Five Parts Dead (2 page)

‘Thanks. Pins and needles. But if you want to call it choreography, fine by me. How'd you go? Get some good shots?'

‘Yeah. There was a pod of dolphins beside the boat. It was fantastic.'

The ferry engines howl, ripped from forward to reverse as the captain manoeuvres towards the loading ramp. A loudspeaker tells all drivers to return to their vehicles.

Mel's over with the backpacker crew. Laughing. Oh to be in her skin! Sometimes I wonder whether we're actually related. Maybe we were adopted. Maybe Mum and Dad picked Mel and the orphanage threw me in because they'd run out of free sets of steak knives.

No, that wouldn't explain the twin thing, the connection we used to have as kids. Mum and Dad never had to buy us walkie-talkie radios because we had this…understanding, already. We could never play hide-and-seek because we always knew where the other was. Sometimes I could hear her voice in my head, usually telling me off for something or other. And the connection went both ways because she always knew what mood I was in, even before she entered the room.

I haven't heard her for years though. Not clearly, anyway. It drove me mad, so I stopped listening out for her. Got sick of having her thoughts intrude in my skull. Then again, maybe we just grew apart.

I lean across to look at the island. Old-fashioned limestone cottages cluster along the edge of some seriously steep cliffs, as if they're ready to jump. One of Australia's biggest islands and they build their houses on a cliff-edge. Is the place that depressing?

The houses face back towards the South Australian mainland. I guess they built them there so they wouldn't feel so isolated—and they could keep an eye out for boats crossing with news or supplies. Anything to break the drudgery of island life. I can't wait.

We dock with a dull thump. Deck-hands loop ropes around bollards. The ferry door whines as it sinks towards the vehicle ramp. Buses and four-wheel drives cough awake in the bay below us. Tourists clutch for bright vinyl travel bags and teeter towards the exit. Mel pecks Hiroshi on the cheek and I swear he has to put a hand out to steady himself. As Mel swans over to us she yells back to him across the din that she'll catch up with him. Buggered if I know how. Maybe she doesn't get it: we're staying at The End Of The Earth.

I flop into the wheelchair. Mum releases the brake and we make our way to the cramped lift. I hate this. It's like she's pushing me in a pram. I can't wait to switch to the crutches.

Dad's parked halfway up the vehicle ramp. It's so steep it takes Mum and Mel to push me up. I can't stand having to depend on the others like this.

Inside the car, I glance at Dad and have to grin. He must have been an explorer in another life. He lives for these expeditions and he's itching to get to the lighthouse. He won't really enjoy himself until we're there and the gear is unpacked.

‘Last shops,' he calls. He's hoping no one wants to stop.

Mel groans. ‘Can you pull over, Dad? I don't know when I'll be able to buy chocolate again.'

Five minutes later Mel dumps a supermarket bag laden with chocolate next to my cast. I scowl and she beams, ‘Sorr-ree!' Time to play the sympathy card. Rubbing my leg, I reach for the chocolate. She slaps my hand away. So much for compassion.

‘It was sooo good to see Rosh again,' she coos. ‘His group is based at a hostel just outside the national park. They're going to swing by and pick us up…maybe for New Year's.'

‘What side of the road do they drive on in Japan?' Mum is immediately alert and alarmed. ‘Do we know if this Hiroshi is a good driver? Is he used to winding roads? He won't drink and drive will he? Is the coach driver a local?'

‘Mum!' Mel shrieks, ready for a fight. ‘Just because Dan…'

‘Shit, Mel, if it wasn't for you I wouldn't…'

I almost explode. Spit out all the bile that's been brewing since I woke up in the hospital. Pip's watching though, her eyes wide. I inhale so sharply it's almost a sob and swallow my fury like lumpy, sour milk.

We drive in silence until Dad brakes to avoid a wallaby. ‘There we go. Everyone says this island is crawling with wildlife,' he says. ‘That's a Tammar wallaby. They're almost extinct on the mainland now.'

