1988

by Andrew McGahan

  We packed it in around midnight. We were due for an early start. On the way to bed I went to the cupboard where all the family games were kept. I sorted through for anything that might be useful. Monopoly was there, but I couldn’t really imagine Wayne and I playing it. The rest seemed to be kids games. Then I came across an old Scrabble set. I hadn’t played Scrabble since I was ten or twelve years old, and even then only a couple of times. But then there were going to be a lot of long hours to fill at that lighthouse. I went out to the car, stowed the game in the boot.

  FIVE

  My father woke me early next morning. I rolled around in the bed, squinting painfully at the sunlight streaming through the window. My father wasn’t sympathetic. ‘You wanted an early start didn’t you? I’ve already made breakfast. You can get Wayne.’

  I rose and showered, then woke Wayne. He was no happier about it than me. ‘What the fuck is this?’

  ‘The West awaits.’

  We were set to go by nine. We’d crammed a small drum of water into the boot, along with a spare fanbelt. My parents came out, wished us farewell and good luck. I slipped on my sunglasses, started the car. I was awake now and felt good. It was a bright, clear morning, and even my asthma and hayfever were behaving. They always did, away from Brisbane. We hit the road, headed north until the first crossroads, then turned west.

  Wayne was studying the map, getting the folds all wrong. ‘So how far’re we going today?’

  ‘What about Longreach?’

  He looked it up. ‘Is there anything interesting to see along the way?’

  ‘What does the map say?’

  ‘Wheat, sheep and cattle.’

  ‘That sounds about right.’

  He tossed the map aside. Lit a cigarette.

  ‘There’ll be landscape,’ I said, ‘Do you paint landscapes?’

  ‘No.’

  We drove. We were on the backroads, cutting across to join the main highway, and we had them to ourselves. It was all sorghum paddocks, patches of scrub, long brown grass by the roadside. The Kingswood stretched out, heavily laden but strong. It was running beautifully. From Dalby to Darwin, by road, it was around three thousand, three hundred kilometres. It was nothing.

  The morning went well, speed steady at one hundred and ten. Wayne played with the AM dial, stared out the window. He read from time to time. Midday found us in Roma. Population 6000, according to the map. The map also said that Roma was the site of the trial of the infamous Captain Starlight. I didn’t know anything much about Captain Starlight, other than that he was a bushranger of sorts. We pulled in at a road-house on the fringe of town, filled up with petrol and ordered food in the cafe.

  It was my third or fourth visit to Roma. My one clear memory of the place was playing football there as a child—under-11 or under-12 rugby league. The field had been hard, devoid of any life except for patches of bindi-eyes and hundreds of bull ant nests. We lost the game, scratched and bitten, and came away feeling soft. The Roma boys were tough. Most of them played with their feet bare.

  It was also as far west as I’d ever been. From now on it was all new territory. We watched the trucks come and go, finished eating, walked back out into the carpark. Wayne gazed up at the sky. It was hot, a dry, clean heat.

  ‘What about a drink?’ he said.

  ‘Already? What about Longreach?’

  ‘We can’t do this thing sober.’

  We found a pub in the main street, went in. There were only a couple of drinkers, old men, staring up at the TV. Ceiling fans pushed dry air around the bar. We took a table. Wayne bought the first round. We slugged it down and stared out the window. There wasn’t a lot happening. A few cars parked in front of the shops, a few people out on the footpaths. Everyone moving slow.

  We finished the first round. I bought the second. Then it was on to the third. Our pace was similar, with neither of us pressing it. That was good, our drinking habits were compatible. Time passed. Wayne played with his drink, shifted, stared around the bar. There was still just the two old men.

  ‘I thought there’d be pig shooters,’ he said.

  ‘Pig shooters?’

  ‘You know, pig shooters. I thought there were always pig shooters in pubs like this. Aren’t there herds of feral pigs out here?’

  ‘How much TV do you watch?’

  ‘Why?’

  We drank on. Four beers, five, six. On the seventh it was Wayne’s turn at the bar. The barman took the order, looked Wayne over. ‘Where you boys from?’

