Angel Rock - Darren Williams

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tried to think. Flynn had been behind him. He must have seen the kangaroo and followed it when it leapt away, sliding into the bush behind him and only a few yards away from where he’d been standing. It was the only explanation. He stepped into the bush, calling Flynn’s name constantly and trying to watch his step. The floor of the forest was a mess of tree litter and small scratching plants and grasses but the trees were evenly spaced and it was still possible to see quite a distance through them. Away from the road the land sloped sharply away into a gully. He pushed down through the swamp gum scrub until he was standing next to the creek he had heard from the road. Looking down its course, he saw the last of the sun sinking away below the hills in the distance. There were pools, connected by thin trickles of water, stretching away as far as he could see. The thunderstorm the night before seemed to have made little impression on the volume of water but Tom could see where the water had risen, then receded, leaving a watermark of leaves and twigs. He took a quick drink, then stood and yelled Flynn’s name again. In the distance, upstream, in a spot where there were fewer trees, he thought he saw something move. He was peering into the gloom, flicking his eyes from left to right, when he saw Flynn’s pale legs, or what he thought were Flynn’s legs, far ahead.

      ‘Flynn!’ he screamed, and the legs seemed to stop and he was certain he saw the white oval of Flynn’s face turn to him.

      ‘Stay there!’ he yelled, relief flooding through him. He heard a sound like a voice, but he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t the water. He raced up the creekbed, skidding across the bare rock and crunching through the beds of gravelly wash for about ten minutes until he was sure he was close to where he had seen Flynn. When he arrived there was no sign of him. Nothing at all. He sat down and struck the rock beneath him with his fist and then he burst into tears. He sat there sobbing for ten minutes or so and then there was nothing left to do but keep walking or stop where he was and give up. He wiped his eyes and took some deep breaths and reassured himself as best he could, the cold squid of panic in his belly threatening to grow and grow. He told himself that he wasn’t lost, that he could follow the creek back to the road and get help, or he could keep walking and find Flynn and they could walk out together. He licked his lips and then decided to walk. He walked for what felt like nearly an hour before he stopped again. It was pitch dark until the moon rose and helped him, but then clouds came over and soaked up its faint glow and made it so dark he could barely see his feet. He walked a little way up the slope away from the creek and crawled in under an overhanging bush and pulled his knees into his chest. He listened for as long as he could for the sounds of a small boy but heard nothing like them. He was hungry and exhausted and even though it wasn’t too cold under the bush he wondered matter-of-factly whether this might be the end of his life. Between bouts of sobbing he felt more than a little annoyed. All the questions he had about things seemed as though they would never be answered and Henry, Sonny, the rest of the world, would win. In the darkness he thought about things until he saw himself and Flynn, clear as day, as though it had already happened, standing by the road, arm out to wave down his mother as she drove by where Artie had dropped them. He saw her staring ahead through the windscreen, wrapped in the hard black skin of the car, the dust billowing up as she roared by, missing them. The sort of dust that clung to trees, bushes, even people if they stood still long enough.

      After he’d finished his shower and shave Pop Mather went and sat out on the back step of the station house with a cup of tea. The morning air was already whet with a summery edge but a whisper of breeze evaporated water off his damp skin and cooled him. A butcherbird on the fence watched a dragonfly jig and jag its way over the lawn. Bees hummed in the orange blossoms. Soft new leaves fluttered in the trees like tassels and ribbons, like echoes of other celebrations, other occasions. Births, deaths, marriages. Life churned on like the will of God, but today was Sunday and it was Pop’s day off as well.

      He closed his eyes for a while, then opened them again. Nothing had changed. He put on his glasses, picked up Homer, began to read. He’d only finished a few pages when he looked over the top of the book and saw Ellie Gunn coming across the lawn towards him. He knew something was wrong by the set of her shoulders and by the way she was walking, even before he saw the look on her face. He sighed and put down his book and glasses, a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. Ellie was over thirty now and still a peach despite the hard work she was doing and all the long hours. He’d heard rumours she and Henry might have to move on soon. He knew he’d be sad to see her leave and he couldn’t say that about every soul in Angel Rock. She was one of those gentle, generous women who, as far as he could see, always went for the wrong kind of man. First Tom’s father, who’d stayed barely a month by Ellie’s side after young Tom had been born, and now Henry, who, to give him his due, had stuck around much longer and seemed to be devoted to his young feller and making a go of things.

      Ellie stopped when she was only a few yards away from him. Pop thought she looked near collapse. Her face was pale and drawn and her hair was a sight. He jumped up from his chair and took her by the arm.

      ‘What is it, girl?’

      ‘I’ve been … up all night,’ she managed to say, gulping down air. ‘I thought the boys were with Henry … but when he got home this morning they weren’t with him. He doesn’t know where they are, Sergeant Mather. He says Artie McKinnon was supposed to … He didn’t want me to come, but …’

      He could hear the panic welling up in her voice. He steered her inside and sat her down at the kitchen table. Lil heard the commotion and came and sat down and took Ellie’s hand in hers.

      ‘Where’s Henry now?’ asked Pop.

      ‘He’s out looking. He’s gone to Artie’s.’

      ‘Right.’

      Pop got on the telephone and rang Artie’s place. Artie’s wife said that he and Henry had gone out looking for the boys.

      ‘If you see either of them, or the boys, ring me here, will you?’ he instructed. ‘Thanks. All right then. Cheers.’

      ‘Maybe they’ve gone fishing or something,’ Pop said, as he walked back into the kitchen.

      ‘No,’ Ellie sobbed. ‘None of the gear’s gone.’

      ‘Something else then,’ continued Pop. ‘Boys can get up to all sorts of things.’

      Ellie shook her head. Pop put his hand on her shoulder. He could smell the sweet, stale smell of her and he could feel her soft skin through the fabric of her dress.

      ‘Don’t worry, love,’ said his wife. ‘I’m sure they’re all right.’

      ‘Yes, don’t worry, Ellie. Henry and Artie have probably found ’em already,’ he said. ‘We’ll just sit tight for a while until we hear. What about a cup of tea?’

      They sat for an hour or two waiting for the two men to appear or call. Ellie walked back and forth beside the kitchen table and Lil fussed over her and kept the tea coming. Just after the church bells rang for the morning service Pop saw a movement through the window. Henry and Artie. He strode out to meet the two men with Ellie in his wake. He didn’t need to ask the result of their efforts. Henry, bleary-eyed, his shoulders hunched, his dark-red hair unkempt, barely lifted his head to acknowledge them. Artie, shamefaced and pasty, stood just behind him, gripping his hat in his hands and playing it like a squeezebox. Ellie stared at them both. She didn’t, as Pop thought she might, cry or faint or scream. Instead, she went to the back step and sat down, hard, her eyes glassy, her body trembling. Pop stepped forward to the two men and began whispering fiercely at them.

      It was Artie who provided most of the answers to Pop’s questions. Henry stood there mutely, looking like a little boy himself despite his thick arms and sun-reddened face. Every so often he would let out a deep breath and shake his head. Pop began to feel a bit sorry for him – he knew how much little Flynn meant to the poor bastard.

      ‘Why’d you drop them by the side of the road like that?’ he said, incensed, turning his attention back to Artie.

      ‘I

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