12
I woke up the next day feeling a bit like I had the morning after I’d heard the news about Pa Salt’s death. The first few seconds of consciousness were okay, before the deluge of reality poured down on my head. I rolled over and buried my face in the cheap foam pillow. I didn’t want to be awake, didn’t want to face the truth. It was almost – but not quite – funny, because even if I had known Ace was a wanted criminal, I was far too much of a dunce to have made something out of it. Others had been clever enough to do it, though, and I’d got the blame.
Ace must hate me. And he had every right to.
Just imagining what he must be thinking of me right now was enough to turn my stomach. For real, I realised as I dashed to the toilet and retched. Standing up, I washed my mouth out and drank some water, deciding that all I could do was to go and confront the evidence. ‘Face your fears,’ I told myself as I dressed and went downstairs to reception.
‘Is there an internet café around here?’ I asked the woman behind the desk.
‘Yeah, sure. Turn right and walk about two hundred metres. There’s an alleyway, and you’ll see it there.’
‘Thanks.’
I stepped outside into massive paprika-coloured puddles that pooled on the uneven pavements and realised it must have poured down last night. As I walked, I felt floaty, like I was drunk, which was probably caused by a lethal cocktail of misery and fear at what the computer screen might show me.
Once I’d paid my few dollars to the woman at the front of the café, she indicated a booth and I went into it and sat down, feeling sick again. I logged on with the code she’d given me, then stared at the web browser wondering what I should tap in. Star had told me Ace’s real name, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember what it was. And even if I could, I wouldn’t have been able to spell it.
‘Bank crash.’
I pressed enter, but it brought up something about Wall Street in 1929.
‘Wanted cremenal bank man.’
That brought up a film about John Wayne in some cowboy movie.
In the end I tapped in ‘bank man hiding in thailand’ and pressed ‘enter’. A whole screen of headlines ranging from The Times to The New York Times to a Chinese paper flickered up. I pressed on ‘Images’ first, as I needed to see what everybody else had seen.
And there it was: the photo of the two of us at sunset on Phra Nang Beach – Me! Staring back at me in full Technicolor, for all the world to see, including this – as John Wayne might say – one-horse town.
‘Christ.’ I swore under my breath, studying the picture more closely. I saw I was actually smiling, which I didn’t often do in photos. Encircled in Ace’s arms, I looked happy, so happy that I almost didn’t recognise myself. And actually, I don’t look that bad, I thought, instinctively patting the hair that currently massed in tight ringlets around my shoulders. I understood now why Star liked it better long; at least I looked like a girl in the photo, not an ugly boy.
Stop it, I told myself, because this really wasn’t the moment to be vain. Yet as I clicked on the endless reproductions of the photo – including those in a load of Australian papers – I allowed myself a grim chuckle. Of all the D’Aplièse sisters to end up on the front page of a shedload of national newspapers, I had to be the most unlikely. Even Electra had never managed such a full house.
Then I got real, clicked onto the articles and began trying to decipher what they were saying. The good news was that at least I was ‘an unnamed woman’, so I wasn’t bringing shame on my family. But Ace . . .
Two hours later, I left the café. Though my legs had let me puddle-jump earlier, now it was all I could do to make them put one foot in front of the other. Turning into the hotel lobby, I asked the receptionist how I could get to the beach. I needed some air and some space, big time.
‘I’ll call you a taxi,’ she said.
‘I really can’t walk?’
‘No, darl’, it’s too far in this heat.’
‘Okay.’ I did as I was told and sat down on a hard, cheap sofa in the lobby until the taxi arrived. I climbed inside and we set off with me sitting numbly in the back. The view out of the window seemed to be devoid of human life – there was only the red earth alongside the wide road, and loads of empty building lots where clouds of white birds sat in the tall shady trees, their heads turning as one as the taxi went by.
‘Here you go, love. That’ll be seven dollars,’ the driver said. ‘Stop into the Sunset Bar over there when you need a lift back and they’ll give me a holler.’
