The Trespassers
Page 24
We were cast adrift from the world – unreachable, all ties severed. Time stretched blank to the horizon, day after day, no endpoint in sight, like a map devoid of landmarks.
Hold yourself together, Garnett: I spoke sternly to myself. Falling apart was not an option. Nor was chemical obliteration, although that urge had reasserted itself, a constant sullen undercurrent. But meds were limited and the children needed me.
One night I saw a news report, a brief reference to our presence here: the leader of the opposition, fired up in electioneering mode, saying we should have been sent home, should never have been brought to this godforsaken outpost. A disgrace, she said. A shameful waste of taxpayers’ money, a bad choice made by a gutless party who were not fit to govern this fine country. Then a seamless shift to promises of tax breaks, infrastructure projects, hospitals and nursing homes and high-speed trains.
She delivered it with passion, but her accusation was hazy: was it inhumane to send us here, or just improvident? The answer left open to interpretation.
We were cut off in more ways than one. Flint Island had been excised from Australia’s migration zone. There was no recourse to the mainland from this place.
~
One morning, our weekly trip down to the shore was curtailed by an unexpected visitor. A group of kids were squinting up into the sky, taking turns with Cleary’s binoculars. I assumed they were birdwatching, but a guard followed their line of sight and snapped sharply to attention.
A drone hovered overhead, directly above the children.
‘Get them out of here,’ said Tucker, a great bear of a guard with enormous arms. ‘Back up the path, quick.’ He unclipped his handgun from its holster.
‘It’s not one of yours?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘Must be media. Get the kids back inside.’
The second we were off the beach he started shooting – shot after shot rang out, none hitting their target. The drone zipped away, a black dot shrinking into the pale sky.
My fear was that this incident would spell the end of our outings. Kellahan and I had lobbied hard for these small glimpses of freedom, submitted our carefully worded rationale in writing, the page sprinkled liberally with references to mental health, emotional wellbeing, the need to mitigate trauma. I couldn’t face the prospect of telling the kids there’d be no more excursions. That their world could shrink still further.
Those other children, the ones confined to the far side of the airstrip: I asked the beefy guard, Tucker, about them. Did they ever leave their compound? Could we arrange a joint outing, get all the kids together? He looked away. ‘No chance,’ he said.
~
Night was falling as I joined a small group gathered at the rec-room window. Two guards were approaching from the direction of the sea, picking their way across the rough ground towards an outbuilding beyond the perimeter fence, their khaki uniforms merging with the scrubby landscape. The light was fading, but the detail was discernible enough to send a chill through me: the men were carrying a stretcher. On it was a black shape that bore a strong resemblance to a body bag.
We watched the guards until they disappeared behind the outbuilding. Shortly they reappeared, just visible in the gloom, now minus their load. One of them clicked on a torch and we watched in silence as the beam wobbled along the boundary fence, around the corner, out of sight.
Later I found Tucker, the big guard, alone in the rec room, mopping the floor. I posed the question with no lead-in, gave him no time to prevaricate: what happened out there?
‘Body on the rocks,’ he answered. ‘Looks like one of yours.’ Then he set his mouth in a tight line, ignored my further questions, and left the room.
~
A week or so later, we awoke to fresh news: there had been a change of government. The screen was full of cheering crowds and breathless pundits gesturing at graphs. The new prime minister beamed and waved, thanked her family and supporters, addressed journalists by their first names. Promised a new era.
Victory was spelt out in colour-coded maps, the country daubed bright red with smaller patches of defeated blue. None of the maps depicted a dismal rock in the southern reaches of the Pacific. Out of sight, out of mind.
Halfway through the broadcast, as the incoming prime minister was delivering her victory speech, the screen went dead. And stayed that way: a black rectangle, a void in the wall.
The guards shrugged. No explanation was offered.
The place fell silent, save for the howling wind.
~
We heard it before we saw it: the drawn-out roar of its approach, the growling whistle of descent, like a bomb plummeting home; the engine growing louder, louder, then fading out as the machine lumbered to a stop down the far end of the wide road that divided the island.
Everyone rushed over to the window, the children jostling to see. A plane squatted on the asphalt. It was a sizeable craft, white with a long blue stripe, no company name or logo in evidence. We gaped at our strange visitor; this luxurious machine, great guzzler of precious jet fuel. Then the room broke into excited chatter.
Nothing was announced. The guards remained tight-lipped, the screen a void. But we stole glances at each other, the air between us buzzing with new hope: there could be only one explanation for an aircraft of that size to land in this remote location.
A new era.
It had come for us. We were leaving this godforsaken place.
Cleary gripped his mother’s hand as the aircraft gathered speed, his back pressing into the seat as they hurtled down the runway, the plane trembling with the force of its own momentum, the thrum of the engines vibrating through the soles of his feet.
A skip, an almost imperceptible lift – the cord snapped, gravity’s hold broken. An odd floating sensation in the pit of his stomach. Flying at last.
Face to the glass he watched the ground drop away beneath them; objects shrinking, the camera zooming out, the landscape transforming into a map.
