Doggo hung out with Hamish whenever he could; watching late-night DVDs, playing poker, or just having a beer together on the veranda. But Doggo still worked twelve-hour days, even on Saturdays, and Hamish quickly tired of being a spectator in his friend’s home. The noisy routine of his five kids, and Tina’s endless scurrying about after them, only served to highlight what Hamish had lost.
Paula.
His curvy, intelligent, committed wife.
The only girl with a university degree who’d ever agreed to go out with him; all the others chicks had been too stuck-up. Watching them across the room every Thursday night at the trendy pub near the university, Doggo and Hamish had called them the ‘Fig Jam’ girls. An acronym for their attitude—Fuck I’m Good, Just Ask Me. Skinny girls with chambray shirts and plums in their mouths, studying law, science, medicine. But Paula had been a standout; her big, open smile, her infectious laughter, a not-so-serious degree. And no tickets on herself, either. She hadn’t thought twice about going out with him.
They’d got together, got married, had two great kids. He’d made the money and she’d run their home.
Except now she wasn’t there, for the first time in seventeen years.
Temporarily, mate, Doggo assured him. Give Paula a few months and she’ll be back for sure.
Hamish wasn’t so certain.
Paula’s destruction of his laptop and telephone had revealed a side of his wife he’d never encountered; it just didn’t gel with the warm and cuddly woman he knew. And now she’d taken off with the kids, too—a low act for someone so obsessed with fairness.
But was it fair to me, he could almost hear his wife saying, what you did with that girl online?
And she’d be right, Hamish thought to himself. What the hell was I thinking, risking everything good in my life—my wife, my kids, my home—to have cyber-sex with a girl young enough to be my daughter?
Whenever he thought about it in those terms, Hamish was in no doubt of his own culpability.
Helped by Tina, he’d organised a new iPhone and sent several conciliatory texts to Paula, but she hadn’t replied. According to the itinerary Lachie had emailed, they were heading around Australia in a clockwise direction.
Hamish had paid for a replacement laptop and had his access to the work server reinstated, but monitoring Nick-the-Dick Bridge just didn’t hold much interest anymore. In fact, when Gary called around to Doggo’s with a ‘Get Well Soon’ card, then casually asked Hamish when he might return to work, Hamish had baulked at an answer. Then, without pausing to think about it, he’d asked his boss about taking the long-service leave due to him after a decade at Crossroads.
To completely recover, Gary.
To take a break, mate.
Things are a bit rocky with Paula.
Gary had been more than accommodating, agreeing immediately to ten weeks of paid long-service leave.
Knowing he had wages coming in until February made a huge difference to Hamish, reinforcing in his mind the obvious course of action. He had to get the hell out of Doggo’s life, and put things right in his own.
At his last appointment, the orthopaedic surgeon had cautioned Hamish against driving with a knee splint.
‘It’s not illegal,’ the doctor had conceded. ‘But I’d rather you didn’t.’
But what else was he supposed to do, hire a chauffeur?
Hamish lowered himself into the driver’s seat and eased his left leg into the footwell beside the brake. Then he pushed the seat back to accommodate his height; Paula was usually the one to drive the hatchback, it wasn’t designed for a six-foot male. He’d bought it for her a few years back, when she’d returned to part-time work. But now that she’d helped herself to his ute to tow their caravan around Australia, Hamish had no other option.
‘Are you sure you should be doing this, mate?’ Doggo looked furtive, as if he expected Tina to come charging out of the house.
Hamish had set his alarm for five o’clock on a Sunday morning, an hour before sunrise, to avoid a confrontation with Tina. Doggo had collected the hatchback from Hamish’s house the night before, then parked it out of view on the street. They’d packed it under the cover of darkness, with Hamish’s duffel bag, a small rucksack and an old swag of Doggo’s, in case he needed to sleep out. Plus an esky of food, a bag of ice and a few sneaky beers.
‘It can’t be safe,’ fretted Doggo, peering at Hamish’s splint through the driver’s window.
‘Don’t worry, Mum, I won’t be arrested,’ said Hamish. ‘Lucky I didn’t smash my right knee.’
