‘Off my game,’ he said by way of gallant admission.
Maggie grinned and sank another ball, then another. ‘Yeah, me too.’
Simon laughed. They played in silence for a while, mostly missing, occasionally sinking. He was so intent on not embarrassing himself that it took a while to notice Maggie was observing him with an expression not far off quizzical.
‘What’s up?’ he said.
‘Well, I’ve told you my story . . .’
‘No, you haven’t.’
‘I’ve told you enough. What’s yours? You on the run?’
He snorted. ‘Do I look like I’m on the run?’
‘You look like you’re drowning your sorrows.’
‘I’m not drowning anything.’ A miss. He stepped back as Maggie surveyed the table. ‘I’m looking for something.’
‘What?’
He paused. He knew, even if the knowledge was fuzzy, that he could overshare when he was drunk. Be too sincere and end up feeling like a dickhead the next day. But then, this girl was talking to him and he’d probably never see her again and he was by himself in the middle of nowhere and what the hell.
‘Australia,’ he said.
He braced himself for the scoff, but it didn’t come.
‘Okay, you’ve got my curiosity,’ she said. ‘How does that work? I’m pretty sure it’s easy to find something you’re standing on.’
‘That’s not . . . Okay, I need more booze for this.’ He reached for his wallet then paused. Ten dollars for each pint and spirit, one for each of them, another few rounds . . .
‘I’ll get them,’ Maggie said, with no sign that she’d noticed his hesitation. ‘And how’s this: I’ll get the round after as well if . . .’ She raised a finger. ‘And only if the explanation is a good one.’
‘Deal,’ Simon said.
Maggie swung her backpack down and unzipped it, turning away from Simon as she did. She reached in and as she did, he thought he saw—
He blinked. The bag was closed and back over Maggie’s shoulder as she walked to the bar. Simon leaned on the cue, eyes on her back. That distant prod of vague warning had returned.
There would be an explanation. There had to be. Nobody just walked around with a bag of what looked to be mostly hundred-dollar notes stuffed in tightly. For a start, it was stupidly dangerous and this girl seemed far from stupid.
The warning was louder, more insistent now. He glanced at the exit. He’d been here longer than he meant to be, and he wanted to make good time tomorrow. He placed the cue against the table.
Then Maggie was back, handing him a beer.
He tried not to look at the backpack. He took a sip and met her eyes. He was approaching a level of drunkenness that his friends always teased him about – he would become overly passionate about what he was talking about, and who he was talking to – but that didn’t change the fact that this girl was sexy, and he liked her. A lot.
‘Have you ever been overseas?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘So, a few years ago I went to London, with friends,’ he said. ‘And when I was a teenager to New York. Family holiday.’
‘Rich family.’
Simon was unsure what to say to that, so he pushed on. ‘Anyway, what struck me was how, I don’t know, how similar they were to Melbourne. I mean, yeah, you have the big tourist destinations and whatever, but honestly? Most streets you walk down, there isn’t much difference.’
‘Maybe you just need to travel more.’
‘Maybe,’ Simon said. ‘But that’s not the point. It made me think: I’ve lived in Melbourne my whole life. But Melbourne isn’t really Australia, is it?’
‘It is, though.’
‘No, it’s . . .’ Simon gestured clumsily, trying to find the words as Maggie took her next shot, then her next. ‘It’s just a city. I like Melbourne, but, I mean, how can I call myself Australian if I haven’t seen Australia? If all my experiences are confined to one place that isn’t much different from a million others?’ He knew he was getting louder, but he didn’t care. He was on a roll. ‘Everything you hear about in the songs and poems . . . you know, boundless plains, jolly swagmen and billabongs, ryebuck shearers. I don’t even know if that stuff exists, but how can I know if I don’t look, right?’
Maggie was concentrating on the table. He reached out to grab her arm, to draw her attention back before she laughed him blushing out of the bar.
