Moonlight Downs (9 page)

I caught a flash of concern in the corner of his eyes. ‘But there’s no one out there! Are you sure it’s safe?’

‘You’re well informed.’

‘The whole town’s talking about it. I don’t know that I’d want to stay out at Moonlight Downs,’ Bernie went on, ‘not with some madman on the loose.’

‘Bloody oath!’ interjected my father.

‘Okay, okay…’ I mumbled, holding up my hands in self-defence. The whole world, it appeared, was conspiring to keep me away from Moonlight. ‘I’m old enough to make up my own mind. Can I offer you a coffee, Bernie? How about a freshly ground Jamaica Blue?’

‘Hey!’ Jack interjected. ‘You didn’t offer me one of those.’

‘Thought you were a tea man, Jack.’

‘Might have been once, but you’ve gotta move with the times.’

When they sat at the table I noticed Bernie glance at the old mining book.

‘Check out the pictures,’ I told him. ‘Might see someone you know.’

He opened it up and examined the inside cover. ‘1928!’ he grinned. ‘Just how old do you think I am?’

‘Anyway, mate,’ said my father, pulling a battered notebook out of his bag, ‘maybe we better get down to business.’

Bernie opened the canister and unrolled a folio of fluorescent charts I recognised as magnetic intensity surveys. Jack put on his glasses, leaned forward and studied them.

‘So what are we lookin at?’ he asked, the conspiratorial curl in his voice telling me that there was something slightly under-the-table about the transaction. Not that there was anything unusual in that: the mining industry knew about insider trading long before the stock-broking one did.

‘Two linear magnetic highs, trending 346 magnetic north, Jack,’ Bernie answered.

‘What’s the orientation?’

‘Both dipping north-easterly.’

‘And the strike length?’

‘Fifty to a hundred metres.’

Jack ran his thumb along a grid line, then paused. ‘So the outcrop I was telling you about’d be…roughly here?’

I soon found myself lost in the more compelling events in the kitchen sink. I liked prospecting better in the old days, when it was just a matter of me and Jack bashing rocks.

They took a break when I delivered the coffee.

‘So, where are you working now, Bern?’ I asked.

‘Oh, just a small show. The Impala, we call it.’

‘Keeping up the African connection?’

He shrugged. ‘I suppose so. There are three or four of us working it. Out in the desert, west of here.’

He was pointedly vague about exactly where out in the desert, and I knew better than to press him. They were all vague about the specifics, worried that somebody would jump them.

‘Finding anything?’

‘Not much.’ They all said that as well. ‘Bit of gold. Copper. Scheelite. Galena. Keeping us off the dole, but not much more.’ He smiled, raised his cup. ‘We live in hope, though.’

Bernie finished his coffee and left soon afterwards, and Jack filled me in on what the two of them had been up to. He’d struck a promising site out west of the Warren Ranges and wanted a look at it from the air. When you wanted a cut-price aerial perspective on things round here, Bernie Sweet was your man. He’d picked up—i.e. flogged—the maps a few years ago, while working for an aerial geoscience company, and made a bit of beer money hawking them to needy prospectors.

‘Anyway, Emmy,’ Jack said, rising to his feet and poking around among the books and papers for his hat, ‘I better be on my way myself.’

‘Where’d you park?’

‘Out the back.’

‘Bloody nasty dog out there. Watch it.’

‘I’ll do that.’

He took a load of gear out to the car.

By the time I joined him, he had the Alsatian licking his hand, frolicking around and barking in its excitement.

‘See you soon, darling,’ he said as he climbed aboard his four wheel drive.

‘You talking to me or the dog?’

‘Take your pick.’

The Alsatian farewelled Jack with a besotted yap, and I thought I’d take the opportunity to open up a dialogue.

‘Hey, boy!’ I said, patting my leg.

The boy went berserk, charged at the fence, barking ferociously and spraying me with saliva.

Jack grinned and began to drive away.

‘Fucking Bluebush!’ I yelled after him. ‘Even the dogs are racist.’

