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Relentless
Sue Sowerby
Thriller
‘You can get out.’ he snarls. A chill creeps through me because he means it. ‘You’ve been nothing but trouble on this trip. You only think of yourself.’
‘That’s rich,’ I yell, ‘everything I do is for you, but can you see it? No! This trip has shown me you’re nothing but an ungrateful control freak, not worth my time.’
‘Me! Not worth your time?’ His eyes narrow. He hisses like a snake. ‘Get out then!’
Believe me, I want to get out, and I do - in the middle of nowhere. He roars off. Even the dust he leaves behind looks enraged.
Dumped! Why aren’t I surprised? I’d stood up for myself consistently since we left the Murchison and headed back down the old coast road. I guess I really exposed his control trips, but I don’t expect to be abandoned completely. He’ll be back.
I wait. Nothing! I look around, scared. I’m not used to this. I’m a city girl - I work in a bank. Is he trying to frighten me into submission? I wait some more – hours more.
Blinking back tears, I start down the orange gravel road which arches over a stunted out-back hill and winds away into nowhere. Black shadows from the straggly scrub streak across the orange. It makes me feel I’m walking up the back of a tiger. I might as well be. The sun is low - sinking lower than low. I’m alone, utterly alone. I wonder if this is the usual form of punishment the gallant Brad metres out to girls who stand up to him. Are women who do so routinely dumped into situations that force them to fight for survival?
Well, I’m free of him, I need to be, but this is way too free!
When will the next car come? Not soon I imagine. It could be a whole week and I haven’t even got a suitcase or a bottle of water. Is Brad really so phsycho he’d leave me out here to die? A chill shivers through my spine as it dawns on me that he might be. The more I think about him, the creepier he becomes. I recognise there has always been something wrong, but I’ve been conned. He has money, standing, looks – all that society holds dear, yet travelling with him in the wide open spaces allowed me to see his ugly side in techno-colour.
I feel like a stranded fawn, not native to this land, a land with a bad reputation for dealing savagely with uninitiated foreigners, a land with a dark appetite like a crocodile. I hear the drone of an engine and instead of relief a wild fear grips my guts. I’m wearing short frayed shorts and a low top. This could be my salvation or my doom. As the vehicle approaches, something feral overpowers me and I jump into a drain, cringing down out of sight. Has he seen me? My heart lurches with disappointment as the car passes in a pall of dust.
As I lie here, I tell myself I must stay positive. Negative thoughts will draw evil this way. I feel a new unfamiliar fear of the power of my own chaotic mind. I can smell the crushed leaves beneath me – sharp, pungent, herbal and alien. I fear that fear is turning me into something wild and unreasonable. If I’m no longer the banker’s daughter, who or what am I?
My neck prickles as I realise people meet themselves out in this empty land where there are no distractions, no connections, only a road like a whip scar across a hostile, unforgiving back. I’ve never felt so thirsty. I catch the scent of the sea from the west but I can’t see it. Its cool salty freshness is delivered like manna on the evening breeze. My nostrils quiver like a roo’s. Fear is awakening a raw primitive side I never knew before. Now that I face death, I’ve never felt so alive. I’m excited, and terrified.
As the sun goes down, I feel strange spirits rising. Something in my blood is aware of this. It seems to know other things my city office self doesn’t. I’ve always felt quite proud that I had an aboriginal great grand mother, though I never met her.
I hear the rumble of another car. Though logic tells me it could mean death to hide again, my awakening instinct is uneasy and demands that I do - more powerfully than the first time. I battle with it. Logic wins, civilisation has taught it to win. I jump forward and wave the vehicle down. I’d hoped for a couple, but it’s a lone man. When I tell him what happened his eyes glint as though they see prey. I feel a dingo growl inside me.
‘He left yer in the lurch, aye?’ the man chuckles.
He has bad breath, and reeks of cigarettes. There’s a huge black dog panting in the back. I ask where he’s going.
‘Aw, Geraldton. Not in a hurry, though. Reckon I might camp the night.’ He grins, but his mouth looks savage. ‘I got a spare blanket.’
My heart sinks. Geraldton must be only about two hours away. It’s barely sundown and definitely not necessary to camp. Fear slices into my gut. Not knowing how to react is the worst feeling. A helicopter passes high above, no help to me.
I tell him I need to get to Geraldton by eight o’clock - that some one is waiting for me. He doesn’t respond.
The cold desert night is creeping in. His behaviour appears friendly, but he talks too loud and sounds too excited. My hackles are up. I’ve never felt instinct warning me so strongly before, but its here now.
We eat a rough dinner of toast browned on the fire and pile baked beans on top of it. I continue to hope, suppressing instinct, but it keeps screaming at me to get out quick. The man puts his hand on my shoulder as he passes. My skin crawls. There’s nowhere to run and he’s got a dog. I’m aware of another large animal circling in the darkness. I can’t see it, but I can hear it walking. I try to smell what it is, but only get a nasty whiff of the sweat from the man leaning over the fire.
