Chapter Fifty – Rock Bars and Rock Stars

WILD DOG RIVER BY GREG BARRON

In 1970 I saw Billy Thorpe and the Aztecs play live at the Sailing Club in Cairns. Near the end of the night the band launched into one of their least commercial, but best songs – a long and meandering piece called Mama. Billy screamed his throat raw, shook the sweat from his shaggy hair, then embarked on a guitar solo that was more like going into battle. You could see the frustration on his face – trying to build a fabric of sound in the sultry air between the stage and audience, but he couldn’t get it right.

This went on for four or five minutes, when he seemed to forget that the audience existed. He went down on his knees, and worked away at the fretboard, frowning, scowling and grimacing until, without warning, everything changed.

Notes began to ring out with singing clarity. Harmonics danced in the air like the echoes of a church choir. Billy stood up again, leaning back, feet wide apart, with his eyes almost closed. He, the guitar, the song and the band became one organism. Melodic perfection flowed from his hand, through the guitar pickups, pouring with gut-thumping volume from the speakers of his Strauss amplifiers.

Now the rhythm changed altogether. The bass drum hammered out a rapid-fire thump. Meanwhile, Billy rocked the wah pedal with his foot, creating a syncopated whine across the strings that I can still hear in my mind.

A year or so later, in Vietnam, the sound of Hueys – UH-1 Iroquois helicopters – always put that part of the performance in my head. The rhythm was the same. The shockwave of the blade tips striking air was the thump, coupled with the buzz of the tail rotor, and the wild tones of Billy’s playing sounded like the doppler effect of a passing chopper. Out on patrol, the song hardly left my head. I was living in the middle of a rock concert, played over and over by the never-ending parade of choppers heading in with soldiers and out with wounded and battle-stunned men over the Southeast Asian skies.

Now, while Tommy weaved his way through the bush beside the river, his feet scarcely disturbing the casuarina needles, his head swivelling to take in every element of the bush as he walked, Billy Thorpe and his guitar sound came into my head again. Tommy heard it too. He stopped and looked up.

‘Chopper,’ I said. ‘Get down.’

We dived for cover, and, lying prone on the ground I looked through a screen of branches, listening as the chopper came up from the south, visual at last, scarcely a hundred feet off the ground. It was no Huey; I knew that already from the sound. It looked like a Bell 47, with the full bubble cockpit and cross-welded tail frame, probably a charter. The military, as far as I knew, hadn’t used these machines operationally since the fifties.

There were three people inside the bubble – only vague shapes at first, but as the chopper banked sharply on an easterly heading, I had a clear view inside. One man was the pilot. The second was Brian Grayling, my old boss, and editor of the Cairns Post. The sight of the third man made me almost choke with fear.

It was the killer, the man who had shot down the skipper and Owen that day at the Hope Islands. He had grown a beard again, so he looked the same as he had that night in the Cooktown park. I’m pretty sure he did not see me, and no more than a second passed before the machine swooped away and moved out of sight.

‘Are they looking for us?’ Kat asked.

I was so discomforted by the sight of the bearded killer that I could not reply for a moment. ‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘They’ve only just arrived. But I’m betting that’s why they’ve brought the chopper up – chances are they’ll be on a search pattern before long.’

We set off towards the river again, and had not moved far when we heard the sound of the chopper change as it settled to the ground back towards the hills. Silence again.

‘You recognised someone, didn’t you?’ asked Kat. ‘Who was in there?’

I kept walking. ‘My old boss at the Cairns Post – who turned on me in court – and the other bloke was the one who killed my friends. They’re both bad news,’ I said. ‘No pun intended.’

Tommy turned to us, signalled that we should be quiet; went ahead seeming to sniff the air and swivel his head to listen, then returned to wave us on. Kat and I emerged out into the riverbank area together.  

The river here was narrower, beautiful and sublime. A heron, standing in the shallows flapped its wings and took to the air, rickety at first then graceful as he found warmer air.

Tommy turned upstream, and we followed, with Kat either beside or behind me, depending on the width of passage the undergrowth allowed us.

After a period of silence, Kat said; ‘There’s something strange going on.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, if this Brian Grayling was in on the whole thing, why would he send you up here to write an article on the place? Was it some kind of setup?’

I shrugged, ‘Maybe, after the initial murder, they wanted to get the public to think that Nolan and his crew were just a harmless bunch of old fellas hanging out together.’ Her words, however, made me thoughtful. Why had Brian sent me here?

