Sing Fox to Me (18 page)

‘I know what you did,' said the man, taking a few unsteady steps back.

Jonah shook his head. ‘Samson?' he said, but his brother didn't stir.

‘Mum says she's alright,' said Clancy, ‘but I don't reckon she is.'

‘Samson!' Jonah could smell alcohol.

‘He was inside. She was crying. I'm sure I could hear her. Some days I'm sure.' Clancy's voice rose into the darkness. ‘You hear me? No matter what you say, I didn't do it.'

Jonah slid out from under his blankets. ‘Samson,' he said, though he knew his brother wasn't going to wake up and help him. He swung his legs out of bed. He wanted to be ready to run. The floorboards were cold.

‘Why didn't you stop her?' wailed Clancy from across the room. ‘Couldn't you hear? Couldn't you follow?' An empty bottle was dangling from his hand. ‘Didn't you hear her crying out for you?'

Clancy grabbed Jonah's arm. The old man's fingers lashed around his skin, pulling him close, and Jonah's feet slipped out from under him. ‘Wait, don't!' He twisted his arm, trying to break free. ‘You're hurting me.'

‘That's it, I'll show you,' said Clancy. ‘George?' he called out, but no one answered. He dragged Jonah into the hallway. Jonah struggled, but there was no point – his granddad's hand was clenched shut. ‘All those animals. Why would she leave them on the lawn?' Clancy threw Jonah against the kitchen wall. Something in his shoulder crunched, and he fell to the floor. ‘What the fuck were you just doing?'

Jonah could see his granddad's eyes, white and glowing in the grey light. ‘Sleeping.'

‘Horseshit!'

‘I was sleeping, Granddad,' said Jonah, and he'd never called Clancy ‘granddad' out loud before.

He heard Clancy's palm crack against his cheek before he felt it. His hands fumbled at his face, but not in time to stop Clancy slapping him across the mouth.

‘Don't touch me,' Jonah screamed, his voice a flock of screeching birds flying up and away from the kitchen floor.

‘Where's David?' Clancy asked.

‘I don't know.'

Clancy's face darkened like a storm folding in over the mountain. He loosened his grip, and Jonah kicked his legs, pushed his body along the floor, but there was nowhere to go. He scrabbled down the wall until he got to the fridge and pulled himself up. His face burned. Why couldn't he stop this? Why couldn't he stop anything? He wished his brother were there with him. No one was allowed to hit Samson, and Jonah could crawl into his arms.

‘I found it,' Clancy announced.

‘What?'

‘I found the fucking kookaburra.'

A calm settled over Jonah. A restfulness that he couldn't quite pinpoint or explain. Part of him had known this was coming, and another part didn't care.

He smiled. ‘What kookaburra, Granddad?'

Clancy lunged towards him again, but this time Jonah was fast enough to cover his face. ‘You little fucker.' His granddad's fingers wrapped around the back of his neck, dragged him across the kitchen and shoved his face onto the cool tabletop.

He was face-to-face with King's corpse.

‘What have you got to say?' Clancy pushed Jonah's head with each word.

Jonah stared into the empty face of the bird and growled.

Clancy let go. He stumbled back and grabbed his injured leg as though he was reaching for a walking stick. ‘I want you out, boy.' He balanced himself on the wall. ‘You write whatever you like.' He followed the wall around to the door. ‘I don't give a shit. Knock yourself out.' His hand found the doorframe. ‘Your sister was worth ten of you, boy.' Clancy pointed right at Jonah before stumbling outside.

After his granddad was gone, the room fell back into silence, except Jonah could hear the frogs croaking. He stayed where he was, crumpled like one of his dad's bad poems in the corner. The tears came so quietly and so slowly, he didn't really notice he was crying until water ran in streams down his face.

Then he wiped them away. He couldn't stay in Clancy's house. Not now, not like this. They would all find out what he'd done. They'd blame him for the dog, even though she'd attacked him. They wouldn't understand.

What should he do? What, what, what? Jonah thought of Shere Khan stumbling, limping and starving through the jungle. Alone, but not lonely.

