Tree Palace (11 page)

He’d not been sociable for a couple of days and stayed behind his cap grunting
yip
or
nup
, probably jealous of no attention being paid to him. Second fiddle to Mathew and Zara. She decided to treat him with a packet of salt and vinegar chips she was saving. And a Mars bar that was squashy in the wrapper from melting but he preferred it that way and liked to lick the lining till it was clean. ‘Rory, come here, I got something for you.’

The barking was furious now and not playful. She’d have got Shane to hush it but he and Midge were at their shed pulling any nails from their stashed goods and polishing brass from a box of fancy wall fixtures. ‘Rory?’

He was under the sugar-gum garage listening to the car radio, stretched along the front seat, his feet out the window. His head had bobbed up but the shade was dark and Moira couldn’t see him. What she could see was a police car, the white and blue check stripes, driving up the dirt road, its dust tail raised high behind. Limpy raced onto the road, challenging the car with barking, then veered off to the side and let it through.

Moira wished she could kick the brick away and close the door to fool them that no one was home. No point with Rory right there. Besides, it would encourage them to snoop around and wander into the bush and find the shed, Shane and Midge with hammer and Brasso in hand. Best to greet them politely and be hospitable and wave as they pulled up. Then comment on the blazing weather.

The car parked on the fringe of the sugar-gum shade and Rory slid out of the wag and took some backward steps, springing up and down on his toes. Moira called for him not to do that, spring up and down as if goading them. She told him to come to her at once, and repeated, ‘Don’t spring like that.’ He had on board shorts that hung below his knees. There weren’t pockets for shoving his hands in and pretend to be casual. He tugged his cap down instead, tucking his ear tips into it and pulling the peak lower.

The young blond one from the other day got out of the passenger side. He lifted his chin on seeing Moira and bent down and said something to the person in the driver’s side. Then he stood straight and looked about the place with his sunglasses off. He put them back on and walked a few steps, wary of Limpy who was trotting in an arc around him and growling.

From the driver’s side came an older officer, tall and heavy across the midriff. He wore a blue Akubra, which almost blew off as he crouched and snapped his fingers for Limpy to have a sniff of him. Limpy crept near but had second thoughts and barked and retreated.

‘Afternoon. I’m Senior Sergeant Fowler. This is Constable Dench,’ he said, walking to the house.

Moira went to meet them. ‘Afternoon. Hot enough for you?’

‘It is indeed.’

He took his hat off and fanned his face. Put the hat back on.

‘Can I get you some water?’

‘We’ll be fine, thank you.’

He nodded hello to Rory. ‘What’s your name?’

‘He’s Rory,’ said Moira.

‘Afternoon, Rory.’

Rory turned, nodded, staring at the ground.

‘How old are you, Rory?’

‘He’s fourteen.’

‘Lots of space out here for riding a bike. You ride a bike, Rory?’

‘He’s got a bike. He loves riding.’

‘And you are?’

‘I’m Moira.’

‘You know there’s been four days of total fire ban in the past week?’

‘Not surprised. Always fire bans in this heat.’

‘Exactly. Which is why it staggers me that people still play with fire.’

A bead of sweat fell down his temple and he flicked it away with a finger. He took off his hat and wiped the inside band. His short grey hair had a wet crease around it.

‘What colour’s your bike, Rory?’

‘Why?’ said Moira.

‘You play dragons, son?’

‘Nup.’

Moira tapped the boy to stand up straight and not say
Nup
, say
No, officer
.

‘He don’t know much,’ she joked. ‘But he’s a good boy, eh, Rory?’

‘Yip.’

‘Would you like a cup of tea, you two gentlemen?’

The sergeant shook his head and put his hat on and strolled about the L-shape. ‘Not exactly the Hilton, this place. How many of you live here, Rory? That’s a maths question.’

Moira didn’t like that tone but knew to accept it with no back-chat or change in her expression. She gritted her teeth and kept silent.

‘There’s me and mum. Shane and Midge. And my sister Zara.’

‘She’s in the tent resting. She just had a baby,’ said Moira, making a performance of hushing her voice.

‘Is that so? Funny in this day and age how you lot do the breeding and the better of kind of people avoid it.’

He glanced at the blond one and they exchanged grins.

‘What colour’s your bike, Rory?’

The boy shrugged.

‘Where is it?

‘Dunno.’

‘Rory, tell the officer. Sorry, officer, but he gets all shy.’

