The island, p.1
The Island, page 1
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
The characters in this book visit the lands of the Bunurong people. The author would like to acknowledge the Traditional Custodians of these lands and pay his respects to their Elders past and present. First Nations people were the first storytellers on this land, which always was and always will be Aboriginal land.
Copyright © 2022 by Adrian McKinty
Cover design by Gregg Kulick
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Oodgeroo Noonuccal, “Not My Style,” from My People. Copyright © 1992 by Oodgeroo. Reproduced with permission of John Wiley & Sons Ltd.
ISBN 9780316531276
E3-20220302-DA-PC-ORI
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
Acknowledgments
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About the Author
Other Mysteries and Thrillers by Adrian McKinty
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Be not afeard; the Isle is full of noises,
sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
William Shakespeare, The Tempest, 1611
Stuff myself
Of the bitter and the sweet,
Before,
that thing,
that thing,
outside
Comes.
Oodgeroo Noonuccal, “Not My Style,” 1971
A crow with a skeptical yellow eye was watching her from the lightning-struck eucalyptus tree.
The crow was death.
If it called out, she was dead. If it flew toward Jacko and he turned to look, she was dead.
The crow observed her with a half-turned head.
She crawled through the brittle grass, reached the tree trunk, stopped, and caught her breath.
She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the bottom of the T-shirt. She sucked the moisture from the shirt as best she could.
She composed herself for a minute and then crept past the tree until she reached the edge of the heath. There was nothing now but beach between her and Jacko. No vegetation. No cover. There wasn’t much point crawling anymore.
Slowly, ever so slowly, she got to her feet.
Carefully, she moved the machete from her left to her right hand. It was a heavy old thing, caked with rust. She gripped the split wooden handle and hoped it wouldn’t fall to pieces when she swung it.
Steadying herself, she cautiously advanced.
She had killed before—salmon, trout, duck.
This was different, though, wasn’t it? Very different.
This was a human being.
Jacko sat with his back to her, his legs astride the oil drum. The ancient rifle strapped over his shoulder looked lethal enough from here.
She walked closer, slowly, on bare feet over the stones and gravel.
In the bay something huge moved under the water not far from the shore. They had been right not to try to swim to safety. That was the scarred dorsal fin of a great white. Jacko had seen the shark too. He stood, slipped the rifle from his shoulder, and took a shot at it. The gun went off with an almighty bang that ripped through the stillness. Herons and gulls lifted from the mudflats.
She looked back at the crow.
It wasn’t fazed. It was still perched on the highest blackened tree branch, gazing at her sideways. It had observed scenes like this play out before. No doubt it was expecting carrion soon.
Jacko had evidently missed. “Bugger!” he said to himself and stood there holding the rifle in both hands as the shark swam into the bay and was lost to view.
She waited for him to put the gun away, but he didn’t.
He just stood there, staring at the water.
Olivia was still sprawled in front of him, unmoving.
The walkie-talkie hissed.
Jacko tugged the rifle bolt backward and a brass cartridge came flying out onto the sand. He pushed the bolt forward again and a new round slipped into the chamber.
If she made any sound now and he turned, she knew that he would shoot her point-blank in the chest. She knew guns and had pretended to like them to get time with her dad. She knew that the exit wound from a .303 at this range would be the size of a baseball.
She stood still, waiting for him to reshoulder the rifle, but Jacko just kept gazing at the sea, mumbling to himself.
The sun was behind her, and her shadow was inching into his field of view. She didn’t like that. If there had been any other way of approaching him, she would have done it, but there was no other way. If he peered just to his left, he’d see the tip of her silhouette.
At least she was upwind.
The seagulls landed. The herons settled on the water.
The sun beat down on her exposed neck and arms.
Finally Jacko reslung the rifle over his shoulder and sat. He took out his lighter and cigarettes. He lit himself a smoke and put the lighter in his pocket.
She tried a step forward. The shadow moved too.
Jacko didn’t flinch. She was fifteen feet away now. He leaned back and blew smoke at the sky. She took another step toward him. Toes, then sole, then heel. Placing her feet on the stony beach with the lightest of touches.
Toes, sole, heel.
Another step.
And another.
Until—
A short, sharp stab of perfect pain.
The jagged edge of an old bottle had pierced the skin of her heel.
