Blood Junction Read online

  “Er …”

  “Wouldn’t pick you for a Melbourne girl. I’m from Melbourne myself.”

  “London.”

  The woman’s eyes rounded into saucers. “Strike me pink, I don’t believe it. We’ve a tourist in town.”

  India smiled.

  “Passing through or stopping for a while?”

  “Depends if I find what I’m looking for or not.”

  The woman’s face lit with curiosity. The old couple looked up.

  “And what’s that, darl?”

  India lit a cigarette, dragged the smoke into her lungs and exhaled. “Three families.”

  The woman leaned her skinny arms on the counter and shook her head in a parody of wonderment. “Don’t keep us in suspense, then. Which families can someone like you be after out the back of Bourke?”

  India took a long drink of water, set the glass down, then picked up her milkshake. “The Mulletts. Do you know them?”

  The woman shook her head. “Can’t say that I do.”

  The milkshake was thick and sweet, and as she sucked hard on the straw India decided to try the all-purpose store, then the hotel. And then she’d start knocking on people’s doors. Across the street, she noticed a sand-colored dog cock its leg on a cardboard box and trot off, the white tip of its tail waving like a freshly laundered handkerchief.

  India jumped when a hand touched her elbow. The old man withdrew his gnarled and liver-spotted hand, his face anxious. “Sorry,” he quavered. “Didn’t mean to give you a turn.”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “Us city folk take a while to relax.”

  The old man’s lips trembled into a smile. India smiled encouragingly back.

  “We couldn’t help but overhear.” He turned to look at the old woman in the corner, who nodded obligingly. “We were wondering if you were talking about Victor and Lizzie Mullett?”

  Her voice was an octave higher than usual when she said, “I’m looking for Greg and Clive too, and Greg’s wife.”

  “And seven kids.”

  “Are they here?”

  The old man shuffled his feet, looked sideways. “Well, as it happens, no. I’m just the solicitor, but Dorry—that’s the owner selling up to them—heard from Victor when they were in Sydney. Victor told Dorry he’d be moving up here after they’d completed some contract out bush somewhere. That was the last we heard. They just never turned up.”

  India was frowning, trying to work it out. “So where did they go?” she thought out loud.

  “I don’t know,” he said, sounding as puzzled as she. “It was all sorted, that September sixth they would take on Ringers Soak … it’s a beaut property. Tough to manage, but we met them and reckoned they’d make it work. They’re all from the outback. The back of beyond. This kind of country is their type of country and they would have made a good go of it. They had a waterhole for their stock and nature would have provided the food.” He turned a bewildered gaze on her. “Why the devil didn’t they take it?”

  India shrugged helplessly.

  “I know they needed more water, in different locations, Dorry was always up front about that. And they’d been thinking long and hard about underground reservoirs. Clive was a rig driller. He was convinced one existed beneath the property. He planned to drill holes. He’d have sorted their water out in seconds.”

  Twelve of my family missing, she thought. If what she’d learned so far was true, they had climbed into that white transit van at Central, and vanished.

  “Damn shame,” the old man was saying, shaking his head. “I still have their deposit. Invested it for them in case they turned up. Had to sell Ringers Soak though, couldn’t wait for the Mulletts forever.

  “How much did they give you?”

  “Three grand. There’s two hundred or so on top of that now.”

  India wondered whether Polly could inherit the deposit, should her relatives have perished, or if Bertie was first in line. Which reminded her. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything of Bertie Mullett?” she asked. “The grandfather.”

  The old man looked surprised. “Sure. He’s staying with the Dungarins just down the road. Got in last week after going bush for three months.” His face fell. “He doesn’t know where his kids are either. Right cut up, he is.”

  “How do I find him?”

  TWENTY-THREE

  INDIA STOOD OUTSIDE A SMALL TIN SHACK WITH AN IDENtical neighbor on one side and a vacant lot overgrown with spinifex and weeds on the other. The shack was streaked with rust. An old woman sat unmovingly on a tattered beige armchair beneath a small lean-to that offered some shade. Gaunt and twisted with age, she stared at India through rheumy, purple-rimmed eyes.

