Something Fishy (24 page)

I was the only passenger. Picking my way towards the back, I found a yellow terry-towelling hat on the floor. I sprawled across the back seat and laid it over my face, resting my weary bones and red-rimmed eyes.

Fifteen minutes later, the bus jerked to a halt at the festival gate. Yesterday's pasture was now a mosh-trampled cow-paddock littered with abandoned tents, wayward groundsheets and half-dismantled vegan-burger stalls. A bunk-chukka-bunk beat was washing up the slope from the direction of the circus bigtop that housed the main stage. Youthful punters were straggling from the scene of the all-night beano, their duds crumpled and flecked with grass. Here, at least, I was dressed for the occasion.

I found Tarquin on the grassy verge beside the pick-up area. He was dozing, mouth open, his back against a big grey-gum. His dress shirt was scrunched and sweat-stained, the wing collar gone entirely. He was buttressed on one side by two backpacks, his and Red's, and on the other by a girl in a black knee-length slip. She had black, magenta-streaked hair, purple lipstick, flour-white make-up and Cleopatra eyeliner. Around her neck was a black velvet ribbon. She was about fourteen years old. She, too, was slumbering, slack-jawed.

I looked around, but saw no sign of Red.

‘Wakey, wakey,' I croaked, nudging Tark's prostrate form with a rubber sandal.

He came upright. He looked at me, looked around, looked at his watch and looked around again. His little friend from the Addams family came awake and stretched fetchingly.

‘This is Ronnie,' explained Tark.

Veronica gave me a watery smile. Then she stood, flapped her wrist in Tark's general direction, mumbled something about seeing him later, and wandered away.

‘No need to ask if you had a good time, then,' I said.

‘Likewise,' said Tark. ‘Love the hat. It's very you.'

‘Get fucked,' I said. ‘Where's Red?'

Tark clambered to his feet, smacking the dust off his backside. Shading his eyes, he took a long look around. No result. He scratched his scalp-tuft and shrugged. His put-upon air suggested that he'd been left to guard the baggage while Red amused himself elsewhere. ‘Not back yet,' he said.

‘Back from where?'

‘Nature ramble.' He said it with disdain. ‘Red, Jodie, Matt Prentice, bunch of them. Been gone a while. Supposed to be back by now.'

I sighed and slumped down onto the backpacks. They were very comfortable, stuffed with tent and sleeping bags. So Red was a bit late. No big deal. Busy enjoying himself, he'd probably lost track of time. He'd turn up. I settled back to wait, shoulders against the grey-gum, my new head-wear pulled down against the glare.

‘Good, was it?' I yawned in Tark's general direction. ‘I hear Hunters and Collectors stole the show.'

‘If you like that sort of thing,' he allowed. ‘Think I'll get a drink. Want one?'

‘Uh-huh.'

I dozed, lulled by the swish of the leaves above my head. Images from the previous night flashed past. Barbara Prentice at Gusto. The pursuit into the ranges, tail-lights dancing ahead. Bafflement at the discovery of Tony Melina. Dark and horrible things. White knuckles, severed ears. The immensity of the ocean.

‘Mineral water.'

‘Huh.'

‘Mineral water,' repeated Tarquin. ‘It's all they had left.'

He lifted the towelling hat and dangled the bottle in front of my face. Deep Spring.

Deep mouthfuls, then a glance at my watch. A half hour had slipped past. I eased myself upright and scanned the scene. Vehicles were coming and going in the pick-up area, parents collecting offspring. Red was still nowhere to be seen. Nor Jodie or her big brother.

‘Still not back?' I said.

Tarquin prodded the ground with a steel-capped toe, a man on the horns of a dilemma.

‘Better tell me what's going on,' I said.

Tark heaved a sigh. He'd talk, but only because I'd beaten it out of him. ‘They went to get some plants.'

‘Plants?' I said, ‘What do you mean plants?'

Tark shrugged. Not tomato plants. Not hardy perennials. Not specimens of endangered native vegetation.

‘Little bastard,' I said. ‘I'll wring his fucking neck.'

