‘Don’t.’ I begged him, as much as my dignity would allow, which wasn’t very much. ‘Please don’t.’
‘Bill, I need someone out there with me this time, someone I can trust. And that means you.’
‘You’ve never needed someone before.’ It came out petulantly. That wasn’t how I had planned it, but I guess that’s how I meant it.
‘Yeah, well, sorry,’ he said, looking away, avoiding my eye. It was as sincere an apology as I could hope to get.
‘So why now?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Spit it out.’
He wouldn’t look at me
‘Then piss off.’
He finally answered, though he still wouldn’t look at me. ‘I’ve been thinking about those lights we saw last night, reckon I’ve got a theory. I want to know if I’m right or wrong. And I’ve got this feeling that it might not be safe while I’m gone.’ He finally looked at me. ‘Bill, mate, I can’t let anything happen to you. I just can’t.’
My hand shook, the tea threatening to spill—something serious must have been troubling him for him to come so clean. ‘No bullshit?’
‘No bullshit.’
‘Have you told anyone else?’
‘Yeah, of course I have. I told Lou and Sheldon to keep an eye out, to spread the word.’
I looked him in the eye. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’
His face darkened. ‘Trust me, Bill. I know what I’m doing.’ He smiled sadly. ‘You’re it, mate. You’re the only one who gives a shit. I haven’t got anyone else,’ he said matter-of-factly. I understood that if I said ‘no’ now, he would gladly set off alone through the dark bush, headed in whatever direction his obscure urges had chosen. He stood up, folded his arms over his chest.
‘Are you coming or not?’
He was even more frightening than he had been earlier—a black silhouette cut from the same cloth as the night. I looked over the land, ignored his glare, thought it over. Despite the strange fear that now coursed through me, I was halfway convinced. It had been too many years since I had been out of town, too many months since I’ve even crossed the empty river that marked its western edge.
‘Well?’
What choice did I have? What else is a mate supposed to do? He’d had my back enough times and I was flattered to be in a position to repay the favour. I made up my mind, knowing that I would regret it.
‘Right then, where do I sign up?’
He didn’t laugh as he got to his feet. ‘I already dug out your kit, just in case. I reckon if you go find something to wear that’s a little more appropriate…’ He waved at his black body armour.
‘Expecting trouble, are we?’ I asked again.
He ignored my question, ignored my interruption, kept on. ‘…while I’ll knock on the head whatever chores you didn’t do today.’ He looked down at me, sanctimonious, smug.
‘Dickhead,’ I said, walking away.
Tobe laughed. ‘Don’t forget your gun.’
I carried the lantern from room to room, searching through boxes of junk, rummaging through the detritus of my family’s history. I found some clothes that were more suitable—old, threadbare jeans that were too long; a stiff shirt that was too big as well—an all-black, dead-man’s outfit. The material was dry, hard. I paced around, trying to guess who the clothes had belonged to. My great-grandfather, maybe—the clothes were so big, and my folks always used to say that he was built like a brick shithouse.
I stretched my shoulders, windmilling my arms. Stalking around the house, dressed in what might as well have been a stranger’s clothes, I was starting to get excited. Maybe this time Tobe’s mad flight of fancy might actually break the day-to-day.
There was no sign of him anywhere.
I went back to the kitchen, made some more billy tea, something to pep us up for the long night ahead. Of course, I had only just settled down to enjoy it when the back door banged open, hitting the wall behind it.
‘Do I smell what I think I smell?’ Tobe asked, catching the door before it swung back and smacked him in the face. He stepped inside, smiling wide. ‘There enough left for me?’
I sighed, got out of my chair, poured a second cup. We touched them together, drained them dry.
‘Okay, where’s my backpack?’ I asked, eager to get going before I came to my senses and changed my mind.
‘Out under the veranda.’
‘You pack enough water?’
‘About ten litres each, enough to see us through until we find some more. Or give up and turn back. Or get into trouble and die of thirst.’
I shot him a sour look.
‘Okay, okay.’
I smiled with satisfaction, walked away. ‘Can you get my gun and all that while I check my stuff?’ I yelled over my shoulder.
I unzipped my pack. Inside I found a pair of animal-skin shorts, a floppy hat, a dun-coloured shirt that was full of holes. A couple of tarps, folded tight. An extremely primitive first-aid kit. An ancient pair of barely working binoculars. A tin pan for cooking or boiling water or collecting whatever might need collecting. A pouch of bush tobacco, a tinderbox. A hammer and some rusty rails. Three oversized canteens, a couple of undersized canteens. Salted roo, dried berries, shrivelled figs, all wrapped in possum skin. Strapped to the side were two more oversized canteens.
‘Tobe? I’m done.’
No reply. I turned back, couldn’t find him in the house, walked outside, couldn’t see him there, walked back inside, found him in the kitchen. He was climbing out of the cellar, a guilty smile on his face. He looked at me, not caring, dragging a small wooden box with him—chocolates that had been stashed in the dark for so very long, saved for a special occasion.
‘You’re pushing it… Did you bring anything to trade? You know, anything that’s actually yours?’
‘Uh, yeah—a bit of bush tobacco, some wild weed, my know-how, your charm… And these.’
He smiled again, shaking the wooden box, the old chocolates rattling like weathered bones in a gale. I gave up. If we did run into trouble, such a precious prize might be the only way out.
‘All right, then. Have it your way.’
He smiled smugly as he stuffed the chocolates into his pack. He heaved it on his back, tossed me a box of ammunition and passed me my rifle. It was a relic, its wooden stock cracked and split. I loaded it, tucked the leftover bullets in my pack, and hoisted the whole lot on my back; almost collapsing under its weight.
It hit me how long it had been since I had done this.
‘You okay?’ Tobe asked, trying not to smirk.
‘Yeah, I’m all right.’
I managed to balance myself. We walked out to the back veranda; I blew out the lantern while Tobe shouldered his rifle. The dead rabbit was nowhere to be seen—I guessed that Red and Blue had helped themselves to a midnight snack. We trudged past the veggie patch. Stopping at her grave, I whispered a goodbye.
Tobe smiled sadly, but didn’t say anything. He knew better.
I left him to say his own goodbye, knowing that his burden couldn’t be shared. I had a last look around the house, came back to find him double-checking his gun.
I double-checked mine, with a lot less grace.
‘Red! Blue! Come on!’ he yelled abruptly.
We waited. They eventually showed, bounding out of the dark bush, running across the moonlit paddock. They met us under the veranda, drank from a dog bowl I hadn’t seen Tobe leave out. They gulped at the water thirstily, finishing it off. They knew how it went.
‘After you,’ Tobe said.
‘No, after you, I insist. I’ve no idea where we’re going.’
He didn’t laugh.
FIVE
We tramped across the dying grass, took the long dirt road that led to town. The heavy tug of my pack slowly eased to a minor annoyance. We clambered over fallen branches and around felled trees, carefully, and in no hurry. Every scratch could be a problem, sometimes a fatal one. Red and Blue trotted ahead, staying in sight like the good dogs they were. The trees we could see clutched at the sky, their jagged branches reaching into the gloom. Dust blew in dirty clouds; the bush litter underfoot trembled in the soft winds. Empty paddocks surrounded us; they were all the same, frozen tableaus glowing silver-grey.