Not that returning to Coombah would have made much difference, by the sound of things. The Fergusons had been heading for Coombah, and had ended up stranded, with an empty tank. Quite a familiar story by now. If Alec had been feeling better, he might have concentrated more on this vital bit of information – asked for further details, perhaps. Even tried to work out what it might mean.
But he wasn’t up to that. After a day of bright sun, high drama and low nutrient intake, his brain was turning to sludge. Falling blood sugar levels, probably. Drawn by the siren scent of spicy bolognaise sauce, he had surrendered the rifle to Del’s care, and with it the responsibility of explaining to Ross why, when they reached Broken Hill, they would be heading straight for a police station.
When they reached Broken Hill? Hah. If they reached Broken Hill.
Alec had approached the caravan because he liked the look of Verlie. She was one of those women whose appearance always presaged things like hot dinners, clean sheets and tufted bath mats. His own mother had never been an assured source of homely treats; he had been forced to rely on his Aunt Bridey for the freshly baked butterfly cakes, the crocheted afghan throws, the soft toilet paper. In a way, both Bridey and Verlie gave him some idea of what Janine would be like in forty years. Could that be why he was so infatuated with Janine? Could that be why Daryl had married Janine? Daryl too, had spent a lot of time at Bridey’s as a kid. All the Muller boys had hovered wistfully on the edge of the warm, happy circle that seemed a natural extension of Bridey – a circle that her alcoholic sister had shunned.
Bridey was no more (she had died of a coronary) but Verlie had the same aura about her. Despite the fact that she was thinner than Bridey, and smaller, and more conservatively dressed, she had the same permed grey hair, the same soft voice, and the same ingrained promise of unending domestic comfort. Pursuing Verlie, in a hunger-induced daze, Alec hoped to benefit a little from any crumbs of food that the children might discard – even the smell of a freshly laundered towel or the yielding embrace of a sofa cushion would be welcome after such a terrible day.
It was immediately apparent, however, that Verlie wasn’t nearly as taken with Alec as Alec was with Verlie.
‘What is it?’ she exclaimed, her voice sharp, as Alec appeared at the caravan’s door. Inside, Alec could see a kerosene lamp casting a soft glow across a Laminex bench top. Floral curtains hung at the windows, and there was a kind of breakfast nook, into which the three children were crammed, sitting on cushions that matched the curtains. There was even a TV and a video player.
Alec’s soul yearned for a session in front of the footy, with a cup of tea and a bowl of popcorn.
‘I haven’t eaten since breakfast,’ he pleaded, hoarse with longing. ‘Would you have something you could give me? Like a roll, or something? An apple?’
‘You’re not bringing that gun in here!’ Verlie warned.
‘I won’t. I don’t have it. It’s not my gun.’ Nevertheless, only hunger could have persuaded Alec to relinquish the weapon, which had felt so comforting propped between his knees. He was determined not to stray far from that rifle. ‘I’ll pay you. I’ve got twenty bucks. Here.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Verlie replied. She sounded wary, but passed him some biscuits all the same. They were followed by a muesli bar, which Alec ate in two mouthfuls, spluttering his thanks.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ she queried. ‘Maybe a cup of tea? We’ll have to use the spaghetti water, I’m afraid.’
‘God, I’d kill for a cuppa,’ Alec breathed, before realising that this was an unfortunate choice of words, in the circumstances. Linda flashed him an intent, searching look, while Verlie frowned. ‘I mean – yes, thanks. Thanks very much,’ he mumbled.
He hadn’t exactly been invited in, but propped himself against the door-jamb, moving aside a little when Linda brushed past him on her way to rejoin the others. (‘Just to find out what’s going on,’ she explained.) The three kids, looking happier now that they were packing their stomachs, gazed at Alec with identically shaped pairs of eyes, set above furiously working jaws. They said nothing.
‘There you go,’ Verlie remarked, presenting him with a china mug containing hot water and a teabag. ‘I don’t know what it’s going to taste like, mind you. Milk and sugar?’
‘Milk. Please.’
‘It’s that long-life stuff.’
