Triskellion 3: The Gathering (3 page)

“Gold.” A voice that sounded as if it had been baked dry in the sun croaked from across the aisle. Rachel and Adam turned to see a man leaning across to speak to them. He could have been sixty, maybe older … or younger. His age was difficult to guess because his face was deeply creased and weathered brown, and his glittering eyes were almost concealed beneath lids that looked as if they had spent a lifetime squinting against the sun.

“Gold?” Adam repeated.

“Expect you’ll be going to seek your fortune, eh?” the man said, putting down his newspaper. “Like thousands before you.”

Adam said nothing, and Rachel smiled.

“The Golden Mile, they call it. My great-granddad came out from Scotland a hundred years ago and started digging. He was a millionaire by the time he was thirty.”

“Wow,” Adam said.

“All gone now, mind. His son – my granddad – gambled most of it away, and my dad drank the rest. That’s Kalgoorlie for you. From nothing to a million and back again all in a hundred years. Boom and bust.”

“And are you in gold?” Adam asked.

“Kind of. I’m a jelly man.”

Rachel and Adam looked stumped, both imagining a job to do with making cakes or party food. The man didn’t look like a cake-maker, and he saw the confusion on their faces.

“Jelly – gelignite, high explosives. I used to blow holes in rocks.”

“What for?” Adam asked.

“To get the gold out, mate.” The man mimed an explosion with his stubby fingers and blew his lips out in a “Boom!” He had clearly enjoyed his work. “Of course, the Abos kicked up a great big stink, complaining that we were blowing up their special fairy-story places. Mind you, you can’t so much as
fart
on a rock without upsetting the Abos.”

Rachel and Adam winced instinctively at his use of the word “Abo”. It was derogatory, and they felt embarrassed for Levi, sitting in front of them. Adam coughed nervously, and, breaking eye contact with the “jelly man”, the twins stared straight ahead. A second later, though, the man grabbed Adam by the wrist.

“Listen,” he whispered, “I’ve been watching you two since you got on the bus. You look like good kids, so let me give you a word of advice.” Adam looked into the man’s deep-set eyes as the hand tightened on his wrist. “Stay away from the Abo kid. He’ll get you into trouble, believe me. A quarter of our prisons are full of Abos, and Abo kids are twenty times more likely to commit crimes. It’s a fact. I read it in the paper.”

Levi stood up and gave the man a look that could have split rock itself. Adam wrestled his arm free, and Rachel felt the hair on the back of her neck begin to prickle.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said, “but that must mean that seventy-five per cent of the prisons are full of people like you. You said your great-grandfather came here a hundred years ago and started digging and that your other ancestors had gambled and drunk whatever profit he made from exploiting the country. Hardly anything to be proud of, is it? Well, the Aboriginals have been here forty thousand years longer than you and your grandparents and, unlike you and your family, have done nothing but treat the land with respect. And I think that’s something
you
should respect.”

“Now, listen here…” the man said. “We’ve done more for this country in two hundred years than they’ve done in forty thousand.” He was about to say something else, but, seeing the look on Levi’s face, he decided not to continue. He grabbed his newspaper and fanned it out in front of his face, shielding himself from Levi’s gaze. His voice grumbled out from behind the paper. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

And as the Aboriginal boy continued to stare, the jelly man’s newspaper began to smoulder…

K
ate Newman sat on top of the suitcase and bounced. She squashed down the clothes inside, then clicked the catch shut and twisted it: her family’s few possessions secure under lock and key.

Hauling the case from the bed, she stood it next to the other bag in the doorway of Rachel’s bedroom. She looked out of the window and down the rough path that led from the house. The sun had already dried up the rain of the day before, and in the distance she could see a cloud of dust being churned up by the wheels of an approaching vehicle.

She smiled, relieved. Laura had done well; she’d only been gone a few hours. She had presumably found the kids on the road to Perth, as Kate had thought she would. Kate pressed her face close to the warm windowpane and her heart suddenly jolted in her chest.

Laura’s Jeep was red, battered and old. The vehicle, now only a hundred metres or so away from the house, was black, shiny and very new.

Kate quickly pulled the curtains across the bedroom window and threw herself back against the wall. She was breathing heavily and her heart was pounding. She waited, listening as the tyres rumbled across the yard and the vehicle came to a halt outside. She heard the ratchet of the handbrake and the slam of a door.

She waited.

There was a loud rap on the front door.

Kate swallowed hard; they never had visitors here and neither did they want them, especially
now
… while she was alone. There was a second knock and Kate realized that the door was unlocked. Whoever was outside would be able to let themselves in. There was nowhere to run; she would have to go down and face them.

The door opened slowly just as Kate reached it, and she shaded her eyes from the strong sunlight to see a man standing on the porch. He looked crisp and smart, as if the heat of the day had not touched him. He wore pressed chinos, a black polo shirt and sunglasses.