  ‘Brisbane,’ said Wayne.

  ‘And where you headed?’

  ‘Darwin.’

  ‘Darwin eh. Hope you make it.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t we? We’ve got this far alright.’

  The barman laughed. ‘This far? Right.’

  Wayne came back.

  ‘What’s that guy’s problem?’ he asked.

  I said nothing. Wayne didn’t realise how much he stood out in the surroundings. That long body of his, the skin, the hair. Then there were the white shorts, the bright yellow singlet. He was from the city alright. It was different with me. I was solidly built, there was nothing unusual about my hair or my face. And I was dressed correctly. Black shorts and a long-sleeve King Gee work shirt, the sleeves rolled-up. It was my standard gear, even in Brisbane. I was still that much, at least, a country boy.

  We finished the beers, decided it was time to go. We headed back to the car.

  ‘Can I drive?’ said Wayne.

  I gave him the keys. He started up and we moved out of town. A few hundred yards along we pulled over. I watched while Wayne dug through his gear in the back seat. He came up with a large bag of marijuana.

  ‘Did you bring any of this?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s okay. I’ve got three of these bags.’

  He rolled a joint, lit it. We started up again. I stashed the bag in the back seat, then took drags when the joint came my way. I coughed a lot of it out again. I always coughed. Virgin lungs.

  Wayne eased the Kingswood up to speed. It was getting towards mid-afternoon. I consulted the map. Mitchell was the next town, and after that some small place called Morven, where we’d turn and start heading north-west. I put the map down, stared out the window. The country was all reds and dull greens, scrub and ant-mounds. There wasn’t much traffic. The odd car, a few semitrailers. Farm houses baked under the sky.

  I remembered that we’d bought batteries for Wayne’s stereo at the roadhouse in Roma. I dug around on the back seat, found the batteries, the stereo, and a box of cassettes. I inserted the batteries, then inspected the tapes. They were all outside their cases, most of them battered and spotted with thumb prints in various colours of paint.

  ‘I don’t recognise anything here except for Neil Young,’ I said.

  ‘Put the Big Black tape on.’

  I found it, slipped it in, pressed play. It was loud and harsh and full of bass. It seemed appropriate. I leaned back. The joint moved in, mixed with the alcohol. Time drifted by.

  I thought about things, forgot them. I stared at the blur out the window. It was strange. The trees seemed to move in close, then swerve away. I blinked, sat up. It was Wayne. He was swinging the car back and forth across the road. I watched. He was crouched over the wheel, leaning with it as he turned. I decided he was ugly, almost hideously so. The angled elbows and knees, the sunburn, the tangled clumps of blond hair. He was disgusting.

  Something flashed on the dashboard. It was the alternator light, blinking on and off. Then I saw the temperature gauge. It had swung right over to the red. I considered what that meant for a moment.

  ‘Wayne,’ I said, pointing.

  He started, looked down. ‘Oh.’

  The car didn’t slow. A few seconds passed.

  I said, ‘Don’t you think you’d better stop.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’

  He slowed, stopped, switched off the engine. I turned down the stereo. We listened to the hiss and splutter of the
radiator boiling over.

  ‘I have to admit,’ I said, looking around, ‘I did think we’d make it further than this.’

  Wayne popped the hood and we climbed out to examine things. Water and steam were gushing out from under the radiator cap. The fanbelt was broken.

  ‘Lucky we’ve got a spare one,’ Wayne observed.

  I found myself annoyed.

  ‘Don’t you ever look at the dashboard?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You didn’t notice that the alternator light was on and that the temperature gauge was in the red?’

  ‘How was I to know your car overheats.’

  ‘It doesn’t. How fast were you going anyway?’

  ‘Not fast. I could barely even get up to a hundred. It drives very heavy.’

  I thought, Heavy?

  I said, ‘What gear were you in?’

  ‘It’s an automatic.’

  I went round to the driver’s seat and looked in. Wayne hadn’t put the shift in Park when he pulled up. It was still in the same gear he’d been driving in. It wasn’t Drive or even Second. It was in Low.

