Now, for the first time in my life, I missed it deeply. But there: I’d made my bed, and it was a thin bedroll in Alice Springs, a town that hadn’t quite got the hang of being a town yet.
There was a telegraph station, and around it a slowly—oh, so slowly—growing camp of settlers, here to seek their fortune. Gold had been found near here, and where there’s gold there will always be delusional people with sieves.
I was, of course, one of them.
My reasons were, perhaps, a little more complex than the others who had come here—or maybe not. I got the distinct impression most of them were on the run from some transgression or another. The essential details remained the same, however; my finances were at an all-time low and I very much needed a fresh start in life.
NOWRA AND I chose to have lunch beneath a desert bloodwood tree. The shade it offered was purely notional, but at least it felt like a proper place to sit as we ate our provisions.
As we sat and chewed miserably at something that was not so much cooked as mummified, we saw a group of strangers crossing the desert a couple of miles away. Honestly, I was interested in them as much for the change of subject as anything. Nowra had been once more prying into whatever recent misfortune it was that had driven me to this godforsaken country of dust, impoliteness and murderous wildlife.
“Who are they, do you think?” I asked, gesturing towards them with the remains of something roasted.
“More idiots,” Nowra replied. “I told you they were plentiful around here.”
There were four of them. Two men—one young, with a military bearing, the other considerably older, his grey hair wafting in a breeze he was lucky to have found in this baking, infernal place—and two women, one of whom appeared to hail from Africa, given her warrior’s dress and the spear she was carrying. I will admit to being positively intrigued by the latter; I had met few women so interesting as to be carrying a spear.
“Their idiocy aside,” I said, “might you know any more about them? One presumes they’re not also on the hunt for gold or diamonds?”
“Who can tell?”
“One doesn’t dig for diamonds with a spear.”
“Idiots might. Idiots are capable of anything. Anyway, they are of no importance. Tell me more about what happened to you in India.”
“You’re a nosey beggar.”
“I am no beggar, I earn my keep.”
“And you are perfectly aware of the point I am—quite bluntly—driving at. Why are you so infernally interested in finding out about my recent misadventures?”
“Idiots tend to repeat themselves. I don’t want trouble.”
“Who does?” (Well, me, perpetually, but I thought it imprudent to mention the fact.) “As delightful as all this chewing has been,” I continued, “and one can hardly grace it with so lofty a term as ‘lunch,’ I think I should like to follow those people and find out what they’re up to.”
“Is that because you are—and correct me if I am wrong, I am keen to learn your language better—a nosey beggar?”
He really was the limit.
WE FOLLOWED IN the footsteps of this intriguing foursome. I will confess I was instantly rather jealous of the fact that they hadn’t thought it necessary to hire a local guide.
“They are cleverer than you, I think,” said Nowra.
“You’ll get no disagreement from me.”
The landscape close to Alice Springs was by no means completely sparse. Aside from the previously mentioned bloodwood trees, clumps of wispy silver cassia dotted the red earth, alongside occasional plumes of dry grass. It wasn’t what one could call lush, but it was something to break up the view. As Nowra had said, for a short time every year, the dry river would flow, the water seeping into the earth to sustain the plant-life. A whole ecosystem living on so little, surviving the drought just for the faint promise of water to come. The plants and the people were not so different around here, I decided.
Even with these valiant attempts to offer more than baked clay and misery, there was little to obscure our view of the travellers; and it was clear they were heading towards the mountains—or, rather, between them.
“Ntaripe,” said Nowra.
Or, in the language of Idiot White Men, Heavitree Gap, the gap through the MacDonnell Range that led to Alice Springs.
“It is an important place,” said Nowra, “according to the old men of the Aranda.”
“It’s important in that it’s the easiest place to put a road, certainly,” I agreed, though, as those who know my history will attest, I was by no means so blind to superstition as I sometimes like to pretend. How could I be, after what had happened to me in Calcutta?
If the group ahead were aware of us—and I wouldn’t do them the disservice of assuming not—they gave no sign. Clearly whatever it was that brought them here, the presence of a couple of prying strangers was no deterrent. No doubt they assumed we were harmless. I could have corrected them of that assumption, but, for what it was worth, I hoped the need wouldn’t arise.
As they approached the gap, they moved to the left and began heading into the mountains, scaling the rocks, a cloud of orange dust trailing behind them.
“Lovely,” I said. “A climb, and on such a cool day.”
Nowra was getting surlier by the moment, even more irritated by this sudden excursion than he’d been with my pathetic attempts to pry fortunes from the earth. “I begin to realise what it is you are running away from, I think,” he said. “You stuck your nose where it was not wanted.”
It was the habit of a lifetime, I couldn’t deny that, but Calcutta had been more complicated.
