Time's Long Ruin (45 page)

‘Already?' Dad asked.

‘There's nothing else at Semaphore.'

Dad looked out across the shrinking body of water. ‘How they going with that list?'

‘They've phoned them all,' Jim replied. ‘Reckon there's a dozen or so worth visiting.'

Liz stepped forward and pointed to a piece of clothing that had become visible in the mud. ‘What's that?' she asked.

Everyone, including the cadets, moved towards the edge of the lake. The photographers, who'd been joined by a few journalists wearing suit tops and footy shorts and sandshoes, moved closer, straining to see the object in the mud.

‘It's a jumper,' Bill muttered.

‘Anna, what was she wearing?' Liz asked Mum, but before anyone could answer, Bill was wading into the lake. Soon his feet had sunk up to his ankles, then his shins and knees, as he moved towards the jumper.

Liz could see Anna everywhere – helping plant potatoes on the hill, walking across the lock gates, sitting on their shed roof with her arms outstretched, summoning the spirit of Superman and jumping, falling with a heavy thud and rolling, sitting up, covered in grass. She could see her jumper hanging loosely on her shoulders – she could see pulled threads and the beetroot-stained neckline, and she could hear Anna saying, ‘No, I won't take it off.'

‘I'm not taking you out like that.'

‘Good.'

‘Can't you take some pride in your appearance?'

‘No.' She wiped her nose along the length of her jumper.

Bill waded in further. He reached the jumper and lifted it from the mud. It dripped and sagged but he managed to hold it high in the air. ‘It's a, what do you call it?' he asked.

‘A polo-neck jumper,' Jim replied, looking at Liz. ‘Did any of them have one?'

Liz stopped to think. ‘No, I don't think so. No . . .'

Half an hour later the Pat was empty. A few small pools of water remained in the low parts of the lake. There was all sorts of rubbish, but it was brown, hard and angular, and impossible to distinguish.

Dad looked at Bert and Jim, as if to say, Well, there you go, another lame duck.

‘They could've sunk into that,' Jim replied, reading his thoughts. ‘That's slush in the middle.'

‘Come on then,' Bert said. ‘Let's get it over with.'

An instructor from the academy barked orders at the cadets. They formed a straight line along the edge of the lake. When they were in position they waited, slowly sinking, breathing a vapour of methane, carbon dioxide and hot donuts from the esplanade kiosk. Dad and Bert climbed down to join them. The instructor blew a whistle and the line moved off. Each man carried a long bamboo stick to prod the mud. If he hit something he'd reach into the sludge and pull out a brick or part of an old washing basket. Some of the cadets sank down to their crotch, and friends on either side would have to hold them under the shoulders to pull them out, and they would be pushed down too. There was a sucking and slurping as they pulled their feet from the mud. After a few minutes they would have to stop and rest and then they'd sink again. The line went from straight to chaotic as each man maintained his own pace. Occasionally the instructor would blow his whistle and stop them until they were lined up again. And through all of this, Jim, Mum and Liz waited patiently.

‘Wait.' One of the cadets stopped, pulling at something. He lifted a large raffia bag out of the mud and held it up. Mum looked at Liz expectantly. Liz slowly bit her bottom lip. ‘It's about the right size.'

‘Pass it along,' Jim called through his cupped hands.

The bag was passed from cadet to cadet, via Dad and Bert, until it was in Jim's hands. As everyone along and around the Pat watched he laid it on the ground. Then he looked at Liz. ‘Is this it?'

‘It was a bit like that.'

Jim opened it and pulled out a paper bag, and from this he emptied out some food that had rotted into a green-grey sludge. ‘I think it's bread,' he managed. Then he produced some knives and forks, a few broken plates and a jar of Vegemite.

‘It's not ours,' Liz whispered.

Jim looked at the instructor, shook his head and the parade recommenced. Liz knelt down and picked up the jar of Vegemite. She unscrewed the lid and put it to her nose. She could smell it – fresh, strong, yeasty. She could smell it on Gavin's fingers, and she could see him holding it under her nose.

‘Go on, taste it,' he was saying.

‘I hate Vegemite,' she replied.

He took another scoop with his finger, this time removing almost half of the jar, holding it up in front of her and saying, ‘Dare me?'

‘You'll make yourself sick.'

He just smiled and put it in his mouth, swallowing, smiling and running off across the grass.

Liz screwed the lid back on, stood up and walked over to a tap beside the reserve. As she washed her hands a woman came and stood beside her. ‘Liz,' the pale-faced woman whispered.

Liz looked up. ‘Sonja.'

‘Rosa told me you were here. I didn't know whether to come.'

Liz looked down and continued washing her hands. ‘When did you get out of hospital?'

‘This morning.'

‘And you're better?'

Sonja turned off the tap, realising that Liz couldn't get her hands any cleaner. ‘Liz, I feel like this is all my fault.'

Liz looked up. ‘Of course not.' She bowed her head.

‘You blame me,' Sonja whispered.

‘I don't.'

‘I wouldn't have asked you to come . . . I didn't know.'

‘Sonja, enough. It was my choice. What's done's done. Now we just gotta find them.'

‘How's it going?'

Liz turned to go. ‘I gotta get back.'

‘Can I help?'

Liz answered in a loud, angry whisper. ‘Bill would blow his top. It's not the time, Sonja.'

‘Liz, I gotta live with it too.'

‘Go away.'

‘And that's it?'

‘Go away!'

Sonja turned and walked across the grass. Liz watched her go and then wiped her hands on her apron. Then she returned to Mum, and the line that had only moved a few yards.

I imagine Doctor Gunn rested against the bike rack. His eyes were closed but he certainly wasn't sleeping. People were stepping over his books and bones and looking at him, and he was saying, ‘Practical joke.'

