Peter Temple - Black Tide

‘Cam, shouldn’t this, ah, pilot be listening to the control tower?’ I said.

Cam looked at me, looked at the pilot’s back, went back to the screen. ‘Like jockeys,’ he said. ‘Out of the mountin yard, got your money on em, just pray they know what they’re doin.’

Immensely reassured, I closed my eyes and fell to doing breathing exercises recommended to me by a priest I’d defended on pornography charges.

‘Tricky breeze,’ said the pilot, his first utterance. ‘Bloke flipped a little one here last week, identical conditions. Couldn’t handle it. Dork.’

I didn’t open my eyes until, after what seemed to me to be a prolonged and vibrating resistance to Wilbur and Orville’s idea, the aircraft was on its side and much too close to the roofs of outer Melbourne’s brick-veneer sprawl.

To my mind, the pilot was fighting for control of the aircraft.

‘Got a CD player?’ asked Harry.

‘Absolutely,’ said the pilot.

‘Stick in this,’ said Harry.

The pilot took a break from struggling to keep us airborne, let go of the controls and leaned across Harry to put the disc in a slot, punch buttons, adjust volume.

Willie Nelson, singing ‘One for My Baby’.

‘Hey,’ said the pilot, making rhythmic shoulder movements. ‘Saw Willie. Saw Waylon. Nashville. Might try that head thing Willie wears.’

‘Bandanna,’ said Cam without looking up. ‘Could be a good fashion look for pilots. Stuff the cop cap. The bandanna. Rebels, outlaws. “Listen, sunshine, the Boein’s not goin till I finish this fifth of Jim Beam.’’’

The frail barque lurched. Would Cam’s words be the last thing on the black box?

‘Bring anythin to eat?’ asked Mickey Moon.

Cam found his briefcase and took out a family-size bag of barbecue chips, tossed it over his shoulder. ‘Just tie it on like a feedbag, Mick,’ he said.

Mickey ripped the packet open with his teeth, horse teeth.

We gained height, slowly, agonisingly slowly, and the alarming noises became less pronounced. In minutes, the city dissipated. Time went by, my shoulders lost some tension. Beneath us the landscape, seen through floating vapour, was green, dots of trees, Lego houses, small rocky hills, dams glinting, sheep, horses, some cattle. For a while, the Hume Highway was to our right, an unbroken chain of gleaming objects.

‘Halfway between Echuca and Mitiamo,’ said Cam. ‘Draw a bead on Gunbower, you’re right over the top of the place.’

The pilot found what looked like a Broadbent’s touring map and opened it. ‘Gunbower,’ he said. ‘Now, where is it? Know a bloke landed in a kind of swamp up that way.’

Cam closed the laptop, reached around and found a piece of paper in his suit jacket. ‘He says easiest is hit Mitiamo, turn right, road’s dead straight, then there’s a little elbow left. Round that, then first left, you’ll see the old track on your right. Put her down in front of the grandstand. Remains of the grandstand.’

‘So this is how modern aviators find their way from place to place,’ I said. ‘A road map and directions written on a bit of paper.’

‘Mate of mine got lost up there near Wanganella,’ said the pilot. ‘Lookin for this property, it’s bloody hopeless. All flat as buggery. Lands on the road, motors in to this petrol station, one pump. Bloke comes out, doesn’t blink. Yeah, he says, bugger to find. Come in, have a beer, draw you a map.’

‘Be a bit iffy when it gets dark,’ Cam said.

‘Up there, yeah. Not around here,’ said the pilot. ‘Worst comes, start lookin for the bloody Hume. Lit up like a Christmas tree at night.’

A snore. Harry was asleep. I closed my eyes and thought about planing a long edge with one of Charlie’s pre-war Hupfnagel 24-inch planes. Properly tuned and on a good day, you could take off a near-transparent ribbon the full length of any board. Planing with the right instrument, a rock-solid body holding a precisely aligned heavyweight blade honed like a samurai sword, is the sex of joinery. All the rest is mere companionship, satisfying but not ecstatic.

I woke up with the aircraft sharply tilted.

‘Bit of rain here,’ said the pilot. ‘Had a sorry on a strip like this up in Queensland. Looked good, nice grass. Potholes like bomb thingies under the stuff. Can’t see the bastards. Arse over kettle bout seven times. Well, three. Shakes you a bit. Rang the boss, he goes, “How’s the kite?’’ I go, “Bad, comin home on a truck, boss.’’ He goes, “Fine day for travellin, Donny.’’ Didn’t know that meant the arse. Liked that job.’

I closed my eyes again, resumed Father O’Halloran’s breathing exercises. Take-off had been hard enough. Landing tested every fibre. And found each and every one wanting.

I opened my eyes when we stopped. We were on an old racetrack, derelict grandstand on our right, patched up old rail to the left, all around us flat stubble lands.

‘Anythin else to eat?’ asked Mickey Moon.

‘Here to ride not eat,’ said Harry. ‘This McCurdie’s ready for us. Healthy sign.’

We got out and walked over towards the derelict grandstand where a Toyota four-wheel-drive and a horse truck were parked. Three horses were out, saddled: a big grey being walked by a plump young woman in jeans, two smaller animals in the care of teenage boys.

A man in his forties, greying red hair, came over, hand outstretched to Harry. They shook hands, an incongruous pair: small Harry, close-shaven, scrubbed, sleek hair, three-piece midweight Irish tweed suit, spotted tie, glowing handmade brogues; large McCurdie, toilet-paper patch on a shaving cut, finger-combed hair, grubby check shirt, stomach overflowing the belt that held up his filthy moleskins, scuffed, down-at-heel workboots.

‘Thanks for comin, Mr Strang,’ McCurdie said.

‘My pleasure,’ said Harry. ‘Introduce these fellas. Jack Irish, my lawyer, does the things I can’t do. Cameron Delray, does the things I won’t do. Which is not much. Mick Moon, y’might remember him, rode a few.’

‘Do indeed. Jack, Mick.’ We shook hands.

McCurdie took us around the horse handlers. The young woman, big, open, freckled country face, was his daughter, Kate. The small and sinewy boys were his nephews, Geoff and Sandy.

Harry and Cam studied Vision Splendid, walking around him. He was a big creature, placid and with the wise look older horses get.

Harry gave him a nose rub. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘best you can say, he’s got surprise in his favour.’

‘How’d you want to do it?’ asked McCurdie.

‘This track safe?’ said Harry.

‘Oh yeah. There’s twenty-two hundred rolled and walked every inch. Don’t risk me horses. Nor the boys. Grass’s a bit long, that’s all. There’s a startin thing we welded up down there at the eighteen hundred. Ten stalls. Well, they’re like stalls. Works pretty good.’

‘Ten,’ said Harry. ‘What’d ya have in mind?’

McCurdie scratched his head. ‘At the moment,’ he said, ‘I can’t remember.’

‘These three,’ Harry said. ‘Pretty forward.’

McCurdie nodded. ‘Other two racin at Gunbower Thursdee week.’

‘They friendly?’

‘Oh yeah. The old bloke’s the boss.’

Harry nodded. ‘Boots on, Mick,’ he said. To McCurdie, ‘Send em around the eighteen. Put em in four, five and six, the grey in the middle. These boys ride a bit?’

‘Ridin since they was little. Ride anythin. Fast work since eleven, twelve. Their dad was a jock, got too big. Tractor fell on him. Me sister’s brought em up on her own. We give her a bit of help.’

Harry nodded. ‘Mick’ll hang around the back. Cam tells me the horse used to like it just off the pace, bit of a kick at the end. Then he lost it.’