He wouldn’t have been able to use the accelerator or the brake.
‘Lucky you didn’t smash your right hand, ya tosser.’ Doggo grinned.
Hamish turned on the engine, cringing at its little purr. Barely a whisper compared to the throaty roar of his ute.
‘Hey, take this,’ said Doggo, pushing a packet through the window.
Hamish stared at the children’s toy, still in its plastic packaging. ‘What the hell will I need a toy pistol for?’
‘Look, it’s a big country out there, Hamo. Lots of lonely roads. Tina keeps one of those in her glove box.’
‘Tina’s mad as a cut snake, mate.’
‘It might buy you some time if you get into trouble.’
Hamish laughed aloud; Doggo shushed him like an old woman.
‘Whatever you reckon, mate.’ Hamish sniggered. ‘I tell you, Doggo, you’re pussy-whipped.’
His friend looked wounded.
‘But thanks, mate, I appreciate it.’ Hamish reached through the open window and shook Doggo’s hand. With a slap, a slide and a knuckle bump, just as they’d done since they were twelve years old.
‘Don’t try anything stupid out there, Hamo. And call me, okay? Or send me a text. Stick to the plan, right?’
‘The plan, Stan,’ Hamish intoned. He waved a hand towards the house, where Tina and the kids slept. ‘You’ve all been really good to me. Too good, mate.’
Doggo loitered at the driver’s window. ‘Tina’s gonna have my balls for letting you go,’ he whispered. ‘She’ll skewer ’em, fry ’em and eat ’em up for breakfast. So make sure you come back with Paula and the kids.’ He straightened up and rapped his hand on the car roof.
Flicking one thumb up at Doggo, Hamish accelerated away.
He followed the inland route via Ballarat and Horsham, paying no heed to the natural beauty or historic significance of the towns he passed through. His attention was squarely focused on getting to Adelaide as quickly as possible. He couldn’t anticipate how fast Paula was travelling, or whether they were doing any side trips, but he knew they had a good three weeks on him. Using Lachie’s rough itinerary, he’d calculated that they must be somewhere between Adelaide and Perth by now. Which was a bloody long stretch of the country to cover.
It took Hamish most of the day to reach Adelaide, stopping once at Bordertown to take a piss and have a bite to eat. The tasteless egg and lettuce sandwich he selected made him fart all afternoon. Only one hundred kilometres short of Adelaide, Hamish felt his eyes begin to droop; so he pulled over for a kip by the side of the highway. When he finally drove into Adelaide’s central business district, the roads were practically deserted. Realising he didn’t have any accommodation lined up for the night, Hamish did several slow circuits of the city before spotting a sign for a youth hostel. A two-storey building, painted a tasteless yellow.
Cheap and cheerful, just what I need.
He parked the car beneath a streetlamp, its neon light flickering as the sun set in the west.
Damn I need a beer.
As he reached for the esky on the floor of the hatchback, his phone beeped.
It was a message from Caitlin, at last, using a number he didn’t recognise. At least his daughter still acknowledged his existence.
So good 2 hear from u Dad! We tried u heaps on your old number and the landline. Why do u have a new phone number? Catie xx
His fingers hovered over the pad;
Paula clearly hadn’t told the children about her nasty little bout of vandalism.
Because your mum went bonkers, he wanted to type.
Time for a change, he typed instead. There’s lots I want 2 change. Give your brother and Mum a hug from me, ok? BTW, where r u?
Somewhere in SA, came the reply. Gramps has a phone!
Where exactly in SA? he wanted to ask. But he didn’t probe any further, not wishing to appear too interested. Like he might be following them, or anything; he didn’t need Catie alerting Paula to his plan.
The good news was, they couldn’t be that far away.
He opened the esky and retrieved a six-pack of stubbies, before climbing out of the car.
He groaned aloud, doubling over. His whole body was as stiff as buggery. He limped around to the boot and stuffed the stubbies into his bag. Then he dragged it out and shuffled onto the footpath.
