Lost Girls (19 page)

He liked that
this girl did not try and engage him with cute words, but was
challenging him, trying to understand his deep thoughts. So he
thought carefully before he answered. The pause went on and she
looked at him inquiringly.

Finally he
said. “I wish I knew the answer. When I was little my mother, who
was a Catholic from Italy, taught me to believe in God. She used to
take me to church sometimes.

“Then, when I
saw the awful things my father did to her and nobody helped her,
neither other people nor God, because everyone was too frightened
of my father. Then I thought that God was either a coward, a
terrible bastard or was not there at all, if he chose to ignore
what was happening. I think I more believed he was there and a
coward who did nothing. That made him an even bigger bastard than
my father.

“After my
mother died I had to look after myself and keep out of my father’s
way or he would hurt me too. A few times I felt like my mother was
watching out for me. Maybe she was there with God and God had done
something good for her, to make up for the bad from my father and
now she was trying to protect me in turn.

“Then they sent
me to remand school and I saw the awful things that the men did to
the little boys, and there was nobody to help them. At that place I
stopped believing there was any God, even a weak god could not be
such a gutless bastard as to let what they did happen.

“At that time I
decided I had to take the place of God and hurt back anyone who
tried to harm me. When I killed the first man who was trying to
hurt me I was glad there was no God because it meant that, instead,
I had taken the job to pay that man back for the evil things he had
done.

“Over the years
I have killed more people who have done bad things. Each time I was
glad it was me not God who was doing it. I liked doing it, causing
the payback.

“But since I
have lived out here and got to know the aboriginal people of this
land, and the same in Africa where I also lived, I am not so sure
there is nothing there. To them God and the spirits are as a real
as you or I are. They seem to gain wisdom and power from their
believing.

“So now it
seems stupid for me to try and decide about God. If he is there, he
is too big and I am too small for me to work him out like that. The
more I see the less I really know of the limits to what is out
there. In that place where so much is beyond understanding I think
it would be very conceited of me to tell a God thing how to do his
job.

“Instead I find
a part of me wants to believe there is something out there,
something keeping the balance of the universe. But I do not think
it has much to do with the world down here. I think it is mostly up
to us to do the good things and right the wrongs of the bad people.
Mostly people can see the good and bad and know how to choose to do
the good. But sometimes bad things take them over. Then they become
like a sick animal which can spread its disease to others. When
that happens it is up to each of us to stop them, whatever way we
can.

“I don’t
believe it is for government to do this. It is for the people who
see it and know what has happened. That is the best place for
justice. I think God has left us alone to sort out our own messes
while he deals with the bigger stuff of running the Universe. I am
happy that it is that way.”

Isabelle looked
at him in amazement, half shocked that he talked so openly about
what he had done, the killing of other bad people, and half in awe
at his honesty.

She said, “Do
you normally tell people things like this, so honestly? I am not
sure I could be that brave.”

“Normally I do
not tell people anything about me, not even my real name. But you
are different, you asked me an honest question and so I gave you an
honest answer. It is like when you told me the truth about how you
are with men, you did not make an excuse; you just said what was in
your mind. That was brave. Perhaps it helped me to be a brave and
truthful with you. I think you are a brave person. I like brave
people, particularly those who think deep thoughts.”

In that moment
a deep friendship was born. It was the first time Isabelle could
remember a man who she thought was really her friend, she had girl
friends but could not remember a man friend. And he clearly was a
man, he exuded man feel. But that seemed less important than that
he was her friend, a person who, like her, thought deep
thoughts.

After driving
for a couple hours, with odd fragments of conversation, Mark turned
down a side track off the main road. After a couple minutes they
came to the side of a small creek.

He said, “We
both need to sleep. The sun will be up in another four hours and it
is less than an hour’s drive to Derby where we can have some
breakfast before our real adventure begins. So I will fix your bed
and then I will fix mine.”

He lifted a
wire frame off the back of his truck, placed a sheet of canvass and
thin mattress over the wire, then covered it with a blanket and put
a pillow at the head, saying. “It is not quite hotel class, but it
is good to sleep off the ground around here, there are things that
crawl around that you would not want sharing your bed. I will say
good night now as I need to sleep.”

He made a space
for himself on the flat tray at the back of the truck, unrolled a
bedding roll there then climbed up.

Isabelle said.
“Thank you Mark and goodnight.” As she stretched on her bed and
looked at the endless stars above, she felt a tiny regret he was
not lying beside her. She would like to know what his body felt
like.

When Isabelle
woke the next morning the sun was just above the horizon. The air
was still cool but she knew it would soon be hot. Mark was sitting
on a rock looking over the creek, writing in a small book with a
battered cover. She rose quietly from her bed and walked over to
him with her softest feet, stepping carefully to avoid the
crackling of twigs and leaves.

She loved
walking with her bare feet. It was a memory from her earliest
childhood in the mountains, taking her shoes off and running free.
Since she had come to the tropics, she wore sandals when needed but
the rest of the time she had bare feet. Her feet were so hardened
that the boss at the pub told her she had feet like a blackfella.
She could walk on sharp gravel without flinching, though in the
midday the bitumen was too hot even for her.

Mark seemed
unaware of her. She approached with making no noise, taking
pleasure in her total stealth. She put her hand on his head. In one
second she was standing above him, the next he was not there
anymore, but was towering over her, hands poised to strike. It was
a blur and for a split second she was immobilised with fear. Then
his face recognised and he relaxed.

She found
herself laughing, she could not say why; it was a sort of nervous
relief. “My God, she said, “it is like a Foreign Legion movie, one
second you are sitting, the next is like a tiger strike. I am glad
you recognised me before you killed me.”