She bit her lip to stop herself crying out. Her shadow was swaying from side to side, seemingly trying to attract Jacko’s attention. Blinking away tears, she crossed her legs and sat. She was bleeding, but the bottle had not penetrated too deeply. She took hold of the glass fragment and eased it out of her foot. She licked her thumb and rubbed at the wound, and it began to feel better. She took a flat stone and held it against the cut. The bleeding slowed. It would have to do. She couldn’t sit here all day.
She got to her feet again and took a few tentative steps.
Her treasonous shadow was well into Jacko’s field of view now.
Closer.
She could read the writing on the back of his sweat-drenched yellow tank top. There was a red star above the words BINTANG BEER.
She could smell him. He reeked of body odor, cigarette smoke, engine oil.
It was quiet. The echoes of the rifle shot were gone and the only sound was the seawater rushing through the channel.
To her left the last hint of early-morning mist was evaporating in the sunlight. The air was expectant with the coming heat. It was going to be a scorcher. Easily over one hundred and ten degrees.
It was, she remembered, February 14. Funny how the seasons were reversed like that. Back home it would be in the forties or even colder.
Valentine’s Day.
Exactly twelve months ago Tom had come in for his first massage-therapy appointment in the clinic in West Seattle. It had been snowing. When he’d lain down on the table, he still had snowflakes in his hair.
What a difference a year made.
She’d bee
She took three more careful steps and raised the machete.
1
The sign said ALICE SPRINGS 25, TENNANT CREEK 531, DARWIN 1,517.
She took that in for a second or two.
If they somehow missed Alice they would have to go another five hundred kilometers (over three hundred miles) before they could get food, water, or gas. She looked through the windows on either side of the empty highway and saw exactly nothing. The radio had been drifting in and out for the past twenty minutes but the signal, perhaps, was getting a little stronger. She could make out John Lennon singing about “old flat-top” who was “groovin’ up slowly.”
She could identify pretty much every Beatles song from just one or two bars or a snatch of lyrics. Her parents and almost everyone else on Goose Island had worshipped John Lennon, and with only intermittent TV and internet reception, music had been even more important. The song ended and a DJ began his patter. “That was ‘Come Together,’ the opening track of Abbey Road. And before that we had ‘Hey Jude.’ Can anyone tell me what album ‘Hey Jude’ was on?”
The DJ paused for his listeners to reply.
“It wasn’t on any album, it was a seven-inch single,” Heather whispered.
“Nah, don’t call in. This isn’t a competition. It’s a trick question. ‘Hey Jude’ never got released on any of the original Beatles albums, just the compilations. Well, mates, I hope you enjoyed the balmy weather at midnight where we just hit the low temperature for the day—thirty-six degrees centigrade, which for you oldsters is ninety-six point eight degrees Fahrenheit.”
Tom groaned in his sleep and she lowered the volume. He had a busy morning ahead, and every second of sleep he could get now would help him. She turned to look at the kids. They too were asleep. Although Owen had been on his phone until about a half an hour ago, hoping against hope that a Wi-Fi signal would materialize out of the desert. Olivia had conked out long before that. Heather checked that both their seat belts were still securely fastened and turned her attention back to the empty road.
She drove on.
Rattling transmission. Moths in the headlights. The drumming of the Toyota’s wheels on the blacktop.
She reflected that the Mad Max movies had been skillfully edited to erase the actual tedium of driving through outback Australia. The landscape from Uluru had all been like this. It made one long for the comparative excitement of the morning traffic jam on the West Seattle Bridge. No other vehicles at all here; just the noise of the Toyota and the radio drifting in and out. There were no people around, but at a roadwork sign she could see big khaki machines covered in dust resting by the cutoff like slumbering mastodons.
She drove on and began to worry that she had taken a wrong turn. There was no sign of a city or an airport. The GPS hadn’t updated in a long time and according to it, she was lost in a vast blank nothingness somewhere in the Northern Territory.
Her uneasiness increased as the road surface got worse. She looked for signs of life ahead or out the side windows.
Nothing.
Damn it, back at the construction site she must have taken the wrong—
A big gray kangaroo suddenly appeared in the headlights.
“Shit!”
She slammed on the brakes, and the Toyota shuddered to a stop with an alarming amount of deceleration. Tom and the kids were flung forward, then pulled back again by their seat belts.