Quick and agile as any
real
tiger, Jonah grabbed the key from inside the wooden box and darted down the hall. He unlocked the door to the tiger's prison, and this time he wouldn't bother to lock it again. The tiger was his now, and Clancy couldn't stop him. He lifted the tiger out of the moonlit bed of daisies. He wrapped it over his shoulders and balanced the head on his scalp. The tail and legs settled into place. It fit his small body perfectly.

The two of them weren't going to die in a cage.

Jonah ran from the house with the tiger wrapped around him. He darted across the dark lawn like a wild animal and hardly noticed the small towers of stones. Not even when he knocked some of them over.

The gate clicked shut behind him. The sound echoed. Birds roosting nearby rustled themselves awake, a possum opened just one eye to check that there was no danger, and a small family of nocturnal mice all froze.

Jonah held the tiger's nose firmly in place on his forehead and kept running. As he ran, the tiger's skin tightened around his shoulders, as though the tiger was pulling the pieces of itself back together. Jonah tried to stop, but he couldn't. He tried to turn or throw himself onto the dirt and leaves, but he couldn't make his body listen.

The tiger had taken over.

This wasn't what Jonah wanted. Was it? No, no, no. He tried to shake his head, but his neck was frozen in place. The tiger's tail whipped around his side, moving back and forth until it stuck out behind them like the rudder on a ship.

‘Where're you taking me?' he asked. The question caught in his throat.

The tiger didn't answer.

Jonah heard something grunt. It was coming from inside him. His flesh burned. The legs wrapped around him and squeezed. He couldn't stop running. The tiger wouldn't let him. Jonah's body flexed as the tiger shuddered further in. Fur tendrils crept along his skin like wisps of smoke striped black and orange. Then the tiger's mouth bore down over his forehead, swallowing him.

He closed his eyes. Bone teeth closed in around his jaw, and the tiger's mouth was his mouth. He opened his eyes, and everything had changed. Green and blue were yellow. Darkness had dissolved into sunlight. Paw prints burned in the scrub.

Jonah could see everything.

The tiger's teeth pierced his lips. Their mouths moved together as they whispered to the bush, ‘No, I'm not ready.'

The tiger made him run again. This time with its tail high and straight. A long striped back, nose down. Running, and smelling, and finding their way. Jonah kept trying to shake himself free, but the tiger was too strong.

Maybe it wouldn't be as strong in water. Surely Jonah was a stronger swimmer. He had grown up on the coast, swimming almost every day when they were little. Maybe his ending would be just like Mowgli's. Maybe he would make up a jungle song with no rhymes, a song that would burst from his throat like a bird taking flight. He would never rehearse it, like his dad, or write it down. He might even break free of more than just the tiger.

The deepest, blackest part of the creek appeared from inside the night like a shimmering silver snake about to swallow him whole.

Jonah and the tiger jumped together. Water wrapped around them, and Jonah felt himself sink. He opened his eyes. The water didn't sting. It wasn't like back home. The darkness parted, and he could see a boy waiting at the bottom. White, bloated with death and tied fast in logs and reeds. The boy's eyes blinked.

If he couldn't have his own birth, at least Jonah could have a death that only belonged to him.

He tried to kick up, but couldn't. He reached out, but the thick water held him in place and the tiger dragged him down. His lungs tightened. He opened his mouth. Water rushed in. He had to let something go.

One of his two skins lifted up from around his shoulders and spun into the darkness, leaving only enough room for one.

He kicked up.

The lip of the creek was freezing, but the tiger didn't care. Its fur insulated it against the wet and the cold. To the tiger, the temperature of the water was no different to the bush. The tiger pulled itself out and shook itself off. As it did, the fur on its back stood straight up. It sniffed the air.

One, two, three, four paws, and it was running, stretching itself against the tapestry of the bush for the first time in many years.

six

O
n the morning after his grandson disappeared with the pelt, Clancy Fox called Murray. ‘He's shot through,' Clancy said over the phone.

