A Room Full of Bones: A Ruth Galloway Investigation

finishes by reading from from a piece by the great Aboriginal poet Ooderoo Noonuccal. It’s called
The Ballad of the Totems
and is about her father and the sacred symbol of their tribe. In one place she describes it as a ‘carpet snake, which sounds rather odd to Ruth. Carpet Snake sounds more cosy than the great Rainbow Serpent, almost as if it could be used as a draught excluder.
    She realises that Max is holding out a hand to help her to her feet. She scrambles up without his help, embarrassed at how stiff she is.
    ‘What’s happening now?’
    ‘I think we’re having the smoke ceremony.’ Max points to where Bob is leading the way out through the Frenchwindows into the garden. In the centre of the lawn Cathbad is enthusiastically building a bonfire.
    ‘Cathbad does love fires,’ says Ruth, putting on her jacket.
    ‘Well, fire’s important in ritual,’ says Max. ‘That was quite some session, wasn’t it? Incredibly powerful poetry.’
    It is almost dark now and the wood catches light quickly. Cathbad and Bob, in their cloaks, are silhouetted against the flames. Ruth can see Caroline just behind them, her long skirt billowing. Then she jumps as a loud crack reverberates in the darkness.
    ‘It’s just a clapping stick,’ says a voice behind them. It’s this morning’s speaker, Alkira Jones. She smiles encouragingly. ‘They’re sometimes called singing sticks. They’re traditional Aboriginal instruments.’ Ruth sees that Cathbad and the other speaker, Derel Assinewai, are now armed with long, decorated rods which they bang enthusiastically together, creating a thunderous rhythm. Bob takes a burning brand from the centre of the fire. ‘Fire is our gateway to the Dreaming,’ he says. ‘Surrender to the fire.’
    Boom, boom. The relentless beat continues. Smoke fills Ruth’s mouth and nose. The flames seem particularly pungent, as if they’re mixed with balsam. Her head starts to swim. At Max’s feet, Claudia whimpers.
    Ruth turns to Max. ‘Do you want to come back to my place?’

CHAPTER 20
     
    Nelson, too, is participating in a ritual. He is sitting on Brighton beach eating fish and chips out of a paper bag. Tasted better from newspaper, he thinks. Why don’t they use newspaper anymore? He puts the question to Michelle.
    ‘Health and safety,’ she says knowledgeably. She is finishing the last of her chips, chasing the last grains of salt with a moistened finger. It is so rare for her to eat something so calorie-laden that Nelson watches her with genuine pleasure. For some reason, he isn’t feeling very hungry. He throws a chip onto the pebbles and three seagulls immediately swoop down on it. It’s getting colder now, though the sun is still warm on their faces. Behind them the carousel is playing its jolly, heart-breaking tune and, from the pier, they can hear the shrieks of people on the rides. A group of girls wearing bunny ears staggers past them, weaving in and out between deckchairs, falling over on the sloping shingle.
    ‘Hen night,’ says Michelle.
    The day in Brighton was Michelle’s idea. Friday night’s meal was not a success. Nelson had got home late; Michellehad ended the evening in tears. But she woke on Saturday in a determinedly positive state of mind. Why not drive down to Brighton to see Rebecca? It’s a long drive but they could take Rebecca out for lunch and celebrate Harry’s birthday at the same time. And it has been a good day. Rebecca had told them firmly that she could only spare them an hour but they had taken her for lunch at Browns and bought her a number of pastel-coloured objects for her room. How many scatter cushions or strings of fairy lights could one student need, Nelson wondered. He didn’t say it aloud though. Shops full of novelty mirrors and cute lower-case writing make him feel nervous.
    After Rebecca had wandered off to meet friends at the cinema, Nelson and Michelle had done the tourist things. They had shopped in the Lanes, admired the Pavilion from afar and walked on the pier. In the arcade, Nelson developed an obsession with winning a cuddly toy from one of the machines. He fed in twenty pence after twenty pence, only to watch the white fluffy cat fall in slow motion from the feeble clutches of the mechanical arm.
    ‘It’s a fix,’ he announced. ‘Impossible.’ When, later, he noticed a man carrying
three
of the fluffy cats, his indignation knew no bounds.
    ‘Why do you want a cuddly toy anyway?’ asked Michelle, slightly