Tom groaned. Olivia whimpered. Owen grunted. But none of them woke.
“Wow,” she said and stared at the kangaroo. It was still standing there, five feet in front of the car. Another second and they would have had a serious accident. Her hands were shaking. It was hard to breathe. She needed some air. She put the Toyota in park and, leaving the lights on, turned off the engine. She opened the door and got out. The night was warm.
“Scoot,” she said to the big kangaroo. “I can’t go on if you’re in the middle of the road.”
It didn’t move. “Scoot!” she said and clapped her hands.
It was still staring at the car. How could it not understand the universal language of scoot?
“The headlights might have blinded it. Turn ’em off,” a voice said from the darkness to her right.
Heather jumped and turned to see a man standing a few yards away from her in the desert. On learning that she was going to Australia, Carolyn had warned her about the “world’s deadliest snakes and spiders,” and when that hadn’t worked she sent her a list of movies about hitchhikers murdered in the bush by maniacs. “It’s an entire genre, Heather! It must be based on reality,” Carolyn said.
Heather had watched only one of them, Wolf Creek, but that was scary enough for her.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” the man said. Her heart was thumping, but the man’s voice was so calm, gentle, and unthreatening that she was put immediately at ease.
“Um, sorry, what was that about the lights?” she asked.
“The headlights must have blinded it. Turn ’em off and give it a minute,” the man said.
She reached into the Toyota and killed the lights. The man waited for a few moments and then walked onto the road. “Go on, big fella! Go on out of it!” he said and clapped his hands. The kangaroo turned its head, looked at both of them with seeming indifference, and then, at its own pace, hopped off into the night.
“Well, that was something. Thank you,” Heather said and offered the man her hand. He shook it. He was about five foot six, around sixty years old, with dark, curly hair. He was wearing a red sweater with jean shorts and flip-flops. They had been in Australia now for nearly a week, but this was the first Aboriginal person Heather had come across. Out here in the middle of nowhere.
“You’re not from around here, I reckon,” the man said.
“No. Not at all. I’m Heather, from Seattle. Um, in America.”
“I’m Ray. I’m not from around here either. We just come in for the show. Me mob, that is.”
“Your mob?”
“Yeah, we just come in for the show. Come in every year.”
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she saw now that there were a lot of people with him in the desert. In fact, it was an entire camp, maybe twenty or thirty in all. Older people and young children. Most of them were sleeping but some were sitting around the embers of a fire.
“Where are you trying to get to? Alice?” Ray asked.
“I’m trying to reach the airport. If I keep going on this road—”
“Nah, they should have signed it better. This road’ll take you on a big circle out into the bush. Just go back to where you saw the roadwork and go right. You’ll be in Alice in fifteen minutes. There won’t be any traffic.”
“Thank you.”
Ray nodded. They stood awkwardly for a moment. She found that she didn’t quite want the conversation to end. “What’s the show you’re talking about?” she asked.
“The Alice Springs show. It’s the big event of the year in these parts. The white fellas don’t like us to be around town but they can’t stop us coming in for the show.”
“What is the show? A state fair?”
Ray nodded. “Something like that, I reckon. It’s a livestock show but there’s food and music. Rides for the kids. People come in from hundreds of miles away. It’s usually in July. Having it earlier this year. Mobs from all over the territory, even some from Queensland. My mob’s been walking in for three days.”
She gazed at his “mob” again with wonder. These people—grandmothers, parents, young children—had been walking across this desert for three days?
“None of the nippers will have met an American before. Something for them to talk about. Mind if we say a quick hello?” Ray asked.
Heather spent a few minutes meeting Ray’s family—the ones who were awake, anyway. His granddaughter Nikko, his wife, Chloe. Chloe admired her earrings and Heather begged her to take them as a thank-you gift for Ray’s helping her back on the road again. The gift was accepted but not before Ray gave Heather a small penknife he’d made himself.
“I’m selling these at the show. Jarrah hardwood and meteor iron,” he said.
“Meteor iron?”
“Yeah. From the one that came down at Wilkinkarra.”
The penknife was carved with emus and kangaroos on one side and what she took to be the Milky Way on the other. It was beautiful. She shook her head. “I can’t possibly take this! It must be worth hundreds of—”
