The Valley Read online

  In the months that followed, Milly was in and out of hospital. Andy’s Auntie Bella often had to care for Robert. She watched with deepening concern; she reckoned that Milly never really bonded with little Robert. Andy told Bella and himself that was bullshit. But if any of them tried to talk to her, Milly just retreated further into her shell.

  And then she simply vanished.

  Frantic searches by the Jirroos and everyone Andy could rope in proved fruitless. The police turned up no leads. The Kimberley grapevine was silent. A week and a half later, a road train driver heading into Boxwood found her at the station turnoff from the Gibb River Road. Two Bob took her home to Highlands, but she wouldn’t tell her father, nor anyone else, what had happened in the intervening days.

  Auntie Bella offered to come with Andy as nurse for baby Robert, but in agonised phone calls Two Bob and Marj counselled Andy against bringing the babe. Andy left him in Bella’s care, and headed inland full of fear and apprehension.

  He begged and pleaded with Milly. Raged at her. Tried every way he could think of to break through the wall of silence that surrounded her. To no avail. He offered to go back and fetch Robert and move to Highlands. But he could get no more response than a noncommittal murmur.

  Mostly she wouldn’t move from her room. Some mornings she would take a handline, and walk to a nearby waterhole. With a shake of her head she would command Andy not to follow. She’d be gone all day, and not once did she bring any fish back.

  Her family were convinced a bad spirit had entered her. ‘Remember,’ they told Andy, ‘we been tell her not to take you fishin’ down near that debbil debbil country.’ Whether it was an ancient spirit or a modern psychosis that had Milly in its grip, it seemed nothing could draw her back to the world.

  Andy felt almost as lost as Milly seemed to be. Gutted by failure. Shamed in the eyes of the Rider clan. Unable to meet Two Bob’s eye, he muttered that he had to get back. To work, and to baby Robert. Two Bob had just nodded, and watched from the shade of the boab tree as he packed his gear into the ute for the horror trip home.

  Andy doesn’t return to his casual job down at the port. But he’s of little use to Bella in caring for Robert. A nineteen-year-old Broome boy learns little of parenting skills, and he is battling to keep his own head above water. He feels more lost, more alone here, amongst family, than he did the morning he left Highlands. Bereft. He spends hour upon hour pacing the yard, contemplating the ways in which his life has turned to shit.

  One afternoon Bella loses patience and shouts at him to bugger off, to get out from under her feet for a while. He goes looking for his old mate Georgie, but finds his younger sister, not long past her eighteenth birthday. She is heading for the pub.

  A week later, he is still drunk when he takes the call.

  He can’t understand Marj over the crackly line from Highlands, and they finish up shouting at each other. Two Bob comes on the line.

  Milly has failed to return from one of her ‘fishing’ expeditions. Her tracks just vanished in some stony country. They’ve been scouring the country for the last three days, but nothing. ‘She’s gone, Andy,’ Two Bob says gently, then hangs up.

  4

  Broome, 2005

  Dancer’s eyes are closed, tight. His hands clench the edge of the hard pew. He has been mouthing the half familiar words of the hymn. As it draws to a close there are shuffling sounds of people shifting in seats, and the odd cough. He feels the nudge of his father’s knee against his own. Opening his eyes with a start, he realises that Andy and the others are already on their feet, waiting for him.

  Dancer rises from his seat. Andy puts an arm around his shoulders briefly, whispering, ‘Be strong, son.’ They follow the others up, and Dancer takes his place at the rear. Andy is in front of him, taking the middle handle. In front of Andy is Nyami Micky. On the other side of the coffin are Dancer’s uncles, Eddie, Col and Little Joe. It was Little Joe who’d asked him to be a pallbearer, to represent the young generation of the clan. Dancer knew it was right as soon as it was spoken. He was the oldest of the five. The one who’d been closest to Buster. He steeled himself for the day, distraught, yet proud.

  The high-roofed church, full of light, is overflowing. It seems like all of Broome is there. On Eddie’s signal they lift the coffin to their shoulders. It feels so light. He glances sideways, and reality hits home as he realises that Nyami Buster’s gnarled old foot is inches away on the other side of the polished wood. The others feel the coffin shake a little at his shudder. Opposite him, Little Joe looks across sternly. Dancer braces. Tells Little Joe with a look that he will be ok. They set off at a slow march down the aisle.