All in the game

I TOOK a seat in the front row of the ten-tier stand among a sea of familiar faces with an excited, festive air about them. Bluebush’s outdoor basketball stadium was distinguished by its cracking asphalt, anaemic floodlights and Con Panopoulos’s fast food van, at which you could buy anything from a souvlaki to a pirated DVD.

The absence of any other entertainment for hundreds of kilometres in any direction ensured a sell-out crowd at every game. Tonight’s epic was between the Panthers, the local blackfeller team, and the Schooners, something the police had cobbled together as a PR exercise. As such, the Schooners were an abject failure: they were hulking, big-footed bastards for the most part, a head taller than their opponents but nowhere near as skilful. More eloquent with their elbows than their hands.

Through my Moonlight connections I was getting to know the town mob, and they’d turned out in force for what was a rare opportunity to get one back at the cops.

Kristy and Linda Callaghan came back from the van with their arms loaded.

‘What’s for dinner?’ I asked.

‘F’n Cs.’

‘Scuse me?’

‘Fish,’ enunciated Kristy, ‘and chips.’ She grinned as Linda slapped an arm around my shoulders and a tomato-saucy chip into my mouth.

Freddy Ah Fong was dancing around in front of the crowd, urging them on, putting a hand to his ear whenever the roar wasn’t loud enough. They tried to get a Mexican wave happening, but it rapidly degenerated into an uncoordinated mess of flying objects: paper, mainly, but also hats, shoes, the occasional child. Gladys Kneebone threw a loaded thick-shake.

On the other side of the court, Kenny Trigger spotted me and raised his stubby in a cheerful greeting. I went over and sat beside him.

‘Evening, Kenny. Come here often?’

‘To the basketball?’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Well, I thought about popping down to the Concert Hall to catch a performance by the Bluebush Symphony Orchestra. Or there’s a production of
Die Rosenkavalier
on at the Bluebush Opera House that’s been well reviewed…’

A lusty roar from the crowd told us that the Panthers had scored yet again. One of the Schooners dismally brought the ball back down, and as he passed by us I recognised him: Rex Griffiths, the victim of Blakie’s ball-tearing getaway out at Moonlight Downs.

I’d seen a bit of Griffo since moving into town, and I’d heard even more of him. Down at Toyota Towers the balmy evening air was regularly rent by the sound of music blasting out from one of the neighbouring apartments. Even worse than the hours and the volume was the occupant’s taste, which ranged from Rodney Rude to Rodney Rude. I’d been about to call the cops on him once, then I discovered that he was the cops. Griffo. Tonight he looked like a walking experiment in the Second Law of Thermodynamics: he was falling apart, with particles of water flying off him at every angle. Either he’d just hosed himself down or he had an unbelievable sweat problem.

As Griffo approached the top of the circle, one of the Panthers— a skinny, good-looking boy in bare feet and a sloppy singlet—stole the ball, charged at a solid wall of Schooners and somehow appeared on its far side, then flew down the court and slam-dunked with an acrobatic leap through the air.

The boy jogged back past us and winked at Kenny.

‘Athletic lad,’ I commented.

‘Takes after his old man.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Me. He’s my oldest boy. Jar.’

‘
Jar?
’

‘Couldn’t keep his nose out of the jam when he was a kid.’

The half-time whistle blew. I was rolling myself a smoke when a toddler came crawling out of the crowd, bumped into my leg, examined it with interest and began to ascend it. I gave him a helping hand, and he clambered into my lap and fixed me with a puzzled stare.

Hell, I thought, taking in the chubby cheeks, bulging eyes and blond hair. Bloody ugly baby.

The toddler’s appearance seemed even more remarkable in the light of the young woman who came cruising along to retrieve him. She was as beautiful as the child was ugly: long legs, honey-coloured eyes, a body to die for and a blue dress that looked like it had been poured onto her and left to dry. Her skin was as shimmery and black as a crow’s throat.

