Death of a Lake. Arthur W. UpfieldЧитать онлайн книгу.
a way out and muck about before he came in. Boasted he’d swim across the Lake and back. Could swim, all right, but he got himself drowned. About eleven at night, it was. Full moon. Left the quarters with only his ’jama trousers on. Never came back.”
Yet another gate stopped them, and after Bony had opened and closed it, and they were moving towards scrub-covered dunes which appeared an impassable barrier, he said:
“The body was recovered?”
“No, it wasn’t,” replied Draffin. “There was no body come ashore, no ’jamas, no nothink. Ray Gillen just went for a swim and the next morning they wondered wot in hell had happened to him. Got blacks out from the River. Scouted around for a week. They tracked him down to the water but couldn’t track him out again. They nutted out the wind and drift of the tide and such like, and argued Gillen had to come ashore along the west end of the Lake. But he didn’t. He stopped right down on the bottom somewheres. Funny about that. I always thought there was ...”
“What?” Bony softly urged, and it seemed that the noise of the engine prevented the question from reaching the driver. Louder, he added: “What did you think?”
“Well, just between us. Tain’t no good stirring up muddy water, but I’ve always thought there was something funny about that drowning. You see, Ray Gillen wasn’t the sort of bloke to get himself drowned. He was the sort of bloke wot did everything goodo. Fine horseman. Make you giddy lookin’ at him ride his motor-bike. Swim like a champion. Goes through Korea without battin’ an eyelid.”
“And nothing has been heard or found since?”
“Right, Bony. Not a trace. Trick of a bloke, too. Always laughin’ and teasin’. Good-lookin’ and a proper skirt chaser. The young bitch out there was eyeing him off and puttin’ the hooks into him, but I reckon he was too fly for her. Anyhow, bad feelin’ worked up with the other blokes, and one evening there was fireworks, Ray and MacLennon getting into holts. I wasn’t there, but Bob Lester told me they hoed into it for half an hour before Mac called it a day.”
“But Gillen must have been drowned,” Bony argued. “Wearing only his pyjama trousers, he couldn’t have cleared away to another part of the State.”
That’s so,” Draffin agreed.
“Well, then, he must have been drowned,” persisted Bony, prodding the simple driver to defend himself.
“Could of been, and then he could of not. George Barby told me he reckons Gillen went after a woman that night.”
“Wearing only pyjama trousers?”
“It was a hot night, and it ain’t necessary to be all dressed up.”
“Well, he went visiting, then disappeared. That it?”
“Yair.”
Red Draffin braked the truck on a hard claypan and silently cut chips from a black plug. Without speaking he rubbed the chips to shreds and loaded his odorous pipe and, still without speaking, lit the pipe and again settled to his driving. When they had covered a further three miles he voiced his thoughts.
“Don’t know what you think about things, Bony, but I reckon booze is a safer bet than women. You can trust booze. You know just what it can do to you. But women! All they think about is what they can get out of a bloke. Look! Only the blacks get their women in a corner and keeps ’em there. Do they let women play around with ’em? No fear. They gives their women a beltin’ every Sunday morning regular, and there’s never no arguing or any funny business during the ruddy week.”
“There’s an old English custom. Are you sure the blacks choose Sunday mornings for the belting?” Bony asked, and Red Draffin, noting the smile and the twinkling blue eyes, roared with laughter.
“Could be they makes it Sat’day night sometimes so’s not to miss out,” he conceded, a broad grin widening the spaced flame of hair on his face.
“What makes you think Gillen mightn’t have been drowned?”
“Well, you being a stranger, sort of, I can talk to you, and you can keep it under your bib. As I said, it’s no use stirring up mud. When you get a bird’s eye view of Ma Fowler and the daughter you might feel like me about Ray Gillen. Y’see, it was like this. Ray had a good suitcase, and one day I’m having a pitch with him in his room when he was changing his unders. He pulls the case from below his bed, and he unlocks it with a key what he kept on a cord with a locket, what he always had slung round his neck. The case was full of clothes. He took a clean vest and pair of pants off the top of the stuff in the case, and he had to kneel on the lid to get it locked again.
“That was a week before he went missing. I wasn’t at the Lake when he drowned, if he did, but George Barby was, and the next day, or the day after, the overseer got Bob Lester and George to be with him when he opened the case and made a list of what was inside. And accordin’ to George Barby, the case was only three parts full of clothes and things. I never said nothink to no one except George about that, but I’ve thought a lot of what happened to make the tide go down like it did.”
“And did the overseer discover anything in the case, or find anything about Gillen’s parents or relatives?” Bony asked, to keep the subject before Red Draffin.
“Not a thing. Ray’s motor-bike’s still in the machinery shed ’cos nobuddy’s claimed it, and the police took the suitcase and things. I’ll tell you what I think. I think Ray got wise to them women, or someone got wise to him, and that sort of started someone off. I tell you straight, I don’t believe he got himself drowned, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they come across his skeleton when the Lake dries up and find there’s bones broken what the water couldn’t of broke. So don’t go muckin’ about these women. Keep to the booze and you’ll be all right, like me.”
“I will,” Bony promised, and there was no further opportunity to discuss the disappearance of Ray Gillen.
So swiftly as to provide a shock, the ground fell away before the truck, to reveal the track winding down a long red slope, the buildings clustered at the bottom, and the great expanse of sun-drenched water beyond, shaped like a kidney and promising all things delightful after the long and arid journey.
“Beaut, ain’t she!” remarked the ungainly, uncouth driver, and added with genuine regret: “Just too crook her going to die.”
Chapter Four
“I am what I am”
The truck stopped outside the store and Bony’s world was filled with sounds common to every outback homestead. Chained dogs barked and whined. The power engine chugged in rivalry with the clanging of the lazy windmill. Cockatoos shrieked and magpies chortled. People appeared and gathered about the truck.
Bony opened his door and stepped out. To him no one spoke. He saw Red Draffin pass the mailbag to a dapper man and knew instantly he was the Boss of the out-station. The other men were types to be seen anywhere beyond the railways. He was conscious first of a big-boned woman with flashing dark eyes and raven hair, and a moment later was gazing into eyes as blue as his own. In them was reserved approval. His eyes registered points ... deep gold hair, oval face, wide full-lipped mouth ... and again his eyes met the eyes of the girl, and they were green and smiling and approving.
“Now you two wash and come in for your dinner,” the elder woman told Red Draffin. “I’ve kept it hot for you, so don’t delay by gossiping.”
Draffin grinned at her, and took Bony to the men’s quarters where they shared a room. In the shower house at the rear of the building they washed and then Bony needs must return to the bedroom to comb and brush his hair.
“Never mind making yourself look like a fillum star,” Red said.
Bony was sure that neither comb nor brush had been applied to the red hair for many years, but his own lifelong habits could not be interrupted by Red’s impatience. He was conducted across the open space and into the men’s dining annexe off the kitchen. Mrs Fowler appeared