  Out of the corner of his eye he can see heads turn, aisle by aisle, following their slow progress. He realises it is not just Broome that has turned out. They are here from communities up and down the coast. Dancer has not seen some of them since his initiation ceremony up at Garnet Bay two summers ago. And dozens of old men whom he doesn’t know, but recognises as the lawmen of the Kimberley come to farewell one of their own.

  He can feel eyes on him. Not the coffin. Not the six of them bearing it. Him. He shifts his head slightly to look at the mourners on his right. His eyes are drawn to an old man sitting next to the aisle a few rows ahead. Tall and lean, with angular features and a bald spot, he is wearing jeans, cowboy boots and a bright checked shirt, all new from the shop.

  As they draw level, Dancer notices Andy incline his head ever so slightly. But the old man is watching Dancer, not his father. The man nods gravely to him.

  It has rained that morning, an unseasonal early storm. The earth is steaming. At the cemetery many of the mourners have no choice but to stand in puddles of pindan-coloured water. Dancer does his best to shut out the voice of the priest, desperate to avoid the final reality of burial. Instead he tries to summon memories from the countless hours he has spent with his Nyami; the man who one night gave him the name all know him by now, when he was little Robert stomping in time with the men as they danced in the firelight for Jiir the sea eagle.

  Once again, on Eddie’s signal, he joins the others. They stand braced, holding the ropes, sweat running down their faces and saturating their white shirts. The supporting planks are pulled away, and the six of them take the weight of the coffin, two to a rope. It seemed so light at the church, but as they lower it into the freshly dug earth the burden seems more than he can bear, tearing at his shoulders as if it would pull him down into the grave. The gentle thud as it hits the bottom sounds louder than thunder to Dancer.

  When they get back to the house he heads straight for the bedroom he shares with his half-brother Buddy, tears off his tie, pushes the door shut, and throws himself on the bottom bunk that he has grown too big for.

  He tries to ignore the murmur of voices and greetings as the wake gets underway. But lying there on his back, fingers clasped behind his head and forearms clenched to his ears to block out the noise, he can’t shut out that thunderclap of coffin meeting earth at the cemetery. Suddenly Dancer is bawling; great, racking, body-shaking sobs. He doesn’t try to stop when the bedroom door creaks. Through his tears he can see Buddy standing in the doorway, biting at his lip.

  ‘Fuck off bro,’ he manages to get out, before turning to the wall and curling up in a ball.

  Gradually the sobbing subsides, and he is able to straighten his body out. But when cousin Jimmy calls from the other side of the door, he doesn’t answer. Jimmy says hesitantly, ‘They want us to play. We said we’d do a couple of numbers.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Come on cuz. You know he’d want us to.’

  ‘He’s not here though, is he. Music isn’t always the bloody answer you know.’

  ‘Dancer,’ Jimmy pleads.

  ‘Fuck off Jimmy. You guys play if you want to, but leave me out of it today.’

  Dancer doesn’t want to hear them playing. Doesn’t want Andy or the aunties coming in to see if he’s ok. Sneaking out the front to avoid the wak
e in the back yard, he heads to the vacant block next door and climbs up into the cab of Andy’s truck. His safe place. But then he hears the band starting up. He climbs down, and stalks off into the gathering dark.

  His brain catches up with his feet when he turns a corner and realises Kim’s place is only two doors down. He wonders whether this is a good idea. Things haven’t been going too well between them lately.

  Kim’s mum is surprised. Doesn’t Dancer know she’s at Jess’s place for the weekend? He declines the offer to come in and give Kim a call, makes his excuses and heads back out into the streets before the interrogation can start.

  The wake will be in full swing now, and it’s still the last thing he feels like. He’s never quite sure what reaction he’s going to get from Kim these days, but the thought of curling up on a sofa with her and watching a movie at Jess’s feels right at the moment. Jess will be cool with it. She’s half an hour in the opposite direction, but that’s the way he heads.

