by Derek Hansen
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Excuse me, Al, I’ve just got to make an urgent call to my sister.’
Knowledge enlightens but also crushes. Linda spent the rest of that day and the following day reviewing the operations of her business while trying to come to terms with the revelation that pages from one of Fran’s phone bills, which almost certainly contained her phone number, had been taken from the files. Her ex-husband was not yet released on probation but he’d already managed to narrow his search down to the Walgett telephone exchange. Worse, she’d discovered her sister had listed her number under J Downs in her teledex. Had Grant taken note? It was little consolation that Jindalee Downs was too insignificant to be recorded on most maps. It was recorded on local maps and maps of the opal fields. Anyone who asked around Walgett would have no trouble getting directions. But would Grant have realised what J Downs represented and picked it out from the hundreds of names listed in her sister’s teledex?
Linda took her anxiety out on Al. She grilled him on all aspects of the business and even gave him a hard time over producers and directors not keeping records of how they spent the contingency cash on shoots. This was a notoriously difficult area to police. While the cash was meant for emergencies and to solve problems on location, it was common knowledge that a substantial part of the money often went into booze or into the producer’s or director’s pockets. The practice was so entrenched, some directors even regarded the contingency money as theirs, one of the perks of the job. Linda knew she was being unfair and that Al was as vigilant as anyone could be. Her irritation grew as she failed to find anything other than minor discrepancies and oversights. Al had risen to the occasion and done an excellent job of managing her business in her absence. He deserved to be praised for his efforts. Nevertheless, Linda kept him on the defensive until they had no further issues to discuss.
Al took the assault on the chin. On his last night in Dubbo, he took her out to dinner, plying her with more wine than was healthy in the hope that alcohol would succeed in calming her where his words of assurance had failed.
‘At least you know your business is in good hands,’ said Al. ‘You can relax on that score.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Al,’ said Linda. ‘My success is only going to provoke Grant even more. I’ll relax when he’s successful.’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ said Al quickly. ‘That didn’t come out quite the way I meant.’
Linda bowed her head.
‘Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.’
She thought about her plans for the following day. She’d intended to get her hair done and go shopping, not just for food and supplies but also for furnishings for her little homestead between the ridges. But what was the point? As much as she’d grown attached to her new home and to Billy, and even Rodney in a funny sort of way, she couldn’t ignore the fact that her ex-husband was closing in on her. It was time to move on. But if she did, would there be another Billy or a home as secluded? And, even if there were, how long would it take Grant to track her down again?
‘What am I going to do, Al?’ she said. ‘I don’t want to move on.’
‘How long before Grant gets out?’
‘Two months.’
‘And what do you think his priority will be?’
‘I know what it is. Getting even. He left me in no doubt about that.’
‘Wrong. He won’t have time to get even. He’ll have his work cut out just getting going. Grant won’t have time to scratch himself when he gets out. He’ll be flat out flogging his reel around town, trying to drum up work, and he’ll probably fly down to Melbourne to do the same. Start-ups gobble cash, you know that. His number one priority will be to get work in and get some cash flowing. He also needs to get new, up-to-the-moment work on his reel. That’s not going to take days or weeks, it’s going to take months.’
‘Grant’s got a lot of hate and it has to go somewhere.’
‘Even good haters have got to eat and to eat they’ve got to earn. My guess is it’s going to take Grant at least six months to get some momentum going.’
‘Six months?’
‘Sure, to get the work and then do it.’
Linda thought over how long it had taken her to go through the quoting process, pre-production, the shoot and post-production. Six to eight weeks was the norm and there was no guarantee that Grant would get jobs back to back. Six months looked a conservative estimate.
‘I guess you’re right.’
‘I am right. Like you said yesterday, the best thing that can happen for you is if things go well for him. If I were you, I’d stay where you are, at least for the time being. A lot can happen in six months.’
Linda took a long sip from her glass of wine. Everything Al had said made sense and she wanted desperately to believe him. But Grant was Grant and she knew what he was capable of. His one phone call to her from prison almost six years earlier had left her in no doubt where his priorities lay. She was his priority. He’d made that perfectly clear. Al ordered another bottle of wine and, as far as she was concerned, it couldn’t come quickly enough.
After a restless night, Linda dropped Al off at Dubbo airport and returned to town to do her shopping. She was tempted to check out of the Country Club and drive straight home to Jindalee but decided to stay and go to the movies as she’d originally planned. When Harry Met Sally was playing in the afternoon session. It was exactly the kind of light, slick entertainment she needed to take her mind off her problems. That evening she had dinner in her room and lay in bed watching ‘Hill Street Blues’.
Linda checked out of the Country Club at two-thirty the following morning so that she could get through Walgett and Cumborah while it was still dark and nobody would be about to see her or recognise her. The weather reports on her car radio talked up the possibility of good falls of rain on the northwest plains. Linda thought about Billy and how pleased he’d be if the skies decided to open over his property. Thinking about Billy brought the first smile to her face for days. It also occurred to her that her own place could do with a few drops. The first shower splattered onto her windscreen a few kilometres north of Coonamble. Just short of Walgett she drove through a much heavier fall but thought of it as nothing more than a minor inconvenience necessitating the use of windscreen wipers. After all, the Castlereagh Highway was sealed and there was no traffic on the road. Her only concern was whether or not the rain also fell on Billy’s property. She knew how disappointed he’d be to miss out. It continued to drizzle as she drove through the dark, deserted streets of Walgett.
