by Greg McLean
Almost.
After an hour of shooting, the ammo was spent and all the beer and soft-drink bottles had been blasted off their perches. The desert echoed with the ghosts of the gunshots and there was a strong smell of cobalt in the air.
‘Time to get moving,’ Bruce announced. The midday sun simmered in the sky directly above.
‘Hand your weapons to Duncan and he’ll pack them away.’
Bruce took out his packet of Capstans and lit one. He sucked on the cigarette and watched Duncan sort out the guns. Bruce knew about guns, but he wasn’t into them like Duncan was into them. Duncan treated each one like his baby, and he loved dealing with the stash of weapons.
Duncan had grown up on his parents’ sheep farm just outside Boddington. He knew all about herding and shearing and all of the stuff Bruce knew very little about, and had learnt how to shoot firearms before he finished potty training. He was a real farm boy at heart, although you wouldn’t think it to look at him. He looked and talked like a genuine surfer, as if he had lived by the Indian Ocean his entire life, what with his tall, tanned body and blond curls.
By contrast, Bruce looked like a farmhand, even though he had been born and raised in Perth and surfing was as natural to him as breathing.
Bruce was staring at Amber holding the Gamemaster and flirting with Duncan when a voice said, ‘You really think all that was necessary?’
Bruce flinched. He turned and faced Steve. ‘Sorry?’
‘Most of ’em weren’t any good. You don’t really expect them to rely on their shooting skills in order to catch food?’
Bruce shrugged. ‘Sure. It’s part of the Sand Surfer experience.’
Steve shook his head. ‘Christ, shooting some bottles and killing a creature are two very different things. Even if they could shoot worth a dime, they’d probably freeze the moment they were confronted with a kangaroo or a dingo.’
Bruce frowned, then spoke quietly. ‘I get that you don’t want to hunt, and that’s cool. But man, don’t be a downer for everyone else. It doesn’t really matter if they kill any animals or not. We’ve got plenty of canned and dried meat, and we do stop off along the way at some pubs and hotels. But it’s more fun if our clients think that they have to shoot in order to eat meat. Makes the trip more exciting, more of an adventure. Dig?’
Steve looked hard at Bruce. The Vietnam vet had piercing blue eyes and a light spread of freckles across his nose.
He looked no older than Bruce – around twenty-one – and yet, despite his boyish appearance, there was something old about him. Something sad and lonely in those baby-blues.
‘Yeah – I dig.’
‘And hey, your girlfriend wasn’t all that bad. She got in some good shots.’
Steve sighed. ‘Yeah, she’s . . .’ His face suddenly tensed and he looked past Bruce, out over the desert.
Bruce followed his gaze. All he saw was an endless stretch of desert, empty save for clumps of spinifex and a lot of broken glass. ‘Is everything okay?’
Steve’s narrowed eyes scanned the desert. Finally his face slackened and he looked back at Bruce. ‘Yeah. Um, what were we talking about?’
What the hell was all that about? Bruce wondered. Steve obviously thought he’d seen something – but what? There was nothing out there except red dirt, red dirt and more red dirt.
Must be the heat, Bruce figured. The fumes sizzling off the earth can play tricks with your eyes. He shrugged it off. ‘Your girlfriend. I said she wasn’t a bad shot.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Damn straight, I was a good shot,’ Cindy said, waltzing up to them. ‘I feel like I’m ready to shoot some koala bears and kangaroos.’
Bruce smiled politely. ‘Sorry to break it to you, but there are no koalas in Western Australia. But there are a lot of roos, and they’re a pest, so feel free to shoot as many as you like.’
Cindy laughed.
‘No koalas?’ Chiyo said, walking over with Akira. She had a disappointed look on her thin, attractive face. ‘I thought we will see koalas in the wild?’
‘No, ’fraid koalas are only found way far east.’
‘We saw some in Adelaide,’ Akira said. ‘Funny-looking creature.’
‘Speaking of funny-looking creatures,’ Steve muttered. ‘Come on, Cindy, let’s get a drink, you look hot and thirsty.’
Bruce noticed the look Cindy gave her boyfriend as they moved away.
Thankfully, neither Akira nor Chiyo seemed to hear Steve’s comment. They were still talking about koalas when Bruce turned back.
Soon all but Amber had congregated around the Kombi.
She and Duncan were busy talking and laughing, the gun bag sitting by Duncan’s feet like a dog waiting for an order from its master.
‘I think my shoulder’s gonna be sore for a week,’ Sam said, rubbing his right arm. ‘Say, I’m getting hungry, when do we eat?’
‘Yeah, I’m starving,’ Matt muttered, and the others nodded in agreement.
‘We can stay here for a quick bite, but we really need to get going if we want to get to the national park by late afternoon,’ Bruce told them. ‘We have to pitch tents and get ourselves sorted before night falls.’ He looked over at Duncan and Amber and called out, probably louder and more forceful than was needed: ‘Hey, mate, we need to haul arse.’
‘Yeah, yeah, keep your pantaloons on,’ Duncan called back.
‘Quick bite? You mean we can’t stop for a proper lunch?’ Sam sighed. ‘All that shooting really gave me an appetite.’
