Wife on the Run

by Fiona Higgins

  ‘How much?’ Hamish called over the engine noise. The man suddenly snapped off the engine and stared at him, long and hard.

  ‘What?’ Hamish felt the colour rising up his neck.

  The man removed his cap and smoothed his hair. He sat for a moment, looking at the landscape around them. All was silent, bar the persistent chirruping of birds in the Mallee scrub.

  Finally, the man’s eyes settled on Hamish again.

  ‘I am Pitjantjatjara Anangu,’ he said. ‘We are desert people in the north and north-west. The Great Rainbow Serpent Wanampi shaped this land. From the red spinifex country in the north to the head of the Bight in the west.’ He gestured behind Hamish. ‘Wanampi created the hills, the caves and the lakes, on his way down to the ocean. You are welcome in my country.’ The man gazed at the bare landscape with proprietorial pride. ‘If you’re in trouble, we help.’

  Hamish was speechless.

  The man’s lips began to curl into a smile. ‘Even if you’re farken stupid, we help.’

  Hamish began to smile too. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No worries, mate. Whatcha doin’ here?’

  ‘I’ve got some . . . business to attend to,’ Hamish replied.

  The Aboriginal man nodded.

  Hamish felt suddenly awkward. ‘My name’s Hamish. What’s your—’

  The man revved the engine of the four-wheeler like a member of a bikie gang. Then, lifting one finger at Hamish, he sped away.

  Hamish watched him barrelling down the highway, until the heat haze swallowed him up.

  Hamish left Yalata just before three-thirty.

  Not long afterwards, already bored by the unchanging scenery, he checked his phone. There were several new messages, both SMS and Skype.

  He clicked on the SMS tab and saw Sid’s name listed. The children had been texting Hamish more regularly now, since they’d started using their grandfather’s phone. Paula was still offline, however, or pretending to be.

  Dad, r u ok? How is ur leg? Cactus Beach was cool. Out of range tho, sorry. We r in Eucla now, Perth soon. Oz is massive. Some bits boring. Luv Lachie.

  Tears sprang to Hamish’s eyes. A heady combination of pain, fatigue and love.

  Lachie had been the best source of information about their whereabouts to date. Little champ.

  Where was Eucla, anyway? Hamish pulled over and examined his map: just across the Western Australian border. Only three hundred kilometres west, about a three-hour drive. Not even as far as Norseman; he could surprise them by sunset.

  Hamish set off with new vigour, but the drive to Eucla was slower than he hoped. For one thing, he was spooked by the road trains—some with triple trailers—careering along the highway. They dazzled him with their bulk and monstrous roaring as they thundered towards him, horns sounding and lights flashing. It was nerve-racking when they tailgated him, worse when they overtook. Pulling alongside his flimsy hatchback, with less than a metre separating them, dragging him along in their slipstream before finally speeding away.

  And then, just twelve kilometres from Eucla, Hamish was forced to stop for almost thirty minutes at Border Village, where an officious-sounding woman in an ill-fitting uniform subjected his vehicle to a compulsory quarantine inspection. Combing through his car with Gestapo-like sternness, before confiscating a limp banana from his esky with a triumphant ‘A-ha!’

  ‘Forbidden fruit?’ Hamish asked, smiling at her.

  She didn’t appreciate the wise-crack. ‘You are not permitted to take that with you into Western Australia, sir. Read the sign.’

  Hamish didn’t bother, accelerating away as soon as he could.

  He spotted the lights of Eucla around seven-thirty, glowing dull green like low-wattage Kryptonite in the desert gloom. At the town’s boundary, a welcome sign declared its population to be eighty-six. Not far beyond, a billboard signposted directions to the Eucla Caravan Park.

  Hamish followed them, arriving at a petrol station. Behind it stood a two-storey hotel, its windows glinting like orange eyes in the dark. Alongside the hotel, a flat area was dotted with tents, on-site vans and caravans.

  This has to be it, Hamish thought. There couldn’t be any other caravan parks in a one-horse town like this.