‘Sure, thanks,’ I said, giving him a ten-dollar bill and not waiting for the change.
I plunged my feet into the soft sand and ran towards the big blue mass, knowing that if anyone needed to drown their sorrows, it was me. Arriving on the shoreline, my toes felt the coolness of the water and even though I was still in my shorts and a T-shirt, I dived straight in. I swam and swam in the gorgeous water, so clear that I could see the shadows of seabirds flying above flickering on the underwater sand. After a while I waded back to shore, totally exhausted, and lay flat on my back in this deserted piece of heaven in the middle of nowhere. To the left and right of me, the beach seemed to stretch on for miles and the heat that had felt so oppressive in town was swept away by the ocean breeze. There wasn’t another person in sight, and I wondered why the locals weren’t queuing up to swim in this perfect pool on their very doorstep.
‘Ace . . .’ I whispered, feeling I should say something meaningful to the sky to express my distress. But as usual, the right words wouldn’t come, so I let the feelings run through me instead.
What I had eventually puzzled together from all the online articles was that Ace was ‘notorious’. I’d had to look up the word in an online dictionary, like Star had taught me to: widely and unfavourably known . . .
My Ace, the man I had trusted and befriended, was all things bad. No one in the world had a good word to say about him. Yet, unless he was the most brilliant actor on the planet, I couldn’t believe that the guy they were describing was the same one I had lived and laughed with up until only a few days ago.
Apparently he’d done a load of fraudulent trading. The sum he’d ‘gambled away’ was so astronomical that at first I thought they’d got the number of noughts wrong. That anyone could lose that much money was just outrageous – I mean, where exactly did it go? Certainly not down the back of the sofa, anyway.
The reason everyone was doubly up in arms was because he’d run away the minute it had all been discovered and no one had seen hide nor hair of him since November. Until now, of course.
Thanks to me, his cover had been blown. Yet, having seen all the photographs of him a year or so ago in his sharp Savile Row suits, clean-shaven with hair far shorter than mine usually was, it seemed unlikely that anyone in Krabi would have recognised the skinny werewolf guy on the beach as the most wanted man in the banking world. Now I thought about it, his borrowed Thai paradise had been the perfect place to hide: there, amongst the thousands of young backpackers, he’d had the perfect smokescreen.
Today’s Bangkok Post said that the British authorities were now in talks with the Thai authorities to have him ‘extradited’. Again, I’d gone back to the online dictionary, and found out this meant that they were basically going to drag him back to England to face the music.
I felt a couple of sharp pinpricks on my face and looked up to see the storm clouds that had gathered into angry grey clumps overhead. I legged it up to the beach bar just in time, and sat with a pineapple shake to watch the natural light-show. It reminded me so much of the storm I’d seen from the Cave of the Princess before I’d been semi-arrested, and now it looked like Ace was going to be arrested for real when he got back to England.
If only things were different. . .
At the time, I thought Ace’s problems had something to do with another woman, but it couldn’t have been further from the truth. If our paths ever crossed again, I was sure he’d want to knife me rather than hug me.
What made that stupid lump come back to my throat was the fact that he had trusted me. He’d even given me his precious mobile number, which I knew from countless films could be traced to find the location of the owner. He must have really wanted to keep in touch with me if he’d been willing to take that risk.
I knew, just knew, that that lowlife Jay was part of this. He’d probably recognised Ace through his seedy journalist’s eyes, then followed him to the palace and bribed Po to get pictures as proof. I didn’t doubt he’d sold the photo and Ace’s whereabouts to the highest bidder and was now celebrating that he had enough dosh to keep himself in Singha beer for the next fifty years.
Not that it mattered now. Ace would never believe it hadn’t been me and nor would I, if I were him. Especially as I’d purposely not told him about Jay recognising him, albeit only so he wouldn’t worry. It would sound like a bunch of pathetic excuses. I couldn’t even contact him now anyway; I’d bet my life that his SIM card was swimming with the fishes on Phra Nang Beach.
