(scroll down for Loved UP)
The Deadliest of Errors
Seven backpackers; one guided tour. They think they are in safe hands, until one of them disappears...
-- Chapter 1
ROGER
Stunned silence greeted us when we got to Buywara Creek billabong on that emergency call out. It was the dead of night and I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face by an inch.
Tell me, Sargent, why do these things always happen in the dark? And always in the damned rain! But hey, that’s the Australian north for you, and the weather’s one of the reasons we love it so much. Even so, I needn’t tell you the drawback of a ranger’s job is the fumbling around trying to keep troubled people – or troubled creatures – calm and out of harm’s way.
Just when I’d settled in for a quiet stint at the station that garbled call came in over the radio. A group of young backpackers, panicked, rattling on about Lord knows what. Me and Marty couldn’t make sense of it. Even when we arrived down there, it took a while to get it out of em.
You know, I’ve seen people in shock in my time – same as you I'm sure, Officer – but this little cluster of youths brought an extra element to it. Difficult to put my finger on.
All I can say is that with most incidents involving a group there’s generally a good mixture of reactions. You know, hysterics, trembling hands and the sheilas want a sympathetic pat on the back or to lean on someone’s shoulder while they let it all out. And – strewth – they want a good yabber about it. Can’t blame em, but.
Then you get the odd one who is shocked into silence – usually the fellas – and the ones who try to stay busy, try to help but just end up ditherin under yer feet instead of taking decisive action.
But this lot? Stony cold quiet. Every one of them. When they did talk or move it seemed they all did so at the same time, like they were tied together. Yet, the weird thing was that not one of them turned to each other for comfort. In fact, I don’t think they even so much as looked at each other. The whole six hours!
When we asked them what happened, they could barely get the words out.
‘Just disappeared,’ someone said, though I couldn’t say who. I had a real strain to hear against the patter of rain.
None of them blinked at that – I swear! Didn't even move. Oh, except for the girl with brown pigtails. She kicked at the ground with her pink flip-flopped foot, her face so grimy she had streaks of white down her cheeks from where she’d been crying. In fact, if it hadn’t been for her I’d have sworn the rest of em were robots.
Disappearance is never a good thing, especially when it involves someone from Cascade Tours. Me and my partner, Marty, exchanged a stab of a look. He didn’t need to tell me; I went straight over to the CB radio and requested a boat. That would be first. If they turned up nothin, a chopper would be next.
‘So, does anyone wanna tell me what really happened?’ I heard Marty ask from behind me.
When I looked around, all them faraway gazes they’d hung from their faces, like stockings on a clothes line, they’d all but turned opaque.
That was when I understood: I could almost hear the churning of the waters building up behind the dam and if we could get just one of them to elaborate, the whole sorry story would come crashing down on us. For some reason, a knot of dread screwed up my stomach.
Why? It’s not like I haven’t seen bull dust like this before. If it had been any other company but Cascade involved...
Marty stood there watching em, all moody, like, from under the brim of his dripping hat. He kept his hands on his hips, chewing gum. Although he was trying to look stern – you know, all big Aussie shoulders and authority, like – I knew he was at a loss with this crowd. I’m surprised he didn’t start polishing his ranger badge there and then!
You know how it is. If you got a badge people think you’re the law. You can get away with so much. It intimidates straight away, especially when you got a uni to go with it. The things we could get away with. If we were that way inclined, of course.
‘Roger,’ he said to me, ‘we’d better get these back to H.Q. The police will want to speak with them when they get there.’
Haw! Nice one. Marty knew that would ruffle their feathers. And it did. A flutter rippled through the group like chooks who’ve spied the farmer filling up their corn bucket.
‘We want to stay,’ said one girl, sitting on a log. She stabbed the dirt on the ground with a stick, but she didn’t look up. ‘Until they find th– until they come back.’
The rest of em mumbled in vague agreement. Such unison – for a group who stood with their backs to each other, anyways. It was crook.
‘They will come back, won’t they? I mean, how long will they search?’ the girl asked.