  He dimmed his headlights and pulled in behind a trailer. He didn’t want to give himself away to Paula or the kids. Not yet, anyway.

  Several tents were erected at the front of the site, which was little more than a fenced paddock. A corrugated-iron shed—the amenities block, presumably—stood in the middle of the paddock as if dropped from the sky by a UFO. Chained to a fence post was a locked metal container painted with the words: Honesty Box—$4 a night.

  Hamish stood up from the car, wincing; his left knee was still swollen. He fished around in his pocket for the extra-strength painkillers he carried everywhere now, and popped two quick ones, swallowing them without water. Then he limped to the trailer and looked beyond it. From this vantage point, he could see two on-site vans, a caravan he didn’t recognise and then, right at the rear boundary, his ute. The green-and-cream van was parked next to it, lights on.

  They’re here. And they’re still up.

  He smiled, anticipating the moment of reunion. The expressions of surprise and delight on the kids’ faces.

  Hamish lumbered back to the car and tried to check his reflection in the side mirror. Unable to see much, he patted down his hair and pulled a mint from his pocket.

  A shower could wait. He wanted to see his wife and children now.

  He walked up the paddock towards the campers, stopping to take a leak against a tree. As he did, he looked up. There were more stars than he’d ever seen, sparkling like glitter spilt across the sky.

  Damn it’s a beautiful world.

  He resumed his shuffling across the uneven ground, imagining what he’d say to them.

  Mea culpa, mea culpa, let’s have a cuppa. Or even better, a beer.

  He heard them singing before he saw them.

  He recognised Caitlin’s voice, high and girly, above the rest of them. Lachie’s voice, alien and off-key since it had started breaking. Then the warm alto of his wife, accompanying the rhythmic strumming of a guitar.

  I didn’t know Old Sid played.

  And then another voice joined in, deep and velvety, causing Hamish to pause.

  He hovered behind an on-site van, then sidled up to a corner and peered around it.

  There they were, not five metres away, sitting around a roaring campfire. Paula, facing him, looking more attractive than he’d ever seen her. Had she lost weight? She looked healthier, for sure. And happier. The firelight reflected on her face made her look ten years younger. He watched her singing and, for a moment, felt a sinking sensation in his stomach.

  Something’s changed for her.

  Old Sid sat on a tree stump nearby, rocking from side to side, thumping his hands on his knees. Lachie was next to him, roasting marshmallows on a long stick. Caitlin was perched next to Lachie, transfixed by the guitarist.

  Who the fuck was he?

  Olive-skinned, lean and short; Hamish was confident he’d tower over him. Thirty-something, maybe.

  Some European pretty boy who’d latched on to his family. His daughter.

  It was one thing for schoolboys to fawn over Caitlin, or to have some idiot posting bullshit on Facebook about her. But it was quite another to have a boy—no, a man—living in her back pocket. Watching her every move, cosying up to her whenever the opportunity presented itself. Hamish didn’t have to see it to know that’s exactly what would be happening; he understood how blokes ticked. And by the look on Caitlin’s face, she wouldn’t reject his attentions.

  The European seemed to be singing to Caitlin.

  Anger surged in Hamish’s chest. How the hell had this happened? And why had Paula let it?

  He leaned against the wall of the on-site van and closed his eyes, fighting a primitive urge to barge into the camp site, wrest the guitar from the foreigner and snap its n
eck from its body.

  It’ll only make things worse, he thought. It’ll piss off Paula even more.

  He took several deep breaths. What would Doggo do? he wondered.

  After a minute, Hamish could almost hear his mate’s voice in his ear.

  Wait until morning, Hamo. Everyone will be fresher, including you.

  Hamish was buggered from all the driving, and it hadn’t helped his injured knee either.

  He turned away and headed back to the car. Retrieving Doggo’s khaki swag from the boot—this would be the first night he’d had to sleep in it—he noticed the large plastic cover Paula used to protect the hatchback when it was parked for long periods. The ‘car condom’, he’d always called it. After loading his small rucksack with fresh clothes and his toiletries, Hamish locked the doors and pulled the cover over the car. He wanted to surprise them in the morning, not the other way around.