The wallaby glares and, with a scornful flick of its head, skips away across the bitumen. Lucky it was Dad driving. Most tourists in their hire cars wouldn't have stopped for a lone wallaby with a bad attitude.

No one speaks until we get to the lighthouse.

Z: REQUIRE A TUG

The Cruiser grumbles to a halt outside one of three almost identical limestone cottages the colour of hummus. The lighthouse towers over us like a judge.

Dad swings out of the car, eager to explore. Mel's hot on his heels, ready to claim the best bedroom. Knowing her, she'll probably find a $100 note under her pillow. In my bed it will be a used condom, false teeth or a cockroach. Maybe all three.

Mum sighs, loops her handbag over her shoulder and climbs out. She's been mopey ever since the accident. Any time Mel or I talk about driving anywhere with anyone other than Dad, she implodes. Guess it's not that surprising.

I'm lowering myself to the gravel when a vicious gust of wind catches the door and slams it into my cast. Nice. Five-star hospitality. At the sound of the crunch, Pip dumps her camera bag and scurries back. ‘You okay, Dan? I didn't…'

‘Hey, not your fault. I'm fine…wearing reinforcement. They'll probably need a panel beater for the door, though.'

Inside, Mum has dumped her gear in the first bedroom and moved on to inspect the kitchen.

Pip lugs her stuff to the second bedroom, where Mel is lying on a bed scowling at her mobile. ‘No signal,' she grizzles. ‘How am I supposed to keep in touch?' Poor Mel.

And there she is, inside my head. It's a faint but distinct
Get stuffed, Dan
. I'm shocked to hear it after the radio silence between us for so many years. I thought we'd grown out of that twins shit. Why is it starting again now?

I ignore her and limp the length of the hallway to the end room, my foot stabbing with every step. I'm dizzy with the effort of walking this far. I should have grabbed the crutches from the car. Welcome to your cell, Dan.

I sit on the bed and inspect the tiny room. Two single beds with tatty patchwork quilts. A narrow chest of drawers, the first of which contains some battered German disco tapes. A lamp. Coat hooks. Lace curtains hide a small window, the glass frosted with salt.

Outside, I can see a washing line and a thick mound of shrubbery. I can't see the sea. I can't even hear it.

The back door creaks and Dad strides across the enclosed verandah to my room. His ears and cheeks are red. He must have been running. Either that or he's excited. Or all of the above.

‘What's up Dad?'

‘There's a path up to the lighthouse,' he pants. ‘Just checked it out. Only three hundred metres or so. I could push you up there, no worries. Want to check it out? I'll bring the chair around.'

Right now I'd rather sleep than explore—close the bedroom door and shut everyone out. Everyone. Everything. All the shit that's gone down since the accident. The constant reminders of how my life is in the toilet.

‘Come on! It'll do you good.' Dad's still puffed but he's grinning like a politician in a kindergarten. ‘Come on, I'll race you.' It's a crap joke but at least he's not treating me like I'm broken.

‘Okay. Fetch the damn chair. But you just wait until this cast is off. Then you'll eat my dust.'

As Dad thumps down the hall, the back door crashes shut, rattling my window. Man, the wind here has a temper!

Moments later Dad returns and I slump into the chair. He wheels me up a gravel path that leads to the highest point at this tip of the island. I'm no lighthouse buff, but I have to agree with Dad: this one's a classic. The round tower is mustard limestone with porthole windows. It's topped with a white lantern room and a red dome roof. A balcony edged with a red railing fence encircles the lantern section. It'd have to be more than twenty metres high.

There's a narrow paved area around the base of the tower. Dad stops at the steps leading to a padlocked door. ‘Pretty cool, eh? I'll open her up so we can look inside.' He pats his pockets. ‘Errr, no, I won't. I must have left the key in the kitchen. Next time, then.' He wheels me to the seaward side of the lighthouse and whistles at the view.

‘How good is that sunset? It's magnificent.'

In spite of myself, I nod. The horizon smoulders.