It was just a flash, so fleeting he almost didn’t notice. Her knuckles, suddenly white around the cue, her eyes cold and hard on him, a tautness in the muscles of her forearm. For a mad moment, Simon thought she might attack him. He backed away and in the second he did she missed her ball, stepped back and gave an embarrassed shrug. ‘Right, you’ve managed to take my mind off the game.’ She drank. ‘Go on.’
She was relaxed, smiling. He’d imagined it, whatever it even was. He drank then lined up his shot. ‘Look, it would be awesome to check out Uluru and the outback and stuff, but I want to see more than that. I want to go off the beaten track. Maybe work on a sheep farm. Spend time in an Indigenous community. I don’t know. But a city isn’t enough. I want to experience this place, and everything it has to offer. I don’t know, have you ever read On The Road?’
That was a mistake. Maggie rolled her eyes.
‘Wait,’ Simon raised both hands. ‘I know that’s what all guys like me bang on about, but don’t you think there’s something to it? To jumping in a beat-up old car and chasing experience?’ He took a shot, but his aim was off and the cue skimmed the white ball, moving it only a few inches.
‘I’m pretty sure Jack Kerouac was mainly chasing his next hit, but okay.’ She shot and missed.
‘Well, forget the drugs and the booze.’ Simon knocked back more beer. ‘This is about more than that. Experience, yeah, but the kind of thing you can only get in Australia. That’s what I want to find.’
They were down to the black ball now. Absorbed in their conversation, Simon had barely noticed that he was more or less keeping pace with Maggie. He aimed for it and managed a hit that brought it right up to the pocket. He went to say something to Maggie, some dumb joke about him making it easy for her, but she wasn’t looking at the ball. Her eyes were on him, one finger tapping the corner of the table.
‘You know, you kind of look a bit like him,’ Maggie eventually said.
‘Like who?’ said Simon.
‘Jack Kerouac,’ she said. ‘But you actually smile. Which is good.’
Simon let out a nervous laugh. He felt his face warm.
‘Can I come with you? On the road?’ She made air quotes with her fingers.
He had not expected that. ‘Why would you want to come with me?’
‘Because I have nothing better to do and seeing Australia seems as good a use of my time as any.’
‘Yeah but . . . but you’ve just met me. I could be a murderer or something.’
‘Yeah . . . but I don’t think you are. It’s just your vibe.’
He looked back at her and tried to think of a reason he should say no, but then realised that he didn’t want to and he was already sick of travelling alone and she really was very beautiful.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay, fuck it. Why not. Let’s go see Australia together.’
She raised her glass and he met it with his own. He tried and failed to hide how thrilled he felt.
She sank the black. ‘Just remember. Kerouac died young.’
CHAPTER THREE
Now
Frank had picked the girl up and was walking back through the roadhouse entrance before he even realised what he was doing. She was limp in his arms, her eyelids fluttering. He could see that the source of at least some of the blood was her right leg, deep lacerations obvious through a rag serving as a makeshift bandage.
‘What the fuck . . .’ Delilah was on her feet, Charlie trailing behind her. Allie hadn’t left her seat; she just stared as Frank laid the girl down on one of the tables.
Delilah ran for the counter. Charlie stood across from Frank, looking the girl over. He reached down and touched her injured leg. She stirred, slightly. He examined what he could see of the wound with a grimace.
‘Not good?’ Frank said, feeling like an idiot as soon as he did.
‘I’ll need to get it clean to take a look,’ Charlie replied. ‘But it looks pretty bad . . . I have no idea how she was driving.’
‘You a doctor?’
‘Nurse. Del?’ Charlie looked over to the counter. ‘How you going?’
Delilah was looking down at the phone in her hand, frowning.
‘Delilah,’ Charlie urged.
‘The line’s dead.’ She looked up at them. ‘There’s nothing.’
Frank hurried over and snatched the phone from her. He put it to his ear. There was only silence.
‘Is that . . . Does that happen sometimes?’ Delilah asked.
No. ‘Yeah. Line must be down or something. Who’s got a mobile?’
Delilah looked embarrassed. ‘We drained it playing music in the car, and the charger’s busted. We were going to replace it in the next town but . . . do you have a Samsung charger?’
