Matt Eaton - Blank

“Afraid not,” Luckman admitted. “It was dead quiet this morning.”

“Yeah, righto,” said the policeman, chuckling at Luckman’s unwitting pun.

“What happened?”

“Looks like this one’s boyfriend beat that poor bloke to death with a bottle. Nasty way for a padre to meet his maker.”

“He was a priest?”

“Father Clarence Paulson,” the Constable replied as if this might mean something. “He’s been a friend to the blackfellas round here. Look where it got him. No offence.”

“None taken, Constable.”

“Wozza didn’t do it,” the young woman yelled angrily.

Shillingup didn’t bother turning around. “They’d been drinking,” he told Luckman.

“Wozza wasn’t on the grog,” the woman answered.

“You both stink of cask wine,” Shillingup yelled back.

Luckman was barely listening. This was no drunken brawl gone wrong. Someone had laid the body of this priest at his feet like a dead mouse. Was it someone’s idea of a show of strength?

Look what we can do right under your nose.

“There were others here,” the woman continued. “We saw a bright light. We didn’t hurt the Father, they did. We loved him. Father Clarence was a good man.”

Shillingup pulled a card out of a pocket in his leather-bound notebook and handed it to him.

“In case you think of anything.”

As Luckman palmed the card it caught the sunlight. He squinted instinctively and was reminded of the bright flash in the motel room.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” he told the policeman.

He turned on his heels and walked away as fast as he could, suddenly feeling an overwhelming need to throw up. Not a good look at a murder scene. He unclipped his water bottle and took a large mouthful, hoping to dampen the nausea.

He had stayed awake all night waiting for trouble and someone had been murdered right outside his window at the very moment he dropped his guard .

It was quarter to nine when he took position on a bench in Todd Mall, bacon and egg roll in hand. He was keen to scope out the meeting destination ahead of time. Bar Doppio was at the end of the Fan Arcade which opened onto the southern end of the mall. It was a popular hangout. Tables overflowed from the cafe’s interior into the arcade itself. The clientele, all women, appeared familiar both with each other and the staff. He had no idea whether anyone would show for the meeting. A blackfella took a seat next to him on the bench.

“Got a dollar, brother?”

He stank of stale sweat and booze. Luckman looked him in the eye to gauge his sobriety. The man looked away.

“Sorry, mate.”

He was not to be dismissed so easily. He tapped Luckman on the shoulder. “How about 10 dollars?”

Irritated at the distraction, Luckman turned to deliver his best death stare. He was caught off-guard by the intensity in the eyes staring back at him. There was even laughter. Sadness too. But hope clearly outweighed despair in this one. Luckman reached into his pocket and pulled out a five dollar note.

“You can owe me the other five,” he said, taking the money.

Luckman laughed.

“Hey, one more question – do you believe in Dog?”

Luckman felt a shiver through his spine. “Come again?”

“You believe in Dog?”

“You mean God?”

“Nah. Ah mean Dog, bro. Spirit man, kadaitcha man from Mparntwe Altyerre – from Dreaming. You believe in dat fella?”

Dog was Seamus’s Ouija board messenger. It hadn’t even dawned on Luckman that he might be Aboriginal.

“Who are you?” he demanded quietly.

“A friend. Ah wanna tell ye ‘bout the fella you gonna meet – he and Dog from same place. From Dreaming. Tricky dem fellas. Never know for sure what him up to.”

He raised an eyebrow, gave a giddy-up tongue click, jabbed Luckman lightly in the ribs with his finger and stumbled away in his best impersonation of a drunk. The mall tourists parted like the Red Sea.

Luckman might have given chase but thought it better to maintain his focus on Bar Doppio. It was time. He avoided the outdoor settings and opted for a small inside table near the servery. From here he had a clear view of the entrance and he was close to the kitchen, which offered an alternate escape route. Of course, anyone planning on cornering him would likely have that covered as well. He was a rat in a cage. But he was in public. It seemed unlikely those responsible would do anything to shatter this charade of civil order.

He was the only man in the café, which appeared to be a local lesbian haunt. A waitress approached with a menu. He ordered an espresso. She nodded and moved away, revealing a man standing behind her. He sat down at Luckman’s table.

Late 30s, early 40s, blond beard trimmed to stubble, wind-shaken mane of silver hair. Expensive shirt, white pants. Out of place in this desert dust bowl.

For a long time he said nothing. Finally Luckman broke the awkward silence.

“Do you have something you’d like to tell me?”

The man simply stared blankly at Luckman, as if awaiting another, more meaningful question.

Luckman changed tack. “I’ve just come from where the police found Clarence Paulson with his head caved in. Care to shed any light on that?”

“Clarence was supposed to be meeting you here today. They found out and they killed him.”

“Why?”

The man’s expression remained passive. “Stay away from Pine Gap. They are waiting. They will kill you without thinking twice. Talk more to the police. I must go now. Meet me here this afternoon at three o’clock.”

Then he rose from the chair and abruptly disappeared, as though slipping through the space between two moments. Luckman leapt to his feet in shock and began madly waving his arms around trying to work out the trick. Two women at the next table stared at him in surprise and disdain.

“Did you see that?” he demanded. “The other man who was here? Did you see him?”

One of them offered a weary smile. “Like they say luv, a good one is hard to find.”

Her companion was far less amused by this disturbance to their serenity. She shook her head and muttered something vaguely offensive.

The local Woolworths doubled as supermarket and department store. It occurred to Luckman a change of clothes might prove useful, but he was also curious. The aisles showed no signs of panic buying. There were no queues of people stocking up on emergency supplies, no looters armed with cricket bats making off with wide-screen TVs and boxes of baked beans. He found himself staring at a fully stocked aisle of canned goods like a child confronting his haul of presents on Christmas morning. The bountiful array of food was as mundane as it was out of place. He made his way to the produce section and found fresh fruit and vegetables.

How was that even possible? Where had they come from?

Was he hallucinating again?

He avoided the urge to fill a trolley but made a mental note to do so at the first available opportunity before heading for the clothing section.

“Hello stranger. You were up early.”

Mel must have had the same idea. She was already in a different outfit that had evidently been plucked straight off the rack.

“I saw your credit card on the coffee table,” she admitted coyly. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Course not. Bloody thing doesn’t work anyway.”

She put a finger to her lips and smiled. “Don’t tell them that.” Her wavy blonde locks were pulled back into a loose bun. The shorty shorts and T-shirt lent her the appearance of a Swedish backpacker. He’d always had a thing for Swedish backpackers.

“How’s your head?” he asked her.