Murray was on his front doorstep in minutes. He wanted to know what had happened, but Clancy didn't tell him everything. He left out finding King dead under Jonah's bed, and that he'd buried the poor little blighter under a lavender bush behind the house. He told Murray about the scuffle, but not the stolen pelt.

‘I reckon I scared the shit out of him last night,' said Clancy, and his voice shook in his mouth like windows in a storm.

‘What happened?'

‘I got crook at him.'

‘You alright now?'

‘Bloody hung-over is what I am.'

‘You back on the grog?' asked Murray gently.

‘I slipped, just last night.'

Murray looked as if he didn't believe him.

‘I'm right now,' said Clancy. ‘Honest.'

Even though he didn't look convinced, Murray nodded. ‘Reckon it's too early to get blokes from town?' he asked. ‘We could start a proper search. Last thing we want is for the trail to go cold.'

‘I don't care if it's too early,' said Clancy firmly. ‘Let's get them up here.'

After a strong cuppa, they settled on a plan. Tilda had spent the night in town at the pub with her daughter, so Murray called and asked her to get the word out. They needed people to find the boy, and they needed them fast.

‘Do you reckon they'll come?' asked Murray, after he hung up the phone.

‘Oh, they'll fuckin' come. Most of those bastards have been wanting a gander at my mountain ever since they read David's book.'

A few hours later, Clancy stood on his verandah and watched as Tilda Kelly pulled Murray's ute under the awning beside the driveway. She almost nicked the passenger door. Women drivers. Essie had been an appalling driver too, although she always blamed it on the ute. ‘It's too big and cumbersome,' she'd say, ‘I can't manage it.' ‘I'm big and cumbersome,' Clancy would respond with a kiss, ‘and you can manage me fine enough.'

Tilda opened the door, and Murray was beside her in seconds, helping her out. Clancy hadn't seen the girl since the night David left, and her stomach seemed to have gotten even bigger again. When she embraced Murray, a deep, old longing sprung up in Clancy. No one had held him like that in many years.

Murray helped Tilda across the lawn and up the stairs.

‘Don't close the gate,' shouted Clancy. ‘Queenie might still find her way back.'

‘How are you, Clancy?' Tilda asked.

‘Fair to middling.'

She frowned.

‘Any word from town?' asked Murray.

‘I spoke to Grigg and a few others,' said Tilda. ‘They weren't exactly happy about helping, but they all said they'd come tomorrow, if we still need them. I also saw Eli, from the footy team, and he said he'd pass the word around to some of the local boys. But, Clancy, don't you think we ought to tell the police? They'll get wind of it eventually.'

‘No cops,' said Clancy quickly. ‘Not until the three days are up. They were fuck-all use last time.'

‘It's too early for cops anyway,' said Murray as he took Tilda's hand. ‘Thank you for arranging everything.'

‘You and I better get moving,' said Clancy.

Murray nodded.

Clancy turned to go inside, but Samson almost bowled him over as he opened the door. The boy ran to the edge of the verandah and jumped onto the lawn, looking back and forth like a trapped animal. ‘Where is he?'

‘Let's go in, mate,' said Murray. ‘We can talk about it while we have some brekkie.'

‘That's right,' said Tilda. ‘You'll need something to eat. It'll be all go once everyone arrives.'

‘He's not here?' Samson asked, as if he hadn't heard her.

‘No mate, he's run away,' said Murray. ‘We'll find him.'

‘Not unless he wants you to find him,' said Samson.

Samson watched as Murray and his granddad left through the gate like two of a kind boarding Noah's ark. They parted ways just beyond the fence and went in different directions. He wondered if either of them would be able to find his brother.

Tilda didn't join them. ‘I'll stay with you,' she said, as she climbed the verandah steps. ‘I'm no good to them like this, now am I?'

Samson nodded, though he didn't really understand. He wanted to go where Mattie was. Why hadn't she come to be with him? But then he remembered their fight –
disabled, handicapped,
dumb
– so instead of asking about her, he said, ‘Do you know my brother?'

