Death on Dangar Island

The Tokoloshe

Israel shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Oh, nothing much. When I was in the bathroom at Jon Morris’s house I noticed a toothbrush and some mascara in the drawer. That intrigued me because there was no other evidence of a woman living in the house. I assumed Jon lived alone. When I spoke with David this morning, he confirmed this. He also told me that Jon’s ex-wife and daughter have not visited him recently. There have, however, been rumours on the island about Jon having a relationship with a young woman.’

‘Right, so where does the hair come in then?’

‘It was a guess on my part. I felt there must be some meaning behind the feminine articles stored away in the drawer of the spare bathroom. There was a hairbrush in the drawer as well, so I took a sample of the remnant strands on the brush. The tests won’t be admissible as evidence in court, but they may help us unravel this tangled ball of thread and the authorities can always get a warrant for the brush and test the hair again.’

‘Jeez, mate. You can be a bit weird sometimes. I don’t know whether I like being friends with an old perv who takes hair off brushes in a stranger’s bathroom.’

Israel shook his head, eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘My actions may have been inappropriate, but they were not perverted. I am simply an inquisitive opportunist.’

‘Yeah, and you’re a bit weird – no way would I do anything like that.’

‘No doubt that is the case, Gary. No doubt that is the case.’

They had reached the car and were standing on the pavement next to it. Israel made a move in the direction of the railway station. ‘I should go home and get a few things in order. I would like to go and talk to Roxanne’s parents tomorrow, if you’re interested.’

Gary nodded, the corners of his mouth dipping. ‘Righto, mate. Whatever you want to do. Maybe we can go back and see if Josh has made it home tomorrow afternoon. Do you want me to give that woman a call and make an appointment?’ He said the last three words with rounded vowels.

Israel leaned over and handed him the embossed card. ‘I would appreciate that, thank you. I will call you tomorrow morning to finalise our arrangements.’

‘Oh, righto,’ said Gary, who was always flexible and good-natured enough to simply go with the flow, even when it was his holiday that flow was interrupting. ‘I guess I’ll head on back to Bondi and see what the surf’s doing. I could use a little dip.’ An hour or two in the sea had the same effect on Gary as an hour or two birding had on Israel. ‘Do you want a lift home?’

‘No, that is not necessary, my friend. It’s out of your way, and Central Station is not far from here.’

Gary insisted on giving him a lift at least as far as the station.

‘You enjoyed getting up old McKinnon’s nose there, didn’t you, Iz? But you didn’t tell him Roxanne was into snakes, did you? Kept that under your hat, didn’t you, you sly old bird?’

Israel didn’t much like being referred to as a ‘sly old bird’. ‘I have yet to decide how relevant that information is to the investigation. I think we’ll just keep it to ourselves for now,’ he replied archly.

Gary chuckled. ‘Be careful, Israel. You know your relationship with the DI depends on the timely delivery of relevant information, don’t you?’

The old Commodore pulled into the kerb in front of the railway station clock tower and Israel disappeared into the crowd. He sighed and leaned his head back on the hard plastic seat, skull jostling up and down in time with the train tracks passing below. As the carriage jerked away from another station, he closed his eyes. The light and shadow of sun as it darted behind poles and buildings created patterns behind his eyelids. The patterns rose and fell in time with the rhythm of the tracks and his mind slipped away to another place.

Another time; beautiful voices raised in song – Zulu voices. A track leading up through green hills. He flies over it like an eagle, soaring high past the peak of a steep-edged mountain and then swooping down into the valley’s cleft. A group of round, thatched huts sit together on the edge of a verdant rise. Half-naked women sing joyously as they grind maize using heavy wooden poles. The eagle is gone, leaving behind only a small boy with a shy half-smile. He stands in ragged shorts watching the women and his heart sings with them.

A scream comes from behind the huts. The women drop their maize poles and run towards it, beads and bosoms flailing, their language strained and anxious. The small boy follows. He is the last to round the edge of the wall – they have disappeared. The valley is gone. There is only blackness. The broad dark back of a warrior flexes and ripples in some strange ethereal light. The man raises his hand above his head. He is a warrior, but his weapon is neither assegai nor knobkerrie: it is an axe. The axe falls, once, twice. The small boy looks down and sees only horror.

Slowly, the warrior turns and approaches. His forehead is grotesquely large; his ears pointed and strange. Blood pours from his eyes. The small boy is frozen with shock. The creature closes in, bending to peer at him. His eyes have been torn from their sockets and the gaping holes are oozing gore. This is not a man. This is a demon, a Tokoloshe. He holds up his hand and flashes his fingers twice.

‘The titihoya does not cry here anymore,’ he says in perfect, accent-free English. The demon raises his axe high above the boy. Blood drips from the blade and lands in the child’s eye. It is cold.

He woke with a start, his heart racing. He shook his head and took a moment to realise where he was: a train, Australia. He shivered, remembering the last fragments of the dream. The Tokoloshe was an old acquaintance, but the words and the axe were fresh additions. He took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, watching the anonymous suburbs slip past his window.

As the train rumbled onwards with its familiar soundtrack, Israel relaxed a little, sheltering in the mundanity, falling into his habit of appraising those around him. He enjoyed observing strangers as if they were birds. It relaxed him. He watched this current flock for any distinctive plumage or behaviour. Like birds, people behaved differently when they were conscious of observation. Over time he’d developed a way of watching people gently enough so as not to alert them to his scrutiny. 

An old woman of Anglo-Saxon heritage sat directly opposite him, dressed in good-quality clothes. He wondered if she was having trouble keeping up with the pace of life. A stain on her prim skirt, a hair or two out of place in what he imagined was usually a precision hairdo. Her filmy eyes darted around the carriage. Occasionally she muttered a word or two softly to herself. Her hands fidgeted in her lap.

Further along, a man in his twenties, dressed in cheap black formal clothes, sat tapping the arm of his chair. Every now and then, Israel caught an image of him reflected in the train window. The young man appeared tired and bored – resigned to his fate. At first glance, Israel thought he looked Indian or Bangladeshi, probably working his way through a student degree with casual jobs. There was a sporting event at the huge stadium at the centre of the Homebush Olympic precinct later tonight. Israel guessed the young man was on his way to work at one of the food outlets at the stadium. No doubt he was vastly overqualified for the work.

The train slowed as it came towards his station. He stood, balancing himself against the rocking carriage. As he passed the old woman with the nervous eyes, she extended her arm to prevent him passing. Her eyes rolled back revealing nothing but white.

‘It’s all right. He can’t harm you.’

His shoulders tingled. ‘I’m sorry, madam. I do not understand.’

‘He shall return, but do not be afraid.’