The fire is comforting. I keep staring into it, invoking the survivor in me. For the first time in my life, I hate being female and wrap myself tightly in the blanket. Smoke billows around me. He glances toward me from time to time like a cat watching a bird, and licks his lips. There is no talk now, just tense, tense silence. The thing out there in the dark keeps walking, circling closer. I feel like an animal in a trap.
Suddenly, out of the dim light, a man on a horse appears. ‘Mind some company?’ he asks cheerfully.
My heart jumps at him as though he’s the Saviour. I let out a breath. ‘Please join us,’ I’m nearly crying with relief. My host offers him only surly silence.
‘Lost some steers a couple of days ago,’ the new comer mentions as he tethers his horse, ‘Buggers must have strayed all the way to the sea. I’ve tracked ‘em this far but now I’m forced to camp.’ I notice his horse is lathered in sweat. He’s been riding too hard. Why, if he’s just tracking steers? I shudder. This could be a planned meeting. I strain to assess this new arrival.
He’s tall and lanky, reminding me somewhat of Rowdy Yates, a cow-boy out of one of mum’s old Raw-hide movies. I notice animal stealth in the way he moves. I want to get a look at his face, but he stays back from the fire light and keeps his hat on. I have a nervous feeling that it’s deliberate.
He sits down and I want to creep closer, but I don’t know if I can trust him. My mind is fearful, but I feel no protective dingo growling in my gut. His talk is easy enough, but I can smell tension in him also. The other guy glares, silently hostile. I doubt they are working together.
After a casual smoke, the stockman rolls out his swag. I don’t want him to sleep. The other guy sits crouched on his heels, hunched, watchful. I sense any wrong move on my part could be fatal.
I say to the lanky guy, ‘My boyfriend dumped me out here. This man,’ I indicate, ‘Mr?’ After a moments hesitation the dog owner reluctantly mutters, ‘Larsen,’ ‘has offered me a lift, but he wants to camp instead of going on to Geraldton.’ I’m silently pleading, hoping the stockman will get it, and protect me. Any decent man would.
I sense he acknowledges this, but he stares steadily at me as though assessing what I’m made of. The fire flares briefly on his face. I can’t quite fathom his expression, but it looks more thoughtful than lustful. What is his agenda? Not just steers.
After that moment of scrutiny, he nods, but he doesn’t offer his name and he doesn’t smile. Instead, he lies down and puts his hat ov
er his face.
Who can I trust? I’m alert and want to keep watch all night. It’s dark. There’s no moon, but I’m exhausted and finally lose consciousness.
I awake to the raucous dawn chorus, a crazy corroboree of outback birds, yet it takes me a moment to remember where I am. Then, with horror, I notice my stockman friend has vanished silently in the night. I feel betrayed to the core. For a moment, I’m paralysed. How could he do this when I thought we had an understanding? I snatched a glance at Larsen. After sleep, my gut is doubly convinced there’s something wrong with that man, though my intellect is still reasoning I might be wrong. He’s asleep, or I think he is. There’s a water bottle beside him. I’m getting out of here, but I won’t try to take the bottle. It’s too close.
I’m away and running in the cold dawn. I haven’t time or nerve to circle the camp and look for the stockman’s hoof prints as they do on TV shows. How far could a guy on a horse get? Will he hear me if I scream? I dare not. I’m running, panting, mouth open. Already it feels dry as sand paper. I keep telling myself, I’m a dingo, not a roo, I’m a hunter, not a victim.
I can feel the strength of my body’s will to survive. It’s as if I’ve turned feral overnight. I scoop up some dirt and dust my dark hair till it’s the same colour as the earth. It’s camouflage, but there’s more. For the first time, I’m asking the land to be my friend, my guide.
Suddenly, I’m aware of my white top glaring in the red landscape. It stands out like a beacon. If he’s after me, he’ll spot it straight away. I ditch it. My shorts, pale blue and pebble washed won’t hide me against this tanned landscape. I bury them under some leaves. Now I’m running in a flesh coloured bra and knickers, not the best look when fleeing from a possible sex predator, but I’m aware my scanty top and shorts will have little influence on his intentions. I’m praying my suntan will blend with the land like the skin of a lizard.
I look up and see an area where the trees group more tightly on the side of a rocky rise. I’ll get up in there and look down. Maybe I will see Rowdy Yates or chillingly – Larsen following.
My heart freezes as I spot the psycho below. He’s intent on tracking me, having put on a bright blue t-shirt as though he wants me to see him. Why did he leave his dog back at camp? Instinct whispers that his craving is to see me to run in fear, so he can hunt and trap his prey. The bank worker whimpers that he might be just a decent guy out to rescue a vulnerable girl from certain death in the wilderness, ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ the dingo growls.’