‘I don’t care.’ Anything even remotely resembling a cup of tea was fine by Alec. When it was ready, he took a big gulp, and closed his eyes to savour the penetrating warmth of it. Every knotted muscle in his face relaxed. He heaved a great sigh.
‘Bloody hell, that’s good.’ Words failed him; he couldn’t express the true depth of his gratitude. ‘I owe you, Mrs – um –’
‘Harwood.’
‘Harwood. Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
She had thawed a little, but not to the point where she was willing to allow him past the threshold. That much was clear. So he turned to go, pausing only when one of the kids – the boy – suddenly addressed him.
‘Mr Muller?’
‘Er – yeah?’ It was a long time since anyone had called Alec Mr Muller. He’d had to stop and think for a moment, before replying. ‘What’s up?’
‘Do you think something strange is happening?’
Alec eyed the boy warily. He seemed a normal enough kid, dressed in Kmart clothing; not a bush explorer or a footy player, obviously, but more of what Alec had always classified as a ‘computer type’, because he had that pale, quiet, serious look of a kid more at home with modems and science experiments than knee pads and air rifles.
Nevertheless, normal or not, he had hit the nail on the head, as far as Alec was concerned. Unlike Del, or Noel, or Ross, he had cut right to the chase. And that spooked Alec.
‘What do you mean?’ Alec mumbled.
‘I mean the way we can’t seem to get to Broken Hill. Or Coombah. Any of us.’
Alec grunted. Verlie said, ‘We’ll get there, Peter, don’t you worry.’
‘But do you think we can, Mr Muller?’ the boy pressed, his soft brow puckered. ‘Back when we were in the car, it sounded like you didn’t think so.’
‘Did it?’
‘You sounded . . . sort of . . . I dunno . . .’
‘Yeah, well.’ Alec chickened out, backing down the caravan steps. ‘You don’t wanna pay any attention to me,’ he said. ‘It’s your mum and dad you should be listenin to.’ He fled, then, unable to tackle the issue of time loops and magnetic fields in front of Verlie. When he reached the group by the station wagon, he saw that Noel had his arm around his wife’s shoulder. She was pretty easy on the eye for an older woman, with smooth brown skin and vivid colouring and great legs (Alec eyed them appreciatively), but she also looked like a bit of a handful. In fact, she reminded Alec vaguely of Michelle, though Michelle wouldn’t have been seen dead in that T-shirt.
Linda seemed to be arguing with Ross.
‘I would have thought that there were more important things than your caravan,’ she was saying. ‘Like your lives, for instance.’
‘Obviously,’ he retorted. ‘But it was a major investment, and I’d prefer not to leave it here. Especially with a mad gunman on the prowl.’
‘But Del just said!’ Linda protested. ‘You’re going to eat up more of her petrol, pulling that thing!’
‘Ross understands the situation, Linda.’ Noel squeezed his wife’s arm. ‘It’s his decision.’
‘It’s Verlie’s decision too!’ Linda snapped. ‘She doesn’t even know about this gunman, yet! She might prefer to move faster and further, when it comes to getting out of here, don’t you think?’
‘I’ll ask her,’ Ross said gruffly, and Del observed, ‘It’s your choice. I’ve got two cans of spare, so I can give yiz a top-up. What yiz do with it is your business.’
‘I’ll pay for it, of course.’ Ross’s tone was pompous.
‘Bloody oath, ya will.’
&nbs
p; ‘And I’ll go and tell Verlie what we’ve decided to do.’
As Ross walked away, Alec decided that he didn’t like the guy very much. Ross seemed to think that he was better than everyone else, and moved as if he had a stick up his arse. ‘What have we decided to do?’ Alec inquired of Noel, who was still embracing his wife with one arm.
It was she who replied, her face a complex map of emotions: anxiety, fear, anger, fatigue.
‘We’re getting out of here as fast as we can,’ she said. ‘We’re going straight to the police. God, I can’t believe this is happening.’
‘Del’s giving Ross some petrol,’ Noel added, by way of explanation, ‘so he doesn’t have to stay out here. It wouldn’t be wise, I don’t think – do you?’
Alec had no opinion on the subject. He was too tired. Draining his mug, he started towards the caravan. But Del stopped him.