  India had brushed her hair, put on some mascara and lipstick, but now felt out of place wearing makeup.

  The old woman called out something to her that could have been a greeting, but it was drowned in a coughing wheeze. India walked across a sandy patch of ground prickly with tough grasses to join the elderly Aborigine.

  “I was wondering if Bertie—”

  The old woman made a loud choking sound, which turned into a series of racking coughs.

  India surveyed her anxiously. “Can I get you some water?”

  “Too late for that,” the woman rasped and turned slowly to spit into a bowl sitting on the seat next to her. Then she leaned back and closed her eyes, exhausted.

  “Have you seen a doctor?”

  The woman nodded. “Flu. Whole town’s down with it. We’ll be right as rain next week, but.”

  India remembered the twenty-three Aborigines dead in Darwin.

  “Johnnie’s out,” the old woman said. “So’s Elsa.”

  “I was hoping to catch up with Bertie Mullett,” India said. “I was told he was here.”

  “You missed him. He’s gone back to Cooinda.”

  India cursed and the woman chuckled.

  “Doesn’t he ever stay in one place for more than a day?” asked India. “I’ve been trying to get hold of him for over two weeks now.”

  “You’d catch him at home this minute,” said the woman, her smile showing purple gums. “He caught a lift with Liz Jollie. Promised he’d stay put for a bit ’til he heard from his family.”

  “I gather no one’s seen them for months.”

  The old woman nodded, managed to say, “Not since July back,” then started to cough again. Finally she stopped, wheezing heavily.

  “Isn’t there anything I can get you?”

  She shook her gray woolly head and India watched helplessly while the old woman withstood another attack of uncontrollable coughing.

  India left her staring out at the hot street, at the dust devils spinning in powdery cones. Deep in shadow, she looked like a fragile branch of mottled, rough-grained wood that had been torn from a tree.

  Mikey was in the hardware store when Jerome Trumler came in. He bought some twine, a hammer and two tubs of Polyfilla. Mikey watched him. There was something pushing at the corner of his mind. Something about Jerome. Something that Rodney Stirling had said.

  Mikey followed the solicitor outside. Fell into step with him. “How’s it going?” he asked.

  Jerome sucked on his elongated lips. “The wife wants me to do some DIY. I’m not terribly good at it.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be glad of your efforts.” They walked a bit farther. “I don’t suppose Peter or Elizabeth Ross left a will?”

  Jerome paused, looked Mikey in the face. “I wouldn’t know. Coscarelli represents the Rosses.”

  Mikey waited until Jerome had climbed into his Mitsubishi Shogun, then headed along Main Street, past the post office and the Royal, past the little courthouse to a squat, blue-painted building next door with peeling white shutters. The window was thick with grime, but Mikey could see Giancarlo Coscarelli at his desk, an ashtray and a whisky glass in front of him, reading the midsection of The Australian.

  “Hey, Mikey,” he said, shoving aside his paper, grinning widely when Mikey
came through the door. His face was broad and red, with purple veins across the nose and cheeks. “What’s happening?” He knocked back the whiskey in a single swallow, then exhaled loudly.

  “Rough day?” Mikey said.

  “No more than usual.” Coscarelli mopped his forehead with his shirt sleeve.

  “I need a small favor.”

  Coscarelli put his head on one side. “Which is?”

  “Did the Rosses make a will?”

  Coscarelli considered Mikey through watery bloodshot eyes. “Yeah. They did that all right. Left their bloody ’roos to the National Parks. It’s proving hell to sort since all the bloody ’roos have run off.”

  “Did Peter Ross give you anything to look after? Anything to be opened after his death?”

  “Like what?”

  “A package of some sort. A book or something smaller, like a CD.”

  Coscarelli was scowling. “Not that I recall. Bert Roach did, I remember that. Sent me some bloody stuff about a rustler. Convinced he was going to get done by the bugger.”

  “It could have been a while back. Maybe early- or mid-December.”

  Coscarelli was still scowling. “My memory’s not so good.”