Constable Dench sauntered towards the side of the house and said, ‘It’s right here,’ and pulled the bike into view. A small one with handle bars that rose high in a U shape.

‘Your bike’s red,’ said the sergeant. He sounded disappointed.

He moved closer to the boy. His underarms were dark blue with sweat. On his back and his chest blots of damp were showing through.

Rory stepped towards Moira and behind her.

Dench let the bike fall to the ground and knelt to inspect it just as Shane walked through the trees by the caravan. Midge followed. They were out of breath, Midge especially, and were trying to keep their breathing slow and innocent. Midge coughed and bent over to spit.

‘Is there a problem, officer?’ asked Shane. He made sure to smile and not make the question belligerent.

‘You are?’ said the sergeant.

‘Shane.’

‘Shane,’ he said, chewing his bottom lip thoughtfully. ‘I’m new to Barleyville and can’t put faces to names. But I see you’ve got war wounds on your face. You the Shane who had a tangle with a Jim Tubbs the other night?’

‘Nah. Tubbsy’s a mate. It was just mucking round.’

The sergeant laughed quietly to himself. He took off his hat to wipe the inside again. He patted his forehead and neck with his handkerchief. ‘Tell me. Any of you know anything about fires being lit about three ks south of here?’

Shane shook his head. Moira too.

‘Roadside grass went up. Leapt into farmland and burnt out a hay shed and a mile of fencing.’

‘That’s terrible,’ said Shane.

‘A kid on a silver pushbike, says a witness. Probably playing dragons. That’s the new thing they do in town nowadays to relieve boredom. They hold a cigarette lighter up to an aerosol can and whoosh, they’ve got a flame thrower, much to their delight.’

‘Stupid bastards.’

‘Exactly. You don’t have a silver bike as well as your red one, Rory?’

‘Can’t afford two bikes,’ said Shane. ‘And we keep the boy out of any nonsense.’

‘Sensible.’

The sergeant strolled a few paces. ‘You own this place?’

‘Nah, just using it,’ said Shane.

‘Squatting?’

‘We’re just travelling through.’

‘Trants?’

‘Yeah.’

The sergeant took a black pad from his rear pocket. A pen from his chest pocket. The blond one did the same.

‘Can I have your names?’

‘I’m Shane.’

‘Last name.’

‘Whittaker.’

‘And you’re Moira Whittaker?’

‘No, Duggan.’

‘And he’s Rory Whittaker?’

‘No. Spinks.’

‘His sister is?’

‘Zara.’

‘Spinks?’

‘Bunce. Different fathers.’

‘And who are you?’

‘I’m Midge. Shane’s brother.’

‘Midge Whittaker?’

‘No, Flynn. Half brothers.’

The sergeant shook his head. He shut the pad and lifted his hat to rub the sweat off in the crook of his arm. Dench whispered something to him and the sergeant said, ‘Ah, yeah,’ and looked at Moira. He narrowed his eyes and took a step her way.

‘You’re not driving without a licence, are you?’

Moira swallowed and didn’t answer because this was no time to lie. The tree rapids surged and bustled while she said nothing. Leaves came loose, airborne as insects.

‘You were meant to present your licence at the station. Why haven’t you?’

Shane interrupted. ‘Sorry, officer. She doesn’t have a licence. I’ve said to her over and over don’t drive without a licence. But sometimes she thinks to herself, I’m only going up the road. How about we say it won’t happen again and leave it at that?’

‘You get one warning and one warning only.’

‘Understood. No worries,’ Shane said.

He nudged for Moira to speak and she muttered, ‘Sorry. Thank you.’

The sergeant turned and walked to the tree-garage, picking his wet shirt from where it stuck to him. Dench reached the car first and pinched away twigs from the windscreen.

Rory was starting to snigger. Shane told him to shut up and grabbed his wrist to stop him swaggering off. ‘Don’t you move.’

When the police car was invisible behind dust he let the boy go but wouldn’t let him run off. ‘Look at me, boy. I said, look at me. You doing this dragons shit?’

‘No.’

No wasn’t good enough for Shane. ‘You had nothing to do with that road fire?’

‘No.’

‘No, you had nothing to do with it? Or no, you had something to do with it?’

‘No. I mean yeah, it wasn’t me.’

‘You play dragons?’

‘No.’

‘Bullshit. Your bike’s usually silver but now you’ve got a red one. How come?

