Death on Dangar Island

Sunday Afternoon

‘It’s not the kind of thing one brings up in general conversation, my friend. Personally, I don’t like to think back on those years, but sometimes something will dredge up ugly memories – things I would prefer to forget.’

‘Yeah … right.’ Gary knew what he meant, those little triggers; a smell, a sound, an image and then wham – you’re right back there, up to your elbows in blood. They walked on in silence.

Gary wasn’t one to pry but he’d already learned a fair bit about Israel’s past. He didn’t go digging, things just sort of surfaced by themselves, and every now and then a new piece of the jigsaw fell into place. He knew his friend was born in a township called Alexandra, near Johannesburg. Israel’s mother, Miriam, was a Zulu. She died before Gary had a chance to meet her, but he knew his friend remembered her fondly. The thought of Miriam sparked a nagging little question.

‘There’s something I’ve never asked you mate, but I’ve kind of been wondering about it for a while.’

‘Yes, Gary?’ The professor’s eyebrows shot up.

‘Yeah, look … don’t take this the wrong way, but what’s going on with your name?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow you, my friend,’ replied the little man stepping lightly alongside him.

‘I was thinking … shouldn’t your name be Israel Mabuza? Your mum’s name was Miriam Mabuza, wasn’t it?’

Israel winced. ‘Mabuza,’ the professor pronounced the word slowly and properly, ‘was my mother’s family name, but Wren was my father’s. At least, that’s the name he gave us.’

‘Oh. Righto.’

Gary suddenly felt like he was going too far. It wasn’t like him to go around asking personal questions. He clammed up. Luckily they were cresting the hill and the quickening of their breathing somehow pardoned the sudden silence.

They rounded a corner at the top of the hill to find the island’s small Rural Fire Service building in front of them. Two volunteers in bright yellow overalls were reversing a miniature fire engine into its garage.

Gary came to a halt to observe the scene. ‘Jeez, you don’t see that every day, do you?’

Israel watched Gary as he walked over and started to pepper the firefighters with questions, his boyish enthusiasm scarcely contained behind his laconic Aussie demeanour. It was the type of friendly, informal encounter between strangers that, to him, seemed to typify Australian society. 

Waiting patiently for his friend, he took a moment to consider the dense foliage forming a canopy above his head. It was a splendid example of dry eucalypt forest, featuring some well-developed angophoras. Gary would simply refer to it as ‘bush’, of course. His friend had the capacity to refer to anything from majestic ghost-gum forest in the Snowy Mountains to the sticky, dense rainforest of North Queensland as bush. If it wasn’t a desert, a town or a city, then to Gary it was the bush.

As the temporary pause in their progress continued, Israel scanned the boughs of the trees for birds. He couldn’t see any, but was encouraged by the number of different calls he’d heard in such a short time. Suddenly, a scarlet honeyeater darted into view, its tiny wings thrumming so fast that they were almost impossible to see. The birding here was turning out to be good.

Israel was gazing off into the bush again.

Bloody typical, Gary thought. Leave him alone for two minutes and he’s off with the fairies. ‘You know, they told me that little thing is one of the only vehicles on this island.’ He said it loudly enough to make his friend jump. Smiling, he pointed towards the dinky fire engine now sitting snugly in its Fire Service shed.

‘The island locals used to have golf carts to get around in, but apparently they put a stop to all that after a group of “concerned residents” complained. Now everyone has to use those wheelbarrows to move their gear around.’ Having shunted their supplies up the hill the previous afternoon, he was already well acquainted with at least one of the island’s wheelbarrows.

‘Is that so?’ responded Israel after a minute. ‘Well it is a small island and it is good for people to walk instead of drive.’ The professor cast a glance in the direction of the shed. ‘I imagine they would need a narrow vehicle like that with all these trees and narrow paths. I wonder if they get many fires here? The weather report said it would be hot this week.’

Gary thought it was hot already.

Their footsteps on the dirt track were the only sound as they resumed their journey.

‘You were interested to know about my name before?’ Israel was amused to watch his companion’s cheeks colour at the question.

‘I don’t know mate. I just feel funny about asking you about … you know, personal stuff.’

Israel laughed out loud. ‘How many years have we known each other for now, my friend? Why do you feel embarrassed, Gary? There is no reason to feel that way. So yes, let me tell you about my father … the man whose name I have inherited. It seems my father was an Englishman with a desire for relations with women of darker skin. Not a pastime that met with much approval in South Africa back then. Suffice to say, as soon as he discovered my mother was pregnant, he disappeared. He left his name as “Christopher Wren”, a name that you may recognise of course.

Gary nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ve heard the name before, just refresh my memory though.’

‘Well, he was the architect who designed St Pauls Cathedral in London and many other buildings but I’m not sure it was he who my father was thinking of when he had to come up with a pseudonym on the spot. There is also a well-known play called ‘The Mousetrap’ that opened in the West End of London just a year or so before I was born. One of the characters in ‘The Mousetrap’ is named Christopher Wren. I often wonder if, being an Englishman, he got the idea for his pseudonym from a visit to the theatre. At any rate, I only discovered these facts as I got older and by that stage I’d already been using the name “Israel Wren” for some time. It was my mother who decided I should be called that, and I have always respected her wishes. And, indeed, it has served me very well over the years.’

Gary nodded. As they walked together through the quiet narrow lanes crammed with trees and holiday homes, he started to understand why Miriam had taken Israel and escaped the apartheid regime hidden in a truckload of agricultural supplies. A half-caste wouldn’t have been welcome on either side of the racial fence in those days. He could also see why Israel’s nose was fine and straight but his hair was dark and fuzzy. Other details like his light brown skin and his heavily lidded eyes made more sense as well. Thing was, if being born a half-caste in apartheid South Africa was like being born into a frying pan, then travelling the length of darkest Africa as a poor, unskilled child refugee had probably been falling into the fire.

Israel’s phone sounded. Gary pursed his lips and watched his friend stop and look at the screen. In the past he’d made the mistake of asking Israel what the various chirping and chiming noises were for and always got some ridiculously longwinded answer – someone had just contacted the professor on Twitter, someone had just contacted him on Facebook, it was a diary alert, a text or email, or a birthday reminder. Sometimes he claimed a person called Siri was sending him messages reminding him to do things. 

They were close to home now and Gary shook his head and left Israel standing in the path with his phone. As he got back to the house he noticed a wooden sign on the rusty garden gate. It had the word ‘Carinya’ carved into it.

Two minutes later, Israel was back by his side with a familiar twinkle in his eye. ‘I think we should talk to Dorothy about Roxanne.’

Gary was used to statements like this coming from his friend. ‘Okay – who’s Dorothy?’

‘Our next door neighbour, of course.’

‘Right – and so who’s Roxanne then?’

‘Roxanne Duncan is the young woman.’

‘Which young woman?’

‘The one you found lying dead on the beach this morning.’