The sign Dad had taped up was gone. Only a few minutes after we'd left an old Greek grandma had come along and the doctor had said, ‘Speaka da English?'

‘You the doctor?' she asked, holding a string bag full of apples, oranges, leeks and stale bread that Joe Skurray gave away.

‘Yes, doctor. Could you do me a favour?'

‘Pardon?'

‘That piece of paper,' as he pointed and wiggled his finger. ‘Could you give it to me please?'

It was nearly four o'clock. I stood beside Con outside his gatehouse. I'd just finished telling him the story of how Doctor Gunn had come to be handcuffed to a bike rack, of the morning's dramas, of the book sorting and everything else that had happened in the clinic.

‘How long has he been in that place?' Con asked himself, his arms crossed, staring over at the doctor. ‘Fifteen, sixteen years. Every day I've waved,' and he demonstrated, ‘but never again.'

Doctor Gunn turned around and saw us, and quickly looked away. More people were passing him, staring, and more cars were slowing. All of these people would want an explanation. Shopkeepers would be asked and neighbours would mutter and lift an eyebrow over the back fence. Pretty soon everyone would know. Kids would be warned to stay away from him and people would go elsewhere to have their bones cracked.

At four o' clock Don Eckert came out of his deli. A few other shopkeepers gathered around a post-box to watch. Con and I moved closer, within hearing distance, but still protected by an overgrown melaleuca hedge.

‘You oughta be ashamed,' Don said, as he approached him.

The doctor shook his head. ‘You've only heard one side.'

Don smiled. ‘You reckon Bob's wrong?'

‘You're the one always complaining about him.'

‘That's a different thing altogether.'

Don still wasn't happy. ‘How many you touched?'

‘May I have the keys?' the doctor asked, louder, with more authority.

‘How many?'

‘None.'

‘How many?'

‘The keys?'

‘Bob mighta let you go, but I got a phone, fella.'

‘I didn't touch . . . do anything.'

Con stepped from behind the hedge. ‘Hey, you tell the truth!'

By now a small crowd had gathered on both sides of the road. Con started walking towards the clinic, carrying the two books the doctor had given me. ‘As far as I know,' he continued, ‘you haven't even said sorry.'

Doctor Gunn looked at the crowd and guessed it was better to cut his losses. ‘Sorry,' he whispered.

‘To who?'

The doctor looked up. ‘You want me to tell all these people?'

Con stopped to think. He looked back at me, protected by the hedge. ‘Well, what about us?'

‘What about you?'

‘Say sorry.'

‘For what?'

‘For spending every day talking with us and asking about our families, for the coffee and buns and apples these people have given you.'

There was silence. Everyone was waiting for a word – a word that would explain everything, that would re-establish the order of things and make right whatever had happened in the back room of the chiropractic clinic.

‘I'm sorry to you all,' the doctor said proudly, defiantly. ‘Nonetheless, I should be given a chance to explain.'

‘Quiet!' Con shouted. ‘We don't want to hear it! He's a child, he trusted you. You've spoilt it for everyone.' He threw my two books at the doctor's feet. Then he held out his hand and Don gave him the keys. He threw them at the doctor. ‘How many times have I opened that gate for you?' he asked.

But before the doctor could reply, Con heard a train approaching. He turned and walked off towards the gate. The doctor removed the handcuffs, and everyone watched as he walked across the road and handed them to me. ‘Could you give these to your dad?' he asked.

I took them and there was a long pause. He looked into my eyes, but not in a threatening way. Anyway, I wasn't scared of him. ‘One day you'll understand,' he said. ‘I thought we were alike. You reminded me of . . . But I go about things the wrong way. I always have.' He bowed his head. ‘Give up the books,' he said. ‘They don't get you anywhere.' Then he turned and went back to his clinic. As the crowd drifted off he gathered his books and took them back inside. He returned with a box for his bones, wondering, perhaps, if he'd ever work out how to put them back together.

I wandered along Day Terrace, pausing to stop and think in the shade of a giant plane tree, leaning against its trunk and allowing my body to slide slowly to the ground. A slight breeze amplified through a million leaves above my head. I closed my eyes and I could feel my heart beating. I heard a crow. I looked behind a tall hedge that shielded homes from the train line and saw a few old tyres and a grass roller. Nothing else. No one. No voices, no shouting, no arguments. Just the absence of tin and flesh.

Andrew Arthurson came around the corner and skidded his bike on the fine gravel, lifting grey dust that settled on my face and shirt. ‘What's up?' he asked.

‘I'm resting,' I replied.

He just stood there, staring along the length of the cold, grey tracks. ‘They haven't found them,' he said, but I wasn't sure if it was a statement or question.

‘No.'

‘What's your dad reckon?'

I shrugged. ‘The longer it goes . . .'

‘If you want,' he continued, turning his bike towards me, ‘you can come over my place.'

I stared at him, unsure what to make of it. ‘They'll find them,' I said.

‘Still . . .'

I almost smiled. ‘How's your head?'

‘I've had worse. I fell down some stairs at school once. They had to call an ambulance. Dad says I'm accident-prone.'

‘He said I could come?'

‘He won't care.'

‘What about your sister?'

‘She's always off with Mariel, or someone else.'

I pushed against the tree and managed to stand up. ‘Maybe, in a while.'

‘Whenever. I got firecrackers. You get the powder and put it in a plastic bus, then you light it up, bang!' His voice echoed along Day Terrace. ‘All the little people are trying to smash windows and get out but it doesn't do them any good. Then they're just a puddle of ooze. That's what happens in real life. People just melt, and the cops have to hose them off the road.'