony fingers through her hair. “The spirits are strong in Alice Springs.”

  “Good to know.” I hoped she might detect the sarcasm in my voice. I held up my newspaper, as if I urgently needed to check out some stock prices. But the woman would not be deterred.

  “You need to be strong. Because the spirits here are strong.”

  I wasn’t sure what she meant.

  “Do you know about the Dreaming?”

  “The Dreaming. I think…”

  “Dreamings are everywhere. Whole new spiritual worlds. Different universes. Look out the window. What do you see?”

  I tried to peer out, across the body of the longhaired German, who seemed lost in the reveries of his techno-grunge. “Clouds,” I said.

  “There’s desert out there. Red desert. And underneath the desert are the honey ants. Do you know them?”

  I was getting tired of this woman. I felt like shouting out, “NOT THE HONEY ANTS!” in some kind of Monty Python parody. I just shook my head.

  “They have their own world too. Under the desert. A whole universe. There are different worlds out there. Everywhere.” She looked at me with a sudden piecing stare that belied the amount of alcohol she had consumed. “Alice Springs will change you,” she said. “Alice will change you.” Now she turned away, and finished her drink.

  I didn’t understand, but I had other things on my mind. The aircraft had begun its descent and my ears started popping. The pilot made a slight turn to starboard and suddenly harsh sunlight flooded throu
gh the cabin window. Once more I thought about the urgent phone call the night before from Wolfstead Gannon…

  I was at home, seated in my small living room, eating crackers and cheese and watching a black and white movie on TV starring Robert Mitchum and Cary Grant, when the phone rang.

  “Drop everything, Johnny,” Wolfstead had commanded in the honey-laced baritone voice that still sent women swooning.

  I didn’t have a lot to drop, and was certainly happy to have paid work. I lived alone, cheaply, but bills still needed paying.

  “I’m in Alice Springs,” he said. “Have you heard of an Aboriginal painter called Old Albert Wallaby Walker?”

  “I don’t think I know any Aboriginal painters.”

  “He’s dead. And they’re saying I did it.” Then he added something so strange that it had left me baffled and confused. “He was the most famous of the lot. In his eighties. Still painting. He died today in an earthquake. And they’re saying I did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “The earthquake. They’re saying that I caused that earthquake.”

  What was he talking about?

  Hot Rock Dreaming is available for download from ebook stores.

  Read on for an excerpt from Festival in the Desert, from the Brother Half Angel series.

  PROLOGUE

  Prayer Mountain

  South Korea