She gathered up her baby, then stopped, crouched down and stared at me, open-mouthed.

‘Em’ly Tempest,’ she said at last, and a sweet, vacant smile floated across her face. Kenny looked on with interest, obviously wondering if I was going to recognise her. It was the smile—or its vacancy—that finally slotted her for me.

‘Flora!’ I exclaimed. Hazel’s little sister. She’d been a cute, slightly dippy nine-year-old the last time I laid eyes on her. Now she’d turned into an outback Naomi Campbell.

‘
Yuwayi
,’ she answered.

‘So how the hell you goin?’ I gave her a hug, made room for her on the bench.

‘I’m goin fine.’

‘What have you been up to?’

‘Oh, just livin. Livin and lookin around. I got a lot of eyes.’

‘You’re not wrong there,’ I said, although I wasn’t sure what she meant. ‘And you’re a mummy now, are you?’

‘
Yuwayi
,’ she smiled. ‘This little Jampin my one.’

The little Jampin, on cue, began grizzling, groped for a breast, then launched himself into a tantrum when it wasn’t forthcoming. Flora placidly reached into her bra, pulled out a tobacco tin and extracted from it a handful of boiled lollies. He snatched them from her hand and toddled off.

‘People bin tellin me old Em’ly Tempest back in town,’ she said to me. ‘Come home to the star country.’

‘The star country?’

‘You see em?’ she asked, shifting her eyes to the heavens.

I followed her gaze. ‘The stars? Yes, I suppose so. They seem to be up there in their…usual place.’

Kenny looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

‘But can you see what they
doin
?’ Flora persisted. She sniffed, focused on the sky. Her gorgeous mouth fell open. ‘There’s a little wind. You look closely you can see em blowin about among the tracks, like a lantern.’

‘Tracks? What tracks?’

‘The birds. They leave a trail through the air.’ She nodded to herself, then added, ‘Not everyone can see it.’

I remembered Hazel saying that these days Flora was a ‘little bit crazy’. She’d always been slow-witted; now, it appeared, her wits had come to a crashing halt.

‘Where are you living, Flora?’

‘Westside Camp. Hard place, that one. Songs all broken, window full of screams…but we get by, my little boy an me.’

‘You didn’t go back out to Moonlight with the rest of the mob.’

She paused, shifted her gaze to the north. ‘Moonlight?’ She shook her head, sadly. ‘I been there sometimes, but too much work in town. Important job, growin up this little boy. He gonna be important man one day.’

‘Could well be. He certainly knows what he wants.’

She stood up. ‘Better see what he’s up to. Good to have you back, Emily.’

She took my hand, gave it a gentle squeeze, and was distracted by the whistle that signalled the resumption of hostilities out on the court. She watched the game for another minute or two, but when she turned around and looked at me her eyes were completely devoid of recognition.

Go brother!

FLORA BLINKED, shook her head and wandered back to the side of the court, where she was joined by a middle-aged whitefeller.

‘So that’s Flora,’ I said to Kenny.

‘That’s Flora.’

‘How long’s she been like that?’

‘Hit the booze hard when she was still a kid. Got the DTs, then she got Jesus. Dunno which did more damage.’

‘Who’s the bloke?’

‘Les Crawley.’

I took a closer look at him: blue singlet, scrubby dark hair, every-which-way teeth. ‘That where the baby gets his good looks?’

‘Nah. Creepy’s been done for attempted break and entry of half the swags in town, but he isn’t responsible for little Jampin. He’s only been in town a year or so. Shacked up with Flora a few months ago.’

‘So who
is
the father? Whitefeller, I presume, and a bloody ugly one.’

‘Nobody seems to know.’ He leaned forward, cracked his knuckles and smiled darkly. ‘Pretty upmarket specimen, if you want my opinion.’

‘Oh?’

‘As you might have noticed, getting a straight word out of Flora’s not that easy, but after the birth she was wandering around telling everyone that when the little feller got a bit older he was going to get a—what was it again?—“a golden chariot with eyes like fire”.’

