February 19th
You stare at me through slits. It’s a miracle, isn’t it, that we’re still here, still alive. You should be proud of me, or at least grateful. I watch you on the camp bed, and the fox underneath. When I get up from the sand, my stomach’s rumbling; I’m lightheaded. I walk to the car as if I’m floating. I open the boot and get two muesli bars and another bottle of water. Five bottles left after this, not enough. I take one sip, pour more for the fox, and leave the rest with you, along with a muesli bar.
Then I crawl under the camp bed to get closer to the fox, to stroke her. She still looks so sick. I try to force a cat biscuit through her sharp, white teeth, but she spits it out and hisses. A wild animal shouldn’t let me touch her like this, Sal wouldn’t.
‘Bloody stupid thing,’ you murmur. ‘Shouldn’t be here. None of us should.’
‘I thought you’d be glad I brought you,’ I say. ‘Grateful.’
You grunt.
Surely being here is better than being in prison, better than being with a woman who didn’t even pick you up on your release day. I rub water into the fox’s ears to cool her and she doesn’t object. Everything about her behaviour, and yours, is wrong, but all I can do is wait. I crawl out from under the campbed and look at the wound on your head, the flies circling: an infection could be contributing to your lethargy.
‘I’ll dress your wound later,’ I say. ‘It looks like shit.’
‘Don’t bother.’
On the way out, I kick the camp bed, enjoying how your body judders and how you moan from the impact. Maybe I should leave you to die.
I set off for the Separates, the straw purifier in my hand, kicking the sand with each step. I’m a moody kid again, just like you said. But what did I expect? That by bringing us back, everything would be alright? That you’d turn into the Ty I dreamt of in Barkingside?
In the full sun, I keep my head down, my body wet with sweat. I don’t think I’m walking straight. I hold my arms out to stop swaying. I should dig up the pills and we could overdose together, fry ourselves in the heat and let the wild dogs find us. But what about the fox? Maybe she could she join us, a group suicide. Only she didn’t choose any of this.
As I get closer to the rocks, I could be sixteen again, approaching for the first time, marvelling at their huge size and smooth exterior. Above, I see the fissures, the gills. When I hold out my hand and touch the rock surface, it feels like skin and muscle, a version of my own skin. I lean my cheek against them and feel them breathe. I listen. You said these rocks were swept here by a huge flood, long ago: they made a path through the land, and the path filled with water and formed a river behind them. Like that, these rocks made life. I know this is just another of your stories, but still I stay, listening to the rustle of birds above. I prefer to imagine these rocks being sung into creation, by some long-ago being. Returning to these rocks, Ifeel myself shifting too, sung open by the birds, altered.
As if it was only yesterday when I last saw it, I find the path in easily and follow the broken water pipe. No graffiti, no rubbish. Everything is calmer here than in the heat with you. I stick the water straw in my back pocket, scramble deep in between the rocks like a spider, legs and arms spread wide. The leaves on the bushes are greener here, juicier, I almost pop them in my mouth and chew. Maybe they’d help my headache.
Soon the path peters out and I’m back on sand, walking into the atrium of the Separates. Colours everywhere: browns and oranges, whites, greys, greens. And swirls in the sand. Snake tracks, I think, tangled as if they’ve been dancing. I move more slowly, more carefully. Everything is silent, not a breath of wind to gossip with the leaves. I come across the cages where you kept your chickens and expect to see more carcasses. But the grasses are so thick inside and around them, there is no way of knowing what’s inside. I walk on. Far above, in the dust-covered branches of a gum tree, I think I see the bright-green wing feathers of a parrot.
As I approach the pool, I feel almost as anxious as I felt outside the prison. I’m scared the pool will be changed, too, dried up and useless. I am desperate for this water now; my sweat has even crystallised into salt; all of me longing for moisture.
I pick my way round the last corner and there it is, waiting, cool and deep between the fire-red boulders. Something welcome out here, finally. I stop myself from charging through the high grasses around the edge, and pick up a stick to bash them, alerting any snakes of my presence.Bunuru, wildfire season, is also snake season.
Under the huge gum tree, I take off my stinking clothesand walk in naked. Even in the shelter of the tree and the boulders, the sun sears me.
And then relief, the water a balm on my scorching skin. Achingly cool.
I sigh. It doesn’t matter that the pool is no longer clear as glass, or that there is algae at its edges. This is what I’ve returned for. I paddle to the edge, retrieve the straw from my shorts and suck as I swim. The water tastes like pondweed, but I gulp it down. Then I float on my back and stare at the blue, blue sky, at a kite circling far above. You need this too, to make you well again, so we can start to staunch the wound of everything gone wrong, before it all runs away from us.
I duck and dive, again and again, further down each time. I was scared the first time here, anxious about what might be lurking underneath, but now when I open my eyes underwater I see fish and weed and the fathomless blackness between the rocks at the bottom. I touch the ledge above the dark space below. An underwater cave—the source of the spring water? The home of a mythical creature? Strange, but I don’t remember it being there before. It could be a place to hide something never to be found. It could be the place to hide you.
I need salt for your wounds, so I walk back towards the supply shed, ignoring the shed that contains your paintings, the installation work you made from, and about, the land. I would like to see your work again, feel its effect on me, although I don’t know how I’d react if it’s as ruined as you and the den. Those landscapes you made from ochre and plants and sand were vivid and alive. They were part of what made me love this place.
I told Mum about your paintings, explaining how you usedelements and colours from the land to create them. I told her they’d look good in her gallery in London, that we should go back for them.
‘You’d make a fortune,’ I said, ‘selling the work of a kidnapper. And if it’s us selling them,’ I continued, ‘we’d be getting our own back.’
I wanted to take your precious things and control them myself, make them my own. But Mum didn’t agree. She didn’t even want to talk about it, and certainly didn’t want to look at anything artistic you might have made.
‘He’s no kind of artist,’ she said. ‘There’s no worth in anything he does.’
She never wanted anything to do with you. She barely listened when you spoke in court. She certainly never believed me when I said you could make art, beautiful art that even she would like. She was mistaken: if she was scared of it, she should have tried to understand it. Once you understand something, the fear diminishes. You have a better chance of controlling what you understand. Haven’t I told that to Rhiannon enough times? But what happens when what you thought you understood has changed?
Between the dark aisles of the shed, I search for salt, more food and a can opener. I do not go near the enclosures of the dead creatures. I rub my finger across dusty labels on a few glass jars until I uncover the wordSALTand thenOATS.Mum went through a phase of soaking oats in cold water before she went to bed, claiming it was more nutritional that way. This is what you need: nutritional food and the land. And me.
You’re asleep when I get back, breathing deeply. I kneel beside your bed and check the fox too, try her with a little morewater, which, this time, she drinks. When I touch your skin, it’s still hot and you murmur. When your eyes flicker open, they’re glazed. Could the infection have gone to your brain?
After soaking the oats for later, I tip salt and water into the ceramic bowl and unwrap a fresh pillowcase to bathe your wound. I clean the pus from it and, still, you don’t wake. Scabs are forming. Should I pick them off and clean underneath or leave them? I want to check my phone for information, but, of course, it’s run out of battery and my charger is in the hotel room.