It suddenly hit me just how young and stupid these kids had been. I mean, just what were they doing in the water in the first place? Everyone knows you don’t go swimming in the billabongs around here, not unless it’s a designated safe spot. Everyone – and especially a guide! But I didn't want to be the one to snuff out the hope that wavered in her eyes like flames in a sea breeze.
It was a question we always hate getting. How can you tell a mother, or a father, or anyone in distress, that a search team will only go out if it is safe for them to do so? That in the pitch black of the Northern bush in rainy season you might as well be looking for a red-back spider in a crate full of funnel webs? In the twenty square clicks of national park you could be searching a month and not even have covered half of it, not properly. Even with a chopper.
‘If the boat turns up nuthin we’ll send in a helicopter, but only after the storm’s passed. Who knows when that will be. Storms can last for days up here.’
I didn’t mention the weeks, too.
Rain drummed invisible fingers on our plastic ponchos in the silence that followed, and that rock of dread in my stomach notched up a gear.
‘Fine, you can wait,’ Marty said. ‘For a while at least. But yous best get your things together. If the weather gets on worse than this we’re shipping you out. The boat will cut it short anyways.’
A ribbon of water began to stream down the front of his hat as if in response, and he gave me a wary look. When he came over to me his voice was low.
‘Let’s not freak them out, but I’m not risking it too much longer. Get them in their tents, let them dry out a bit first. ’ He sighed.
Yep, it was going to be a long night.
‘And listen, Roger, see if you can get any of these to talk. You know, a nice relaxed chat. Nothing that’ll spook them. I’m going to tackle him over there.' He gave a flick of his head, indicating behind him. ‘Maybe if he’s not around they’ll spill.’
‘Sure thing,’ I said, so gruff it was almost a growl.
‘Rob?’ Marty called over the group’s guide. ‘Can I have a word, mate? In the Ute?’
Rob stepped forward, his copper top bowed in his usual sook way, and weaved past the stiff shoulders of the young backpackers. I gotta say, he looked more shook up than the rest of em. And too right, with his history.
Hours later, long after the boat had been dispatched across the water and after the first squawks of morning had harangued the rest of the wildlife awake, I listened to a plip of splashes on leaves in an almost trance-like state. The early season downpour had subsided some time ago, but you know well as I do that it was just a taster for the next six months.
I was tired. I’d had enough; I’d heard enough. You've talked to them too, so you know the story. And didn’t it all come gushing out once I got them flapping their jowls! I wanted to crawl back home, slip in next to my Delores and sleep for a year – forget about all the aggro. Watching the sky turn from grey and purple to pink and orange, expectin any moment to hear that whining buzz of the outboard motor skimming across the water, I hoped for good news.
I anticipated none.
Beats me how when the comfort of dawn arrives you can’t help but expect better things to happen, even though you know otherwise deep down in your core. As if night time is just a magician's illusion and all his trickery will be revealed in the cold lighta day and show what a dill he really is.
That billabong is a familiar spot to me – me and my Delores had picnicked there many a time, and it was a supposed safe place for campers – but it had been a while since I’d been there. I’d forgotten just how jaw-dropping it could be. The sun lined a golden glow along the tops of the receding blue storm clouds, suggesting another hot day.
I’d be dead set no matter how roastin it got those beams would never flash enough heat to warm the miserable faces that surrounded me. The clouds of judgement hung too heavy and thick for them lot and even a willy-willy would have problems blowing them away. The cackle of the kookaburra, the chatter of the birds – all mute to those sombre bogans.
Guilt is always a murky business, wouldn’t ya say? Bet you know a lot more about it than I do. What did you make of it all after you spoke to them?
Mmm, thought as much. You can be vague as you want, but skulduggery is what I call it.
As we rounded them up to leave, a thin veil of mist lifted from the surface of the still water. The colours of heaven seeped deeper into the sky, but I didn’t stop to savour a drop of it; couldn’t.
Any other day it would have been a beaut of a morning.
Loved UP -- various excerpts, first draft.