  “Can you check for me? It’s quite important.”

  “You working in an official capacity or what?”

  “Which would you prefer?”

  “Bollocks to both.” With a loud grunt Coscarelli got to his feet and shuffled into the next room. Boxes bulging with beige files lay everywhere. There were carrier bags stuffed full of papers, padded envelopes propped against the walls, and on the two chairs were more files stacked in piles two feet high.

  “Great filing system,” remarked Mikey.

  Coscarelli flapped a hand. “You find it, I’ve other more important things to be getting on with.”

  Mikey decided to work from one end of the room to the other. He peered inside each envelope, every carrier bag. Scoured the shelves and cupboards. Upended boxes, piled their contents back inside. He was a third of the away across the room when he found it, buried in the middle of one of the cardboard boxes. A small yellow padded envelope. TO BE OPENED IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH: PETER ROSS.

  Mikey hastily slid a finger beneath the seal and peeked inside. His heartbeat quickened. One computer disc. He resealed the envelope, pulled out his shirt and forced it inside the rear of his waistband. He ducked his head into Coscarelli’s office. “No luck,” he said.

  “Told you so.”

  “Thanks anyway.” Mikey left.

  Back in Cooinda, India went into the chemist and bought some aspirin. She felt slightly shivery and her head was aching, a tight band that pulsated just behind her eyes.

  I hope I haven’t caught the flu.

  She bought a half pint of Moove chocolate milk at Albert’s, to wash down the pills, then headed across the street. A horn blasted and she leaped into the air. It was Mikey, face alight. He drew up beside her.

  “Get inside!”

  She yanked open the door, and jumped in.

  “I got it,” he said. “I got the bloody thing!”

  “Got what?”

  He glanced in the mirror. “The disc! Peter Ross gave it to Coscarelli for safekeeping.”

  “Where?” She was looking around urgently. “Where is it?”

  Mikey reached across, snapped open the glove box.

  India held the little padded envelope gingerly, reading the slanting script. “You are the most amazing, wonderful, fantastic person,” she said.

  “Aren’t I just?” He was grinning fit to burst.

  “Shall I open it?”

  “Go for it.”

  Carefully she opened the envelope. A floppy disc lay in her hands with a pale blue Post-it note stuck on its underside. The sticker had some Chinese character printed on it, and the initials CTW.

  Mikey was craning to read the note. “What’s CTW?” he said. Suddenly he put his foot hard on the brakes, narrowly missing a Holden turning right.

  He roared down the Biolella road and turned left into Whitelaw’s driveway. They both ran for the sitting room. Mikey switched on his laptop while India slotted the disc inside. Mikey started tapping on the keyboard.

  The screen went blue. Demanded a six-digit access code.

  Mikey tapped CTW anyway, and the screen responded with: ACCESS DENIED, PLEASE TRY AGAIN.

  Mikey tried combinations of Knox’s name and initials, Gordon Willis’s and Carl Roycroft’s, to no effect.

  “Hell,” he said. “This could take hours, if not weeks.”

  India’s teeth were clenched. “I can’t believe Peter Ross didn’t leave some sort of clue. Why lodge it with a lawyer if it can’t be used?”

  Mikey pointed at the Chinese characters on the Post-it note.

  “Great,” she said. “So which one of us can read Chinese?”

  Mikey continued to tap. India picked up the envelope and turned it over and over in her hands.

  “It may only need six digits,” he said after a while, “but considering they could be numbers or letters, or a combination of both, it may take some time.”

  Something nudged at the back of her mind. Six digits.

  In the kitchen she put on some coffee to perk. Six digits. She stared unseeingly at Whitelaw’s Mexican red-knee tarantula and let her mind run loosely over phone numbers, street numbers and people’s initials. She poured them both coffee, brought the mugs into the sitting room.

  “Thanks,” said Mikey.

  She sank onto the sofa, mug cupped in both hands. Six digits.

  Time ticked as Mikey tapped.

  ACCESS DENIED … ACCESS DENIED …

  “We’ll have to get an expert to crack it,” he said after a while. “Take it to a computer whizz.” He opened the envelope wide and peered inside.