‘Oh Cee,’ I berated myself as desolation engulfed me. ‘You’ve totally mucked it up again. You’re just useless!’
I want to go home . . .
‘G’day,’ a voice said from behind me. ‘How ya doing?’
I turned round and saw the girl from the tourist information desk standing behind me.
‘Okay.’
‘You waiting for someone?’ she asked me.
‘No, I don’t know anybody here yet.’
‘Then mind if I join you?’
‘Course not,’ I said, thinking it would be rude to say otherwise, even if I wasn’t exactly in the mood for small talk.
‘Did you just go swimming?’ She frowned at me. ‘Your hair’s wet.’
‘Erm, yeah,’ I said, patting it nervously, wondering if it was sticking up or something.
‘Strewth! Has no one warned you about the jellyfish? They’re brutal this time of year – we don’t go into the sea here until March, after the coast is clear. You got lucky then. One sting off an irukandji and you coulda carked it. Like, died,’ she translated.
‘Thanks for telling me. Any other dangerous things I should know about?’
‘Aside from the crocs in the creeks and the poisonous snakes that roam around this time of year, no. So, have you managed to contact yer rellies yet?’
‘You mean my relatives?’ I double-checked, trying to keep up with the Aussie slang. ‘No, not yet. I mean, I don’t think I actually have any alive here. I’m tracing my family history and Broome is where I was told to start.’
‘Yeah, it fits.’ The girl – whose name I was struggling to remember – flashed her lovely amber eyes at me. ‘You’ve got all the hallmarks of being from around these parts.’
‘Have I?’
‘Yeah. Your hair, the colour of your skin, and your eyes . . . bet I could tell you where they came from.’
‘Really? Where?’
‘I’d reckon you’ve got Aboriginal blood with some whitefella mixed in, and maybe those eyes came from Japtown, like mine.’ She gestured vaguely inland. ‘Broome was heaving with Japanese a few generations ago, and there are lots of mixed kids like us around.’
‘You’re part Aboriginal?’ I asked, wishing now I’d taken some time to do more research on Australia, because I really was sounding like a dunce. At least I suddenly recalled her name. It was Chrissie.
‘I have Aboriginal grandparents. They’re Yawuru – that’s the main Aboriginal tribe in this neck of the woods. What’s CeCe short for?’ she asked me.
‘Celaeno. I know, it’s a weird name.’
‘That’s beaut!’ It was Chrissie’s turn to look amazed.
‘Is it?’
‘Yeah, course it is! You’re named after one of the Seven Sisters of the Pleiades – the gumanyba. They’re like goddesses in our culture.’
I was speechless. No one had ever – ever – known where my name came from.
‘You really don’t know a lot about your ancestors, do you?’ she said.
‘Nope. Nothing.’ Then feeling rude as well as stupid, I added, ‘But I’d really like to learn more.’
‘My grandma is the real expert on all that stuff. Reckon she’d be stoked to tell you her Dreamtime stories – stuff that’s been passed down through the generations. Give me a call whenever and I’ll take you to meet her.’
‘Yeah, that would be great.’ I glanced out at the beach and saw the rain was now a memory, replaced by a golden-purple sun sinking fast towards the horizon. My attention was caught by a man and a camel strolling along the beach in front of the bar.
Chrissie turned to look at them too. ‘Hey, that’s my mate Ollie – he works for the camel tour company,’ she said, waving enthusiastically at the man.
Ollie came up to the café to say hello, leaving his camel waiting on the beach, its face sleepy and docile. Ollie was darker skinned than us, his long face handsome, and he had to stoop to embrace Chrissie. I sat there awkwardly as they began chatting, realising that they weren’t speaking English to each other, but a language I’d never heard before.
‘Ollie, this is CeCe – it’s her first time in Broome.’
‘G’day,’ he said and shook my hand with his calloused one. ‘Ever been on a camel?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘D’ya fancy having a go now? I was taking Gobbie out for a stroll to teach him some manners – he’s new and wild, so we haven’t tied him to the others yet. But I’m sure you sheilas can keep him in check.’ He winked at us.
