IT WAS MAGPIE ALL right, standing alongside his wife, Meg Brambles. She was crouching, holding a rag to the injured man’s face.
With them was a teenage boy: Danny. Their grandson—and Rambling Rosie’s son. My second encounter with the Brambles, and the sun no more than a finger’s breadth above the horizon.
The grandparents appeared anxious, but Danny looked positively traumatised. He was staring at the wreck, his elbows clenched, his face an echo of the mess of shattered metal and debris among which he stood.
A mob of dogs—Magpie’s no doubt, he was always a big one for the dogs—skulked around, looking for a chance to score.
Magpie spotted me, seemed relieved. He was a nuggetty fellow, sprightly and spry, wearing patched pants and a pencil-thin mustache that made him look like a short black Errol Flynn. He shook my hand, muttered a greeting.
Before I could respond we were bustled out of the way by Cockburn, cruising in to take control. He was on his home turf now, assessing damage, issuing orders, despatching lackeys. Competent, I had to admit. More puzzling was the flash of irritation when he glanced at me.
What now? I wondered. Would you rather we’d just driven past? Whoever was dead out on the Gunshot wasn’t going to be needing us in a hurry. I was beginning to see what Tom meant about the burr up this guy’s arse.
Harley came bustling in with a first-aid kit. Meg, no longer needed, came and stood with us.
‘How’s the whitefeller?’ I asked.
‘Reckon this one’ll be okay; bit of a bump on the head. Wanted to get up, but I made im stay down. Stop the blood.’
Meg spent much of her life patching people up. Out at Stonehouse she was the health worker. And the teacher, come to think of it. And foster mother to half the dropouts and delinquents in the district. She’d done a bit of patching in her time.
The crash victim drew himself up onto an elbow, took us in, nodded his appreciation. He was red haired, with a soft, white face, hooded eyes, a blue denim shirt. He turned away when Harley offered him a swig of water, drank gratefully.
‘Nother feller bin finish, parnparr,’ she added.
‘What other feller?’
A sudden oath, followed closely by a pistol shot, rang out from the far side of the vehicle.
I darted around. A dog lay on its side, splattered. As was the poor bastard who’d been driving the Range Rover. His upper body, half out the window, crushed by a ton of flying metal. His head a mess of ruddy gore and crushed bone.
‘Bloody mongrel.’ Cockburn was holstering his pistol. ‘Licking this bloke’s brains.’
‘They normally go away if you say “Go away!”’
Just for a moment he looked as if he’d like to give me the same treatment he’d given the dog.
‘Bunter!’ He turned and barked at the red-haired copper. ‘Cover him up.’
I went back to Danny and Meg. Magpie was moving around the crash site, gathering up debris and laying it alongside the path. Trying to be of some use, now that the professionals had taken over.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ I told him. ‘Ambulance’ll be here soon. Tow trucks. More cops. Their job.’
‘That feller bin lose ’is mate,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘I give im a hand.’ He picked up a waterbottle, some scattered tools, a leather satchel and a tyre iron, laid them alongside the track.
‘You did well, the three of you. Might have saved this bloke’s life. Could have laid out here for days if you hadn’t spotted him. Heading for town, were you?’
‘Yuwayi. Comin in from Stonehouse.’
I turned to Danny. His eyes were hopping about like startled finches.
When I first came back to Bluebush a couple of years ago, Danny had struck me as the sweetest and freest of the town’s teen spirits. He hardly ever went to school; few of his peer group did. But he cruised around town as though it was his own little playground, a quick smile and a cheeky word for everyone. He’d clip you on the arse and laugh as he sprinted by; flog a chip from your carton.
He must be fifteen now, a slender boy with a glorious jungle of flashing dreadlocks tightly coiled. A broad mouth, slightly random teeth, a wisp of bumfluff on his chin. His feet were dust covered, bare, ready to run. Lately, I’d heard, the running had turned to riding in hot cars and the chip habit to drink and drugs. Fun for a while, but the long-term prospects were poor. Non-existent, really.
‘So Danny—you staying out there too? Stonehouse?’
He settled, ever so slightly. He’d always seemed somehow comforted by my presence. God knows why: I had the opposite effect on everybody else.
‘Yuwayi.’ A low voice. ‘Quiet place.’
‘It is.’
‘No machines.’
‘Machines?’
‘All em Bluebush motors and wheels. Generator wind, clockin time. Sometimes you gotta get away.’
I paused. There was an edgy timbre to Danny’s voice, and the words didn’t make a huge amount of sense. I hadn’t seen him for months. Maybe the drugs I’d heard about were catching up with him. With Rambling Rosie for a mother it was a miracle they’d given him any start at all.
Meg touched his elbow. ‘Good boy, this one. Just worry too much for nothin.’
Typical Meg. She was one of the strong women of our community, the ones who took up the slack, who cared for the wasted and the wounded. That was why she and Magpie had set up Stonehouse Creek: as an antidote to the town. At any given moment, you’d find them out there: the petrol sniffers and meth-heads, broken-down cowboys and motherless children, drinkers and dreamers. She and Magpie would pick them up, take them out bush, give them a bit of breathing space. Show them their country.
All three of them looked nervous: the police, I assumed, or the accident, or both. ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘no need for you to see this.’
I began to lead them back up to the road, but we’d only taken a couple of steps when a stern voice stopped us in our tracks.
‘Emily!’
Cockburn.
We halted. Danny looked around, anxiously. Having a cop within striking distance—particularly one of the Cockburn stamp—obviously rattled him. Nothing surprising there: in his world, when there was a cop within striking distance, generally you got struck.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Back to the car.’
‘I need you to get a statement from these people.’
‘Magpie and Meg.’
He hesitated. ‘What?’
‘That’s their names. Magpie Jangala and Meg Brambles. And their grandson, Danny. He’s not much of a talker—won’t give you a word if you hassle him.’
We carried on up to the road. I could feel Cockburn’s eyes burning into my back.
Their stories, when I did eventually get them down, confirmed what I’d surmised: they’d been travelling north; like me, they’d seen signs of an accident, gone to help. The passenger had been thrown clear. The driver had had his last rites delivered by a camp—now dead—dog. Both men, like most other whitefellers in the district, worked for Copperhead Mines.
The paramedics arrived, took away the passenger, name of Craig Flint, on a stretcher and Alan Feik, the driver, in a bag.
A tow truck rocked up. A cheery young bloke jumped down from the cab, took a look at the dead dog and the bloody mess a few feet from it.
‘All that from the dog?’
‘The driver.’
‘Erk.’
A back-up van arrived from town, Griffo at the wheel. The senior sergeant gathered us together. Bunter and Griffo would wrap up here, Cockburn, Harley and I would head on down to the Gunshot Road.
The Gunshot Road. He made it sound like a punishment detail.
As we climbed into the car, I realised how sticky with sweat I was. The heat was working itself deep into the contours of my body, down between the follicles. I checked my watch. Still only seven-thirty. That heatwave was coming in fast, a simmering, vicious bastard of a thing.
I ran a finger beneath the collar of my shirt. At least we’d have air-conditioning.
Five minutes later it broke down.