Tracks of the Missing Read online

  Tracks of the Missing

  Tracks of the Missing

  Carl Merrison & Hakea Hustler

  First published 2022

  Magabala Books Aboriginal Corporation

  1 Bagot Street, Broome, Western Australia

  Website: www.magabala.com

  Email: [email protected]

  Magabala Books receives financial assistance from the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts advisory body. The State of Western Australia has made an investment in this project through the Department of Local Government, Sport and Cultural Industries. Magabala Books would like to acknowledge the generous support of the Shire of Broome, Western Australia.

  Magabala Books is Australia’s only independent Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander publishing house. Magabala Books acknowledges the Traditional Owners of the Country on which we live and work. We recognise the unbroken connection to traditional lands, waters and cultures. Through what we publish, we honour all our Elders, peoples and stories, past, present and future.

  Copyright © Carl Merrison & Hakea Hustler, Text, 2022

  Copyright © Dub Leffler, Illustrations, 2022

  The creators assert their moral rights.

  All rights reserved. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this publication may be reproduced by any process whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher.

  Cover Design Jo Hunt

  Typeset & Internal Design by Post Pre-press Group

  Printed and bound by Ovato

  978-1-922613-26-4 (Print)

  978-1-922613-27-1 (ePDF)

  978-1-922613-28-8 (ePUB)

  We acknowledge our Elders as custodians and teachers to a continuous link to culture, language and tradition; without them we would not have the rich connection to stories past and present that we do today. Thank you to our editor, Shel Sweeney from A Worded Life, for your constant support and guidance in our journey with both our books. Thank you to Thomas Worrigal for being a consultant on police protocol and procedure, as well as bush survival skills. We appreciate family members for being our cultural consultants and early readers. To Spencer from Warmun, we hope you enjoy your name in the story. Dedicated to our grandparents and our fathers who love/d the bush. While this story does have references to some real-life details, this is purely a work of fiction.

  CONTENTS

  1 Alarm

  2 Not a usual day

  3 Tech detectives

  4 Dilemma

  5 The crash

  6 Ranger

  7 Bush

  8 Murderers, monsters and mania

  9 Connection

  10 The pack

  11 Guilt

  12 Ground zero

  13 Accidents

  14 Blood

  15 Found

  16 Payback

  17 The exchange

  18 Distance

  19 Shock

  20 Watch and learn

  21 Law

  22 Lightfoot

  Glossary

  1

  ALARM

  I walk to school, sweat already dripping down my forehead in the hot morning sun. There is something different about the small town that I can’t place. It would be easy to blame it all on the build-up to the wet season … but there is a suspense in the air … like lightning about to strike. I walk through the school gates, I see parents huddled in tight groups under the shade of the buildings, their children whispering amongst themselves instead of running around the playground as usual.

  ‘Hey Dek! Did you hear?’ Brad asks, waving me over, even hushed his voice sounding way too loud in the tense atmosphere.

  ‘What’s happening?’ my voice automatically drops to a nervous whisper as I join my mates. I’m on edge, an uneasy feeling churning in my stomach.

  ‘They found old mate from out la station dead,’ Spencer butts in, taking over the story. Brad raises his eyebrows frustrated that Spencer has taken the spotlight again. ‘You know the one that’s always sly grogging our communities?’

  ‘No way?’ I reply quietly. Not that an old man dying is worth all the tension around here. There are a million ways someone could die out on the stations: snakebite, horseriding accident, old mine-shafts, stuck without water. Although this old man did make it a bit more interesting. My eyes flick to Michael who is listening on quietly. ‘Heart attack or what?’

  ‘Nah, drowned. The cops were all set to leave it but then the old folk made them look again,’ Spencer replies, looking around to see if anyone else is listening in. He clearly likes being the one in the group with all the latest information about the situation. ‘Might be murder!’

  ‘Well, that’s something different in this boring town,’ Brad comments. ‘Might be an interesting week after all!’

  ‘Aunty Shellene saw him in town the other day stocking up on grog again. Them bottleshop people never ask what one whitefella station worker been grabbing all that alcohol for. Guess they think he keeping it out there for his workers or something. They never make him stick to those grog rules,’ Michael drops his voice. ‘You’d think one of them cops would have guessed he was selling it on the black market since all us mob knew.’

  ‘Those police come and go from town. Guess they wouldn’t suspect an old guy who they have beers with at the tav,’ Willum reflects, shrugging his shoulders, ‘for that or anything else!’

  ‘Yeah well most of them local police were out there early this morning. You guys know Dad drives trucks, hey? Well he left for a trip at sparrow fart and I heard him talking to Mum on the phone when I woke up,’ Spencer continues the story. ‘Dad called his station friend when he saw the cops heading out there. His mate said they found old Mr Henry face down in the dam last night and just wrote it off as an accident. Case closed and all that. Until the old people pushed them to look again this morning. Black magic, murder, something suspicious, I don’t know. Dad told Mum all the local cops were out that way canvassing the station and interviewing every house on the way into town this morning.’

  Parents who usually drop their kids off are milling around and checking their phones. It reminds me of the build-up to the rain, waiting for something to burst.