‘You wanna get that jerry can outta the backa me car?’ she inquired. ‘Or dja wanna stand guard while I do it?’
‘Stand guard?’ Alec repeated, stupidly.
‘Take the gun, I mean. In case someone starts takin pot shots at us.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘I hardly think that’s likely,’ Noel objected. ‘I mean, even if the – um – gunman actually drives past, what would be the point of shooting at us?’
‘What’s the pointa shootin at anyone?’ Del retorted. ‘Makes sense if you’re off your head – which this bloke obviously is, eh, Alec?’
‘Uh – yeah. I reckon.’
‘Oh God,’ Linda moaned. ‘This is just – this is unbelievable. Why is this happening?’
‘Because they don’t lock the loonies up any more,’ Del replied cheerfully. Then she passed her rifle to Alec, who passed his mug to Linda, who took the mug – and her husband – back to the caravan. Del plunged into the rear end of her station wagon, from the depths of which she dragged a beat-up jerry can of faintly military appearance.
‘Got a hose here somewhere, too,’ Del observed, pushing aside vague and shadowy shapes, some of which rolled like tins, some of which clanked like tools. ‘Here it is. Thought so. Never go anywhere without anything, that’s what I always say. Torch is in the glove box. So who dja work for, darl? Or are yiz on your own?’
‘Gary Radford and Sons.’
‘Oh, yeah. Heard about that lot. See ’em around all the time. Good place to work?’
‘I guess.’
‘Here – help me with this, eh? No point waitin on that lot. They dunno their plugs from their points.’
Alec hesitated.
‘You can put the gun down,’ Del said kindly. ‘It’s too dark to see much, anyway.’
Alec didn’t want to relinquish that comforting weight, with its warm expanse of polished wood and its reassuringly modern telescopic sight – a Lee Enfield, no less, all sleek and black and businesslike. But what Del said was true: the sun had gone down, visibility had deteriorated, and as long as they all kept out of the high beams they were probably safe from any prowling sniper.
Placing the weapon carefully in the back of the Ford, Alec said: ‘Are you gunna keep headin north?’
‘You got a better idea?’ Del drawled. ‘Here. Take the torch.’
‘If there’s a station, it’ll have a land line.’
‘Yeah. But since we’re about twenty minutes outta Broken Hill, we might as well chase down the coppers ourselves, don’t ya think?’
Alec said nothing. What was the point? No one ever believed him until they’d witnessed the phenomenon for themselves.
He foresaw a long night of driving, with nothing to show at the end of it.
Peter woke to the sound of voices. He had been dreaming about school, a surreal dream in which he had been trying to get to the toilets, only to be prevented at every turning: the boys toilets had been locked; the staff toilets had been guarded by a furious science teacher, who had demanded that he go and pick up all the rubbish that he had dropped; the girls toilets had been full of screaming girls. Upon regaining consciousness, Peter realised that he did need to empty his bladder, urgently. But as he moved to push his blankets off, he realised that there weren’t any blankets. He wasn’t at home in bed. He was in a car – Del Deegan’s car – and it was dark, and they were on the road to Broken Hill.
Only they had stopped, for some reason.
‘Wha . . . what’s going on?’ he muttered, blinking and stirring. His ear was sore, from the pressure of the window glass. His neck was sore, too. ‘Mum? Are we there?’
No one answered. He saw that Linda wasn’t in her seat, any more – that her door was open. Del was gone, too, and Noel, and Alec. Even Mongrel. Turning his head, Peter spotted them all behind the station wagon. They were standing in the full glare of Ross’s headlights, talking and throwing their arms around.
Peter checked his watch, which was a digital one, with luminous numbers. One fifteen a.m. That was late. That was very late. He looked at his sisters, who were both still fast asleep. Louise was lying with her knees tucked into her chest, and her head where his mum’s lap should have been. Rosie was lying on the floor. Linda had padded the floor with a quilt and a pillow from Verlie, and had covered Rose with a bath sheet.
She was all curled up like a baby kangaroo in a pouch.
Quietly, cautiously, Peter opened his door. After he had climbed out of the station wagon, he didn’t close the door again – not fully – because that would have made too much noise. Even so, his mum heard him.