‘Really?’ I said nervously.
‘Sure, any mate of Chrissie’s and all that,’ he said warmly.
We followed Ollie to Gobbie the camel, who turned his head away like a spoilt toddler as Ollie ordered him to kneel. After the umpteenth time, Gobbie finally agreed.
‘You ever done this before?’ I whispered to Chrissie as we both clambered onto his back. The scent coming off him was overpowering; in essence, he stank.
‘Yeah,’ she whispered, her breath tickling my ear. ‘Get ready for a bumpy ride.’
With a lurch, Gobbie suddenly stood up, and I felt one of Chrissie’s hands close around my waist to steady me as we were propelled upwards into the sky. The sun was beginning to dip towards the ocean, and the camel’s body cast a long shadow on the golden sand, his legs spindly, like something from a Dali painting.
‘You okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m good,’ I replied.
The ride was certainly not smooth, as Gobbie seemed to be doing his very best to run away. As we jolted over the sand, the two of us screamed as Gobbie began to canter and I realised just how fast camels could move.
‘Come back, ya drongo!’ Ollie shouted, running to keep pace, but Gobbie took no notice. Eventually, Ollie managed to slow the camel down, and Chrissie rested her chin on my shoulder, panting in relief.
‘Strewth! That was quite a ride!’ she said as we then walked more sedately along the beach. The setting sun had set the sky alight with pinks, purples and deep reds which were perfectly reflected in the ocean below. I felt as if I was gliding through a painting, the clouds like pools of oils on a palette.
Gobbie carried us back to the Sunset Bar, where he tipped us off inelegantly onto the sand. We waved goodbye to Ollie, and then went up the veranda steps.
‘Reckon we could use something cold after all that excitement,’ Chrissie said as she flopped into a chair. ‘What d’ya want to drink?’
I asked for an orange juice and so did she, then we sat together at the bar, recovering.
‘So how you gonna find your family?’ she asked. ‘Got any clues?’
‘A couple,’ I said, fiddling with my straw, ‘and I don’t really know what to do with them. Apart from the name of a woman who led me here, I’ve got a black and white photograph of two men – one old and one much younger – but I’ve no idea who they are, or what they’ve got to do with me.’
‘Have you shown it to anyone here yet? Maybe someone would recognise them,’ Chrissie suggested.
‘No. I’m going to the museum tomorrow. I thought I might get some answers from there.’
‘D’ya mind if I take a look? If they’re from round these parts, I might know ’em.’
‘Why not? The photo is back in my room at the hotel.’
‘No worries. I’ll give you a lift, then we can take a look together.’
We walked outside to the street, where dusk had brought with it the sounds of thousands of insects buzzing through the air, only to be snatched up by bats swooping to catch their prey. A shadow crossed the empty road, and at first I thought it was a cat, but when it froze and stared at me, I saw it had big wide eyes and a pink pointed snout.
‘That’s a possum, Cee,’ Chrissie commented. ‘They’re like vermin here. My grandma used to put them in her pot and cook ’em for supper.’
‘Oh,’ I said as I followed her through the car park to a battered, rusting moped.
‘You okay on the back of the bike?’ she asked.
‘After that camel ride, it sounds like heaven,’ I joked.
‘Jump aboard then.’ She handed me an old helmet, and I put it on before looping my hands around her middle. After a wobbly start, we set off. There was a welcome breeze on my face – a respite from what was another incredibly humid evening, with not a breath of wind to stir the heavy air.
We came to a halt in front of the hotel and as Chrissie parked the moped, I ran inside to fetch the photograph. When I returned to reception, Chrissie was chatting with the woman behind the counter.
‘I’ve got it,’ I said, waving it at her. We settled in the tiny residents’ lounge off reception, sitting together on the sticky leatherette sofa. Chrissie bent her head to study it.
‘It’s a really bad picture, ’cos the sun’s directly behind them and it’s in black and white,’ I said.