  ‘Have you driven an automatic before?’

  He thought. ‘I’m not sure. I drive my mother’s car a lot, but it’s a manual. Why?’

  ‘You were going a hundred in first gear. Revving the absolute shit out of the engine. You’re lucky it didn’t explode.’

  ‘No kidding.’

  ‘Why didn’t you notice?’

  ‘Why didn’t you. You’re the machinery man.’

  Why indeed?

  ‘Well anyway,’ I said, ‘I bet that’s why the fanbelt broke.’

  ‘Is it hard to put on a new one?’

  ‘Not if you’ve got a spanner.’

  We went to the boot, unloaded everything, and searched in the recesses. We found the spare fanbelt, and a spanner. We tried the spanner on the tension bolt. It was too small. The bolt wouldn’t move. We tried stretching the fanbelt over the wheels anyway. It was too tight.

  ‘That’s one thing your father didn’t think of,’ said Wayne.

  I threw the spanner away. ‘I guess he assumed that even an artist would know how to drive.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘What d’you think? We flag someone down.’

  We waited. Wayne sat in the car, the stereo on again. Big Black didn’t seem so impressive anymore. I sat on the hood, staring up and down the road. It was twenty minutes or so before a semitrailer appeared, coming towards us. A petrol tanker. I stood on the road and waved. It slowed and stopped, air brakes hissing. A thin face looked down from the cab.

  ‘What’s your problem?’

  ‘Fanbelt. We need a spanner to put on the new one.’

  He nodded. ‘Got a set here somewhere.’ He climbed down. He was small and wiry, dressed in shorts and a large black hat. Wayne and I stood there and watched while he changed the fanbelt. It was a two minute operation. No one spoke. When he was finished he repacked his spanners. ‘There you go,’ he said. He looked us over, Wayne mostly.

  ‘You boys from Brisbane?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Where you headed?’

  ‘We’re exploring the outback,’ said Wayne.

  Another long look. ‘Hope you get there.’ He headed back towards his truck.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, after him.

  Then he was in the cab, and pulling away.

  ‘I don’t think he liked us,’ said Wayne.

  ‘I don’t think he cared.’

  ‘Well isn’t this the outback?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where the hell is it then?’

  ‘I think I’ll drive from here.’

  ‘Fine.’

  We refilled the radiator and climbed in. Wayne dialled up the stereo. I put the car firmly in Drive, and we moved on.

  By nightfall we were four hundred ks further along, approaching Longreach. Wayne was driving again. We’d sobered up and straightened out completely over the hours. We were very bored.

  We eased into town and drove up and down the wide main street, checking things out. Longreach, population over three thousand, birthplace of Qantas, and Gateway (so a community road sign said) to the Outback. I pointed out the sign to Wayne. He nodded, said nothing. We drove back to a motel we’d seen on the outskirts. At the check-in desk we asked for a double room.

  ‘You mean a twin,’ said the woman.

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘It would be illegal for me to rent two males a double room. Double rooms only have one double bed. Twin rooms have two beds. You can have a twin room.’

  ‘What if we were two women, and we asked for a double?’ said Wayne.

  ‘That’d be no problem.’

  ‘Tricky being gay in Queensland, isn’t it.’

  The woman gave us a dark look. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’

  We signed in and went to the room. Two single beds, plain motel decor. Nothing to see. We shut the door and drove back to the main street. We found a takeaway and bought burgers and chips. Then it was to a pub across the street. We sat in the bar, drinking beer. There were about a dozen other men there. They checked us out briefly, forgot us.

  I began to feel better.

  ‘So are you gay?’ I asked Wayne. It seemed a reasonable question, despite the fact he’d been sleeping with Madelaine. Even I knew sex wasn’t always a straightfoward thing.

  He leaned forward. ‘Do you think this is a good place to use the word gay? In this town? In this bar? Amongst all these pig shooters?’

  ‘You really don’t know anything about pig shooters do you.’

  ‘I hear they’re very rugged.’