‘I don’t know.’

‘You pinched the red one?’

‘No. I swapped it.’

‘Who with?’

‘I don’t know. I saw it in town and liked it better.’

‘So you swapped it?’

‘Yeah.’ Rory grinned.

‘Because people saw you lighting fires.’

‘I didn’t light no fires.’

‘You start fires and we’ll have cops down on us, big time.’

‘I didn’t start no fires.’

He stomped his foot, hating not being believed. His cap slipped back off his face and Shane saw something beneath the peak he wanted a closer look at. Rory pressed the cap onto his head with both hands but Shane wrenched it off and pulled the boy’s hands away from blocking his sight.

A bald patch in the fringe and frizzled hair around it, pubic-short from being burnt. The scalp was red at the hairline and the eyebrows singed and made to look normal with a touch-up of mascara and gingery pencil. Shane smeared it with his thumb and Rory squealed that it was painful to be touched there.

‘I didn’t start no fires. It was an accident. I was playing dragons and the flames got away. I burnt myself and some grass and it was an accident.’

Shane hit him—only a cuff across the hair but Rory fell down and yelled that he was sorry. Moira grabbed Shane’s arm and he yanked it free and said her son was a dumb, useless piece of shit who didn’t have brains enough to know fires meant major jail time. Like murder. Not under the radar like normal.

He strode to the caravan and skipped up into it and yelled, ‘Where is it? Where’s the stuff, Rory? Come here. I said, come here! Where you hiding it?’

Rory started crying and stood up and held onto Moira’s waist. He hid his face in the small of her back. She put her arm under his arm and patted him.

In the caravan there was crashing and thumping. Shane was lifting up the wall seat that was Rory’s bed and the stretcher bed Midge used. ‘Where the fuck is it, Rory?’ he was yelling. He slammed the cupboard door beneath the tiny Formica bench and kicked the leg from the foldout table. Moira told Midge to go stop him but there was no chance he’d try that.

Zara put her head out of the tent and babbled about the police. Had they come for her, to question her? Midge told her to go back inside and avoid seeing Shane’s temper.

‘It was just general inquiries,’ he said. ‘Why would they want to question you?’

The crashing stopped and Shane jumped from the caravan with two cans of fly spray and a lighter. He threw them on the ground and swore at Rory to come out from behind Moira and take the hiding he deserved. He told Moira to stand aside and stop mothering the idiot who started fires and needed a lesson taught to him. She said she’d do it herself but Shane kept coming towards her saying she was too soft for teaching lessons. Starting fires called for a hiding not a talking-to.

Moira held out her hands, shepherding Rory to stay behind her, but the boy had a temper of his own. He elbowed her aside and pulled his two throwing knives from the holster he’d made that fitted inside the back of his shorts. A wedge of cardboard bound with packing tape and a belt of binding twine taped to that. He held the knives out like he would stab Shane if he had to. One step closer and he’d aim at Shane’s ribs. His face was screwed up with panic and forced-back weeping. The knives were shaking in his hands. Spit blew out of his mouth and spattered onto his chin.

Shane stood still and looked at the knives and the shaking and considered them a comic play-act. Rory performing rage rather than the real thing. He kept going closer and laughed. ‘Look what we have here. What knife you going to use first, boy?’

‘Rory, don’t do that,’ Midge said. ‘You’ll make big trouble.’

‘Put those down,’ Moira demanded. ‘Please put them down. Do as I say.’

There was no laughing from Shane now. He was narrow-eyed, had a gravel-growl for a voice. ‘Which knife’s first? Come on, then. Do it. Have a go. Come on. Have a go.’

There was rage in the boy but not malice enough for knifing Shane. He dropped the knives and sprinted off. Shane went to grab him as he dashed by but Midge reached and took a handful of his shirt. He said, ‘Leave him, Shane,’ and wouldn’t let the shirt go which made Shane lash out with his arm and collect him in the stomach. Midge buckled over and lay folded up in the dirt. He couldn’t take a breath. He made a choking attempt and stuck his tongue out.

‘Jesus—sorry, Midge,’ Shane said, kneeling and stroking Midge’s shoulder. ‘Sorry, sorry. You need your puffer?’

Midge nodded. His face was purple and there was water running from the corners of his clenched eyes.

‘See what your idiot son made me do?’

Shane ran to the caravan and got the puffer from Midge’s box of toilet things and hurried it to him.