‘Sounds almost biblical. Don’t tell me there’s been another bible-basher over the back fence.’ During my younger days we’d had a rash of randy priests and pastors at whose hands the expression ‘missionary position’ took on a whole new meaning.

‘No, don’t think so. Things have gone quiet on that front in recent years. All we’ve got now are the Little Sisters of the Poor and a couple of middle-aged Inland Mission ladies who’re more interested in each other than anybody else. The way it looks to me, you’ve got some toff…’

‘Why a toff?’ I pointed an accusatory finger at him. ‘This wouldn’t be your left-wing bias rearing its lovely head?’

‘Bias?
Me
?’ He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Jesus, Emily, life’s going to be interesting with you around. No, I’m going for the silvertail because whoever it was, he tried to keep it quiet. Back alley job. Your tin-tails—riff-raff like Les—couldn’t care who knows about what they get up to. No, some bugger’s knocked her up, then fed her a line about giving the kid something—a motorcar, I suppose, if she’ll keep quiet about it. God knows, there’s no shortage of candidates—place is full of whitefellers who’d get all hot and sweaty over a good-lookin lass like that.’

I let it slide. Not much I could do about it, and such liaisons had been going on for generations. I returned my attention to the basketball, where things were hotting up. The second half looked like being even more fiery than the first; little skirmishes broke out behind the play, and the referee struggled to keep a lid on things.

The circuit-breaker came from an unexpected source. A dusty four wheel drive rolled up and a young bloke climbed out of the cab and spent a few minutes checking out the game. He was wearing what would have looked like a police uniform—khaki shorts and shirt—were it not for the addition of a little red beanie. When yet another skirmish broke out, he wandered over and spoke to the Schooners bench, pulled on a purple singlet and joined the game. The boost to the coppers’ fortunes was immediate. It didn’t come from his speed—when he dribbled the ball he seemed to go wandering down the court with all the urgency of a cow coming home at sunset. Nor did it come from his height—no more than average. But he did have a knack of quietly appearing in the right spot when the ball was coming down, and casually lobbing baskets from the three-point line.

Even more important than his contribution to the scorecard, though, was his contribution to the atmosphere. Whenever Jar performed one of his magic steals, the newcomer would throw up his hands in mock despair and watch with wry pleasure as the boy flew down the court. When his own long bombs landed he seemed surprised, and it was only the fact that they landed as often as they did that made you realise there was more class than arse about them.

His team-mates sparked up when he joined them, but what really surprised me was that the crowd seemed to appreciate him almost as much as their own players; Freddy acknowledged his plays with a roaring ‘Go brother!’ and the Callaghan sisters looked like they were positively tonguing for him.

‘Bloke seems popular,’ I said to Kenny—‘for a
cop
.’

‘Jojo? Aye, they appreciate a character when they see one, this mob. But he’s not a cop.’

I took a closer look at the insignia on his vehicle. Parks and Wildlife Commission.

A sudden scream from the crowd distracted us. Flora’s little Jampin had wandered out onto the court and was standing there, wobbling on his feet and watching in fascination as the crush of players bore down upon him. The men attempted a scrambled halt, but it wasn’t going to be quick enough.

Moments before the stampede struck, the bloke in the red beanie, who until then had been loping along behind the pack, somehow appeared at its front. He scooped Jampin up and cradled him in his arms as the flying squad fell in a heap around them.

Kenny whistled. ‘That was close.’

The game finished soon afterwards, but the cheers were drowned out by a heavy crane truck that came rumbling in through the front gate. It had the words
Jalyukurru Resource Centre
emblazoned on the door.

‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Kenny as two young blackfellers in blue singlets and baseball caps climbed down from the cab and sheepishly made their way to where we sat.

‘Who’s this?’ I asked.

‘Clive James.’

‘The writer?’

‘The water works team.’ He called out to the two men as they approached. ‘Why’d you bring the truck, fellers? Taxi didn’t arrive on time?’