It’d been almost twenty years since he’d stayed in a youth hostel; the last time had been in Italy with Doggo. He smirked, remembering the Estonian twins they’d met playing table tennis there, all tanned and svelte, with blonde braids and titanic tits. Neither Hamish nor Doggo had known where Estonia was, exactly, but it hadn’t been important. The taller twin with the cute little mole above her lip—was it Anna or Johanna?—who’d gone down on Hamish in the dorm one night. The sounds of sleep all around them—the breathing, the turning, the sighing—and Anna-or-Johanna sucking him off like a girl scout with an icy pole. The silent orgasm he’d had within minutes—rampaging out of nowhere like a tsunami—and the way she’d swallowed it all. Wiping the sides of her mouth with the tips of her fingers and smiling up at him, a perfect set of white teeth gleaming in the shadows.
The automatic doors opened and Hamish pondered, for a moment, if he was even eligible to stay in a youth hostel anymore. Would the receptionist behind the desk redirect him to the nearest Country Comfort Inn, or other lodgings more appropriate for a middle-aged invalid?
‘Hi,’ said the young receptionist. Her name was ‘Delaney’, according to the tag clipped to her shirt. Whatever possessed some parents to use surnames for their children? She looked like a Janey not a Delaney, Hamish thought.
‘Hi,’ he replied. ‘I’d like a room, please.’
‘Are you a member?’ She pushed a form towards him, as if anticipating the answer.
He filled it out and paid the annual fee.
‘We’ve only got a four-share room left. It’s thirty-five dollars a night. All the cheaper beds are gone, sorry.’
‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘Anyone else in the room with me?’
Delaney scanned her computer. ‘Just one so far. Um . . . Sasha. Here, I’ll show you around.’
Hamish nodded. A fräulein named Sasha sounded promising.
Delaney escorted him through the kitchen and dining room, the games room, the shared bathrooms and WI-FI zone.
‘It’s a pity you didn’t arrive yesterday,’ she said, flicking her mousy ponytail over her shoulder. ‘We have free pancakes on a Saturday.’
‘Oh.’ He feigned disappointment. He’d forgotten how it felt to be a student on a budget, actually caring about the free pancakes.
‘And here’s your dorm, the pin number is 1234. Pretty easy to remember.’ She keyed the digits into an electronic pad on the wall and pushed open the door. ‘Sasha, this is Hamish.’
A hulking great bloke with chin-length, greasy hair stood up from a bed on the far side of the room and walked towards Hamish, his hand extended.
‘Sasha,’ he said, in a thick accent.
Definitely German, Hamish thought, but the wrong bloody gender. Filthy, too.
Sasha’s eyes looked everywhere except directly at Hamish. Two firm white beads of spittle adhered to either side of his mouth. As they shook hands, Hamish became aware of a sour stench of body odour. ‘Okay, you two,’ said Delaney amiably, backing towards the door. ‘Let me know if there’s anything else I can help you with.’
Don’t leave me here, Delaney.
The door closed behind her.
‘So,’ Hamish turned back to Sasha, attempting to be courteous. ‘Are you from Germany?’
‘Brussels.’
Hamish tried to locate Brussels on the map of Europe in his mind. Austria? Holland? Lichtenstein, maybe—that obscure little tax haven he’d read about, with more shelf companies than citizens.
Sasha took a step towards him. ‘You know where Brussels is, my friend?’
Hamish swallowed, looking up at the man. There was something distinctly odd about him; all oily hair and fervent eyes.
Hamish shook his head.
‘Belgium,’ Sasha held up a finger in front of his nose. ‘You Australians need geography lessons, just like the Americans.’
Hamish didn’t feel confident enough to reply.
The evening didn’t improve. Sasha was fidgety and talkative, with strongly held views on European politics, the world’s religions and whacky conspiracy theories. He talked ceaselessly, even following Hamish to the kitchen as he prepared some two-minute noodles.
In the dining room, Hamish sat down at a table and leaned over the steaming bowl, hoping Sasha would leave him alone to eat. Instead, Sasha pulled up a chair and earbashed him about the connection between crop circles and the CIA.
It wasn’t until Sasha pursued him into the bathroom after dinner that Hamish decided he’d had enough. He wheeled around from the washbasin.