Tilda looked at him like Samson had said something stupid. ‘Not really,' she said. ‘I only met him that once, remember.'

‘If he wants to stay lost, no one will be able to make him come back.'

‘They'll find him,' she said, then went inside.

A few minutes passed. Samson could hear her making tea, but he didn't move. Instead he listened to the sounds of searching. ‘Jonah, Jonah, Jonah …' His brother's name was like music in the mountain. When a voice was nearby, his brother's name sounded loud and defiant. It trumpeted through burrows and over rocks. When they were far away, ‘Jonah' was like the chime of thin silver bells or a rush of piano keys floating downriver.

Tilda asked if Samson wanted any brekkie, but he wasn't hungry. A few hours later, she asked him if he wanted lunch. He shook his head and made the sign for
search
. Two fingers, bent and far apart, circled once, twice, and once more. He made lots of circles while he was waiting.

As Samson waited, the sun came down in the sky. Tilda told him he had no choice but to eat dinner. He nodded, and she brought him a leg of roast chicken with mashed potato. Soon a few people from town emerged from the trees. A couple of them shook their heads at Samson, others ignored him. One by one they went back down the mountain.

‘Never mind,' said Tilda with her voice, but her hands were used to signing so sometimes they followed, making a word here or there. ‘Murray and your granddad will bring him home.'

The sign for
home
was a hand making a wave. Not a wave of hello, but the wave of an ocean. Samson's home wasn't by the ocean anymore, but the wave might have been the top of a mountain, except the mountain wasn't his home yet either.

‘It's all going to be okay, Samson,' said Tilda, after the dishes were washed and put away again.

He nodded.

‘Time for shower and teeth?' Tilda sounded like his mum.

On his way past the kitchen, Samson saw two dinners covered and waiting on the benchtop, as though Tilda knew that only Murray and Clancy were coming back.

He got into the shower before turning on the water. Usually he did it the other way around, but he was distracted by thoughts of Jonah. When he played hide-and-seek with his brother, no matter how much he would seek, Jonah could never be found.

Samson turned off the shower and stepped out into the cold bathroom air. He wrapped a towel around his body and thought about Jonah being born small and blue because there was no air left.

He crossed the hall from the bathroom to their bedroom.

The curtains on Samson and Jonah's window were closed, but the window was open a little bit at the bottom. He could hear voices outside their window and was about to call out to Tilda and tell her they were home, but something told him to be quiet and listen instead.

‘Find anything?' asked Clancy.

‘Nothing,' said Murray. ‘But don't worry, it'll be different tomorrow. We'll have enough people for proper search parties.'

‘You know I don't like the idea of people poking around up here.'

Samson pushed his ear to the opening at the bottom of the window. The air outside didn't feel cold, but he knew his skin would catch up eventually.

‘He's pretty small,' said Murray. ‘Could be hiding anywhere.'

Samson felt the cold of the mountain creep in under the windowsill like a thick grey mist. As though his skin was signing to him through his pores and muscles and bones, Samson understood what Clancy and Murray meant. Jonah was gone. Run away.

‘He'll be safe for the night,' said Clancy, like he was trying to comfort himself. ‘Won't he?'

‘Safe as houses,' said Murray.

‘And we'll find him tomorrow, won't we?'

‘Let's head inside,' said Murray, gently. ‘I'm hungry.'

Samson listened to them move away. He thought about following them but his hands felt heavy, and his belly hurt, so instead he drew back the curtains and looked outside. Everything was dark.

Don't cry
, he signed to himself, thinking of his mum and dad, but the sign for
cry
was the same as
crying
, and so it didn't matter if he cried, only if he stopped. Samson wiped his eyes and running nose on the edge of his sleeve. Jonah's shirt from yesterday was slung over the end of his bed. Samson held them to his face. It smelt like yesterday. Yesterday, his brother wasn't missing, but today Jonah was gone.

