Debil

By Michael Tyquin

The day was humid and overcast. Somewhere in the far distance thunder could be heard. The old man was seated at the table and toyed with his hearing aid as he read the racing guide. A transistor radio blared results of the October Cup at Randwick. His old Labrador retriever lay at his feet, its head hugging the cool linoleum floor. It was a simply furnished kitchen, unpainted and, but for the 1968 calendar by the fridge, unchanged since his wife's death ten years earlier. Through a door one could see into a lounge room. From its walls hung a framed set of war medals, a yellowed army photo, a Police Inspector's Certificate and a parchment testimony from Alcoholics Anonymous. A rather austere wedding photo had pride of place over the electric fire. Its subjects were dressed in all that could be found in the immediate post-war years and despite the smiles and flowers the portrait somehow seemed a sad one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tablo Publishing
• Release date: Jan 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781922381279

Michael Tyquin

Doctor Michael Tyquin is a consulting historian based in Tasmania. He has published extensively in the areas of Australian social, medical and military history. He is a serving member of the Australian Army Reserve which he joined as a medical assistant with the 4/19th Prince of Wales Light Horse. He is the official historian of the Royal Australian Army Medical Corps and a former Adjunct Professor at the University of Queensland’s Centre for Military and Veterans’ Health.

Book preview

Debil

Memories of past terrors

The day was humid and overcast. Somewhere in the far distance thunder could be heard. The old man was seated at the table and toyed with his hearing aid as he read the racing guide. A transistor radio blared results of the October Cup at Randwick. His old Labrador retriever lay at his feet, its head hugging the cool linoleum floor. It was a simply furnished kitchen, unpainted and, but for the 1968 calendar by the fridge, unchanged since his wife's death ten years earlier. Through a door one could see into a lounge room. From its walls hung a framed set of war medals, a yellowed army photo, a Police Inspector's Certificate and a parchment testimony from Alcoholics Anonymous. A rather austere wedding photo had pride of place over the electric fire. Its subjects were dressed in all that could be found in the immediate post-war years and despite the smiles and flowers the portrait somehow seemed a sad one.

Outside a station wagon pulled up and a woman and two small children got out. She looked up at the blackening sky and retrieved a cake tin from the back seat. The kids scampered up the pathway while she paused to pull a newspaper wedged in the wire gate. They walked up to the veranda where the woman rang the bell before letting herself in. The old man heard nothing, but from his dog's wagging tail he guessed he had a visitor.

The children rushed in and kissed him.

'Hi grandad. It's getting dark out.' And to the dog, 'hello Min'- all said in one breath. 

Delighted to see the children the dog picked up a ragged toy and made its way to the back door. The children followed giggling. Their mother kissed the man.                                               

'I've brought a cake for your tea. Here's the paper.'    

'Thanks Love.' 

His daughter busied herself in kitchen as he opened the newspaper. A stark headline in huge print met his eyes: 'Tourists vanish near outback Queenstown'.

He read on.

'Minjip! He was right', he whispered.

Sorry dad, I didn't hear you', as his daughter turned up the gas flame under the kettle.

He closed his eyes and grimaced, letting the newspaper fall to the floor. Then, reaching for his walking stick and getting up, he slowly made his way outside. The children came inside again and began to play with the dog. Their grandfather went up the garden path and into his work shed. Carefully closing the door behind him and setting aside the walking stick he pulled open a drawer in a shabby cabinet. Taking out an old biscuit tin he opened it to reveal some yellowed newspaper cuttings. There was also a service revolver, carefully oiled and wrapped in a chamois, at the bottom of the tin. With trembling hands he took out the paper clippings. He peered closer, switched on a light and read them: 'Prospectors Missing'; 'Postman Vanishes'; 'The Mystery of the Tourist Car'; 'Police Mystified'; 'Strange happenings reported from Queenstown' and more such alarming articles. He swayed and grasped the top of his work bench. Then he carefully took the soft leather bundle from the tin and unwrapped the contents. From inside the house the kettle whistled as it came to the boil.

There was a loud gunshot from the shed. In the kitchen the woman looked up from cutting the cake as the old dog pricked up its ears and whined. One of the children began to cry. At just that moment there was huge thunderclap and all the neighbourhood dogs took up an unnerving howling. The lights in the kitchen went out as power to the street failed. The children suddenly felt afraid and hugged the trembling dog. 

'Stay there you two! '

Their mother scrunched her apron as she went outside into the gloom and made her way to the shed. 

Going bush 

The man woke from an uneasy sleep with a start as the train suddenly lurched, then screamed over a stretch of line. Outside the countryside baked in the unseasonal heat. He looked out through the dusty window onto the parched bush, unbroken except for the occasional clump of gum trees and, in the far distance, the ever-present purple haze sat brooding over the ranges. The jolt had woken the only other passenger in the compartment. The gentleman, sporting a clerical collar, leaned across.

'It looks like war in the next few years doesn't it? I don't think much of this Mr. Hitler', and he took up his crumpled newspaper again. 

Sergeant Harry McGuire looked across blankly then glanced at his watch. The timepiece had been bequeathed to him by a father he never knew, one of hundreds of thousands of not-so innocents slaughtered in the Great War. The padre type looked up again. 

'And are you fleeing the temptations and delights of Adelaide? Forgive me but are you are a salesman of some kind?'

'Police, detective branch.'

McGuire answered with little hint of interest in his interrogator. His fellow passenger, a man much experienced in the unspoken, took the hint and resumed his reading. But over his reading glasses he took in the policeman. He appeared to be in his early thirties, of athletic build but pale, even bookish to look at. He had about him an aura of not suffering fools gladly, wore a well-cut suit and sported a pair of highly polished brown boots. At his side rested a rather weathered hat.

'Goodness,' thought the reverend to himself, 'that outfit won't fare well in the bush.' And he resumed his efforts to tackle his crossword puzzle. 

The daylight express rattled along, its passengers sweating in stiff collars and tight dresses, as the noon sun burnt above them. McGuire carried an air of boredom, even cynicism that belied his youth. He opened his coat jacket and, removing a small silver flask, took a swig from