Loved UP (synopsis) — Peddling drugs to pay off the debts of her addict boyfriend, runaway Stella hopes to break away from her small-time dealing racket, get a decent job and make something of her life. Maybe then she could go back home and win the long coveted respect of her father. But in the midst of the 1990s' recession, and with not a GCSE in sight, it's proving harder than she thought. When a confrontation with her best friend's psychopathic lover ends in disaster, Stella flees to London, taking her friend Kirsten with her. Thrust into the city's underground rave scene, she soon realises that the best way to keep on top of the rent and pay off her ruthless suppliers — of whom she is in no doubt will come to hunt her down — is to become a party organiser herself. But big raves require copious ecstasy, and Stella knows that if she wants to run a legitimate business she first has to establish herself any which way she can. As the 1990s rave scene increasingly unifies the nation's youth and divides them from 'normal' society, the uproar attracts the wrong kind of attention and Stella finds herself caught up with organised crime. Her sights of a legitimate career seem to slip farther away as she is dragged deeper into Britain's chemical romance and London's gangland. Can she steer herself back on course or will her ambition drive her down paths she never imagined she would take?
The following exceprts are from rough draft (written during Nanowrimo) so expect a lot of repetitions and inconsistencies. And some of the names will change. But just to give you a taste...
Chapter One
It was two days after Stella attacked Maria Watkins when Malo knew he had her right where he wanted.
Striding through the concrete front yard of their digs, a scowl ripe enough to give him a headache, he practically kicked open the front door with his chunky Doc Marten's boots. Stella’s coat hung on the banister and he glared at it as if by doing so his fury would burn her, like some kind of voo-doo magic. The coat remained unaffected, and he slammed the front door shut, reverberating the walls around him. He stood solid, arms crossed and fingers tucked under the arm pits of his bomber jacket, waiting to see if she would come to greet him. Within seconds a pair of grey furry slippers with long floppy ears and rabbit faces on the front appeared at the top step. Malo all but sneered.
‘Malo? Is that you?’
‘Oh yes, it’s me alright.’
The rabbits hopped frantically down the stairs. ‘Oh, thank God you’re her- ’ she stopped dead, just short of the bottom. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong. Fucking Maria Watkins is what-the-fuck’s wrong!’ He drew breath so fiercely his nostrils squeezed in. ‘I just saw her sister. What the fuck were you thinking?’
‘I-‘
‘You fucking stupid little cow. What if she calls the old bill on you? On us?’ He pushed passed her and climbed the stairs two at a time, entering their shared bedroom. He moved around the whole place, rummaging around in the wardrobe, again behind some crappy framed photo of a dog that Stella had bought when she moved in, her only picture on the wall amongst Malo's band posters and Green Peace campaign flyers, and then started under the bed. ‘And why the fuck didn’t you tell me about it the other night?’ He continued, rightfully assuming she had followed him.
‘I’m sorry, I-I just didn’t...think.’
‘Fucking right you didn’t!’
‘It’s just that, if you’d told me it was her I was meeting I would’ve said. That girl was such a bitch at school.’
Stuffing into his bag the paraphanelia he'd retrieved from inside a sock, he stood up and turned, bending to look her right in the face. Her doe-like eyes locked into his fretfully and she had her bottom lip pinched in by her teeth, but the same unerring shine of admiration still beamed back at him.
‘I couldn’t give a toss if she tied you up and tortured you at school -- you don’t go round beating up my customers.' He looked her up and down then threw his hands in the air to say And how the fuck did you of all people manage that anyway? 'Especially when you’re on a run for me!’
He turned and thumped back down the stairs, going into the tiny kitchen. He pulled out a wedge of pound notes from a coffee jar, shouting into the cupboard while he did so. ‘I’ve had to apologise to her, via her SISTER. Fuck knows if it will be enough. I’ll probably have to give her something to placate her, I've got to call her today. And you can pay for it, I tell ya. Do you have any idea what a dick you’ve made me look like?’ His heart was racing with fury. He turned and headed back for the front door.
Stella, who, as he'd known she would, again dutifully trailed behind him during his tirade, lingered on the staircase. ‘W-where are you going?’ she asked.
He looked over his shoulder. She hadn’t turned to face him but scratched her thumbnail on the top of the banister knob.
‘Where do you think?’ He walked back to talk in her ear, and hissed, ‘I’ve got to stash the fucking drugs!’