‘I’m Clive,’ said the feller in the red cap, ignoring Kenny and accepting my proffered hand.

‘And I’m…’ said Yellow Cap.

‘Let me guess. James?’

‘Yuwayi
. How’d you know?’

‘Boys have been down Kupulyu, checking out the new long-drop dunnies,’ said Kenny. ‘We just put em in a few weeks ago—Tuesday I get a call from Johnny Friday telling me they’re blocked. Told him they don’t get blocked—they’re just a hole in the ground.’ He turned to James. ‘What was in them?’

‘Everythin,’ said Clive. ‘Bottles, cans, kangaroo bones, car parts. Mob out there been usin em as a rubbish hole. One of em even had an old pram stuffed down it,’

A voice from over my shoulder cut into the conversation: ‘Did you check for a baby?’

I looked around. The speaker was the latecoming Schooner, the feller with the red beanie. What was it they’d called him? Jojo. He was standing at a bench near ours, towelling his torso—and, I couldn’t help but notice, a pleasant torso it was—mulga brown, muscular, with a smattering of chest hair and the fluidity of movement that seems to speak more of the bush than the gym.

‘Jojo!’ exclaimed Clive. ‘When’d you get back in?’

‘Half-time.’

‘You musta put the foot down.’

‘Wasn’t driving a semi-trailer, mate. And Kenny,’ he added, ‘don’t go knocking Clive and James for being late—they’ve been working their arses off.’

‘We had to dig new holes,’ explained Clive. ‘Move the toilets. Jojo give us a hand. Drove the backhoe.’

‘Very multi-skilled,’ I said. ‘Was that parks or wildlife?’

‘Wildlife,’ he grinned. ‘Definitely.’ He dragged a singlet down his chest and walked over to join us, still drying his hair.

‘Jojo,’ Kenny said with unusual formality, ‘like you to meet Emily Tempest.’

‘Not Motor Jack’s daughter?’ His face lit up: he was dark eyed, dark haired, with a day or two’s beard and lines around his eyes that suggested either a lot of sun or a lot of laughter. ‘Heard there was a daughter somewhere, but I never believed she wasn’t another one of his tall tales.’

‘Dunno if I ever quite believed it myself.’

‘Jojo Kelly,’ he said, shaking my hand.

‘Jojo? What sort of a name is that?’

‘Wasn’t my idea—blame my mother.’

‘She stuttered?’

‘She was a Beatles fan.’

‘Jojo was a man who thought he was a woman!’

‘
Loner
,’ he said sternly.

The water works team were looking restless. ‘We better take the truck round to the yard, Kenny,’ said Clive.

‘
Yuwayi
,’ added James. ‘We wanner get back in time to see the fight.’

Clive frowned, and Jojo looked up with interest.

‘Do they issue a timetable for that sort of thing around here?’ I asked.

‘Just about,’ said James. ‘Last night, Billy Winter got beaten up by a couple of meatworkers out back of the Black Dog. Tonight he’s bringin his brothers back for a rematch.’

Jojo frowned. ‘Danny be there too?’

‘
Yuwayi
.’

‘Shit. Danny’s supposed to be going out bush with me tomorrow. Better go and fish him out.’

‘Better hurry,’ said James. ‘There they go now.’ A huge yellow panel van came cruising low and loud down the street outside the sports ground, headed towards the centre of town.

Jojo followed the car with his eyes. ‘See you guys later,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you, Emily.’ He shambled off towards his car, feet bare, hands in pockets, a towel draped over his shoulder. As I watched he gave a little hip-swerve and shuffle, as if there was a tune playing in his head and he just couldn’t resist the beat.

‘Jesus Kenny, don’t tell me he’s really going down to the Black to stick his beak into a fight,’ I said as Jojo hopped into the cab, snapping his fingers. ‘He seemed like such a nice boy.’

‘Yeah,’ Kenny drawled. He threw me a speculative glance. ‘He did, didn’t he?’