We passed a rock bar, and I asked the question with my eyes. Tommy shook his head and waved us on. I guessed that it must be number four. This was followed by a broad pool, and we were halfway along when we heard a motorbike in the near distance. We stopped and waited until the sound receded before continuing on.

As we walked, my fisherman’s eye never stopped assessing the snags and pools in the river. Under different circumstances I knew exactly where I would have cast my bait or lure. This seemed like an activity from a past life – a world of family and fun, where hours, even days could be spent pursuing fish and fun. Of beers in pubs that rang with laughter and warm beds to lie in at home. Now, however, I lived in a world of fatigue and fear, being driven on by the need to stay alive. Where the only good things were the allies, as Kat had put it, that I made along the way.

The next set of rocky shallows was not much further on. This one stretched across the river. It was a beautiful sight, with a strong flow over stones embossed with green algae. Larger boulders created angles in the current – some of which seemed brooding and frightening – it was like I could see eyes and armoured snouts in the bubbles and swirls. Immediately below the fast water was a deep black pool, and above was a thick stand of pandanus, giving way to paperbarks on both sides as the river widened again.

Tommy held up the fingers and thumb of his right hand. Five. The fifth rock bar.

I heaved a sigh and continued to study the area, wondering where on earth, if at all, someone would hide a fortune in gold.

‘Where do we look?’ asked Kat.

I shook my head. I had no idea.

***

Leading the column of men, Liang carried his own burden stoically, wondering if he had set these men an impossible task. They sweated and grunted around him, their sandals scrabbling and slipping on the rough stone and gravelled surface. They carried weapons strapped to their shoulders, and some provisions as well, yet no word of complaint was heard. These were men honed to endure hardship, and they believed that this would be the final ordeal before the journey homeward.

Gam walked beside his leader now, more lightly burdened than the others so he could navigate. He directed the group in a southerly direction, which would, he assured Liang, take them to the river on which the Kingfisher was moored.

They came down off the ridges, onto a woodland plain, and Liang ordered a short but necessary halt. Working together, the men broke branches from trees, and trimmed off twigs and leaves, to make short but sturdy carrying poles – a much better way to carry the gold in its canvas packs. Yet, some of the straps were worn or broken, and trying to attach them in the dark required ingenuity.

As they were preparing to move off again, they heard a flurry of gunshots, from back on the hill. Every man froze, standing motionless as the echoes bounced and cracked from stone faces across the landscape.

‘The Guild have attacked our two heroes,’ said Liang.

There was a murmur of prayer from the men who stood with heaving chests. They were all devout followers of the Tao, to a greater or lesser extent, and the sacrifice of their two comrades was moving.

Save your servant, O Sustainer of Life, from too early a death …

The shooting continued, and Liang knew that the longer the two men could hold the hill, the greater chance he and his band had of getting away. They were duty bound to make the most of it. He tried not to think about Chen Ye, who had been such an able lieutenant, and would be missed.

‘We go now,’ Liang croaked at last, and no one complained as they shouldered their burdens and followed. The gunshots became more distant as they went on, then stopped altogether. At that point one of the men – it was unclear who – wailed a lament – for his lost comrades.

At length, they came to the river, running dark and fluid. The water was brackish, but still the men put down their loads, and crowded the bank to drink from cupped hands

‘The Kingfisher will be downstream in the tidal reaches,’ said Gam. ‘I can’t be sure, but it could easily be an hour’s walk, perhaps twice that long.’

‘In that case I think it would be prudent,’ said Liang, ‘to hide the gold before we continue. Walking without it will save our backs and we can return to get it later, when we know that all is safe.’

‘Here?’ asked Gam.

Liang looked around for a useful hiding place, seeing nowhere suitable. Digging a large enough hole was beyond them, but so was any more walking. Exhaustion caused his hands and knees to shake. Any effort was too much. Yet there was more at stake than just their own lives and well-being.

‘Let’s head upstream a short distance,’ he said. ‘And find an auspicious place.’

‘No!’ cried one of the men – a wily and wiry fighter called Tsang. ‘You no longer bear the Dragon Medal, I am going to the Kingfisher, and you can carry the gold yourself. Who is with me?’

No one stepped forward, but Liang could see them study each other. If one more had broken, they might all have done so. Tsang hesitated, and seemed to vacillate.

