Patrick checked his watch. “It’s nearly midnight. Probably a little late–”
“Pat, are you mad?” Ciara said. “What, you have to get up early? Let’s go and party!”
“We’ve all been drinking. Who can drive?”
“You can drive,” Edgar said. “You want to know how many cops there are around here at this time?” He held up his thumb and forefinger to make a zero, and grinned.
“Is it far?”
“It’s about a thirty-minute drive. Everywhere is far around here, but thirty minutes is nothing by our reckoning.”
Ciara punched his arm. “Let’s go, Pat!”
Patrick looked at Torsten and Simone and they both nodded, smiling. It did sound kinda fun, and there wasn’t much more of a local cultural experience than a house party. He noticed the rest of the band chatting to a few of the other fans, people nodding, bumping fists, heading off.
“There’ll be a bunch of people there,” Edgar said. “But we don’t invite everybody. Our van is parked in the alley outside. Why don’t you go and get your car, then pull up behind us. You can follow us back.”
“We’ll know which is your van?”
Edgar laughed. “It’s the only one with Blind Eye Moon painted on the sides.”
Twenty minutes later they followed a large black van out of Monkton. It had a beautifully air-brushed band logo of a red eye superimposed over a full moon on the side, set against stormy clouds in a night sky. They took the main road to the north, but instead of joining the main freeway, signposted to Enden and other places, including Sydney a ridiculous number of kilometres further on, Edgar pointed the van down a narrow turnoff from a roundabout that looked like it wouldn’t go anywhere much at all. The sign only had two names on it: Gulpepper and Enden.
A little buzzed from the beers, a lot buzzed from the gig, Patrick drove with a grin on his face. He felt like a naughty kid, staying out late, sticking it to the man, hanging with a real life rock’n’roll band. It was mystifying that Blind Eye Moon played such parochial venues.
The small road led past an industrial area on the edge of Monkton, large metal sheds and cement loading bays, then became a straight line, one lane each way through thick vegetation that came right up to the road on either side. Sometimes the tops of the trees met above the bitumen.
“This is old forest,” Torsten said from behind. He and Simone sat at the campervan’s small table in the back, while Patrick drove, Ciara beside him in the passenger seat.
Patrick glanced into the rear view mirror, saw Torsten looking out the side window, nose pressed to the glass. “Old?”
“Yeah, I’ve studied a bit.”
“He’s a tree nerd,” Simone said with a laugh.
“Hey, I like nature. Australia has what they call old growth forest, but not much left. Mostly in Tasmania, I think? Not sure. Anyway, this region is supposed to be dry sclerophyll forest, but here it looks way older than most of the coast around.”
“Dry what now?” Ciara asked.
“Sclerophyll. Wait a minute, I can’t remember the details.”
Patrick glanced up again, saw Torsten tapping at his phone. “Here it is. Dry sclerophyll forests are characterised by their scenic landscapes and diverse flora and represent south-east Australia’s last remaining areas of wilderness. Typically eucalypts, wattles and banksias… associated with low soil fertility… blah blah blah. Low fertility also makes soils undesirable for agriculture and native vegetation has, therefore, remained relatively intact.” He looked out of the window again and shook his head. “But this seems much older than dry sclerophyll should look.” He scrolled his phone again and read aloud. “Plants grow slowly in nutrient-deficient conditions and some species have developed symbiotic relationships with nutrient-fixing bacteria and fungi to enhance nutrient availability.”
“Booooring!” Simone said.
“Bushfires play a vital role in regeneration of dry sclerophyll forests. Many species are able to resprout from buds protected beneath soils or within the trunk or branches. Other species have seeds that are protected by a hard seed-coat or woody fruit, which are stimulated to open or germinate by fire.” Torsten stopped, eyes scanning. “Let me just look… oh.”
“What is it?” Ciara asked.
Torsten looked up with a shrug and a smile. “No more signal, must be a dead spot for reception.”
“Thanks fuck for this, yes?” Simone said.
“So whatever,” Patrick said, laughing along. “It’s old and weird looking. We don’t need Google to know that. Look how dense it is! And this place, Gulpepper, must be miles from anywhere. How much further, you think?”
“Everyone calls it The Gulp, remember?” Ciara said.
“Yeah. Sounds delightful.”
After twenty minutes along the straight road through strangely old and thick bush, Edgar indicated and they turned right onto Gulpepper Road. Another ten minutes and they started to see farms and other properties, then came over a hill to a large roundabout and a decent sized town spread out before them.
“Jaysus, I didn’t expect that,” Patrick said.
“There’s a harbour and everything,” Ciara pointed, then the view was lost as they descended the other side of the hill.
“The sign said ‘Gulpepper, population 8,000’,” Torsten said. “That’s not a tiny hamlet.”
“Did you saw the bit underneath?” Simone asked. “Someone writed it on.”
“What bit?”
“It said ‘But the dead outnumber the living’.”
Patrick laughed. “Well, isn’t that cheery.”
They drove on, past a large Woolworths supermarket on the left, lit up white and green, and then Edgar indicated again and turned right up a steep hill. They followed, engine whining. Houses lined either side, some clearly older, with more modern buildings in between. Patrick imagined the place when it was first settled and everyone had plenty of space, until they began selling the land, subdividing as the town grew. They reached the top of the large hill, the town spread out below them, then went around a tight S-bend and along further. More houses, these a little more spaced out, and then a huge building on a corner block.
The block was thick with old trees, huge with high, wavy buttress roots, and well-established garden beds of shrubs and flowers. A stone wall stood all around it, and in the middle a large two-storey stone block house. Big bay windows, verandas with curlicued metal fencing all around both floors, a steep tiled roof with intricate chimney stacks. Behind the house, on the far side of the big garden, was nothing but bush. The road turned left and went back down the other side of the hill. More houses lined that street. Edgar drove his black van into the driveway of the big house. A stone sign carved with the words “The Manor” marked the entrance to the driveway.
“Far out,” Patrick said. “He wasn’t joking.”
The driveway curved around behind the house, several other cars already there. Some were empty, others had people inside, waiting. Edgar drove the van past them all and into a large three car garage, the door on the left open to receive him. Patrick parked up behind the other cars. When the band emerged, people poured out of their vehicles and crowded around.
“Time to party!” Edgar said, and everyone cheered.
There were ten or twelve others, all chatting with the comfort of familiarity. Patrick and his friends loitered back a little and let everyone else enter first. The band still wore their black clothes and makeup as they led the group into a huge sitting room with a massive bay window. All manner of couches and armchairs were dotted around, a few low tables, a giant television in one corner. Paintings hung on the walls, mostly portraits but a few landscapes, all quite old-looking. An ostentatious chandelier hung glittering from the twenty-foot-high ceiling, and Edgar flicked a switch to turn it on, then used a dimmer switch to set the brightness low. Shirley went to a computer on a desk in the corner and started some music, old school Pantera, Patrick realised. There had to be speakers all around the large room, as “Mouth For War” seemed to blare from every side, every corner.