Matt Eaton - Blank

The car pulled into a drive-through bottle shop. Shorty waved a $50 note at the attendant. “Case of VB stubs thanks mate. In da back. Ta.”

Luckman noticed his left arm had been badly mauled. The wound was recent, but there were similar scars and scabs across his legs.

“What happened to you, Shorty?”

“Dog.”

“The four-legged variety,” added Pat, “a pack of ’em.”

“Nearly killed me,” said Shorty. “Pat saved me life. He shot two and the others ran away.”

“There are wild packs of the buggers out here,” Pat explained. “Lots of blackfellas don’t bother feeding their pets – they spend all their money on grog and cigarettes. Kids and dogs end up goin’ feral.”

“Can’t shoot the kids but,” said Shorty, grinning.

“A dog pack killed one poor bloke,” said Pat.

“They ate another old fella after he had a heart attack,” said Shorty.

It was so gruesome Luckman found himself stifling the urge to laugh. “Why isn’t someone doing something about it?”

“We do. That’s mah day job,” said Pat. “I’m a dog wrangler for the Tangentyere Council. We bait ’em or shoot ’em. Keep the numbers down. Feed ’em if we can, so they don’t go ape shit.”

“You always lived here?” Luckman asked him.

“Nah. I was born on Palm Island,” said Pat.

“In North Queensland? You’re a long way from home.”

“Better off than those poor bastards now, eh?”

With the beer loaded in the back Shorty drove a short distance from the pub then pulled up again.

“So you wanna beer?” Pat asked Luckman.

He was about to refuse but knew he’d be fooling no-one except himself. “I could murder one,” he admitted. He unscrewed the top from a glass stubbie and took a healthy slug on the contents. It tasted unbelievably good.

“What are we stopping for?” Luckman asked.

“Two more passengers,” said Pat.

“You’re not drinking?”

“Nah, don’t touch the stuff,” Pat replied.

“Me neither,” Shorty assured him as he took another mouthful. “No grog – that’s the deal if you work for Father Clarence.”

Luckman stared him down. “But Clarence is dead, yeah?”

“I’m only drinkin’ for your benefit,” said Shorty.

“He’s thoughtful like that,” said Pat. “Never drinks for himself, only for others.”

That sent Shorty into another fit of hysterics.

“What about the other day in the mall? I could smell it on you.”

“Part of mah cunning disguise,” Pat told him. “I gargled.” He pushed Luckman’s arm down below the window. “Keep your stubbie outa sight, we’re not s’posed to drink in town.”

“But the pub still sells it to you?”

“You can buy it – you’re just not s’posed to drink it,” said Shorty, chortling as he put the stubbie to his lips.

“Territorians are the biggest piss artists in the world,” said Pat. “Everyone in Alice black, white or brindle, all on the grog.”

“Blokes especially,” said Shorty. “Prob’ly why the town’s full of dykes.”

Pat laughed so hard he snorted, setting Shorty off again.

“So how does a Palm Islander end up out here?” Luckman wanted to know.

“Few years ago, I was on a fishin’ trip with an uncle who came over from Townsville. He was showin’ me how to catch painted crayfish – ’cos no-one dives on Palmy. We fish, but we don’t dive. Uncle thought we were crazy ’cos the place is teeming with crayfish. He starts goin’ on about Palm Island being a paradise. But to me it was a miserable hole with everyone crammed in 20 or more to a house and just grog and drugs and fights everywhere you look.”

“I’ve read the stories.”

“Uncle said I needed to do a bit of soul searching. So I went bush. Took meself on a walk across the island to places where no-one lives. I’d never been alone before. I loved it. Stayed out there for days, fishin’ and chillin’ and havin’ a great ol’ time.

“While I was there I had a vision. I saw the ocean rising, sweepin’ over the island. Felt so real I thought I was gonna drown. Scared the hell outa me. I knew it was comin’ for real. I couldn’t get off Palmy quick enough. Tried to tell people, but they just thought I’d been on the grog. So I left ’em there. Got to Townsville and just kept headin’ west. Out past Mt Isa headin’ for Camooweal. As I’m wanderin’ along the highway out of water and outa luck, Dog appears on a hill in the distance. I knew him, powerful spirit man. I heard him speakin’ – in my head. He said my vision was real and he’d come to show me what I needed to do.”

“What sort of a nickname is Dog for a spirit man?” Luckman wondered.

“He named after Sirius, the Dog Star. Father Clarence told me them ancient Egyptians designed their calendar around the rise of Sirius ’cos it’s the brightest star in the sky. Polynesians use ‘im for navigation.”

The door nearest to Pat opened and two men jumped into the car. Tommy and Nev took it in turns to shake Luckman’s hand as Shorty drove south and out of town. After about 10 minutes they took a right turn off the highway at Hatt Road. Less than a kilometre down the road, Shorty threw the wagon off the bitumen and onto a dirt track that wound its way toward the ranges. They were soon out of sight from the main road. At the end of the trail he braked sharply and the boys piled out of the car.

“Get a big fire goin’,” Pat told his mates. “Me and Stone will wait here.”

“Won’t a fire attract attention?” asked Luckman.

“That’s the whole idea. Anyone looking down will think Tommy and Nev are the only people out here. When that fire’s goin’ we gonna sneak away in the dark.”

Luckman was strangely comforted by Pat’s paranoia, although he doubted the diversion would be good enough to fool a well-equipped observer. Several minutes later, they began walking with the light of the fire at their backs. The Moon was almost full and already high in the sky. It cast a bright light over the ranges.

“How far?” Luckman whispered.

“About three clicks,” Pat replied quietly, “watch your step,” he said, putting his finger to his lips to draw an end to the conversation.

A slight breeze flowed toward them along the rising escarpment. The terrain was frozen in time. There was no sign of human existence in any direction. To their right, the ranges began to rise more sharply. Away to their left, the blue-black desert dissolved into infinity. It was so quiet he could hear the wind ruffling the leaves of the scrub. Pat moved silently through the landscape and although Luckman had been trained to move quickly and quietly on rough terrain he still struggled to match Pat’s pace and agility. At one point he almost stepped on a bilby. The poor creature bolted for cover just as Luckman’s boot was about to crush its head.

After about half an hour Pat held up his hand, calling on Luckman to halt, then crouched down and instinctively laid his palms on the ground in an effort to sense movement. The ground was still warm, although the air temperature had dropped sharply. The cool was welcome; Luckman was sweating from the exertion and the concentration their journey had demanded. Pat knew the land intimately, but he also seemed to know precisely what he could ask of Luckman. They had reached the apex of the ranges, beyond which the domes of Pine Gap were visible in the distance. They were closer than when he’d seen them from the viewing chair, but still at least two kilometres away. He was also fairly certain they were approaching from the opposite direction.

“Sit,” Pat told him.

“I can keep moving, I don’t need to rest,” Luckman assured him.

“We’re here,” Pat replied.