The plane banked, turning as it climbed. Sliced down the middle by the black stripe of the runway, the island now resembled a photograph: no sign of life in either compound, the buildings static, nothing moving. He craned his neck, seeking one last glimpse of the shadow children, but the place looked deserted, no-one in sight.
Soon all they could see was empty sky and the distant sea below, sunlight winking and shattering on its surface. Kids undid their seatbelts to roam the aisles or crowd the windows, open-mouthed with wonder, drinking in this impossible perspective. Mia and Captain Lewis were huddled together at a window seat, pointing at the towering clouds. Cleary was transfixed by the dark mouths of the jet engines perched below each wing; by the air-vents, the tray tables, the call button. The sheer power and expense of this rare craft, sent just for them. Declan, who had already announced plans to become a pilot, was now wrangling snacks from the cabin crew, messing with the call button and testing the stewards’ patience.
Soon they began passing over land, the interlocking grids and highways of a city, a horizontal honeycomb of suburbs; then a stretch of patchwork fields, eventually followed by a wide span of rusty red dirt, broken by mountain ranges and strange rock formations. A destination they’d never reached, a country they had not set foot in. No close encounters with kangaroos or koalas, like his granda had promised. No tropical fruit or golden beaches.
But Cleary didn’t mind. You could see it on everyone’s faces – the sense of hope rekindled, of sheer relief or quiet jubilation. They were going home: that was all that mattered.
Going home: those words were like a sweet ache. Like arms held wide, or the smell of your own pillow.
He was doing his best not to dwell on the other thing. He wasn’t angry with Billie, not really. But it had hurt, the way she’d left so suddenly – no farewell hug, no send-off. His ma had offered an explanation: said Billie was helping the police fig
ure things out, teaching them about the sickness, explaining what had happened on the ship. She had to leave in a big hurry, his ma said. She didn’t have time to say goodbye. But surely she could have left a note?
His ma had pulled him close, said not to worry. His birthday was coming up soon. Gran and Granda would be over the moon to have him back. Did he have any ideas for presents? What about a cake?
Deep down he knew Billie wouldn’t break her word. Once she’d finished her work – whatever she was busy with down there, in that unknown country – she would seek him out, get back in touch. Come visit him, like she had promised. After all, they’d made a pact: thick or thin, near or far, sea monsters or tornadoes, their friendship would not fade. Nothing would ever separate the two of them.
Cleary settled back and closed his eyes, let the thrum of the engines lull him towards sleep. Before long he was airborne himself, skimming high above the clouds, his wings spread wide and feathers shining, flying effortless and free through an infinite expanse of blue.
Book club notes are available at www.uqp.com.au
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My heartfelt thanks to the following people: Andi Pekarek, for his steady encouragement, vital moral and practical support, and astute advice on drafts. Thanks to my literary agent, Martin Shaw, for unswerving guidance, advocacy and friendship; my publisher Aviva Tuffield for being such a gun editor and collaborator, and for patiently continuing to back me; my talented and ever-sunny editor Vanessa Pellatt, plus Jean Smith, Kylie Rathborne, Sally Wilson, Kate McCormack, Emily Knight and the whole lovely UQP team; Ian ‘Eagle Eye’ See for his top-notch proofreading; designer Christa Moffitt for the gorgeous cover; Tony Birch, for a fantastically unprintable quote; Anna Krien, Graeme Simsion, Jane Rawson, Favel Parrett and Jed Mercurio for their generous endorsements; Bob Carey-Grieve and Jon Bauer for crucial imaginative insights; Toni Jordan for being an enabling force of nature; and Joanne Manariti, photographer extraordinaire.
Thanks to Pip Smith, Eliza Watters and Alana Horsham for sharing their knowledge of tall ships and emergency medicine; beta reader Tessa Kum for invaluable input and enthusiasm; Jessica White for sharing the wisdom of her lived experience to help me realise Cleary’s world more fully; Robert Lukins for kindly passing on secret background bizzo; Sara Knox for her compassionate steerage; and Damien Wilkins and Hazel Smith for their thoughtful responses. Thanks also to Billie, Helmut and Ursula Pekarek for helping me free up writing time; Lex Hirst and Catherine Lewis for their support; Varuna, the National Writers’ House for a Second Book Fellowship; Mary Kruithof, author of Fever Beach, for telling the story of the Ticonderoga; and Clare Forster for the years we shared. Last, but never least, thanks to Pam, Dave and Niamh Mundell for their encouragement, advice and steadfast belief in the value of creative obsessions.
First published 2019 by University of Queensland Press
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Copyright © Meg Mundell 2019
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
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‘Who Loves You’ from The Other Country by Carol Ann Duffy. Published by Anvil Press Poetry, 1990. Copyright © Carol Ann Duffy. Reproduced by permission of the author, c/o Rogers, Coleridge & White Ltd., 20 Powis Mews, London W11 1JN.
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Author photograph by Joanne Manariti
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ISBN 978 0 7022 6255 5 (pbk)
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