  Hamish could still hear their singalong as he rolled out the swag behind a tree. He was at least fifteen metres from their camp; no one would see him. Unless they caught sight of his leg splint, which was a dead giveaway.

  Hamish shuffled towards the corrugated-iron shed in the centre of the paddock.

  It wasn’t much of an amenities block—just one toilet and one shower in the men’s room. As he stepped inside the shower cubicle, his phone beeped. He pulled it from his pocket and clicked on the Skype tab, which was jiggling with new instant messages. He closed the door behind him and perched on a narrow wooden bench, scanning the messages.

  One was from Nick Bridge, asking him to review the speech he’d prepared for the Crossroads convention. That could wait, Hamish decided.

  The rest were from Lisel17.

  R u there Hamo?

  Skype says u r.

  Okay, so u r 41.

  We all make mistakes.

  We had something special. U know that.

  So good 4 both of us.

  I still want u.

  U r still so hot 4 me.

  Hamish swallowed.

  Lisel had sent several messages by Skype since the accident, generic one-liners:

  How r u Hamo?

  R u out of hospital?

  Wanna talk?

  But he hadn’t responded, determined to patch things up with Paula.

  Another instant message arrived.

  Age doesn’t matter Hamo. U know that.

  He closed his eyes, imagining the moment when Lisel had discovered their almost twenty-five-year age gap. That he didn’t look like Nick Bridge at all. That he was, in fact, the nondescript middle-aged man standing next to Nick in the profile picture.

  He opened his eyes again.

  Hamo, pls don’t ice me out.

  I miss u.

  I miss us.

  I miss yr hot cock inside of me.

  I’m wet now, just thinking about you.

  I want u back Hamo.

  In his wildest fantasies, Hamish hadn’t entertained the idea that Lisel might still be interested in him.

  He stood for a moment, electrified by her words. Imagining Lisel in her bedroom, touching her silky smooth pussy.

  I can’t contact her, he thought. Even as his dick began to rear, like a cobra awakened in the dark.

  He stuffed his phone beneath his towel, unbuckled his shorts and let them fall to the floor. Removing his splint and the rest of his clothes, he turned on the tap. There was no warm water available.

  Good thing too.

  He tried to erase the mental image of Lisel, hot as hell in her eensy-weensy bikini.

  He ducked under the water and almost yelled.

  Fucking freezing.

  His dick retracted back into itself.

  He lathered up and rinsed off as quickly as possible, then brushed his teeth. When he turned off the shower, the singing had stopped outside. He’d have to be careful heading back to the swag, he thought. Shoving his phone back into a plastic bag, he deliberately conjured a mental image of Paula. The smile lines around her mouth, the dimple on her left cheek, her intelligent eyes. The pale scar above her right eyebrow, a permanent reminder of the home renovation they’d done years ago.

  He had to give it a proper go with Paula, for the sake of everything they’d created over the past seventeen years.

  And for his own sake, to be the son his father had believed in.

  I won’t look at my phone again tonight, Hamish resolved.

  He secured his splint in its place, pulled on a t-shirt and boxers, hung the damp towel around his neck and opened the shower door.

  The European pretty boy was standing right outside the cubicle, waiting his turn.

  ‘Hi,’ said Hamish, trying to sound casual.

  ‘Hi.’

  The European smiled at him, then nodded at Hamish’s leg. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I had a skiing accident.’

  ‘Where?’

  Hamish’s voice caught in his throat. ‘Where what?’

  ‘Where were you skiing when . . . ?’ The European waved at Hamish’s leg.

  ‘Whistler.’

  It was the first place that popped into Hamish’s mind; one of Paula’s workmates, married to a high-profile barrister, skied at Whistler annually.

  ‘You’re a long way from Whistler.’

  ‘Yes.’ Hamish felt flustered. ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Brazil.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Hamish had been prepared for Italy or Spain, but knew nothing of Brazil. Except the stunning half-naked women in sequined bikinis he’d seen on television, shimmying down the street during Mardi Gras, all carefree and hair-free.

