back to make sure the Mad Boy was still upright, still alive. Mad Boy. That was my name for him. Grandad didn’t like it, but I couldn’t understand what he was doing, praying and starving, starving and praying. For three days we watched as he got weaker, drinking, not eating. He never saw us. Never heard us. I think all his senses were turned inwards. Maybe just focused on survival. Maybe attuned to something or someone I couldn’t access. Then the weather turned. It was around four in the afternoon, and we’d come back because the sky was darkening, and we needed shelter. The wind rose, thunder and dry lightning ripped across the evening, flashing strobe lighting across the rocks. As we watched, a dust storm formed and a mad willy-willy spun into the gorge, blocking out the sun and racing towards Mad Boy. One minute we could see him and the next he was gone. His camp and his fire and him – hidden by dust. Nothing but spinning shadows and leaves and … … and a big, white bloke cooking snags on a BBQ. He’s wearing an apron that said, “I believe I can fry!” Fluoro Crocs on his feet and floral boardies. There’s a huge esky full of beers next to him, a table set with bread, sauce and salads, a camping chair almost bigger than the bloke, and a speaker banging out, ‘I Come from a Land Down Under’. He wraps a giant snag in a wad of bread and sauce, cracks open a beer, then sits in the chair with his feet on the esky and turns to Mad Boy and asks, “Hungry?” I’d already eaten that day, and my mouth was watering. It smelt good. Real good. Better than bush-tucker. “Plenty to go round,” says the big bloke. Big smile. Big, fake smile. Big, fake, nasty smile. The sort of smile that basically says, “Watch your back”. Grandad’s gone as still as a waterhole. He’s watching like a circling hawk. Mad Boy is sitting in the remains of his camp, looking gobsmacked. Looking hungry. Looking crazy hungry. But not moving. Not replying. Just watching the big bloke. 27
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