Show Me the Sky - Nicholas Hogg [24]
‘It has everything to do with the manuscript. I told you he saw things out there … other people.’
‘Other people? You mean a hallucination? From lack of water? Thirst?’
‘I don’t know, really. He wrote about things in such detail. This kind of happening scares me. I don’t believe in God or ghosts, so when a man I love and trust tells me he saw a Victorian priest wandering the desert, I’m afraid. Afraid that I don’t understand the world I live in, that I’m missing something.’
‘A priest?’
‘Well, a reverend. A Reverend Thomas. And a convict called McCreedy.’
‘And this is all in the letter?’
‘I need to show you … It should be here. I don’t understand. Three days ago.’
‘This Philip, he read the letter?’
‘What? Yes, of course. I told you, he was a friend of Cal’s from school.’
‘So he was English?’
‘From the same town.’
‘I guess in his early twenties?’
‘Why would he interest you? I thought you wanted to know about the finding of the manuscript?’
‘Oh, er, yes. I just want to know if anyone else is researching as thoroughly as I am. All this work I’m doing. And at the university’s expense.’
‘He just wanted to know more about his friend, what happened at the end. He and Cal grew up together.’
‘Is he still here?’
‘I don’t know? I’m not sure. OK, Dr Adams. Look, I can’t find the letter. Maybe my fiancé moved it somewhere. And I have some things to do. Even in a little town like this we are busy sometimes.’
Riding between these homes of solid rock, the dugout suburbs of a desert town, I wonder if Monique Cabanne’s visitor stole that letter. And if he did, why? I wanted to ask if she were sure this ‘Philip’ was not Billy K.
But of course I was Dr Adams, a researcher of South Pacific history. I was there enquiring about the manuscript, not a missing rock star.
Back at the hotel I lie on the bed and listen again to the Dictaphone recording. I write the names Thomas and McCreedy in my notebook. The Reverend Thomas exists, I know this much from reading the journal. But McCreedy isn’t familiar.
I take a shower, remove a knotted condom blocking the plug hole. Hardly the Ritz. From the bathroom window I can see palm trees, the leaves rattled by the wind. I stand naked and shave, blown dry by the desert breeze. Back in the room I switch on the TV and sit on the bed. Breaking news is the success of a DNA sweep by local police, the apprehension of a murder suspect from 1979. I’m jealous, and wonder why the hell I’m lounging around.
Then I realise something. When the journal reached the university, before it was restored, transcribed and printed for a twenty-first century readership, the pages were melded into a solid block. Only the first two diary entries had been legible. Neither of which mention the Reverend Thomas. So how did Cal Smith know his name?
Instead of sitting in my room thinking about Billy K, and the ghost of a dead reverend, I sit on a high stool in the hotel bar. And think about Billy K.
It’s 6 p.m. This is where the thirsty locals drink, dusty men from construction sites and opal mines, dropping in for a swift one on the way home. Then staying until closing time. I order an orange juice and watch others get drunk, because it stops me doing the same.
The barman flicks the TV from rugby league to horse racing. The noisy hubbub dies for the start of the race, and then builds with the breathless commentator along the final furlongs. A man called Chukka slaps his thigh like a jockey, leaping off his seat when his horse noses in first. He waves his betting slip shouting, ‘You fucking beaut.’ When his friends call out their orders, he shouts, ‘Pick your own winners, and buy your own piss.’ And as if to taunt me he’s wearing a Billy K: WANTED T-shirt, the million-selling design with the cancelled tour dates printed on the reverse.
Invisible in the corner with my soft drink, only the barman has asked me where I’m from. When I said England he nodded his head and served someone else.
I have my notebook open on the table. The name McCreedy has been underlined