“Hi,” the man said. His accent was American and he sounded friendly enough.

“G’day,” Kate replied, trying to sound Australian and disguise her trembling voice.

“Sorry to bother you, ma’am. I’m from the Beekeepers’ Consultative Committee for the Government of Western Australia.”

The name sounded preposterous. Kate might have laughed had she not been so terrified.

“We’re doing some research into a thing called Colony Collapse Disorder or CCD. Ever heard of it?”

Kate thought that she might have and nodded. “Isn’t it a disease that’s killing off bees in America?” she asked. “You’re American, aren’t you?”

“I am, but it’s not just in America, ma’am. It’s here as well. The hives are down by fifty per cent in WA. And we don’t even know whether it’s a disease or if it’s caused by some other phenomenon: pesticides, phone signals or something else altogether. So we’re just doing a survey of all the beekeepers in the area, to work out the health of our hives.”

Kate nodded again.

“So are those hives active?” the man asked, pointing across to the paddock.

Kate was surprised. She was hardly aware of the two old hives buried among the long grass. “I don’t think so,” she said. “They were here when we moved in.”

The man made a note on a clipboard.

“And how many people live here?” His voice sounded different. More businesslike.

“Oh … I live here … by myself,” Kate stuttered, trying to sound light and cheery, and failing.

“But you said ‘when
we
moved in’.” He looked at Kate for confirmation.

“Oh yes, there’s a lady who lives here too,” Kate said as if suddenly remembering. “A friend.”

The man raised an eyebrow, and made another note. “So,” he continued, “not alone, then?”

“No. Not exactly.” She was beginning to wonder what on earth this had to do with bees.

The man studied his clipboard for a moment and whistled between his teeth before looking up at Kate. “It’s just that you seem a bit confused about who does live here. It’s you, your lady friend … no
kids
?”

“No,” Kate lied.

“No …
twins
?” The man glanced across at the BMX bikes leaning against the fence.

“No,” Kate said again, her face reddening.

“OK, that’s fine, then. Thanks for your time.”

“No problem,” Kate said, ready to close the door.

“Yeah, thanks,” the man said again. He looked down at his clipboard once more. “Just to be sure – the names Dan and Molly Crocker mean nothing to you?”

Kate shook her head, fighting to control the tremble moving through her body.

“It’s just that I have them listed as living here.” The man stepped forward and showed her the names printed on a sheet.

Kate shook her head again.

“If you’re sure,” the man said. “Or perhaps the names Rachel and Adam Newman might jog your memory?” He smiled, his voice deadpan.

Kate tried to slam the door, but it wouldn’t shut.

Looking down, she saw the American’s shiny boot was wedging it open. She pushed her full weight against it, but with her legs trembling like jelly she was no match for the man as he forced his way in…

The isolation had been one of the main reasons why Kate and Laura had chosen this area when they had first been looking for somewhere to settle.

Somewhere to hide.

There were never any passers-by, but if there had been, they would almost certainly have been startled by the gunshot that rang out from the house that morning, echoing across the flat, wet earth and sending a cloud of parakeets rising up from the nearby trees.

“D
o I swing from the trees? Do you see me eating bananas? Do I
look
like a monkey?!”

A polite laugh fluttered across the audience. Indeed, most of them had never seen anyone who looked
less
like a monkey than the man who stood before them on a rickety stage, beneath a banner that read:

C
HURCH
OF THE
T
RIPLE
W
HEEL

Pastor Ezekiel Crane looked down over the few hundred or so of his flock, gathered together in a clapboard chapel on the outskirts of a small Midwest American town. His face was very pink on the shiny forehead, and his cheekbones looked as if they had been pumped up from inside. His full lips were a darker pink still and his square chin was divided by a deep dimple. His hair was blond and thick, and his teeth were Hollywood perfect.

Less charitable observers might have said that Ezekiel Crane’s appearance was the result of dozens of cosmetic surgical procedures, each paid for with the funds that his followers donated at every meeting. Some said that he wore a wig and false teeth. Others spread more outlandish stories, suggesting that he never slept, was given daily blood transfusions and ate live chickens for breakfast.

There was no shortage of rumours…

Crane surveyed his audience, trying to catch the eye of as many individuals as possible, eager as always to make contacts and converts. This was a typical audience for him: hard-working nuclear families – mom, dad and two kids – the pillars of Middle America. Crane had been surprised by this at first. He had expected more followers from the fringes of society, the hippies and New Agers, but his message seemed to resonate with the most conformist of people. Those who appeared to be the most certain about life had turned out to be the most uncertain of all. Crane was pleased. His disciples were not only respectable, but also well-behaved and loyal.

And they had money. Money they were falling over themselves to donate to Crane’s movement.