“Back here for lunch?” Ciara said.
They walked out along the headland beyond the harbour, all the way to the lighthouse that marked the end point. It was tall, stark white against the sky. Patrick imagined it half-built, Governor Gulpepper standing on the cliff edge with his arms raised. He vaguely remembered blood red clouds and things falling but had no idea why that image was in his mind. A cold wind blew across and he shivered.
“I can’t get used to it being winter in the middle of the year,” Patrick said. “Nearly July and it’s cold.”
“Hardly cold compared to our winters,” Torsten said.
“Well, no, but you know what I mean. I’m glad I have a sweater on.”
“I like it,” Simone said. “Clear and sun but not hot. Remember you the last trip?” she asked Torsten.
He laughed. “Yeah, that was hot! We came to Australia once before, and we started in Darwin, but it was January. So hot and humid, it was awful.”
“There’s a beach down there,” Ciara said, pointing over the south side of the head.
They walked down that way, taking their time to enjoy the views, and found the beach was quite small, but it had a nice aspect and was low between the head and the next rise of land, so it was sheltered. Behind the gravelly black sand was another park, another set of bright plastic play equipment. Four people sat at one of the picnic tables, the only others there. They were a strange bunch, Patrick thought. A young woman, a middle aged woman and man, and an elderly man. Maybe a family group? But they didn’t look alike other than they were all incredibly pale. They just sat there, staring at nothing, not talking. They gave Patrick the creeps.
A noticeboard stood at the corner of the park, weathered wood with scratched Perspex in front. It had a variety of community notices, flyers for yoga classes, local produce, Man And A Van For Hire. But one entire side was dedicated to posters about missing people. The Have you seen Daniel? poster was there again, along with about a dozen others. Mostly young people, but not all, with bold headings like MISSING and HELP US FIND STACEY. Ciara stood staring at them and Patrick looked over her shoulder. He opened his mouth to say something, but Torsten interrupted his thoughts.
“It’s volcanic.”
Patrick turned. “What is?”
“The sand. Well, the whole area, I suppose. Lots of white sand beaches and wide-open bays along the coast of Australia, but this rough black stuff has to be volcanic.”
“Danke, nerd,” Simone said.
“Let’s go back for lunch,” Ciara said. “I’m getting hungry again.”
“Two bacon rolls weren’t enough?” Patrick asked.
“I only had one!”
They went back to the fish and chip shop and stared at the menu board. Eventually they picked a combination of blue grenadier, chips, a seafood basket and four cans of soda. The woman behind the counter seemed entirely uninterested as she took the order, almost as though she were annoyed they were there at all. Patrick took out his credit card and she said, “Cash only,” in a tired, put-upon voice.
“In this day and age?”
She pointed to a small A4 sheet of paper with CASH ONLY typed on it that had been taped to the bottom of the menu. “It’s right there.”
Patrick turned to the others. “We have any cash?”
Between them they came up with enough for about half the order and adjusted it accordingly.
“You must lose a lot of business this way,” Patrick said as he paid.
The woman ignored him, put the cash in the till, and turned away to start preparing the food.
“Jesus, between the rudeness and the cash only thing, I’m amazed this place is still in business.”
“Maybe it’s a front for organised crime,” Torsten said with a grin.
“Let’s draw some cash out on the way back,” Ciara said. “In case other places are like this.”
There were tables and chairs out the front that overlooked the water, the harbour to their left, open ocean to the right. After about ten minutes, Patrick went back inside to check on the order and there were several wrapped parcels on the counter.
“Is that ours?” he asked.
The woman looked around theatrically. “You see anyone else here?”
“Were you going to call us or just leave it there to go cold?”
The woman rolled her eyes and went back into the kitchen area behind the counter. She scowled at him through the long hatch until he turned away.
He gathered up the food and, unable to help himself, turned back. “You’re fucking rude, you know that? Maybe you’d be better suited to a different job.”
The woman stared at him, face blank, until he shook his head and took the food back outside.
For all the terrible service, the meal wasn’t too bad, but far from the best they’d had. Regardless, the extra grease seemed to chase away the last of the previous night’s over-indulgence. Even Simone looked more or less back to normal as they walked back around the town, idly browsing shops.
Patrick chose not to say anything, he didn’t want to seem judgemental, but there were a number of odd-looking people in The Gulp. One fellow he saw walking a dog had no nose, which he found strangely disturbing. Maybe cancer had eaten it off? Others seemed overly pale, or strangely long of limb. Still others, the majority he supposed, were entirely normal-looking folks. But there was an edge of oddness to the town he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Maybe it was simply isolation.
As he stood outside a bookshop while his friends browsed the shelves, he looked out towards the north. The houses climbed the hill, lots of them in undulating geological waves, leading up to thick bush in the distance. The cliff of the northernmost head was just visible, crowded with vegetation right up to the edge. Given what they’d driven through, he assumed the south side of town was largely the same. A weird little pocket of civilisation in what Torsten had called unusually old forest. He was fascinated by the place but would be happy to drive on the next day.
It was a little after five and beginning to get dark as they trudged up the steep hill on the western edge of town, back to The Manor. The band were there, all in their makeup like before. Patrick was getting used to it but thought their commitment to it was a little bit try-hard. He’d like to see them without it, see the real people beneath the façade. He mentioned as much to Torsten as they sat with a beer in the large lounge room, night darkening the windows.
“Maybe it’s like Batman,” Torsten said.
“What?”
“Is Bruce Wayne the real person, and Batman his alter ego. Or is Batman real and Bruce Wayne the fake mask he wears?”
“Well, it’s obviously…” Patrick didn’t finish as the thought took root in his mind. “Actually, now you mention it.” He laughed.
“You see. So maybe the band is real, yes?”
Edgar stuck his head in the door. “Grub up!”
They followed him to the back of the house into a big kitchen. It had a massive iron range cooker, copper pots and pans hanging from a cradle over a wide marble work surface. At the far end was an old oak table, scored and stained, but solid as the day it was made. Which must have been a long time ago, Patrick thought. It easily seated twelve given the dozen chairs around it, so the eight of them had plenty of room.
Howard put plates down and then a metal pot of steaming rice. They served themselves as Howard went back to the stove, then came back with two more oversized saucepans, one in each hand. Patrick marvelled at the man’s grip strength, carrying them easily. He put them on the table and pointed.