  Jess answers the door in her Saturday night finery; micro skirt and heavy makeup. She hustles him out into the yard, whispering that Kim’s not there. They reach a safe distance from possible parental ears, but before Jess can start on her story she registers Dancer’s bedraggled formal clothes, and dark mood. ‘Oh shit, you’ve been at the funeral haven’t you. Are you ok?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You poor thing. Listen, I’m getting picked up any minute for the party. Kim’s done a runner. I said I’d cover for her, but if her olds call here, we’re both in the shit, big-time. Do you want to come? There’ll be room in Greg’s car.’

  ‘Where’s she gone?’

  ‘Oh god. Do you really want to know?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘She’s in one of her moods. You don’t want to see her tonight.’

  ‘Where’s she gone?’

  ‘Dancer, come to the party. I’ll share my bottle with you.’

  ‘I don’t drink, remember.’

  Jess puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re a really nice guy, Dancer. Believe me, I’m always telling Kim that. But you’ve got to lighten up. That’s her biggest bitch with you, you’re so fucken serious.’

  A car pulls into the verge.

  ‘That’s Greg. Come on, Dancer, come with me. I haven’t got a date tonight. You can keep all those gross bogans away from me.’

  He shakes his head. ‘There’s only three bogans in Broome. Where’s she gone, Jess?’

  Jess fixes him with a look. ‘I didn’t tell you this. Ok?’

  ‘Ok.’

  ‘I think she’s gone to Paddy F’s.’

  Jess pulls a half bottle of vodka from her shoulder bag and takes a slug, runs back to her front steps calling a promise to her dad that she’ll be back by eleven, then down the driveway and into the car.

  Dancer has never been into Paddy F’s. The closest he ever got was sitting in the back seat with a mate, while the mate’s big brother went in to score. He’s sick of walking now, but his stubborn streak has kicked in.

  It’s a duplex in a short backstreet of state houses. A few have been auctioned off and tarted up by their new owners, but most have that dilapidated air of public housing; scruffy yards and old bombs in the driveways. The back yard is fenced off to hold a bull terrier that throws itself against the palings in a frenzy the moment he sets foot in the front drive. He hesitates, but he isn’t going to turn tail now.

  It takes an age for his knock to be answered. Paddy F appears, but the flyscreen door with its heavy security mesh remains locked. ‘Don’t you know the rules, kid. Someone’s got to vouch for you first time.’

  ‘I don’t want to score. I’m looking for Kim.’

  ‘Wha’d’you want with her?’

  ‘I just want to see her.’

  He hears movement. As Kim appears she stumbles, and catches herself with one hand against the wall, and one in Paddy F’s back. ‘I told you to stay inside, girl,’ Paddy F growls.

  ‘Sorry, thought I heard my name.’ Her words are slow and slurred. Dancer can tell she is stoned, completely ripped in fact. She peers out, and realises with a shock it is him.

  ‘Dancer!’ She is happy stoned. ‘It’s Dancer, Paddy. He’s cool. He’s my boyfriend.’ There is the slightest pause as she exchanges a look with Paddy F. ‘Sort of.’ She giggles. A shiver runs down Dancer’s spine. Then she remembers, and is all concern in a gush of words. ‘Oh Dancer, I’m sorry, I forgot. You’ve been at Buster’s funeral. You said you were going to be at the wake tonight. What’s wrong? Are you all right? Was it awful? Paddy, let him in. It was his grandfather’s funeral today. Oh you poor thing.’

  ‘I felt like chilling out. With you. Will you come for a walk with me?’

  ‘I’m too freakin’ stoned to walk anywhere, Dancer. You said you were going to be at the wake.’ She turns to Paddy, who has been watching impassively. ‘Please, Paddy, please. Let him chill out here for a bit.’

  ‘He’s not stoppin’ for long.’ He unlocks the screen door. As soon as they are in the living room Paddy settles into his easy chair and unpauses the DVD. Pulp Fiction resumes mid scene, and consumes his attention. Kim collapses back onto the sofa. Dancer is relieved to see they have been sitting separately.

  ‘Can I get myself a drink of water?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ Paddy murmurs.

  Whilst Dancer is in the kitchen he can half hear a whispered conversation. When he rejoins them, Kim is grinning as she packs a bong. ‘This’ll chill you out big-time, Dancer. It’s Paddy’s stash. Hydro. Only for special guests.’