The wind flares again and a musty pong, like a mouldy dog's blanket, invades my nostrils. ‘Ugh! What's the stink?'

Dad grins. ‘Must be the seal colony. Strong, isn't it? Can't wait to get down there and check it out. That's one of the reasons people first came to the island, for the seals. Except they were hunting them. They're protected now, of course.'

I can see why a lighthouse was needed here. Beyond the foam-fringed cape there are jagged chunks of black rock jutting through the dark ocean. Without the lantern beam, ships approaching would have had little warning of the hidden canines waiting to chomp into their hulls.

Metres from the foot of the lighthouse, below the paved path, there's a stone with a plaque on it. ‘What's the sign for, Dad? Have you been down there yet?'

He shakes his head. ‘No. It could be a survey marker. I'll have a look later. We'd better be getting back.'

Night is overpowering the sunset as we trundle downhill. I peer beyond the cottages to the dark scrub. ‘I don't know how the lighthouse keepers did it, Dad. It's way too remote for me.'

The path levels out and we stop for a moment. Dad leans over my shoulder and I can feel his breath on my cheek. ‘I like the quiet here. But yes, some of the keepers did go…a bit odd. On the warmer days there would be toxic fumes from the mercury in the lantern room and, over time, they could suffer brain damage. You know the old expression “as mad as a hatter”? That's based on the mercury poisoning that milliners used to get. It was the same for the lighthouse keepers…but they had the isolation to contend with, too.'

It's family Monopoly after dinner and I'm fired up to win. I should know better. In the blink of an eye, Mel has Park Lane and Mayfair and everything orange all hotelled up. Pip proposes ‘a merger against the corporates' but her railway stations and my public housing estate along Old Kent Road are no match for Mel. Mum and Dad bow out and head off to their room to get their walking gear sorted. They're off early tomorrow to visit a bird sanctuary.

Mel and Pip do the dishes and then giggle their way to the lounge, me clomping behind. There's a faded floral armchair for each of the girls and a couch for me. No TV, so we get the gas log-fire going and stare at that instead. Mel slides a guest book off the mantelpiece, heaves it onto her lap and reads for a few minutes. ‘This is fantastic,' she squeals. ‘This place is supposed to be haunted. Listen to this:

There's definitely a presence in this house. The lights flicker on and off. Doors slam and I swear things were shifted around the kitchen last night…

‘Here's another one:

During our night walk I kept looking over my shoulder, as if someone was watching. No sign of ghosts or anyone else…but I did dream that someone tapped on my forehead while I was sleeping.

‘Classic! I hope we see the ghost!' Mel is leaning forward in the armchair, beaming, her arms wrapped around the guest book.

‘I don't think it's something to joke about, Mel,' Pip says. ‘This place is one hundred and fifty years old. There could be spirits here. I mean…not like on TV. Not chain-rattling cartoon ghosts. More like memories sort of lingering from the past.'

Mel scoffs. ‘Yeah, right. Listen to this one:

I heard noises so I stuck my head into the hallway to see if someone was there. An old man with a beard and a black coat lurched into the kitchen. In the morning I found the last bottle of red was gone and one of the glasses was smashed on the floor…

‘Thundering typhoons—sounds like Captain Haddock from
Tintin
,' I smirk.

‘Sounds like someone wanted to cover up for drinking too much, more like it,' says Mel. ‘They just want to scare other guests.'

‘I'm going to bed,' I say. ‘I'll leave you two with the captain. Good night.'

As I trudge down the hallway, the wind smashes against the house. Windows tremble and there's a whimper somewhere, perhaps from the kitchen chimney. Then silence. I've never experienced such stop-start wind. It's as if a giant fist grabs the cottage every few minutes and gives it a shake.

The back screen-door clunks. It'll drive me crazy if it bangs all night. I plod down the two steps to the laundry. The stone floor is cold on my bare foot and I shiver. Through the flywire I can see a fattening moon. Almost full. The stars sizzle. Shreds of cloud skate in front of them.