With that, he left, making the doorknocker rattle for hell behind him.
Her muffled voice called after him, asking if he was coming back, saying something about some people who came round. But he was too busy trying to think of where to hide his cash and drugs to listen.
The popping of the Ecstasy cherry...
The girls sat in the back of Russel's Suped up Astra, Zuko between them, though entirely orchestrated by him, crawling through traffic... A fat juicy bassline cut in from the super bassy speakers.
'Fuck, Man.' Stella bopped in her seat, grinned even harder than before, running a hand through her hair which instantly prickled ice cold, same as her finger tips, which led onto her hand and soon her whole body tingled. She felt like a star about to shoot through the night sky.
'Good huh?' Zuko grinned at her, telling her the tape was his mix for the fifth time and patting her leg for the hundreth. That sent another shiver up her spine and her jaw juddered. He hadn't said much else to her, he knew they'd both dropped already and he was playing catch up. She didn't care, she couldn't talk anyway. The butterflies in her guts were getting out of hand and the waiting seemed o go on forever. But the music was just so good, even though the mixing wasn't. It didn't matter.
'AAh, wait for it, wait for it,' Zuko started scratching an imaginary record as the mix changed on the stereo. Everyone grinned some more.
'You alright Stell?' Kirsten peeked around Zuko, eyes twinkling, chewing on gum.
Stella just grinned back, nodded her head. Her jaw seemed stuck, clenched together. Like if she opened it her whole heart would come spewing out in a multi-coloured fountain of excitement, love, and utter nonsense.
Why the fuck had she never done these things before?...
--
By the time they'd parked and got out the car, Stella was in trouble. Spilling her guts out against a wall as soon as the cold air hit her, she then seemed to have her head stuck against it.
'Man, this girl needs to dance!' Zuko pranced about on the pavement. 'Here, have some water.'
She took the bottle, washed her mouth out, took a sip.
'Kirt, Man, go see if Frankie's working the door and see if you can get expressways in. There's no way their gonna let her in like this.' He went to Stella, took her by the shoulders and gently spoke in her ear. 'Listen girl, you've got to get your shit together. Here's my sunglasses, put them on, hold on to me so you don't fall. As soon as we get in there, you'll feel better. All you gotta do is dance. Okay?'
Stella nodded, slowly managed to pull herself upright, glasses on, desperately trying to control her mouth which just seemed to wobble like a jelly.
Zuko checked Kirsten, who was managing slightly better. Probably because she hadn't drunk three large whiskey's before she came out, and had a decent dinner. Kirt came back and gave Zuko a promising nod. Clamped onto Zuko's arm she walked as steadily as she could along the road but everything was a blur. There was chatter and laughter coming from all directions as they passed the queue, the cold making her jaw shudder, but she couldn't stop it. The ground seemed to rise and she started to feel for the next step with her feet, like a blind man might, unsure of herself. Then she realised she was going up a ramp, past the bouncer, through the door. It was suddenly cosy, small, a few voices far away yet close, like on a flight, but without the aircraft noise. Money was handed over. The bass from inside the club was vibrating the floor, rattling all the way up through her legs -- her fanny! -- her chest and exploding through the top of her head like a mushroom cloud.
'I gotta fucking dance man!!!' and she let go of Zuko, pushing up the sunglasses so she could see. She was in a kind of long, dark tunnel, people winding through each other. She couldn't focus on their faces. She headed for the first door she could see, walked into a cloud of black, and beyond the bouncing silhouetted heads, smoke, white strobes, a green laserlight. She pushed her way through the crowd, the heat intense, tropical, her skin became wet from the sweaty bodies she brushed as she wound her way through to the middle of the dancelfoor, squeezed in an already stomping her feet to the beat, grinning, eyes just slits, jaw shuddering and juddering. She felt sik again, great waves of nausea wash over her, propelling her to dance. She HAD to dance. She'd puke if she didn't. Eyes down, up, closed, smiling waving her hands in the air, people up upbove in the dark half naked, blowing whistles, airhorns, dancing white gloves and UV glow sticks, like being at the circus, someone on the mic yelling 'HARDCORE, YOU KNOW THE SCORE!!!'.
--
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