  ‘How long are you in Australia?’ Hamish asked.

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ said the man.

  ‘And are you . . . alone?’ As if he didn’t know.

  ‘I’m travelling with friends.’

  Hamish smiled in a chummy, man-to-man kind of way. ‘A girlfriend?’

  The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m taking a shower now.’

  He stepped around Hamish and shut the cubicle door behind him.

  Hamish stood for a moment, his heart beating faster than usual, wanting to tear the door off its hinges.

  Then the realisation hit him: it didn’t look good, standing in a public toilet in the middle of nowhere, asking a stranger about his relationship status.

  He might think I’m gay.

  The Brazilian turned on the shower and Hamish left the men’s room, picking his way across the paddock to his swag. The caravan was in darkness. A tent erected next to the ute was presumably where old Sid slept.

  So where is the Brazilian sleeping?

  The thought enraged him.

  If he’s in that caravan with Caitlin, I’ll . . .

  He lowered himself into the swag and zipped up the mosquito net.

  Hamish lay awake for hours, alert to every noise that emanated from the direction of the caravan.

  Eventually, he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

  Speckled sunlight drifted through the mosquito net.

  Hamish sat up in a hurry and unzipped the swag; poking his head out into the heat of the morning. Where the hell was the caravan?

  The two tents at the front of the park were still there, the vans too.

  He looked at his watch. Seven-bloody-fifteen—surely they hadn’t left that early?

  An engine was idling somewhere, and it sounded a lot like his ute.

  He pulled on some cargo pants and scrambled upright. Through the shrubs lining the fence, he spotted the caravan parked at the petrol station. Bikes on the rear, a surfboard and a guitar case strapped to the ute’s roof racks. Hamish could see Lachie in the back, his head bowed, probably fiddling with his iPod. Paula was in the driver’s seat, scanning a map; Sid was leaning over it too.

  And there were the Brazilian and Caitlin, standing outside the ute, facing away from Hamish. The Brazilian’s hand was pressed gently between Caitlin’s shoulder blades, guiding her into the car. As he closed the door
behind her, he made a low bow. Caitlin gazed at him with patent adoration. No one inside the car was privy to their interaction.

  Motherfucker.

  The Brazilian tapped Paula’s window and gestured back towards the amenities block before jogging across the paddock. He didn’t notice Hamish hovering next to the tree, watching him.

  You’ve got it coming, mate.

  He followed the Brazilian to the shed, then flattened himself against the wall outside the entrance, waiting for the Brazilian to re-emerge. He heard the toilet flush, the tap being turned on and off.

  Hold it, Hamish told himself, hold it . . .

  The Brazilian walked out of the men’s room.

  Hamish stepped in front of him and pushed him hard against the corrugated-iron wall, gripping him by the neck. He was a lightweight compared to Hamish.

  ‘I’ve been watching you,’ Hamish growled. ‘And I know exactly what you’re up to.’

  The Brazilian raised an eyebrow.

  Hamish squeezed the side of his neck tighter, digging his fingernails into the flesh. ‘Got something to say for yourself?’

  The Brazilian gripped Hamish’s wrist with one hand. The twist was so swift, so fluid, Hamish didn’t even feel it happen.

  One moment he was looking at the Brazilian’s face, the next he was facing the rear of the caravan park, his right arm pinned behind his back.

  And then, an intense pressure around his neck. He could feel the Brazilian’s breath, warm on his ear.

  ‘Who are you?’ the Brazilian whispered, slow and clear. ‘Tell me your name.’

  Hamish kicked furiously with his right leg, trying to knock the other man back, but he couldn’t even make contact.

  ‘Why are you following me?’

  Hamish couldn’t speak with an elbow rammed under his chin. He tried to prise the Brazilian’s arm away with his free hand, but the crush continued, right across his carotids. He’d seen it before on Ultimate Fight Club.

  The blue horizon began swimming before his eyes, grey spots floated in the air.

  It felt as if his head was about to pop off his shoulders.

  Hamish could hear himself grunting, the desperate sound of resistance.

  Then he heard nothing at all.