‘Listen, mate.’ Hamish looked up into Sasha’s zealous face. ‘I need to take a shower. Can you leave me in peace to do that?’
Sasha held up both hands. ‘No need to be rude, my friend.’
‘I’m not your friend,’ said Hamish, surprising even himself.
‘Suit yourself, klootzak,’ said Sasha, scowling as he stormed out.
Hamish could only assume the word was as uncomplimentary as it sounded. He’d forgotten how full of crazies youth hostels could be; a Country Comfort inn now seemed very attractive.
Removing his splint, Hamish stood under the shower for ten minutes, letting the heat and the steam soothe his aching limbs.
As he limped back down the hall with a bath towel wrapped around his waist, a young woman emerged from a nearby dorm.
‘What happened to you?’ she asked, pointing at Hamish’s splint. Her accent was American, or Canadian maybe; Hamish could never distinguish between the two.
She was wearing gym gear—tight blue shorts, a fitted running singlet and sneakers—and her cropped brown hair fell in attractive wisps around hazel eyes.
‘Smashed my knee.’
‘How’d you do it?’
‘Skiing,’ he lied.
‘Too bad,’ she said, wide-eyed. ‘I love skiing.’
He caught sight of a white gob of chewing gum rolling over a silver tongue ring.
‘Where’s your room?’ she asked. ‘Let me help you to it.’
She stepped in close to him; he could smell her perfume. A no-nonsense sporty scent, but feminine nonetheless. He grasped her wiry arm and leaned heavily against it.
‘Woops,’ she said, putting her other arm around him for support.
He could feel her hand on his bare skin, the point of her shoulder beneath his armpit. He caught sight of her cleavage. Lightly-freckled skin over smooth, firm mounds.
The woman looked up at him. ‘Where did you say your room was?’
He lifted his gaze. ‘Uh, just over there.’
She helped him across the corridor, then disentangled herself.
‘My name’s Hamish,’ he said, holding out his hand.
‘Marie,’ she replied, not taking it. ‘I hope you feel better soon.’ She turned on her heel and jogged off, her compact arse jiggling all the way down the corridor.
‘Shit,’ he muttered, laying his head against the wall for a moment. He closed his eyes, feeling the cool brick beneath his forehead.
What the hell am I doing ogling younger women? I’m on the road trying to find my wife, the mother of my childre
n.
Almost a month had passed since he’d last seen Paula. He missed her warm body nestled against his in the groggy minutes before the alarm went off, her dishevelled hair and soft smile that somehow, within an hour of waking, she transformed into her neat-as-a-pin super-mum style. They’d made memories together; years of fun and laughter and sex before the children arrived, years of hard work and renovations afterwards. They’d built things together, literally and figuratively, and they were a good team. As parents, partners and yes, even lovers, when they finally got around to doing it. So why would he jeopardise all that on a whim? Distracted by a Lisel, a Marie, or another passing Polly?
Hamish shook his head, still leaning against the wall.
Why were there so many alluring women in the world?
It was one of life’s great injustices, as far as he was concerned: a commitment to monogamy in marriage, when there was so much eye candy walking around.
He rubbed his forehead across the brickwork again, his nose chasing a final waft of Marie’s perfume. It’s a biological urge, he’d said to Paula, on more than one occasion. Men are different to women. It’s Mars and Venus, babe.
He sighed, confounded by his own conflicting desires.
He keyed in the pin number and the door opened.
‘You’re back,’ said Sasha, lolling on his bed.
The stench in the room was worse, like sport socks soaked in piss.
Hamish couldn’t handle it any longer.
Without a word, he dropped his towel and pulled on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt. He struggled with a fresh pair of trousers over his splint.
‘Need some help?’ asked Sasha, standing up from the bed.
Hamish fixed him with a steely glare.
Abandoning the trousers, Hamish opted for the same pair of shorts he’d worn earlier that day, still smelling of ten hours on the road.
Grabbing his bag from under the bed, Hamish dragged it towards the door. With his gammy leg, it felt much heavier than it was, but the six-pack inside it didn’t help. He hadn’t even managed to crack one open because of Sasha tailing him around the hostel.
Wife on the Run Page 15