My only hope will be to move fast, real fast, but I’m desperately thirsty now. From up here, I can plot my path through the thickest of the scraggy trees. No doubt he will get up here too, and try to spot me. I’ll go around the hill, use it for cover and run as fast as I can before he climbs into view. If I run light as a fairy, leaving few clues, I can reach the valley, hide in its folds and look back to watch him descending. Having to track me will slow him, though logic screams that he has water and knows the desert. He’ll wear you down. He’ll win, finally, it sneers. I won’t listen. I won’t give up.
All day, through sheer panic, I stay ahead of him. Relentless, he stalks behind. I feel animal strength growing in my legs, in my thighs. I have long sleek thighs I often used to show off to men, but they are meant for more than that. I appreciate their strength now as they carry me with long powerful lopes.
The sun is sinking again. Must the sun abandon me? I curse the glorious crimson ball, helpless as it slips from view, the last rays of hope vanishing in the same way the stockman did. Soon it will be so cold I know I won’t survive the desert night in my underwear. I can’t even light a fire.
Suddenly, I sense an ancestor close, as though soothing me, instructing me. I find a sharp rock and begin to dig in the soft red soil. I dig frantically. Then I find a pile of rotting leaves. The warmth of a chemical reaction is in them. I line the bottom of my nest with the leaves and get in, then I scrape more leaves over the top of me and finally a blanket of earth. Only a little part of my face shows. I feel I’m in the arms of my mother and have the illusion of safety.
Suddenly, a roar like a monster trumpeting breaks above me. I’m dragged from mother earth by my hair. A voice cackles and gibbers like a mad monkey. Two heavy knees pin my arms to the ground. A face crazed with triumph leans over me. Sweat and spittle drip from it. The corner of my eye sees a knife blade glinting in the darkness,
‘I’m gonna bleed you babe, and then I’m gonna do it to you as you’re dying.’ His sick breath smothers me as he continues, ‘the little blonde bled like a pig and cried for her mumma. Let’s see what you do.’
I wretch, but he has me pinned as he slits the soft part of the inside of my two upper arms, and then holds the knife to my throat. I feel the point sink in and realise it’s too late for me. Terror and revulsion flood over me like a tidal wave, yet I manage to gasp,
‘The stockman knows who you are. He’s out there.’
‘He won’t talk - I’ll see to that.’
Suddenly, I’m past panic. I’ve lost all strength, but my animal ally is helping to calm me, preparing to release me. Totally clear and still, I’m strangely peaceful as I accept the end. A timeless feeling swallows me, a sense of floating into boundless empty freedom, leaving this body and sadly bidding farewell to those I care for. For the first time, I understand that I’m spirit, living in body.
In the next instant, Larsen is ripped away. When I shake myself out of shock, I see he’s locked in a ferocious battle with another man. Dust demons rise around them.
‘It's O.K.,’ yells the man and manages to throw something from his pocket.
Shaking, I pick up what looks like a wallet. In the dim light I read Detective Sergeant D. Wyndam, and there’s a photo I can't see properly. My throat constricts: what if the other guy wins? Survival mode kicks in again, though my body seems slow and drugged. My brain grinds into action and I scrabble around in the dark for my sharp digging rock. Vision blurs as a dark head and a semi bald blond head alternate. I’m terrified I’ll hit the wrong guy, but finally manage to strike the blond head with a force I never knew I possessed. He rolls off the cop, face up, blank eyes staring. I think I’ve killed him.
The cop staggers to his feet. I blink, confused for a moment. He’s the stockman! ‘I’m sorry,’ he says thickly, ‘I’m really sorry.’
I can’t comprehend what he means by ‘sorry.’ He saved me. His nose is pouring blood like a tap, but I howl and hug him, covering him with my own blood. He puts his hands above his head as though he’s under arrest. I desperately want to be held, but maybe he's more concerned about the distorted evidence a half naked woman in shock might give.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbles again, out of breath.
I don’t get it. ‘Why sorry? You saved me.’ I’m bleeding and crying hard and I can’t stop.
‘I mean sorry I had to put you through this to catch the bastard. It’s all over now. Good crack to his head - thanks. You’re the hero. Gotta radio my backup, they’re at the ute, but they’ll take a while to get in – ground’s sandy.’
He hand-cuffs Larsen and checks for vital signs. ‘Still alive, unfortunately,’ he mutters, then turns to me. ‘I’ll get the supplies I dropped down the track.’
My knees buckle. ‘Don’t leave me with him.’ I whisper. He catches me as I go down and lays me on the ground. It’s freezing. He takes off his bloody shirt and puts it on me.
Salt and Pepper Short Stories and Poems Page 7