Liang pressed the advantage, ‘Please. I know your patience has been tested. Trust me for just a little while longer.’ He was addressing all the men, not just one.

Half mad with fatigue, and still scowling, Tsang took up his burden and fell into line. Liang heaved a sigh of relief, knowing that he had only narrowly escaped a mutiny.

After another sweating, heaving march, with the sounds of monstrous reptiles slithering into the water at their approach, they came upon a place where water cascaded over rocks and stones, shining reflections of a million stars.

In an undercut bank they hid the gold, working wordlessly, slippery with mud, swearing and praying. Two men with rifles covered the workers from the approach of crocodiles, and others passed the gold down to be stowed.

Relieved of their burdens, at last, they walked downstream as the first glow of dawn lit the eastern sky. The riverine scrub was thick, but there were pathways made by animal and human feet. They passed more rock bars, characterised by fast water, gurgling current, and a narrowing of the river. There were long slow pools, and even stretches of sand along the shoreline, with more crocodiles in and out of the water, sometimes making dog-like barking sounds in the darkness.

They were forced to skirt an encampment of the river people, visible with their burned-down fires, and shelters made of brush and sticks, just starting to stir in the early light, standing with their spears and watching the Chinese men pass by as if they were apparitions. Not visibly frightened, but alarmed by the sight nevertheless.

Finally, Liang and his men emerged from heavy scrub to see the Kingfisher on the river, silhouetted against the sky. The ship looked huge, masts soaring skyward, a symbol of home of hope – a place that meant relative comfort and food from home. It was the ship that would bear them home to the mighty Pearl River estuary, then finally the serene Tanjiang. To loving partners, family, roasted goose and rice noodles.

‘Stay hidden,’ instructed Liang, ‘there may yet be danger. I will go forward alone.’

Leaving his men hidden amongst the trees, Liang walked forward slowly, alert with every sense. As he neared, his nostrils filled with the scent of a dead campfire, and something more cloying and insidious. He entered a clearing, on the bank alongside the Kingfisher’s mooring, staying behind a tree to keep himself covered, shocked by what he saw in the growing morning light.

Around a smouldering central fire, men were sleeping, wrapped in blankets. A horse was tethered at the edge, feeding on the sparse grass there. Empty bottles of rice wine lay in the grass. Spaced out, at several points around the clearing, were the bloody severed heads of three men, their eye sockets emptied by carrion birds, and dried blood in streaks down the poles that bore them. The general features, however, were still recognisable. One, Liang realised with a jolt in his heart, was Qian Yao, the skipper of the Kingfisher, the others were the first and second officers.

 A group of men appeared at the Kingfisher’s waist, stepping down into a rowing sampan. Taking pride of place in the bow, was the unmistakable figure of Haoyu, son of the Dragon Head. Around his neck hung the bronze medal that was rightfully Liang’s, and his face wore a smirk of triumph. At least eight men, all in fighting garb and carrying weapons, filled the boat. Some took up oars and began to row. They were seamen, not fighters – Liang recognised some from amongst the sycophants Haoyu had gathered around him on the voyage to Australia.

The very ground seemed to rock beneath Liang’s feet. The evil that had transpired in this place over the last twenty-four hours could only be imagined. Now, Haoyu must have heard the gunshots on a nearby hill and be preparing for whoever came. He would want the gold, of course. All men thirsted for gold, even a Dragon Head’s son.

Glancing at the heads on poles once more, Liang was reminded of a similar sight on a bamboo-lined island, and wondered if the son was so different from the father, after all. He turned and crept away, his body feeling empty and used up, as if Haoyu had just stolen his soul.

When he reached the cover in which he had left his men, and they asked him what he had seen, at first Liang could not find the words to answer them.

***

We heard the chopper engine roar to life even over the sound of running water. The aerial search was about to begin. I knew that we would need to hide. Standing out on the open rock bar was foolhardy with a chopper in the air.

As we moved back towards the edge, I remembered Billy Thorpe and his guitar again. How the song ended with a multiple-crash-tackle finale that had every punter in that room roaring back at the man who had held them, for a moment, in the palm of his hand.

Right then, with the sound of chopper blades, the coming of a murderer, the rush of water, and another downpour building in black clouds to the west, it felt to me like such a moment was coming again.

Continued next Saturday.

©2024 Greg Barron

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