In one of those quirks that drive graziers to an early grave, the rain seemed to have bypassed the area west of Walgett. As soon as Linda turned onto the dirt road leading out to Cumborah she switched off her windscreen wipers. She could see in her high beam that there’d been some rain but not much, not enough to do any good or do any more than lay the dust. The steering wheel felt strangely light in her hands, almost skittish, and she put it down to the fact that she hadn’t adjusted to the change from the tar seal to the dirt. Nevertheless, she slowed down. Her one remaining imperative was to clear Cumborah while it was still dark or at least gloomy and she figured she had plenty of time up her sleeve. Occasionally she saw the eyes of animals reflecting back from the sides of the road and pinned the odd kangaroo in the glare of her headlights. Billy had warned her about their erratic habits and she slowed whenever she spotted them. Strangely, the thing that was beginning to concern her most was the sheer blackness of the night. The darkness seemed to absorb the light from her headlights and she found she had to concentrate hard just to stay on the road. Then the rain came.
At first there were just a few drops but they were soon joined by others until Linda found herself driving through a heavy shower. Rain mixed with the dust on her windscreen and the area covered by her wipers became streaked with mud. The road became even harder to distinguish through the falling rain. Instinctively Linda lifted her foot from the accelerator. Nothing happened. The Toyota f
ailed to slow down and, worse, started sliding slowly to the left into the heavy soil and shallow ditch that lined the side of the road. Linda began to panic. What would happen if she got bogged in the slurry along the side of the road? She’d be stuck there and have to be towed out. The implications almost paralysed her. What were the chances of keeping her presence secret then? She turned into the direction of the slide just as the Toyota at last began to slow, found traction and gingerly steered back into the centre of the road. Previously she’d wondered at the lack of camber on the road and assumed it was because they got so little rain. The real reason was now painfully apparent. Rain penetrated the soft dust but sat on the concrete-hard clay beneath, making the road as slippery as an ice rink. The slightest camber caused the four-wheel drive to drift off line. Even a moderate camber would cause vehicles to slip off the road altogether.
Linda gradually slowed to ten kilometres an hour but still found it hard to keep in the middle of the road. Her pulse raced and her heart hammered in her chest but everything else seemed to be happening in slow motion. The only similar experience she could draw on was when she’d driven through a blizzard on an icy road up to Mt Perisher, and then she’d had the benefit of chains on her wheels. She groaned out loud when she realised the road was curving away to the right. It was difficult enough just keeping the Toyota in a straight line. She turned gently, hoping that her tyres would find enough grip to get around and, after a few heart-stopping skids, they did. That was enough. Linda wanted to stop until it was lighter and she could see better. But the thought had no sooner formed when she realised that if she stopped she probably wouldn’t find the traction to get going again. Just as she was starting to despair she drove through the other side of the shower. The rain eased and the road became a little drier and marginally less slippery.
Linda slipped and slithered her way into Cumborah, past the few buildings that justified its position on the map, and turned right at the windmill. Although she was hours behind schedule and the country around her had turned from an impenetrable black to a uniform dull grey, she was comforted by the fact that no one noticing the Toyota pass by would have any idea who was at the wheel. Her windscreen and side windows were streaked with mud. Believing the worst was behind her she began to relax.
She was halfway between Cumborah and the track up to Billy’s when the storm broke overhead. Rain lashed her windshield. She flicked her wipers to high speed but they still struggled to cope. In desperation she lifted her foot from the accelerator but once again experienced the ice-on-ice sensation that had frightened her earlier. She tried desperately to hold the car in a straight line as it slid, but nothing she did had any effect. With agonising slowness the Toyota began to turn sideways. She applied opposite lock and held on. The car suddenly jiggled over corrugations, caught snatches of traction, began to straighten then resumed its slide. It had slowed to less than five kilometres an hour but Linda still had no control over which direction it went. She tried applying a little power to straighten the car, but the wheels spun uselessly; tried dabbing the brakes but they had no effect either. Inevitably, and with maddening slowness, the Toyota slid off the road into the slurry and stopped. Linda slumped over the steering wheel and turned off the motor and wipers. As if to confirm her defeat the rain intensified and hammered like a thousand mad drummers on her roof. Her windows turned opaque.
She closed her mind to the pounding rain and tried to get a grip on her predicament. How long before the rain eased up? Was it just another shower? How long before the road dried up enough to be driveable? What were her chances of getting mobile again before someone came and offered to help her? She groaned inwardly. If only the rain had held off for another twenty minutes, she could have got as far as Billy’s or at least to the track leading up to his house. That would’ve solved all problems. She examined her options. From time to time her film crews had got their cars bogged while shooting commercials on beaches or in the bush and she recalled them saying how they jammed rocks and scrub under the wheels for traction. That was something she could try. There weren’t many rocks around but there was plenty of scrub. The only other alternative was to get out and walk to Billy’s some seven or eight kilometres away, without boots, raincoat or umbrella. One thing was certain, if she couldn’t get the car going she had to abandon it. She couldn’t risk staying put and having her presence discovered.
