Bodgie crossed over the river. He went on along a dirt road until he found himself in the town cemetery. Headstones stood up like rotten teeth. A little scared, the lad started along a path between rows that would take him to the far side. Somewhere his little brother was buried there, but in an unmarked grave so that he could never find it. Bodgie cursed himself for being an idiot. He had really stuffed up the bust. Why hadn’t he thought of the headlights going far out to advertise that a car had entered town. The beams most likely had gone right through the cop’s bedroom window and out he came to investigate and cop Chinkee. He sat on a grave stone just before the back or side fence almost crying in frustration. In front of him was a small mound overgrown with weeds. A vase held dead flowers. It scared him.
Gotta keep on moving sang in his head as he got up almost running. Just beyond the fence the lad got onto a bush track. This meandered along and down across the bottom of the dry riverbed. Dawn came to spray light across the bush. There wasn’t much to be seen only trees and bushes and the Balga grass trees after which he had been named. Now he had thrust them aside and renamed himself Bodgie, wrong’un. He felt guilty about this and he looked away from the dark trunks and the spiky tops that would have been his hair if he hadn’t had it flattened. Now he really felt afraid and lost on the track snaking through a whole forest of the blackboys. Too many eyes were staring at him. Dead tired! He was about to slump down and rest when the bush thinned. The track came out onto the highway some distance from Shiloh. In front of him was the railway line, a small tin shed beside it and between track and road a cleared patch of ground on which grew the largest blackboy he had ever seen. It had multiple arms thrusting up holding many spears and a huge crop of hair greyish green. Beside it was a dome of a dwelling, an Aboriginal gunya or whatever it was called. A rounded dome shaped structure about the height of a tall man, made of leaves and bark with a small entrance at which sat a dark old bloke. Bodgie stared at the man who stared right back.
‘Good morning,’ Bodgie said, ‘just been out walking and got a bit lost.’
The Aboriginal man examined the lad and then nodded.
Bodgie reverting to Balga said:‘ You a Noongar? I’m from Shiloh, well, at least originally, but I’ve been in Perth, do you know Ben Bowyang? He throws boomerangs in Wellington Square sometimes. You know, I found me Mum, just like that, sitting there in that park…’
‘Ben Benbow,’ the Aboriginal man corrected. ‘Yeah, know him, but do you?’
‘Not exactly, just watched him throwing a boomerang and listened, heard his name mentioned.
‘I’m Ben Benbow, you know, a Noongar?’
‘Yeah, what else could you be, you’re black aren’t you.’
‘And what about you, mate, with that flat head? A goanna? Shouldn’t it be like that and he nodded at the ancient grass tree.
‘Naw, my father was an American.’
‘Well, mine was English, but that doesn’t make me a Pommy.’
‘If you’re Ben Benbow how come you way out here?’
‘Same as you, just visiting.’
‘And what about your shelter? Did you make that, a gunyah, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, I made it, an igloo.’
‘But isn’t that made of ice?’
‘You ever see any ice in West Aussie?’
Bodgie was feeling too tired to keep his side of the banter going. He just wanted to lie down and die. Ben Benbow could see that the lad was on his last legs. He told him to take the weight off his legs. In front of him was a small fire to the side of which a black billycan stood. He turned and fumbled through the entrance of his shelter. The man brought out two enamel mugs. Balga slumped beside the fire. The Noongar poured tea and passed the lad a mug of the thick black liquid. Gratefully Bodgie sipped at it.
‘Well, your father was a Yank, but what about your ma,’ Ben Benbow asked the boy.
‘She was from near Williams,’ Bodgie replied, not giving anything away.
‘I know an old mother from there, related to the Colbungs. Maybe her?’
‘Well, she’s in the city now. They tore down her house in Shiloh. Nowhere else to go.’
‘Yeah, Shiloh does that to us.’
Bodgie finished the tea, chucked the dregs into the fire and stared at the smoke. He could feel the Balga close to him, too close. Suddenly his tiredness left. There was the sound of a vehicle coming from the direction of the town. It sounded like a truck. He decided to try for a lift to get out of the mess he was in. ‘Thanks for the tea, I got to get moving.’
‘Yeah, I know, enjoy the ride. Don’t worry, the driver’ll stop. He’s a mate of mine.’
‘See you,’ Balga said getting up and going to the side of the road to stick up his arm.
The truck filled with milk urns stopped. He hopped into the cab and waved a hand at Ben Benbow and the ancient grass tree. He had escaped, but was on the run just like in some of the stories he had read and enjoyed. Now it was for real. Gotta keep on moving.
The truck took the lad as far as Bassandean. From there he got a bus to the city and walked to his Mum’s swaying with tiredness. He reached Wellington Square, crossed the park and got to her place. He knocked and she opened the door. He staggered in and collapsed onto the bed.