‘You mean you can’t tell what colour the people in it are?’ Chrissie queried. ‘I’d say the older man is black and the boy is lighter skinned.’ She held the photograph under the light of a lamp. ‘I’d reckon it was taken in the 1940s or 50s. There’s some writing on the side of the pickup truck behind them. Can you see?’ She passed the photo back to me.
‘Yeah, looks like it says “JIRA”.’
‘Holy dooley!’ Chrissie pointed at the taller figure standing in front of the car. ‘I think I know who that man is.’
There was a pause as she gaped at me with excitement and I stared back at her blankly.
‘Who?’
‘Albert Namatjira, the artist – he’s just about the most famous Aboriginal man in Australia. He was born in and worked out of a mission in Hermannsburg, a couple of hours outside Alice Springs. Y’don’t think he was related to you, do you?’
A shiver ran through me. ‘How would I know? Is he dead?’
‘Yeah, he died a fair while back, in the late 1950s. He was the first Aboriginal man to have the same rights as the whites. He could own land, vote, drink alcohol and he even met the Queen of England. He was an amazing painter – I’ve gotta print of Mount Hermannsburg on my bedroom wall.’
Clearly, Chrissie was a fan of this guy. ‘So, before that time, Aboriginal people didn’t have those rights?’
‘Nah, not until the late sixties,’ she explained. ‘But Namatjira got his rights early ’cos of his artistic talent. What a bloke. Even if he isn’t a rellie of yours, it’s a big clue to where y’might have come from. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-seven.’
‘So . . .’ I watched Chrissie do some mental arithmetic. ‘That means you were born in 1980, which means he might be your grandad! Y’know what this means, right?’ she said, beaming at me. ‘You gotta go to Alice Springs next. Wow, CeCe, I can’t believe it’s him in the pic!’ Chrissie threw her arms round me and squeezed me tight.
‘Okay,’ I gulped. ‘I’d actually been planning on heading to Adelaide to speak to the solicitor who passed on a legacy to me. Where is Alice Springs?’
‘It’s right in the middle of the country – what we call the Never Never. I’ve always wanted to go there – it’s near Uluru.’ When she saw my confused expression, she rolled her eyes. ‘Ayers Rock to you, idiot.’
‘So what kind of stuff did this guy paint?’
‘He totally revolutionised Aboriginal art. He did these incredible watercolour landscapes, and started a whole new school of painting. It takes serious skill to paint a good watercolour, rather than just blobbing paint onto a canvas. He gave his landscapes luminosity – he really knew how to layer the watercolours to get the play of light just right.’
‘Wow. How do you know all this?’
‘I’ve always loved art,’ Chrissie said. ‘I did Aussie culture as part of my tourism degree and spent a semester at uni studying Aboriginal artists.’
I wasn’t ready to admit that I’d studied art at college too but had dropped out. ‘So, did this guy ever paint other stuff, like portraits?’ I asked, curious to know more.
‘Portraits are complicated in our culture. Like, it’s a big taboo because you’re replicating someone’s essence; it would grieve the spirits up there ’cos they’ve done their job down here and want to be left in peace. When one of us dies, we’re not supposed to speak their name again.’
‘Really?’ I thought about how often me and Star had mentioned Pa Salt since he’d died. ‘Isn’t it good to remember those you love and miss?’
‘Course, but speaking their name calls them back, and they’re happy to help us from up there.’
I nodded, trying to take it all in, but it had been a long day already and I couldn’t hide a huge yawn.
‘I’m not boring you, am I?’ she teased me.
‘Sorry, I’m just super tired from travelling.’
‘No worries, I’ll let you get your beauty sleep.’ She stood up. ‘Oh, and give me a call tomorrow if you’re up for meeting my grandma.’
‘I will. Thanks, Chrissie.’
With a wave, she walked out of the hotel and I climbed the stairs, too exhausted to process what I’d just discovered, but feeling a shiver of excitement at the fact that the man in the photograph had been an artist, just like me . . .