The rain eased briefly but just as quickly picked up again. When a gust of wind hit the Toyota side-on and actually moved it a few centimetres, Linda realised she really had no choice. It was going to take hours, if not days, for the road to dry out enough to be driveable. She waited for another two hours, hoping that the rain would stop, but instead it settled into a steady drizzle. With no sign of any break in the clouds, Linda opened her car door and stepped out. As the first drops landed on her she thought of her hair and the money she’d wasted in Dubbo having it cut, tinted and styled. She was thinking of the pathetic figure she’d cut on Billy’s doorstep, all soaked and bedraggled, when her feet shot out from beneath her.
It hadn’t occurred to her that if the road was too slippery to drive on it might also be too slippery to walk on. That oversight cost her dearly. She landed heavily on the flat of her back, banging her head and knocking every wisp of air from her lungs. She lay there, dazed and in agony, desperately trying to draw breath. Slowly, ever so slowly, the pain in her diaphragm subsided and she managed to get some rhythm back into her breathing. Now she only had to worry about the pounding in her head. Her hand found the Toyota’s front mudguard and she dragged herself up into a sitting position. The effort and movement, as small as it was, drove a thousand long nails through her skull and into the part of her brain that registered pain. Cautiously she reached behind her head with her free hand to assess the damage and groaned when she felt the wetness. Blood. She forced herself to look at her hand to try to gauge how badly her head was bleeding and almost sobbed with relief. Her hand was red and wet all right, but the culprit was mud not blood.
Linda dragged herself to her feet and waited for the throbbing in her head to subside. Mud covered her from head to toe down her back and sides and had splashed over her front. Filled with trepidation she tentatively prodded the road surface with the toe of her shoe. The mud was only two or three centimetres deep. The ground below was still as hard and unyielding as ever and as slick as ice. Once again she was forced to examine her options. The Toyota was going nowhere and she’d already accepted she couldn’t stay with it and await help. That left her no choice but to walk to Billy’s.
Now that she knew how slippery the road was she stepped gingerly over to the softer ground alongside it. Mud oozed over the top of her shoes before sucking them off her feet altogether. Barefoot, soaked, muddy, her head hurting like hell and with at least seven treacherous kilometres to walk, she set out grimly for Billy’s. Twenty metres on she fell for the second time.
Chapter Fifteen
Billy lay flat on his belly against the embankment, his feet in the ditch and his eyes staring along the length of his SLR and across the sea of rice plants to a barely visible village erupting in flames three hundred metres away. The roar of the jet planes and their explosives was all but drowned out by the pounding of torrential rain on a million leaves. The rain hid the aircraft from sight but not the damage they did. Rain was no defence against napalm and HE, and nothing, least of all rain, stopped play in Vietnam.
He saw movement on the road leading from the village — someone or something coming towards him — and automatically took aim. He wiped rain from his eyes and concentrated, focusing all his attention on the shapes slowly resolving in his sights. People running. Old people, women and children. Someone in black pyjamas. Vietcong? No. A woman. A woman and her kids. All scared shitless. Screaming. Waving. Billy held fire.
Before Vietnam there’d never been a time in his life when he wouldn’t have rushed to the help of any woman in distress, especially one with kids, especially when they were screa
ming, especially when they were running for their lives, especially when they were so helpless. He would’ve acted instinctively, without regard for his personal safety, his duties and obligations as automatic as the act of drawing breath. Instead, Billy held his fire. There were stories, dozens for every incident, cautionary tales repeated to the living to help them survive: of fleeing women dumping grenades minus their pins into the hands offering to help them; of children exploding in the arms carrying them to safety. Safety? In Vietnam, safety was a concept with little application. Nowhere was safe, nothing was safe and no one was safe.
Billy watched the woman running towards him, saw her throw up her arms and fall. He listened for the report from the gun that had felled her, heard none, saw her get back up on her feet and run after her kids. The remains of the village ripped apart under the weight of ordnance. The woman fell once more, toppled by the blast, rose and resumed running. Billy held fire, the only act of compassion left to him. Other shapes emerged from the rain behind her but he wasn’t interested in them. His sights were trained on the woman, on the saturated clothes clinging to her body in case they concealed a weapon, on her hands in case they clutched a grenade. She was within seventy metres and he still held fire; within fifty when she called out to him, when she called out his name, when she collapsed in front of him and did not get back up.
She called his name. She knew his name? How could she know his name? The rain still hammered down but the sound changed, became sharper and more metallic. She waved to him, beckoned him, helplessly, wearily, desperately. The children had gone and so had everyone else. Where had they gone? Billy held fire. A dog raced to the fallen woman, stood over her. Where had the dog, his dog, come from?
Billy rose unsteadily like a man awoken suddenly from sleep, disorientated and disconnected, his mind straddling different places and times and struggling with the shift.
‘Billy!’