  We sat there and considered the bar. I remembered that there had, in fact, been an arrest of two men for homosexual behaviour in Longreach. It was a big case in the media. There was talk of the law being outdated and inhuman. The National Party Government wasn’t so sure. Civil rights wasn’t one of their strong points. And this was National Party territory.

  Whatever our sexual orientations though, it didn’t look as if anything would be happening with them that night. After a couple of beers we picked up a bottle of bourbon, some coke, and headed back to the motel. We sat on the beds, switched on the TV, and drank.

  There was some tourist information beside the bed. I read through it and came across Captain Starlight again. In 1870 he and some compatriots had rustled a thousand head of cattle from the area. They’d herded them across thousands of unexplored kilometres, all the way to South Australia. It was considered such an impressive feat that even when captured and tried, no one wanted to convict him. He was a hero, a pioneer.

  Australian history, I didn’t know any of it. Wayne was rolling a joint. We smoked it. The night dissolved. Just on eleven we heard a bus pull up outside and a hubbub of voices. I looked out the window. It was a tour bus unloading. Most of the passengers seemed old. Pensioner couples.

  Wayne came to the window. ‘Geriatrics,’ he said. ‘If there’s one thing that makes you wanna die young, it’s that. Knowing your future will be staring out the windows of a great big bus . . .’

  He went back to the bourbon. I watched the old people. They all seemed happy. No doubt they had a tour guide, and no doubt they knew more about Captain Starlight than I did. I looked at the small window at the front of the bus that would say where it was headed. It said Darwin.

  SIX

  Next day we rose late and repacked the car. The bus, with its passengers, was already gone. I went to the office and payed the bill. It was a man behind the counter this time.

  ‘Headed north?’ he asked.

  ‘Darwin.’

  ‘Holiday?’

  ‘Work.’

  ‘Be back this way?’

  ‘Not for six months or so.’

  ‘Be worth stopping. The Stockman’s Hall of Fame will be open by then. You must have seen it. That big shed they’re building, on the way in.’

  I nodded. There was indeed
a big shed being built on the outskirts of town.

  ‘It’s a Bicentennial Project,’ he added.

  I nodded. ‘Like Expo in Brisbane.’

  ‘That’s right. Me and the wife are going to that, too. Already got the season passes.’

  I made for the door. Back at the car Wayne was in the passenger seat, studying the map.

  ‘Which way now?’ he said.

  We looked. Mt Isa seemed the next obvious stop, seven hundred ks away. According to the map there were two ways to get there. One was the highway, which was the most direct. The other was a road that looped away southwards. It was longer, but something about it looked encouraging. A thin red line on the paper, compared to a big fat black one. We fuelled-up at a roadhouse, fed ourselves, and got on our way.

  It was a hot, dry, cloudless day. It was our third in the car, and the Kingswood was beginning to attain a well-travelled air. Food wrappers, soft drink cans, newspapers. The ashtray was full. We followed the highway to Winton. Population 1300, said the map. Gateway to the Channel Country, and home of fossilised dinosaur footprints. We headed straight through. The scrub began to thin out, leaving wide patches of bare red sand. We came to the turn for the southward loop, and took it.

  It was a secondary road. The bitumen narrowed to a single strip, rutted lanes of gravel on either side. A sign informed us the route was subject to flooding. I’d heard about the Channel Country. About muddy walls of water coming down from the northern wet, the Diamantina River running ten miles wide. We crossed through some gullies and creek beds, then the bed of Diamantina itself, but everything was bone dry. Eventually the country widened into an open, arid flat. The scrub failed completely. Stony ridges reared in the distance. Heat shimmered across the road and blazed through the windscreen.

  I was impressed. It was as close a thing to a real desert as I’d ever seen. I looked out at the low clumps of brown grass, the red soil. There were no other cars. No houses. No trees. Just us and the Kingswood, under the sun, carving our way across the plain.

  Finally we came to two sheer and naked hills. The road passed directly between them. I gazed up at the peaks. I slowed the car, stopped, killed the engine. I climbed out. I looked up on either side. It was silent and still, the sky above the hills a profound blue.