Frank bit back his frustration. He turned to Allie. She was already on her feet, phone in her hand.
Then—
‘No,’ the girl on the table croaked. Allie stopped dead.
‘Keep still,’ Charlie said. ‘We’re going to call help.’
‘No help.’
Frank was taken aback by the force in her voice. The girl’s eyes were open, locked on Charlie, wide and desperate. ‘No ambulance. No police.’
‘You’re hurt,’ Charlie said. ‘Look, you—’
‘No.’ The girl sat half up, her arm shot out. Her hand closed around Charlie’s wrist so tightly he yelled out. Frank moved instinctively as the girl rose from the table, breathing heavily, eyes boring into Charlie’s. ‘No ambulance. No police.’
Her grip loosened. Her eyes lost focus. Charlie caught her as she fell back.
‘Stay with me,’ Charlie said. ‘Come on, stay with me. What’s your name?’
Her eyes closed. Charlie put his ear to her mouth, listening. After a moment, he nodded and with Frank’s help gently laid her back on the table. ‘I need a first-aid kit,’ he said.
‘There’s one over at the house,’ Frank replied. ‘But shouldn’t you—’
‘Why don’t you have one here?’ There was none of the previous softness in Charlie’s voice.
‘I . . . I don’t have much need of it here,’ Frank said. ‘Why aren’t we calling triple-0?’
‘You heard her,’ Charlie said.
‘That doesn’t mean we should listen. Look at her, she—’
‘Whatever happened to her, she seemed pretty sure of herself. She’s breathing, she’s stable. Let me have a look over her and then decide what the best thing to do is.’
He sounded certain, and that might as well have been a warning bell. Frank stepped in close. He grabbed Charlie by the arm. Instinctively, the younger man went to pull away, but Frank didn’t let go. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘Excuse me?’ Charlie said.
‘There’s a half-empty bottle of wine on the front seat of your van,’ Frank said.
Charlie’s eyes darted away, but Frank saw the familiar flash of anger and shame.
‘We call an ambulance,’ Frank said.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Delilah stepped between them, shoving Frank away from Charlie. ‘He was driving. He had a swig, sure, but we’re not fucking idiots. We’re on holiday; I was drinking.’
‘Look at her,’ Frank said. ‘She needs serious care.’
‘Which Charlie can give.’ Delilah’s voice was cold, cutting. ‘He’s a nurse. He has saved lives. What the fuck have you ever done?’
The silence was heavy and sudden, the falling blade of a guillotine. Frank was all too aware of Allie’s eyes on him. He stepped back, away from Delilah’s glare.
‘Now,’ Delilah said, voice deliberately calm. ‘Can you bring the first-aid kit here?’
Frank shook his head. ‘Here all I’ve got is tables for her to lie on. We’ll take her to the house. It’s directly behind us; you get there via a road around the corner. There are couches, a bed, all of that. You can see to her properly. Just give me five minutes to shut everything down and—’
‘We need to go now,’ Charlie said.
Frank looked between them. He could feel the situation careening away from him. Unbidden, through all the chaos that was his thoughts, an old, paranoid suspicion was taking hold: What if this is a trick, what if they planned it, what if—
‘I’ll stay,’ Allie said.
They all turned to look at her.
Allie’s eyes were darting, nervous, but her voice was firm. ‘I know how to work the register and everything – I’ve seen you do it. You take them over, I’ll keep watch.’
Frank opened his mouth to speak. He wasn’t sure what to say. Wasn’t sure how to say it.
‘We have to go,’ Charlie said.
‘Okay,’ Frank said. ‘Okay. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Just . . .’ He didn’t want to tell her to be careful. She wouldn’t need to be. He tried to catch Allie’s eye, tried to communicate whatever half-baked reassurance he couldn’t say out loud. She wasn’t looking at him.
Frank picked the unconscious girl up. She didn’t move, but the slight rise and fall of her chest was at least a little reassuring. She was light, almost unnaturally so. ‘We’ll take her car,’ Frank said. ‘Get it clear of the pumps.’
