Peter Corris - Forget Me If You Can

Driving on the back beach is tricky. You have to judge the tides right or you can find yourself being pushed so high up the beach you’re likely to get bogged in the soft sand. At a couple of points you have no option but to go inland to avoid rocky outcrops that bar the beach. You keep the revs up or you’re likely to find yourself axle-deep in sand. Time and tides were on my side and by the time I rounded Sandy Cape there was only one set of tyre tracks to follow.

According to the barman at Cathedral Beach, Driberg laid claim to a bit of land near the block on which the Sandy Cape lighthouse stood. His claim was disputed, but he’d built a shack there out of materials he’d brought ashore himself from his boat. The light was failing as I drove along the firm, straight beach with the lighthouse dead ahead, the only man-made thing in sight. I wasn’t confident of locating Driberg in the twilight and didn’t fancy setting up camp in the dark, so I turned off into a dry creek bed and made my arrangements-tarpaulin stretched across from the roof rack on the Land Cruiser to a couple of trees, tent, primus stove, driftwood fire, baked beans, tinned pineapple, beer, coffee and Bundaberg rum.

I was deeply asleep when I felt something nudging my ear. Dopily, I thought it was a mosquito and slapped at it. My hand hit something cold and hard, metallic. I woke up. A torch beam dazzled me and I threw up my hands to shield my eyes. Something thumped me in the chest and I collapsed back onto the air-bed, zipped up in the sleeping bag.

‘I thought you’d come after me,’ Driberg said. ‘And a city slicker like you’s got no fuckin’ chance out here against an old bushwhacker like me.’

I struggled to sit up and free my hands. ‘I’m not against you. I just wanted to talk to you.’

‘Like hell you did.’

First he hit me with the beam, then with the metallic object. The beam dazzled me and the blow put out all the lights.

My throat was dry, my head hurt and my hands were lashed together behind my back. My ankles were tied and I was lying on my back on sand. An insect was nibbling at my ear.

‘Hey!’ I yelled. ‘Hey!’

I swore and tried to summon some saliva up for my dry gullet that felt as if it had been sandpapered. I managed to struggle up into a sitting position although my cramped limbs didn’t want to move. I realised that my eyes were gummed shut and I wanted desperately to rub at them. I forced them open, feeling the mucus crack. With sight other senses returned; I could hear birds calling and feel a warm wind. I could smell the bush and smoke and something else. I squinted, trying to focus on the shapes around me. I was in a clearing about half the size of a football field with thick bush all around. But I still couldn’t make out the shapes.

I blinked hard several times and tried again. Some of the shapes were like cages or pens, others were smaller. They were laid out geometrically with a well-trodden path between them. I could see plastic water containers and drums.

I got my throat moistened and yelled again, louder. The first times must have just been croaks because now there was a reaction. I heard noises from the pens-grunting, barking, squeaking and the insistent howl of frustrated cats.

‘Music to my ears.’

Driberg was standing beside me, barefooted and wearing only a pair of shorts. Casually, he kicked me in the shoulder and I fell back. I tried to look up at him but the sun was just above his head and I had to look away. ‘Fuck you. What d’you think you’re doing?’

‘I know what I’m doing, mate. Happy to tell you. I’m running Noah’s fuckin’ ark here. I’ve got four pair of real wild pigs, a half dozen foxes, a couple of German shepherd bitches the dingos’ll go crazy over, lots of rabbits and cats and I don’t know how many rats. All doing nicely.’

The message in the pamphlet I’d read came back to me-’free from feral animals’. Driberg’s weatherbeaten face cracked into a smile when he saw that I understood.

‘You’ve got it, mate. I made a good living here, logging and sandmining. Me and some other good blokes. Doin’ no harm at all. Then the fuckin’ greenies and tourists took over. Well, they’re in for a surprise. When I let this lot loose their paradise is fuckin’ gone forever.’

It was dangerous to ask but I had to know. ‘The boys?’

‘Nosey little bastards. Spied on me and found out about this place.’ He drew a finger quickly across his throat.

‘Why did you admit to seeing them?’

He spat down at me, missing my face by a couple of centimetres. ‘Yeah, I fucked up there. Panicked a bit. I wasn’t sure who else’d seen them or where so I tried to keep it vague. You pressed too hard, mate. Should’ve taken the hint.’

‘Where’re the boys?’

‘Six feet fuckin’ under, where you’re goin’ to be. This sand’s easy to dig.’

‘You won’t pull it off, Driberg. People know about me. I’ve got a vehicle…’

His laugh was harsh and almost out of control. “That’s where you’re wrong. You don’t know the island. In the old days, before the four-wheel-drives, cars and trucks were always getting stuck in the sand. Know what happened to ‘em? The sand swallowed ‘em. Must be hundreds out there off the back beach.’

‘The lighthouse keeper. He must know…’

‘Automated a year ago. That’s when I started this up. I really love those pigs, you know? They’re going to breed like crazy and rip shit out of this place. You’ve pushed me ahead of schedule a bit but I’m flexible. I guess now’s the time. It’ll take a bit of organising but I’m ready for it. Have to drop them all off in the right places. Say a week and it’ll be done. I’ll shoot through and who’ll fuckin’ know?’

Thinking was beyond me. All I could do was react out of anger and helplessness. ‘You redneck lunatic,’ I rasped. ‘You should be locked up.’

His fierce grin turned sour and ugly. ‘Just for that, cunt,’ he hissed, ‘I’m goin’ to feed you to the fuckin’ pigs.’

He moved to step over me. What he’d said pumped adrenalin and fear into me. I pulled my knees back, pivoted on my bum and lashed out with both feet at his leg. I caught him right on the scar and he screamed as I felt something give in his knee. He went down hard with the leg buckled under him. He lay on the sand, winded and gasping. I scrambled to my feet and did the only thing I could do-I launched myself forward and fell on him with all my weight. I heard ribs crack and he moaned as the breath rushed out of him again.

The animals in their pens and hutches were setting up a cacophony and I realised that I was adding to the noise by swearing in a continuous stream as I struggled up and off Driberg. I scrambled away from him and couldn’t get to my feet again-my legs wouldn’t obey my brain. I needed to get my hands and legs free but the straps were hard and tight. Driberg was stirring. Off to my right was a pen with corrugated iron nailed all around it. I wriggled and crawled over to it, praying that Driberg was a bush carpenter. He was. The sheets of iron didn’t quite meet at the corner of the pen and there was a raw edge I could reach if I could only stand up. I could see Driberg slowly coming to life and fear got me on my feet again. I backed up to the iron, located the edge with my fingers and began to saw at the straps. Driberg was only a few metres away. He gasped, spat, saw what I was doing. There was a steel stake leaning against a tree at the edge of the clearing and he began to crawl towards it, blood dripping from his battered face. Then he was up and hobbling. I sawed at the strap and felt it fray and then break. Driberg had his hand on the stake. I bent down and my clumsy, cramped fingers seemed to take an age to undo the strap around my ankles. I got it free just as Driberg shuffled within reach and swung the stake. I ducked and he missed. He fell, dropping the stake. I pounced on him; his contorted face swam up towards me and I delivered the best head butt of my life. I got him solidly on the nose and I heard and felt the bone break and the cartilage collapse and I was glad.