Tarquin shook his head furiously. ‘It wasn't Red's idea. He doesn't even smoke, honest. Okay, maybe a puff now and then. But he doesn't inhale. Only reason he went was because Jodie went. And she only went because Matt was going and she wanted to make sure he didn't get into any trouble. The whole thing's down to this dickhead eco-warrior called Mongoose. He's the one found the plants, talked Matt and the others into going with him. Reckoned they were just sitting there for the taking.'

Great timing, I thought. Today of all days, rope-a-dope Red decides to join a band of bhang-burglars.

Then came an even more disturbing thought. I stared past the fences to the featureless bush. There's bound to be more than one clump of hemp out there, I reassured myself. And the one I happened to know about was at least two hours solid hiking to the west.

‘And where exactly are these plants?' I said.

Tark shrugged. ‘Mongoose was pretty vague. They left about eight. Mongoose said they'd be back by midday.'

‘Which way did they go?'

He looked around, settled on a direction and tossed his mohawk west-ish.

‘On foot?' I said.

Tark nodded. ‘You think they might have got lost or something?'

I wasn't sure what I thought. I was fully occupied trying to calculate the chances that the target of the half-baked dope raid was Rodney Syce's camp.

‘Who is this Mongoose guy anyway?' I said. ‘Friend of Matt Prentice, is he?'

Tarquin shrugged again. ‘Friend of a friend of a friend sort of thing,' he said. ‘He's a feral. Walked here cross-country from a logging protest camp with a bunch of tree-huggers.'

‘I want to know exactly where they went,' I said.

Tark caught my antsy tone. ‘I dunno,' he pleaded. ‘Honest. But that lot over there might.'

A pod of ferals was moving towards the exit, a half-dozen soap-shy, low-tech, bush-dwelling hippies. Crusty chicks in shaman chic, fabric-swathed and spider-legged. Bedraggled boys in scrofulous face-hair and army-surplus pants, matted dreadlocks stuffed into tea-cosy tam-o'-shanters.

‘They're the ones Mongoose came with,' explained Tark. ‘Want me to ask if they know anything?'

‘Go,' I commanded. ‘Ask.'

Tark jogged after the ferals and hailed them. They encirled him, bobbing in time with the faint pulse of the music, beaming at him like he was a strange and fascinating artifact. A conference commenced. Everybody had something to contribute. I hung back, impatiently awaiting the outcome.

The talk continued, back and forth, heap big pow-wow. The People's Consultative Congress. Then, abruptly, the ferals resumed their march for the exit. Tark returned.

‘Off their faces,' he reported. ‘But they know where Mongoose took Red and the others. They camped near the place on their way here, night before last. They heard this dog barking somewhere in the bush, nobody around, houses or anything. Mongoose went for a look, came back with fresh leaf. Said he'd found a dope patch. He wanted to go back in the morning, check it out, maybe rip it off. They said no, so he convinced Matt and his mates to help them instead.'

I didn't like the sound of that dog.

‘They're headed that way now,' said Tark. ‘They reckon they'll probably meet Red and the others on their way back.'

The ferals were trucking out the gate, disappearing down the road. Should I wait here? Should I follow the furry freaks, hope to connect with Red and the Prentice kids?

Should I contact the cops and share my concerns?

I decided on all three.

‘You wait here,' I ordered Tark. ‘If I'm not back in half an hour, or if Red hasn't shown up, contact the Lorne police. Mention my name. Tell them what you told me and what the ferals told you. Tell them I think these dope plants might be the ones at Rodney Syce's camp. Tell them I've gone to find Red and the others. Okay?'

Tark was a fast study. ‘Rodney Syce?' he said, ‘Wasn't that the guy…'

‘Later,' I said, stuffing the bottle of mineral water into my back pocket and starting after the vanishing ferals.

They were setting a cracking pace, moving faster than a runaway budget deficit. I hurried to keep them in sight as they powered along the roadside.