“MR. BEY,” SAID Miss Collins, “have you been sitting on that all this time?” She was staring at the revolver I had withdrawn from beneath the chair cushion with rather more composure than I would have liked. I dislike guns. I respect them, they can be terribly useful—even necessary—but I treat their presence much in the way I treat the arrival of distant family members visiting my home: they’ve turned up, they’re staying, and won’t it be simply delightful when they’ve gone away again?
This is not to say that I am entirely incapable in their use. I have had a number of careers over the years: explorer, prospector, spy, journalist, all trades in which someone or something may try and kill you. Therefore, a familiarity with firearms is positively encouraged.
In fact, I once had something of a reputation as a crack shot, predicated entirely on one rather boisterous evening culminating on Bank junction that resulted in the statue of Duke the Wellington losing his nose. I wouldn’t need such questionable skill here; she was only a few feet away and quite impossible to miss, if only thanks to that radiant smile.
“I had a feeling it might be necessary,” I replied. “The residents here get surly when afternoon tea is pending.”
“And why are you pointing it at me?” she asked. “Surely I am not that intimidating? Are you so terrified of a young woman on her first trip abroad?”
“Of course not,” I replied, shooting her right in the forehead.
“YOU SHOT A woman in the head?” Nowra asked. Which surprised me rather as I had no idea I’d spoken out loud. It says a lot about the state of a man’s mind when his surface thoughts start leaking out of his mouth. I’d have to watch that. In my old espionage days, a slippery tongue would most certainly have cost me my life.
“It was a trifle more complicated than that,” I told him. “And now is not the time to discuss it.”
“If I am in the company of a man who would kill an innocent woman, I would like to know.”
“‘Innocent’ doesn’t come into it. ‘Woman’ either, for that matter. Where do you think this leads?”
I was looking at the cave entrance into which the group we had been following had vanished. I was also changing the subject, quite definitively. “Do your people know about this?”
“My people know everything,” he replied.
“So answer the question. Where does it lead?”
“Important enough for our four friends to trek for miles in order to enter it,” I pointed out.
“They are—”
“Idiots, yes, let’s not go through all that again.”
“We should not go down there. You won’t find any diamonds, isn’t that what you’re here for?”
“Why are you suddenly so concerned?” I asked. “Your indifference to the matter earlier couldn’t have been more pronounced.”
“I have realised I would like to continue getting paid.”
“Then kindly stop being so obstructive and follow me.”
I entered the cave.
THERE ARE PEOPLE who positively rejoice in holes in the ground. Personally I’m not that enthused by them. Holes in the ground are where you bury things.
The entrance was a narrow crack in the rock and necessitated abandoning my pack. I removed a lantern and my revolver and hid the rest of my meagre possessions behind a rock. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had; it would be a shame to lose it.
The narrow gap opened out into a much larger cavern. I crossed the dusty floor, the scuffle of pebbles beneath my boots echoing from wall to wall.
“Impressive,” I said, more to announce my presence than anything else. While Australia is full of things willing to end your life, most of it had the good sense to leave you alone if you went loudly about your business. I hoped my stamping feet and loud voice would send things away into the shadows where they could wait for me to be elsewhere.
Moving around the cavern, shining the lantern on the walls, we discovered an exit leading further into the mountain. A passage that would just about allow us to pass single file (as long as I was prepared to angle my head rather too far to the side for comfort).
“I suppose you will want to go in there?” asked Nowra.
“There seems little point in staying here,” I replied.
“There seems little point in going in there either,” he said, “but you will do what you will do, and I suppose I must come with you.”
“Clearly the passage leads somewhere of interest,” I pointed out. “Again, four people would hardly go to the effort of traversing it on a whim.”
Nowra said nothing. I decided that was close enough to acquiescence and we entered the tunnel.
IT WAS, AT least, somewhat cooler down there than it had been above. Five minutes ago, had you asked me whether I would have suffered a cricked neck for the sake of a little less heat, I would have asked where such a deal could be made. Now, having bumped my head so often I had serious doubts I could ever find a hat to fit again, I yearned once more for the open air. If that meant a hostile sun, so be it.
Nowra, who had the fortune of being a good foot shorter than me, bore the journey with his usual smugness. “You are the one who wanted to come down here,” he said. “You should be enjoying yourself.”
“I am in a state of near bliss,” I told him. “Now, be quiet and keep your eyes peeled for snakes.”
“No snake would bite me,” he said, as if I had only been concerned for him. I suspect he was right, though, it would take a decidedly impressive set of fangs to puncture that sunburned skin of his. The fact that one so young possessed such a leathery exterior said all that needed to be said about the local climate. If he made it to forty, he would look like a rock.
“That’s a relief,” I said. “Nonetheless, if you should spot one, feel free to mention it, since I may be seen as fair game.”
Given the winding nature of the passage, it was hardly surprising that there was no sign of the group we had been following. What did surprise me is that we couldn’t hear them. Certainly they had a considerable lead on us, but one would have thought their footsteps would echo back towards us—and ours to them. Again, if they cared that they were being followed, there was no evidence of it.