‘Peter!’ she said. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Going to the toilet.’
‘Oh. All right. Don’t go far.’
As if I would, he thought. The country beyond the high beams was lost in darkness, with only the stars overhead clear and bright, but judging from what Peter could see (dry grass and pebbles, frozen like burglars caught in a spotlight), it was the same as usual. Semi-arid, unpopulated, apparently endless. He shivered, and stepped carefully into the shadows. Something snapped under his foot.
‘Watch out for snakes!’ Linda called.
‘Yeah, yeah.’
He wondered if the parched earth would be grateful for his little deposit. It didn’t make much noise. By the time he had finished and had zipped up his pants, his head was beginning to work again. Had they run out of petrol? Had the ancient Ford broken down?
He joined his parents in the red gleam of its hazard lights.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, tugging at the hem of Noel’s T-shirt. ‘Why have we stopped?’
‘Shh. Just a second.’
‘But –’
‘Wait, Peter. Please.’
‘I’ll doss down in the backa me Ford,’ Del was saying. ‘Done it a million times. Got a sleepin bag there, and everything. Alec can have the front seat and Noel can have the other one. No worries.’
‘And the kids . . .?’
‘Can sleep in the caravan,’ Verlie declared. ‘Peter can have Ross’s bed, and the girls can sleep on the floor, on quilts. There’ll be just enough room. You can have the other bed, Linda, and Ross and I will sleep in the car.’
‘Oh no.’ Linda shook her head. ‘You’re not sleeping in the car, Verlie, that’s not good.’
‘It’s all right. I’ll take the back seat.’
‘Dad.’ Again, Peter pulled at his father’s clothing. ‘Are we stopping here?’
‘Yes. We’re stopping here.’
‘Until morning,’ Linda added.
‘Why?’
‘Because something bloody peculiar is going on,’ Del broke in, her voice sharp. ‘We shoulda been there long ago. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘We must be on the wrong road,’ Linda said quickly, trying to reassure her son. ‘And since we can’t see where we are, exactly, we’re going to catch up on our sleep, a bit. Just until daylight.’
‘Stop. Revive. Survive,’ Verlie remarked, quoting an RTA advertising campaign. But Del was shaking her head.
‘We can’t be on the wrong road,’ she
objected. ‘How can we be on the wrong road? It’s bloody bitumen. There’s only one bitumen road around here. That’s what I’m sayin – either we’ve got ourselves turned around, facin the wrong direction, or something’s completely bonkers.’
‘Yes, well, there’s no point discussing that again,’ Ross interrupted. ‘What we have to do now is get some sleep, because otherwise we won’t be able to drive, let alone work out what’s happening.’
‘But do you think – you know – that maybe someone should stay awake?’ Linda suggested, hesitantly. ‘I mean – with the gun?’
There was a brief silence. Peter realised, with a sudden chill, that most of the adults around him were as lost and confused as he was.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Del said dismissively. ‘We got Mongrel, eh boy? He’s a terrific guard dog.’ The old dog wagged his tail, panting, as Del scratched his head. ‘Doesn’t miss a thing.’
‘So we’ll just bed down, then?’ Verlie inquired. ‘And talk in the morning?’
‘I think so,’ said Noel. ‘Is that agreeable to everyone?’
Ross grunted. Linda nodded. Verlie smiled, and Del shrugged. Alec was staring at the ground, the butt of Del’s rifle tucked under his arm, its barrel sagging towards the earth.
‘What about you, Alec?’ Noel asked. ‘What do you think?’
Alec cleared his throat. He swallowed. Finally he said: ‘I think we should head for the nearest farm. Find a land line. Call the coppers.’
‘Yes, of course. That’s a sensible suggestion, but – was it Linda? – as Linda pointed out, we can’t do much in the dark,’ Noel observed gently. ‘You’ve no objection to sleeping in Del’s car, I take it?’
‘No.’
‘Good. So we’re all agreed, then. Does anyone else have anything to say?’
No one did. The tight little knot of bodies began to unravel, Verlie heading for the Ford, Linda for the caravan. Noel took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
‘Do you think we’re on the wrong road, Dad?’ Peter asked him.
The Road Page 17