Now Mark was
laughing too. “Sorry I scared you. You gave me a start. I never
heard you coming. I didn’t know anyone could walk that
quietly.”

“I just came to
say Good Morning. I am sorry I startled you but you were so
absorbed with your writing. What is it, a diary?”

He went to
close it quickly, as if embarrassed. She placed a hand on his arm.
“I am sorry; I did not mean to pry. When I was a little girl I
walked in the mountains with my goats. I took a book to write my
thoughts and poetry. I described the things and people I saw, the
way a falcon would dive for a rabbit, the way the sun lit the
hills. I did not have many friends but my thoughts and writing were
my company. Perhaps your writing is something like that.”

Mark looked at
her with intense eyes as if amazed at her insight. “You read me
like a book. I am often alone. This is the place where I keep my
thoughts; all those words inside my head that I never get to say
instead get written here. I write poems and tell little stories
which amuse me.

“I was writing
about meeting you last night, how it was the third time and how I
knew your shape before I saw your face. Then, as we came away, you
asked me whether I believed in a God. It seemed an important thing,
your question, not my answer.

Isabelle sat
down on the rock where he had been sitting. She wrapped her arms
around her knees. She looked up at him towering over her. She
reached out, took his hand and pulled it down.

“I would like
it if you would sit down and finish your writing, then read it back
to me, just the bit about me. I have never had anyone write a story
about me. I would like to see myself through your eyes. I will not
try to see what you say. I will look at the scenery and imagine
what it might be. Then, when you read it back, I will see me as you
see me.”

She could see
Mark hesitate for a few seconds, torn between his private world and
a desire to share. She tugged his hand again, more insistent.

He nodded and
sat alongside her, almost touching but not quite. He closed his
eyes, as if lost in thought. Then, when he opened his eyes, he
began to write.

Isabelle looked
away. There was a small, red coloured bird nearby in the creek,
flitting from branch to branch. She turned her attention to it. It
was flitting here and there. She imagined it was her, jumping from
place to place on a barren mountainside, flashes of light, like a
bright butterfly. She felt a wonder in its moving freely, the way
these creatures could.

She realised
Mark’s writing had stopped. She turned to him.

He looked
towards her, saying, “Would you like me to read something I wrote
about you?”

“Yes,” she
replied.

He began, “Hair
dark, back turned to me, at the bar. She sees me not, absorbed in
work. I know her, the curve of her neck, the shape of her shoulders
as they move with grace. She looks around, dark eyes sparkle in
faded light, face bright with smiling delight. She sees, knows me,
familiar in a land of strangers. I say come with me. She hesitates
but agrees.

“We drive into
the night. Our talk is of Gods and the Universe. She asks me where
God lives. I try to answer truthfully and tell her things I have
not told others. Her mind is like a soaring eagle looking from on
high. She moves like a wallaby, leaping from rock to rock, tiny
flashes of bright light reflect. Yet she is silent like a cat. A
strange gracefulness is hers, moving over life’s surfaces without
ripple.”

He closed the
book and looked up at her, questioning, uncertainly in his
eyes.

She said, “Such
words are to be treasured. They are of me and of you. I like the
way you tell it. Tomorrow I would like to write something of you,
perhaps it will be in French. The music of that language will speak
of your essence, stillness which blurs into movement.”

Soon after they
were packed and drove on. They came to Derby after an hour. Over
breakfast Mark pulled out a map and explained the route he had
planned. He told her he wished to go to a place where few go, a
rough and barren place, a place where rocky mountains join
sparkling sea, a place where hills hold their own treasures as yet
undiscovered.

He said he
wanted to go there before he started his next job. If she could
spare two weeks he would bring her there. The place was deep in the
rugged Kimberley Coast, and they would go via the Mitchell Plateau,
a place of spectacular waterfalls and a wealth of wildlife. From
there they would head up to the area near where a crystal creek ran
out to the sea and spend their days fishing and exploring around
the coast.

It was
something Mark had always wanted to do. He told her he had worked
on the Mitchell Plateau helping biologists do fauna surveys a few
years ago. Then he had flown over much of the area in a helicopter.
It had whet his appetite, as he had never explored further north on
the ground. Now he wanted to return and spend a week exploring this
new area. The travel would take all the other time as the road was
slow and bad.

While lots of
tourists visited Mitchell Falls to see aboriginal rock art from
antiquity and the wonderful waterfalls, cascading over three levels
to the river below, very few made it right up to the coast, other
than by boat or helicopter. Now, at the start of the build-up
season, with ferocious heat and humidity and big thunderstorms
gathering on the far north horizon, the tourists had dried up to a
trickle.

So Mark
expected to have this place almost to empty of others which suited
him just fine. He did not want national park rangers or tour guides
trying to direct where he could and could not go. So they would
travel unobtrusively and park the vehicle out of sight from the air
once there. Then they would use their feet to explore both the
rough and barren hills, creeks and the seaside below. They would
bring fishing lines and a light rifle to help support themselves by
living off the land and sea. But first today they would stock up on
provisions from the town. Tonight they would spend a last night of
civilisation before departing early tomorrow for their trip.

Isabelle agreed
to come with pleasure, it sounded like a wonderful adventure and
two weeks away would not matter.

After they
finished breakfast Mark booked two rooms in the Spinifex Hotel, a
local Derby icon. He insisted on paying for a separate room for
her, even though she said that if they were travelling together
they might as well share, and the room had a second single bed.
Then together they visited the store where they filled up a
shopping trolley with food and other necessities.