  “I’ve already done that,” she snapped.

  “Okay, okay. Just making sure we didn’t miss a vital piece of paper or something.”

  You can lose a piece of paper, darl, but you cant lose your arm.

  “CTWGN1,” India blurted.

  “What the—” Mikey said, but tapped anyway.

  The screen cleared. It showed a logo. An image of the world spun leisurely inside a red band imprinted with: CHANGING THE WORLD.

  Mikey gave a whoop. “You clever, clever girl!” He turned around, eyes shining. “How the hell did you do that?”

  She was grinning at him. “Lauren had written it on her wrist. I guess Peter Ross gave it to her.” She moved to stand beside him, put a hand on his shoulder as she leaned closer to the small screen.

  The world faded to be replaced by a multimedia presentation program. “Holy moly,” said Mikey. “It’s a video.”

  He clicked on “maximize” and the image of the slowly spinning world returned. Then faded to be replaced by a violent scene. Men and women in some sort of square, throwing rocks at a building. The women wore striped smocks, the men dark trousers and thick jackets. The building was alight with flames.

  “Quick, the sound, the sound,” India demanded, and Mikey turned up the speakers.

  The people were shouting. The camera panned back. The square was dominated by a monastery in the distance. On its roof was a gold wheel flanked by two gold deer.

  “What the hell …” Mikey was scowling.

  “It’s the Jokhang,” said India, astonished. “The Jokhang monastery. They’re bombing the police station in Lhasa.”

  “You mean Lhasa, Tibet? What’s Tibet got to do with …”

  The image faded to be replaced by the same square, but this time there was no violence, no rock-throwing. Blue-uniformed Chinese men, women and children walked serenely across the square and in and out of the monastery. There was not a single Tibetan to be seen.

  The picture faded again. Showed a Chinese man in a white coat sitting in front of the camera. He had thick lips and glasses and looked comfortable and relaxed. He started to speak, in Chinese.

  “What on earth—” India began as
Mikey said, “Shit,” then they both went silent.

  After a minute, no more, the Chinese man rose and walked to a broad expanse of window and looked out. The camera zoomed in on two Aboriginal men weeding a patch of grass. One wore a blue shirt, the other red. A man with a white coat approached them, gave them each a glass of water, which they drank straight down.

  “Oh my God,” said India, staring at the Aborigine in the red shirt. “Stop it, stop it!”

  Mikey paused the screen presentation.

  “Go back. Go back to the man in the red shirt.”

  “I’m not sure if I can … we’ll have to start it again.”

  “Okay, do it.”

  He re-ran the program and paused it exactly as the Aborigine in the red shirt raised his head to drink the water. He had a wispy moustache and a scar like a quarter moon at the corner of his mouth.

  “It’s Louis,” said India faintly. “Louis Mullett. Bertie Mullett’s eldest grandson. My cousin.”

  Mikey took her hand in his and held it tight as the Chinese narration continued. The screen faded once more, than back. The two Aborigines were lying on single beds side by side in some sort of cell. They still wore the same shirts. They were both coughing. Great racking coughs that shook their bodies. Yellow sputum rimmed their lips and their eyes were sunken and watery.

  The Chinese man came and stood between them and spoke briefly, with a smile.

  The picture faded again. Bloomed to the same two single beds, the two Aboriginal men. Their skins were tinged with gray, their eyes rheumy, and their breathing was thick with mucus. The Chinese man stood between them, looking serene as he spoke. The camera zoomed in to show chapped lips and eyes hollowed in bewilderment and fear. Their hands were clenched into claws when they coughed.

  Fade. Bloom.

  Two bunk beds. Two rigid corpses. Eyes open and opaque. Their hands were still clawed.

  The same Chinese man in between. Composed, placid.

  The picture of the corpses returned to the two Aboriginal men weeding a patch of grass. One in a blue shirt, the other in red.

  The Chinese man’s face split into a smile as he held up a single glass of water.

  At once Scotto’s voice was thundering in her ears.