The Deadliest of Errors

Stunned silence greeted us when we got to Buywara Creek billabong on that emergency call out. It was the dead of night -- made worse by the first storm of the season. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face by an inch. But hey, that’s the Australian north for you, and the weather’s one of the reasons we love it so much. Just when I’d settled in for a quiet night at the station, that garbled call came in over the radio. Why do these things always happen in the middle of the night? And always in the damned rain! That’s the drawback of a ranger’s job, the fumbling around in the pitch black of night, trying to keep troubled people - or troubled creatures - calm and out of harm’s way.

You know I’ve seen people in shock in my time -- same as you I'm sure, Officer -- but this little cluster of youths brought an extra element to it. Difficult to put my finger on. All I can say is that with most incidents involving a group you usually get a good mixture of reactions. You know: hysterics, trembling hands and usually the sheilas want a sympathetic pat on the back or to lean on someone’s shoulder while they let it all out. And - strewth - they want a good yabber about it. Can’t blame em, but; then, you get the odd one who is shocked into silence -- usually the fellas; and the ones who try to stay busy, try to help but just end up ditherin under yer feet instead of taking decisive action, y’know? But this lot? Stony cold silent. Every one of them. When they did talk or move it seemed they all did so at the same time, like they were tied together. Yet, the weird - no, eerie - thing was that not one of them turned to each other for comfort. In fact, I don’t think they even so much as looked at each other. The whole six hours!

When we asked them what happened, they could barely get the words out. I had a real strain to hear them against the pitter-patter of rain.

‘Just disappeared,’ one of them said.

Not one of them blinked at that -- I swear! None of them even moved. Oh, except for the girl with brown pigtails. She kicked at the ground with her pink flip-flopped foot, her face so grimy she had streaks of white down her cheeks from where she’d been crying. In fact, if it hadn’t been for her I swear I’d have thought the rest of em were robots.

Disappearance is never a good thing, especially when it involves someone from Cascade Tours. Me and my partner, Marty, exchanged a stab of a look. He didn’t need to tell me - I went straight over to the CB radio and requested a boat. That would be first. If they turned up nothin, a chopper would be next.

‘So, does anyone wanna tell me what really happened?’ I could hear Marty ask them behind me. When I looked around, all them faraway gazes they’d hung from their faces like stockings on a clothes line, they’d all but turned opaque. That was when I understood: I could almost hear the churning of the waters building up behind the dam and if we could get just one of them to elaborate, the whole sorry story would come crashing down on us. For some reason, a knot of dread screwed up my stomach. Why? It’s not like I haven’t seen bull dust like this before. If it had been any other company but Cascade involved...

Marty stood there watching em all moody, like, from under the brim of his dripping hat. He kept his hands on his hips, chewing gum. Although he was trying to look stern -- you know, all big Aussie shoulders and authority, like -- I knew he was at a loss with this crowd. I’m surprised he didn’t start polishing his ranger badge there and then in front of them! You know how it is. If you got a badge people think you’re the law. You can get away with so much. It intimidates straight away, especially when you got a uni to go with it. The things we could get away with. If we were that way inclined, of course.

‘Roger,’ he said to me. ‘We’d better get these back to H.Q. The police will be wanting to speak with them when they get there.’

Haw! Nice one. Marty knew that would ruffle their feathers. And it did. A flutter rippled through the group like chooks who’ve spied the farmer filling up their corn bucket.

‘We want to stay,’ said the blonde girl -- the American -- sitting on a log. She stabbed the dirt on the ground with a stick, but she didn’t look up. ‘Until they find th-- until they come back.’

The rest of em mumbled in vague agreement. Such unison -- for a group who stood with their backs to each other, anyways. It was crook.

‘They will come back, won’t they? I mean, how long will they search?’ The girl asked. It suddenly hit me just how young and stupid these kids had been. I mean, just what were they doing in the water in the first place? Everyone knows you don’t go swimming in the billabongs around here, not unless it’s a designated safe spot. But I didn't want to be the one to snuff out the hope that wavered in her eyes like two candles in the breeze.

It was a question we always hate getting. How can you tell a mother, or a father, or anyone in distress, that a search team will only go out if it is safe for them to do so? That in the pitch black of the Northern bush in rainy season you might as well be looking for a red-back spider in a crate full of funnel webs? In the twenty square clicks of national park you could be searching a month and not even have covered half of it, not properly. Even with a chopper.

‘If the boat turns up nothin we’ll send in a helicopter, but only after the storm’s passed. Who knows when that will be. Storms can last for days up here.’ I didn’t mention the weeks, too.

Rain drummed invisible fingers on our plastic ponchos in the silence that followed, and that rock of dread in my stomach notched up a gear.

‘Fine, you can wait,’ Marty said. ‘For a while at least. But youse best get your things together. If the weather gets on worse than this they’ll have to cut it short anyway.’

A ribbon of water began to stream down the front of his hat as if in response, and he gave me a wary look. When he came over to me his voice was low.

‘We’d best get them in their tents. Don’t suppose there’s any point in thinking these lot will help pack them away later.’ He gave a sigh. Yep, it was going to be a long night. ‘And listen; see if you can get any of these to talk. You know, a nice relaxed chat. Nothing that’ll spook them. I’m going to try him over there.' He gave a flick of his head behind him. ‘Maybe if he’s not around they’ll spill.’

‘Sure thing,’ I said, so gruff it was almost a growl.

‘Rob?’ Marty called the group’s tour guide over. ‘Can we have a word, mate? In the Ute?’

Rob stepped forward, his copper top bowed in his usual sook way, and weaved his way past the stiff shoulders of the young backpackers. I gotta say, he looked more shook up than the rest of em. And too right, with his history.

Hours later, long after the boat had been dispatched across the water and after the first squawks of morning had harangued the rest of the wildlife awake, I listened to a plip-plip-plip of splashes on leaves in an almost trance-like state. The early season downpour had subsided some time ago, but you know well as I do that it was just a taster for the next six months.

I was tired. I’d had enough; I’d heard enough. You've talked to them too, so you know the story. I wanted to crawl back home and slip in next to my Delores and sleep for a year and forget about all the aggro. Watching the sky turn from grey and purple to pink and orange, expectin any moment to hear that whining buzz of the outboard motor skimming across the water, I hoped for good news. I anticipated none. Beats me how when the comfort of dawn arrives you can’t help but expect better things to happen, even though you know otherwise deep down in your core -- as if night time is just a magician's illusion and all his trickery will be revealed in the cold lighta day and show what a dill he really is.

That billabong is a familiar spot to me -- me and my Delores had picnicked there many a time, and it was a supposed safe place for campers -- but it’d been a while since I’d been there. I’d forgotten just how awesome it could be. The sun lined a golden glow along the tops of the receding blue storm clouds, suggesting another hot day. I’d be dead set no matter how roastin it got those beams would never flash enough heat to warm the miserable faces that surrounded me. The clouds of judgement hung too heavy and thick for them lot and even a willy-willy would have problems blowing it away. The cackle of the kookaburra, the chatter of the birds -- all mute to those sombre bogans.

Guilt is always a murky business, wouldn’t ya say? I bet you know I lot more about it than I do. What did you make of it all after you spoke to them?

Mmm, thought as much. You can be vague as you want, but skulduggery is what I call it.

As we rounded them up to leave, a thin veil of mist lifted from the surface of the still water while the colours of heaven seeped deeper into the sky, but I didn’t stop to savour a drop of it.

Any other day it would have been a beaut of a morning.