A dark-grey surfwear-stickered Range Rover came up the hill and whizzed past, Barbara Prentice behind the wheel. Come to collect Jodie and Matt, no doubt. Chances were, Tark would spot her, fill her in. Good.

Or was it? Barbara had connections with Jake Martyn. Could word leak back to him somehow?

The ferals had walked into a picnic area. Tree ferns, log tables, families. They entered a slot between the trees, the beginning of a hiking track. I pursued them along the narrow defile. The bush rustled around us. The path rose and fell.

I put on a spurt of speed and caught up with the rearguard feral. She was a thin girl, her collarbones jutting above a flat chest bandoleered with ragged scarves. A wide headband and a ring though her septum, she looked like the door knocker from a Mayan temple. She was sucking a Chupa-Chup and making a vibrating noise in her throat as she marched.

‘Excuse me,' I panted, falling into step beside her.

She shook her head briskly and continued to hum, lips tight around her lollipop stick. Headphone plugs stoppered her ears, leading from a Discman in an embroidered sack on a cord around her neck.

‘I'm trying to find out…'

She shook her head again, making it clear she wasn't going to speak.

Suppressing the urge to rip the wires from her lugholes, I hurried up the line to the next crusty. He was bare-footed with vulcanised soles, Celtic tattoos, a braided beard, a moonstone pendant and a walking staff incised with a rainbow serpent. All of twenty years old.

‘Excuse me,' I gasped. ‘I'm looking for my son. He's with a guy called Mongoose. I'm worried…'

Gandalf did not break stride. He beamed benignly and stroked his beard. ‘You've got to learn to let go, man. You can't, like, stifle the people you love.'

‘I'm not trying to stifle him,' I said. ‘I'm trying to find him.' And then, it was true, I'd throttle him.

‘Find yourself first, man,' opined the wizard. ‘The answer lies within.'

More likely it lay ahead. Stacking on the pace, I reached a brace of feralesses. One was tall and ethereal, all bracelets and bells. The other was stocky and wore a shearer's blue singlet. ‘'Scuse me,' I wheezed. ‘I'm looking for my son.'

Tinkerbell slowed a little and smiled beatifically. ‘What's his name?'

‘Red,' I said.

‘Cool,' she said. ‘It's, like, very vibrant.'

The little shearer sheila clocked me for a suit in mufti. She eyed me suspiciously. ‘We don't know anyone called Red.'

‘But you know a guy called Mongoose, right?'

Grasping my line of enquiry, she shook her head. ‘It's nothing to do with us.'

The wind was getting stronger, snatching at our words. I had a stitch in my side and a raging thirst. My ankle was throbbing and my new sandals were rubbing at my heels. I downed the last of my water.

‘I just want to know where they've gone,' I pleaded.

Tinkerbell extended a long delicate finger threaded with silver rings. The trees on the side of the trail were thinning. Through them I could see a vast open space. A firebreak. The lead ferals, a cluster of young bucks, had left the path and started across it.

I checked the time. It was past one-thirty. The half hour had come and gone. Either Red and the others were safely back at the concert pick-up area or Tark had contacted the coppers. Should I go forward or back? I decided to press on, give it another few minutes.

The firebreak was a desolate gash in the grey-green fabric of the forest. Two hundred metres of torn earth, flattened vegetation and chain-sawed tree stumps. By the time I was half-way across, the pathfinder ferals had vanished into the bush on the far side.

Pixie and Poxie and Whacko the Wizard were nowhere in sight. The sky roiled with clouds. My brain was turning to mush. What was I doing?

A rutted track intersected the firebreak, two shallow undulations in the hard-packed dirt. I followed it into the trees for a couple of minutes, then sank onto a fallen branch.

Time to pack it in, go back the way I'd come.

The wind roared in the canopy and stirred up willy-willies of leaves and dust. Shards of bark and dry twigs flew through the air. The temperature dropped. Rain coming.

I pulled the empty water bottle from my pocket and cursed my stupidity. So much for my New Year resolution about going off half-cocked. I unpeeled the velcro tabs on my sandals and massaged my raw heels.