Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Julia Leigh is the author of two internationally acclaimed novels, THE HUNTER (1999) and DISQUIET (2008). Her film SLEEPING BEAUTY was selected for Competition at the Festival de Cannes 2011. She lives in Sydney, Australia.

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The Hunter

Penguin Books

Chapter One

                         Now the little plane drops andthe fat woman sitting next to him yelps and spills hercoffee; his tray of food goes flying. With eyes closed hebegins to count, one ... and two ... and three: a religiousman, he thinks, might now decide to pray. Then it is over,they survive, and as the eighteen-seater settles high abovethe rift of blue which separates the island from the mainland,the pilot quickly and calmly sends his apologies.

    There is nobody to greet him at the airport, no rent-a-cardesk, and so no smiling rent-a-car girl. The fatwoman, he sees, is being comforted by a fat man with acrew cut wearing a White Power T-shirt. From the smallcrowd gathered in the lounge he guesses the plane outwill be full. He waits outside for a truck to pull hisluggage across the airstrip and when it arrives he gathershis pack and bag without delay. The mini-bus takes fifteenminutes to arrive in town: `Welcome to Tiger Town' readsa sign by the highway, `Population: 20 000'. As prearrangedhe hires a new 4WD utility, the latest model, asilver Monastery. `Picked a good day for it,' says a smilinggirl and so he too smiles, nods, and then turns to leavebefore she can start to ask questions.

    Soon he is out of town, heading south-west. The lastKentucky Fried advertises a `$4.95 Two Piece Feed'. Smallertowns crop up along the highway, tiny collections of cornerstores, antique shops and hairdressers. Paddocks flatten outby the roadside, run into foothills. Where there are sheep,there are mud-brown sheep, and where there are trees thefarmers have wrapped them in tin bandages at cow-muzzleheight. By one stretch of road he passes a haphazardarrangement of topiaries in odd geometric shapes, no swansor giraffes or poodles, and later he sees a stone cottage fullof grinning toy cats. He crosses Tiger Creek, Break O' DayCreek, this creek, that creek. At the next corner store hestops for a coffee: sweet and chemical.

    The distances between stores draw out and the roadturns to dirt. He checks his map. Eventually he turns off atan unmarked T-junction and when he passes the firsthillside pricked with uniform rows of tiny plantationsaplings he knows he is on his way. Then come the vacantconcrete plots: Welcome to the dead town, once a loggingtown. Here, people have picked up their houses and movedon. A whole row of demountables has been abandoned,the windows bagged with bright orange plastic. But thereis a petrol station, and a cardboard sign propped up in thewindow says `Open'. At the sound of his car pulling in, aclutch of scraggly children materialises, with two of thebigger ones on bikes. He serves himself and goes in to pay.The woman behind the counter waits a second beforepulling herself away from the miniature TV, then sticksout her hand and refuses to speak. He pays in cash, buyinga bar of chocolate at the last minute as a civil gesture.

    He drives, turns smooth corners. He practises his story.And who ? today ? is he? From now on he is MartinDavid, Naturalist, down from the university and fightingfit. `Hello, I'm Martin David', `A little turbulence butotherwise not too bad', and `Yes, thank you, a cup of teawould be lovely'.

    He will drink the tea and assess his situation.

    It is almost dark by the time Martin David, Naturalist,turns into the long driveway and parks his Monastery in araggedy front yard. Although it is summer there is a chillin the air and he needs his Polartech top. Here, a littlebluestone house sits quietly on the edge of the ripplingflats, and rising beyond the house is the steep darkescarpment which climbs to the Central Plateau itself: thelast house at the end of the last road. Once it had been asmall working farm, but now the wood-and-iron feed shedand stables have all but collapsed, and the weeds, mainlya sunny yellow ragwort, have stolen the paddocks. Threecar wrecks, all missing panels, sit out rusting and all aboutlie discarded tin drums. To the right of the house acorrugated-iron water tank has been cut in two to serve asshelter for firewood. There is an upright water tank, andnext to that a vegetable patch, sprouting purple stalks whichmight be beetroot. The front windows are shut, drapedwith rainbow-coloured cotton curtains.

    To reach the house a visitor must first pass under a barewire archway. In better days, thinks M, it would have beencovered with a sweet-smelling vine.

* * *

The door swings open of its own accord. Nobody greetshim, and he hesitates, baffled: a supernatural door? Beforehe can call out a greeting a shiny purple jumble of armsand legs cartwheels down the hallway, ending up on thefloor before him in a remarkable display of the splits.

    `Welcome!' says the girl, catching her breath. She mightbe twelve years old, maybe eleven or ten ? he can nevertell these things. She is wearing a purple lycra catsuitstudded with a galaxy of silver stars and her dark hair ischopped very short, just above the ears.

    `Hello,' he replies, enunciating clearly. `I'm MartinDavid. Your mother is expecting me.'

    Another, smaller, child slips out from behind the door.This one, a blond, wears a silver cape over a red tracksuitand has glittery swirls of red paint on his cheeks. He doesn'tspeak, just stares; he might even be mute. The taller childroils over and, in one swift move, is up on her feet.

    `Hello, Martin David,' she says, also speaking with greatcare. `My name is Katherine Sassafras Milky-Way IndiaBanana Armstrong. You can call me Sass. This is my brother,James Wind Bike Leatherwood Catseye Armstrong. Call himCat, or Bike.'

    Quickly, she looks across to the younger brother forconfirmation.

    `Bike.'

    `Hello ? Bike.' He is not a children's man.

    `Mum's asleep,' continues Sass. `She said to tell youshe'll see you in the morning. But we got your bed ready.'

    Bike inspects the stranger.

    He collects his bags from the car, the two childrenkeeping a silent escort. The girl tries to lift his pack but isdefeated. He knew the woman had two children, was twicelost, but it had not occurred to him that he would have tospend any time with them, actually talk to them. What didhe have to say to children? All the best children didn'twant to talk, or if they did want to talk, they only did soto gather information. They were spies, children, littlemurderers. And adults, he remembers, were the enemy.

    The portal is so low he has to stoop. Once inside, it'sclear there has been a coup. The children have drawn onthe walls, as high as they can reach. The furniture has beenpainted, the carpet too. Colour, bright colours, everywhere.Here a slash of blue, there a circle of red, a curl of yellow.A rainbow house. How could the mother have allowed it?And yes, he sees, they have indeed got his bed ready. Thepillow is dotted with pink acrylic stars, and the same painthas been used to run a whirly swirl over his doona. Thebottom sheet, he discovers, is a brilliant shade of orange.On the bedside table one of the two has gone to a greatdeal of trouble to arrange a three-deep...