  Paddy looks up from the movie. The look he gives Dancer is conspiratorial, amused and menacing all at once. Dancer was going to decline the offer, but something in that look changes his mind. He takes the bong, and leans over for Kim to light it.

  Most of Dancer’s friends are seasoned drinkers and smokers, or at least think of themselves as such. He simply refuses to touch grog. Mainly out of solidarity with Andy, who is a reformed alcoholic. But he’s also heard enough stories and seen enough confronting evidence on the streets of the town to be turned off its attractions.

  He’s tried ganja a few times, usually to go along with Kim. But the truth is, it doesn’t do much for him, and he doesn’t like what it does to her. Sure, she gets happy, but there is a looseness around her edges, he senses, that contrasts with the feeling he gets of drawing in tighter on himself. A couple of times when they’ve been stoned she has come on strong to him, offering herself. Both times, something has held him back. The first time they laughed it off awkwardly. But second time round she got angry, and accused him of not really loving her. Never the argumentative type, he refused to explain himself and bit his tongue to refrain from pointing out that she’d never been this hot to trot when straight.

  None of those dynamics come into play tonight. Before he has even finished exhaling the lungful of cool white bong smoke Dancer is pinned back in his armchair by an overwhelming force, as the room is sucked away from him. Kim is right, this is nothing like the dope they have shared before. He can dimly hear her laugh, and then her voice, but although he is aware she is talking to him, the detail of her words is lost in a fog.

  He has no idea how long it is that he rides the tiger, glued to the chair in a state of immobility, with his mind and senses taking him to unexplored places. It’s not all bad by any means. John Travolta is definitely the best actor he has ever seen; how could he not have realised this before? The tracery of lines on his palms and the delicate movements he can make with his fingers are intricately fascinating. The piercing clarity with which he remembers a walk through the dunes at the back of Eagle Beach with Nyami Buster is blissfully real, then gone in a flash and completely impossible to recapture.

  But amidst the insights that seem so profound are waves of panic that come with the awareness that he has lost control. That he dare not speak, for he has no idea what he might say. That if he fought his way out of the grip of the chair he would likely collapse. That Kim and Pad
dy F are laughing at him. Are they?

  Is this tripping? Fuck, it must be. Is this tripping? Am I tripping? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  The panic recedes, without disappearing. The room is swirling less. He takes a deep breath. Another. He can sense sanity within reach. If he can just … just, keep breathing.

  The phone rings. Paddy F returns in a few moments, suddenly businesslike. ‘Time for you to get goin’, kid.’

  Dancer can manage no more than a grunt in response. Fighting the nausea that it induces, he manages to sit up straight in his chair. ‘Ok … Ok, I’m going.’ At least that’s what he means to say, but he can tell the words aren’t coming out right, with his thick, dry tongue refusing to follow directions.

  ‘Get him a fucken drink, Kim, quick,’ Paddy snaps. ‘And then get him out of here. You said he’d be able to handle it, you silly bitch.’

  The room starts to spin again as Dancer forces himself out of the chair. He just saves himself from falling, then staggers after Kim into the kitchen. ‘Whass going on?’ he whispers. ‘Who’s he think he is, calling you bitch? Whass going on?’

  She shooshes him frantically. He realises that maybe he wasn’t whispering like he thought. ‘Don’t you dare embarrass me, Dancer. Here, drink this, and pull yourself together. You’ve got to go.’

  ‘Come with me.’

  ‘No way! Look at you.’

  ‘Come with me. Whass he up to?’ He tries to hold her, but she shrugs him away. ‘You shoont be hanging here, Kim.’

  ‘Dancer, I’m warning you.’

  A knock at the front door shuts them up. They hear the curse from Paddy, then his low, angry, ‘Stay in there,’ as he shuts the kitchen door on them. The voices are muffled through the door, but they can hear a gruff question, and Paddy saying, ‘It’s cool, come out the back.’

  ‘Whha the fuck’s going on, Kim?’

  She scurries to the kitchen window. ‘It’s bikies, two of them. Full patches and all.’ There is excitement in her voice. ‘Must be where Paddy gets his supplies. I’m gunna tell him he’s got to give me some of the good shit to keep me quiet.’