Charlie and Delilah hurried after him as he walked to the station wagon. Charlie opened the back door and Frank directed him to get in first and slide all the way across, before, as gently as he could, Frank lifted the girl in, so that her head rested on Charlie’s lap, her body diagonal on the back seat. Delilah had already moved into the front passenger seat as Frank shut the door and opened the driver-side door. He paused. He looked back at the road. Still empty. The sky above the tarmac wavered slightly in the late afternoon heat. Frank listened, but there was no approaching vehicle, nothing but the wind in the sea of grass, gentle and lazy. He got into the car. The leather of the steering wheel was scalding, the seat not much better. The heat alone could have been enough to make someone pass out.
Delilah was looking over a small backpack that had apparently occupied the seat before her. She went to open it.
‘Don’t,’ Frank said.
Delilah looked at him, eyebrow raised. ‘Why not?’
‘Would you like someone going through your stuff?’
Delilah shrugged and set the bag down. As Frank adjusted the seat back a little, his heels touched something. He paused, glancing down. It was an old leather jacket, but the uncomfortable twinge in his chest was one of recognition.
He turned the key, which was still in the ignition, and put the car into gear. ‘How’s she doing?’ he asked Charlie as he pulled away from the roadhouse with a wave in the direction of where Allie stood behind the counter.
‘The same,’ Charlie said. ‘She’s breathing, but that doesn’t mean much until I can get her cleaned up and take a better look.’
If he had been on the quad bike, Frank would have crossed the land behind the roadhouse, but trying that in a car was risky, and rough enough for him to not want to risk it with an injured girl in the back seat. The proper turn-off to his house was about two hundred metres down from the roadhouse, a narrow break in the grass to the left. The dirt road was uneven and a thick cloud of dust billowed up behind them as they went, but it was better than getting stuck in a ditch. Frank ignored Delilah tersely asking if he could be careful. This was as good as it got out here.
After a couple of minutes, Charlie spoke again: ‘What do you think happened to her?’
Frank didn’t reply. It was the question that had to have been on all their minds from the moment she collapsed out the front of the
roadhouse. The few ideas he did have were either ridiculous or terrifying, or both. He glanced in the rear-view mirror, looking at the girl’s prone, filthy form. Who are you?
The driveway which wound off to Frank’s house was easy to miss unless you knew it was there. It snaked its way through the grass, past rocks and piles of wood Frank had neglected to get rid of after abandoning poorly developed expansion plans years ago. Bringing strangers here gave Frank a stab of shame that he resented; it wasn’t anyone’s business what kind of place he lived in. But he kept his eyes forwards and didn’t look at either Charlie or Delilah as they approached the squat shape of his house rising from the grass. He pulled the car to a halt outside, got out, and helped Charlie lift the girl from the back seat. This time the young nurse carried her. Delilah stayed at his side, as if scared he’d drop her.
‘The door won’t be locked,’ Frank said. ‘Straight through and immediately to the right – that’s the living room. I’ll be there in a sec.’
Delilah looked at him with obvious curiosity, but Charlie was already moving and she hurried after him. Frank stayed put until they were through the front door, then returned his attention to the car. His eyes moved along the side. Neither Charlie nor Delilah had said anything about the blood. Maybe they didn’t recognise it: it was dried out, so it was dark, almost dark enough to be mud. Maybe they were pointedly ignoring it. Frank couldn’t blame them. He reached out to touch it but stopped short. He got back in the driver’s seat, watched through the windscreen for a second, then, when neither Charlie nor Delilah came out to find him, he shifted forwards and picked up the hard, heavy object under the leather jacket. He uncovered it quickly; there was no point in delaying the inevitable. Still, maybe part of him was looking for an innocent explanation.
What he found was a shotgun.
Allie hated the roadhouse. Everything about it felt musty and worn out, as if the sadness that filled Frank’s home had somehow spread across the grass. She’d noticed it the first moment her dad had brought her here, trying to sound encouraging and going on about how she could help run the place, as if that was such an exciting opportunity.
The Hunted Page 3