  ‘If it wasn’t an accident … who do you think did it?’ Brad asks, bending closer as if to protect the deep dark secrets we were all about to reveal.

  ‘You’d think there’d be a line of people with something against that old prick,’ Michael spits. He should know. Michael couldn’t let his grudge go since his brother passed. Guess he didn’t need to hold that grudge any more. For a split second I wonder where he was last night.

  ‘Mr Archer!’ the principal yells across the yard, motioning to me to come inside. The boys look at me, scoffing with smirks on their faces. Perfect timing.

  ‘Here we go again,’ Willum forces a laugh. ‘What’ve you done this time, bra?’

  I look around as I shove Willum. No other Mr Archers here. She can’t mean me. We have all been called into a principal’s office before – but I’m not in town enough to get into any big trouble here! And not at the start of a day when there might have been a murder in town.

  I push my hands deep into my pockets. The principal holds open the door, waiting for me as I cross the yard. All eyes turn to me.

  ‘Pretty strange to get called into the principal’s office on a day like today,’ whispers one girl as I pass. ‘He has to be involved.’

  ‘He’s one of those out-of-town community boys,’ added her friend from behind her hand. ‘Who knows what they are capable of?’

  ‘Bet you he murdered the old guy!’ declares the other junior dramatically.


  This place has gone crazy, I think to myself. How did we go from being a normal school day to hearing gossip about a murder, to me being accused of it by year 7s the next?

  I flick the girls a big toothy smile and lick my lips. They gasp, take small steps backwards, and I laugh. As tight as my stomach feels with tension … it was too easy to get a rise out of those little gossipers. I straighten my mouth and walk up the steps; the principal looks pale as her eyes dart past me scanning the playground nervously. I walk past her into the dark school hallway and hear the office staff arguing.

  ‘It’s not my responsibility,’ I hear the secretary complaining from the staff room as we pass. ‘It’s a teacher’s job to make sure it’s all charged before they leave for excursion. I’m not having this pinned …’

  Their voices are drowned out as I enter through the principal’s pale blue office door.

  ‘Come in and sit down,’ she says. Her voice is tight and crisp like a crow’s, mouth drawn in a hard line. I haven’t done anything wrong that I can think of, well not too bad, not lately and not at school. The chair is hard and forces me to sit up straight. I notice a police officer has taken the principal’s seat behind the desk, forcing Ms Wilson to perch nervously on a chair next to him.

  ‘This is Officer Thomas. He just has some questions for you about all the recent events,’ the principal prattles, as if trying to make the whole conversation happen quicker. I look at her eyebrows raised. What does this new city cop want with me?

  ‘Yeah miss,’ I reply. My mouth is dry but my hands are wet. I’m nervous, cautious and a little curious that this might lead to some firsthand insider info.

  ‘It’s been a busy morning, that’s for sure. We are just trying to sort through all events that might give us a clue about where else to search,’ Officer Thomas explains in a rough, low-pitched voice. ‘We need to ask you some questions.’

  ‘What? Why you asking me?’ I laugh a weak nervous laugh. A sick knot begins to tighten in my belly; something is not right.

  ‘We’ve just had some concerning news, Dek. Mr Henry’s death is chewing up our police resources and now the year twelves are late to return from camp. With the potential of someone dangerous being on the loose, we just want to get to the bottom of it all quickly. We are trying every avenue,’ Ms Wilson’s voice cracks as she quickly rushes into an explanation.

  My mind swirls. While it’s common to get caught up in the outback, today is already anything but normal. I quickly scan back through the past week trying to think of anything I can remember about the camp. My heart sinks as I realise it is the camp that my cousin, Brooklyn, is on … and Jenny.

  ‘We just need as much information as we can as quickly as we can to find that bus,’ Ms Wilson prattles on.

  They are probably just broken down on the side of the road in that old coaster school bus. My mind slowly connects the dots, and I swallow, shocked with the sudden memory. It can’t be. The bus. It was such a silly thing that I’d forgotten about it … till now. Me and the boys had been kicking the footy around the streets after training when we noticed the school gate was unlocked. We weren’t looking for trouble; we were just wandering kind of aimlessly and saw the tantalising option of a place we weren’t meant to go. It wasn’t the first time we’d hooned around school on the gardener’s wheelbarrow, kicked the footy into the basketball hoops, or written our names on the school shed. It had felt good to be in control of the school for brief moments; no one telling us what to do, or how to behave, or who to be or what to become. In those times, we owned the school and pretended that we owned our destinies. No stereotypes, no predetermined roles for us to fill just as society had decided.