Where is he?
signed Samson, but his extra chromosome was heavy and he couldn't make his mind understand.
Where?
he signed again, only this time the signing made him angry because
where
looked like fingers dancing. It was his favourite sign, and Jonah had ruined it by running away. Samson shook his head. The inside of his mind had caught up. Missing, missing, run away. Words jumbled and repeated.
Bang, bang, bang
, they made noise, and he couldn't hear Jonah or feel him.

They were twins,
twins
, and that meant they came together and should leave together. But maybe Jonah was happy being lost, Samson thought as he took himself to bed, or maybe he didn't feel lost at all.

Next morning, half the town turned out to help Clancy find his grandson. None of them had ever met Jonah, but everyone seemed to know the boy's name and details about his life. ‘He's small, they say.' ‘The father just up and left.' ‘Where's the mother, that's what I'd like to know.' They filed out of utes and cars, stomping all over Essie's lawn. Leaning up against the fence. They looked like blowflies on a hot day. Clancy watched from the verandah as a new white ute filled the space behind the carport. One bloke after another piled out. He'd not seen some of them in years.

It didn't take long for Murray to divide everyone into groups.

‘How long's he been gone for?' asked the butcher.

‘A day and a bit.'

‘Did anything, you know, happen before he shot through?'

‘Nothing,' said Clancy quickly. He knew what some of them were after. Same thing they were after last time.

‘He's missing, not shot through,' said Murray. ‘He's only a kid.'

‘Does the boy know anything about living rough?' asked the bloke who owned the hardware shop.

Murray shook his head. ‘I wouldn't think so.'

‘Check burrows,' called Clancy, and the crowd fell quiet, as if he was Moses and they were the Red Sea. He could almost hear them all chewing their cud. His headache from yesterday was still going strong, and now there was spit at the side of his mouth again. He took a handkerchief from the pocket of his coat and dabbed at his lips. ‘Don't forget about my dog.'

Murray touched him on the arm. ‘I'll have a word with each of them,' he said.

‘Where's David?' asked Clancy.

Murray put his hand on Clancy's shoulder. ‘You alright, mate?'

‘Samson, I meant Samson.'

‘He's safe inside,' said Murray. ‘I asked him to stay here again. Not sure … you know, what lads like him can handle.'

‘She likes to crawl under logs and scrubby branches.'

‘I remember, Clance,' said Murray.

‘He's so small.' Clancy imagined Jonah fading into rock clefts or hollow trees.

Murray squeezed his shoulder. ‘I'll find them, Clance,' he said. ‘I will.'

Clancy nodded, but he knew it was hopeless. He'd seen it all before with George, but Murray hadn't. The last time a child went missing on the mountain, Murray had been far away in Sydney. He found out about River's disappearance like everyone else, in the paper.

Sometimes Clancy wondered if that's when the drugs started. There had been a phone call, late one night. Clancy picked it up, and a voice whispered, ‘Rivy?' Clancy didn't wait to hear any more, and he'd never had the guts to ask Murray.

In the days after River's disappearance, George organised the searches while Clancy recovered in hospital from his leg surgery. At first he'd worried that the townspeople would discover Essie's grave.

‘It's not legal,' he said to George, panicked.

‘Her grave's unmarked, Clance.'

‘They'll find her. They'll make me move her.'

‘Take it easy, mate,' said George. ‘I won't let any of them go up that far. I'll search the top. Alright?'

George had been a forceful, watchful leader, while Clancy was about as much use as tits on a bull. Even after he was out of hospital, his leg was in a cast for months. No sign of his lost daughter, and the searchers were getting to the end of their tethers. Everyone wanted to go back to their lives and families. Blaming Clancy for her disappearance was their fastest way home.

‘We'll find her,' George said. ‘Don't listen to this lot.'

Clancy swallowed hard, but he couldn't move the lump in his throat.

‘You have to let yourself heal,' said George.

After George and the others were gone, Clancy threw his walking stick into the railing. It rebounded and struck him in his cast, but he didn't feel anything. Clancy wanted to rip the cast off and follow George into the bush. He had wanted, so much, to be the father to rescue her.