I noticed some drawings on the wall and pointed them out to Nowra. “Your people have been down here, then?” I asked.
He shrugged. “We get everywhere. It is our land, after all.”
He made no attempt to translate the figures for me. The illustration was of a man, his head surrounded by serpents. My limited experience of the Aranda people led me to believe they weren’t in the habit of posting warning signs; the illustration likely had a greater significance than simply: Caution—Here be Snakes.
“What does it mean?” I asked him.
“It means you have to be careful of snakes,” he said.
“Oh,” I replied, rather disappointed. “Any particular type of snake?”
“Snakes come in all forms,” he said. “It depends on how literal you wish to be. For example, would your people not call you a snake for what you did to that woman?”
Back on his favourite subject again. How tedious.
“Those that knew the circumstances—of which there are precious few, one of them the Foreign Secretary of England—called me a hero.”
“For shooting a young woman? What strange people you are.”
“I told you, it was more complicated than that.”
“So explain.”
“I don’t want to. I would have thought was obvious, from the way I keep changing the subject.”
“You’re ashamed?”
“Not in the least. I simply do not wish to discuss it.”
The passage grew narrower.
“How adorable,” I said, “if this passage gets any tighter we’ll have to crawl along on our bellies.”
“Like snakes?”
IT WASN’T LONG before my prediction was proven correct. The one consolation as I scuffled along in the dirt was that at least Nowra had to suffer the same indignity. It may seem churlish of me, but he’d been so perfectly annoying that I took my revenge where I could.
“I hope this passage widens again soon,” I said. “I have no great desire to try turning around.”
“The others have not returned,” he pointed out.
This was a surprisingly positive statement from Nowra. “Well observed,” I said. “So we can assume our confined state won’t be permanent?”
“Either that or we will be stuck here,” he said, “no longer able to move in either direction.”
I should have known.
“Trapped,” I said. “And to think I came to your delightful country with the explicit intention of avoiding such an eventuality.”
MISS COLLINS TOPPLED backwards onto the rug, her face a perfectly pathetic, slack image of confusion. In this, of course, she wasn’t alone.
I will not deny that in my youth I often enjoyed being the centre of attention. It must be said, however, that there is a great deal of difference between captivating a room with your flair for the Schottische and standing over the body of a young woman with a smoking revolver in your hand. I couldn’t reasonably expect anyone to start applauding.
Miss Collins’ body twitched and, deciding I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, I put two more bullets into her. That, I believe, was the point at which the residents really started to panic. Sir Henry, that most noble animal, had already fled the scene, startled by the sound of the first shot. With the second and third, his owner and her companion followed him. The room became a mass of screaming and running feet.
Unfortunately, not everyone ran away. In my experience there is nothing quite so awkward as a male in company. A man on his own does what he thinks best, but put him in a group of other men—or worse, under the gaze of a woman—and an irritating inclination towards bravery arises.
“Now see here,” said the old soldier, woken by the gunshots, “there’s no need for all this foolishness.”
Foolishness. As if I had just executed somebody in a fit of high spirits.
“Put the gun down,” said a man towards the back of the room.
“You can’t shoot us all,” said another.
“Probably wouldn’t dare,” said another. �
�We’re not defenceless women.”
Oh how tedious this was going to be. It was clear I wasn’t going to be able to leave the room without a fight, and despite current appearances, beating innocent people was not something I was inclined to do. Nor, however, was I willing to be on the receiving end of whatever rough justice these chaps had in mind.
All of which left me with only one option that I could see.
I jumped out of the window.
TO MY DISTINCT relief, Nowra and I found ourselves in a cavern. Like a pipe feeding into a tank, the tunnel emerged through a ragged hole in the rock and we pulled ourselves through and dropped down into the dust below.
There was still no sign of the party we had been following, and there were three possible exits from the cavern. Holding the lantern to the ground, I observed the dust in front of each possible exit and was soon able to discern which tunnel they must have taken.
“I am wondering,” said Nowra, “if there is anywhere white man won’t go.”
“We approach the world with curiosity,” I admitted. “Some of us, anyway. I should introduce you to an old colleague of mine, Travers, you would have liked him. He works in the Foreign Office and yet has never set foot in another country. Exists entirely within the small triangle formed between his office, his club and his lodgings. I once asked him whether he wished to accompany me to a violin recital in Ealing; he blanched at the thought of travelling so far out of his way, and refused me in something approaching panic.”
“Is Ealing a dangerous territory?”
“That depends entirely on your opinion of suburbanites.”
“I don’t know what they are.”
“Creatures born and raised to clean air, leafy avenues and boredom.”
“They don’t sound threatening.”
“Try attending a dinner party sometime.”
The True History of the Strange Brigade Page 14