  That night, which feels like a lifetime ago now, someone had left their tools and scrap metal out from some metalwork project. We’d been using them as ninja stars throwing them at the wooden wall. It had felt powerful throwing them and hearing the thud when they struck where you had aimed. It reminded me of going out bush hunting with spears like our ancestors had. In control, focused, powerful. I’d got a bit cocky and aimed for a tight spot between two support beams on the shed wall. The metal piece had ricocheted into the side of one of the school bus tyres. I’d had a laugh thinking about the principal changing a tyre. I had wondered if they even could. We’d been helping change busted tyres before I even learnt to tie my shoelaces. In that moment I felt bitterness at some of the outsider teachers that think they know it all but don’t even bother learning our culture, or the ones that think I’m too dumb to be anything, or the ones that I learn to trust and then they just up and leave. I’d hoped one of them would be the next to drive the bus to take the teachers to some meeting or for an excursion to the nearby waterhole or something. It hadn’t even crossed my mind again until now: why would it? I’d been so focused on the football trials I hadn’t really made time for much else. I mean the boys and I had done some graffiti on some signs on our way home a week or two ago. Low level, incidental mischief in between hardcore training. Grandfather had me on a curfew for most of our time in town this time too. Reckoned if I was going to give it a proper shot I should rest up and eat right as well as all the training.

  I hadn’t realised the bus was headed off to school camp. Even if I had, I would never have thought the tyre would hold until they were in the middle of the bush. Surely, it hadn’t?

  I cannot believe all this mess might be because of me.

  Should I tell the Officer? Should I admit we’d been killing time before we went home for dinner? Then the thought hits me … maybe I killed the year 12s!

  My mind spins. My palms sweat. I feel sick.

  How will the policeman respond?

  I keep my mouth shut.

  ‘Is this an interrogation? Aren’t I meant to have an adult here or something?’ Suddenly defensive. I know too well what can happen in situations like this. Too many things have been pinned on us mob in the past for no good reason. My grandfather always has something to say when the TV flashes with the latest death in custody or racial profiling issue. For a bushman he is smart about politics and city life. Guess he had to be, growing up through all he did. The worst part now, I might be responsible. Blood could be on my hands.

  ‘We are calling all the parents in for a meeting as we speak. Just working our way through names alphabetically, Mr Archer,’ the Officer brushes aside my concern.

  ‘The problem is that we are in a race against time, if anything has happened to those students; it could have already been three nights,’ Ms Wilson interrupts the Officer before I can say anything. Her voice wobbles, sounding genuinely concerned. ‘We will be asking everyone the same questions.’

  ‘We are chasing every lead but we need to find out everything we can quickly. The first forty-eight hours in a case like this really matter. Let’s just say we need to hear anything you can tell us,’ Officer Thomas explains gruffly, frustration lines forming across his brow.

  ‘We can’t get them on the UHF or satellite phone, we made the students leave behind their devices,’ Principal Wilson’s brow crunches up in worry too. I’m happy she is waffling; it’s giving me a moment to try to process all I have remembered. ‘I’ve called ahead to the ranger at the national park who will be checking the camp site and we have one of Officer Thomas’s colleagues, which he can hardly spare in the circumstances, scouting out the road. The fact we can’t get in touch with them at a time like this means we need to take this very seriously. You remember what happened to the tourists last summer.’

  I do. Even though a lot of the country is flat and scrubby, there are large areas of hills, thick trees. The wide open spaces millions of acres across. The missing tourists had taken a side track looking for gold or a waterhole or something and became stranded out bush. The handful of local coppers had recruited some station owners to use their mustering helicopters to do some aerial searches but they reckon it was a needle in a haystack when the outback is so large. One pilot said he could have almost been on top of them and still mis
sed them if their car was covered in red dust or under some of the trees.

  If their tyre did puncture out there … it could be a long time before the missing students are found. Worse, if a murderer is involved, there are lots of places to hide bodies. It still felt like a bit of a tenuous link that Officer Thomas was trying to make though – a suspected murder linked in any way to the school camp. My mistake is more likely, and that makes my blood run cold.

  ‘Well, I don’t know anything about the camp,’ I reply, my head spinning trying to think through all the scenarios a bus load of students could encounter out bush. The potentially serious nature of it all sinking in. I’m not exactly lying; I didn’t know anything about the camp. ‘And I certainly don’t know about any dead guy!’

  ‘It might be nothing,’ Ms Wilson says to herself as much as me. She’s showing how out of depth she really is. Ms Wilson is an outback rookie recruited up here from the city to run the school this year. My mates reckon she hasn’t really figured it all out about how things work out here. Schools up here often get young staff or new principals. Sometimes I wonder if we are like a little experiment or test before they get their ‘real’ city jobs.

  ‘Right now, though, we need answers. Do you remember anything strange from this past week?’ the Officer butts in over Ms Wilson.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ I reply, quickly jiggling my feet, eager to be out of here. Again I’m not lying … but I am leaving something out. I need to be out of here to think straight, to make a plan. ‘The boys and I have been busy training for the state try-outs coming up. It’s all I’ve been thinking about.’

  ‘What are you so anxious about then?’ Officer Thomas growls, looking pointedly at my feet. ‘I think you know more than you’re letting on.’

  ‘I really don’t know anything. What could I know?’ This isn’t turning out like I had thought it would. I care about Brook. And Jenny, more than I should. I’m stressed as hell trying to figure out what I might have done … and trying to think about what I need to do now. And this policeman isn’t letting up. I need to change the topic and yet squeeze out as much as I can from this copper. I need a head start so I can figure out what to do next. My mind swirls. I can’t make the connections properly. ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened, and I’ll tell you if I know anything extra?’