‘We’ve still got a four- or five-hour drive till we reach the park,’ Bruce said. ‘We leave much later and we’ll risk getting there too late. You ever tried erecting a tent in the middle of nowhere with only lanterns for light?’
Sam shook his head.
‘And it gets cold out there, mighty cold,’ Bruce said, intentionally laying it on thick. It was true, they needed to get going sooner rather than later if they wanted to make the park by sundown, but seeing Amber and Duncan together added to his frustration. ‘We need to build a fire, and that takes time . . .’
‘Ease up,’ Duncan said, wandering over after returning the bag of guns to the back of the Kombi. ‘We can spare the time.’
Bruce looked at him.
Aside from being business partners in this tour, they worked together at Geoff’s Music World in Perth. They were also in a bluesy rock band together – Bruce on guitar and vocals, Duncan on drums. Along with their mate, Eddy, they were the Scorpions – a none-too-successful outfit that played mostly cover songs in pubs and occasionally at parties. They had known one another for almost ten years. Duncan was a great guy, and could play the drums well enough (though he was more Ringo than Keith Moon), but sometimes he got on Bruce’s nerves with his carefree attitude.
Duncan understood they had a schedule to keep. They had to be in Broome by Saturday to meet their Asian friend. They had wads of cash to give him, as well as a small cargo of midnight oil to pick up.
‘But we need to get moving and get to Rudall River by tonight,’ Bruce said, still attempting to maintain the friendly tour guide visage.
‘Chill,’ Duncan said.
‘Yeah, chill,’ Amber said, flashing her pearly whites. ‘A nice cooked lunch sounds just what the doctor ordered, and besides . . . I kinda need to, you know, go to the ladies’ room, and I would like to go somewhere half civilised. It might be the last time before we get to Broome.’
‘But there’s nowhere to go,’ Bruce said, his frustration starting to show. ‘We’re in the middle of —’
‘What about the roadhouse?’ Duncan said.
‘Huh?’
‘You know, Emu Flat. About nine miles out of Nildon.’
They had been to that roadhouse only a few times over the years. Bruce recalled it as a small dump of a place that smelled of grease and sweat and was populated by truckers and local Aboriginals. It was located at the end of a dirt track surrounded by scrubby desert, like the building had been dropped from t
he sky.
‘That’s at least an hour’s drive back,’ Bruce said. ‘We have to take a back road that’s about as rough as the blokes who eat at that place, and then another hour to get back to this point. Taking into account an hour stopover for lunch, that’s three hours we can’t afford to waste.’
‘I think it sounds like a good idea,’ Sam said. ‘Three hours or not.’
Akira and Chiyo nodded in agreement.
Bruce sighed heavily.
‘Come on, Brucey,’ Amber said, coyly.
‘Yeah, come on, Brucey,’ Duncan echoed.
‘Where will we camp? There’s no way we’ll make it to Rudall River if we stop at the roadhouse.’
‘Durba Springs is about halfway between here and Rudall,’ Duncan said.
‘Ooh, that sounds nice,’ Cindy said.
‘It is,’ Duncan said. ‘It’s a lovely little spot nestled among gum trees and hills. There’s a dam for swimming . . .’ He nudged Amber on the arm. ‘You said you wanted to go for a swim, right?’
Now it was all coming together. It wasn’t just pleasing Amber with a hot lunch and toilet facilities that was leading Duncan to side against Bruce – it was ensuring they would have to stop at Durba Springs so they could take a skinny dip in the lake together.
Well shit, Bruce wasn’t made of hard rock. Who was he to stand in the way of love? Or even lust. Still, he wasn’t too fond of travelling along that rough dirt track to get to the roadhouse. Hopefully the panel in the van came loose because it wasn’t fastened properly, but if it had just been the bumpy ride then they might have themselves a problem. It looked like they were just going to have to take that chance. Hell, they’d be encountering plenty of rough terrain over the next few days, so this might be a good test.
‘It’d mean staying for only one night instead of two at Rudall River,’ Bruce said.
‘I’m cool with that,’ Duncan said. ‘Is everyone else cool with that?’
No one protested.
‘Well, okay then,’ Bruce said. ‘Looks like a slight change in plan. Everyone hop in. Next stop – Emu Flat Roadhouse.’
‘Whoo hoo!’ Amber cried.
‘Bloody ripper,’ Sam said.
While the passengers filed into the van, Bruce grabbed hold of Duncan and pulled him aside.
‘Hey, careful of the shirt, bro. I got this in Maui, remember?’ Duncan said.
‘I don’t mind changing the plans if it helps you with Amber,’ Bruce whispered. ‘But I don’t like you cutting corners and not doing your job properly.’
Duncan frowned. ‘What?’
‘One of the panels in the Kombi was loose.’
Duncan’s face turned serious. ‘Hey, man, I double-checked the panels before we left. I swear. Must be the rough roads screwing with the clips.’
‘You mean roads like the one to get to the roadhouse?’
Duncan swallowed hard. ‘Crap.’
‘I put them back, but if the clips are loose, then the road will surely jiggle them free again.’
‘Which one?’
‘Back right, near where Steve the soldier is sitting.’
‘Shit. Okay, I’ll keep an eye on it.’
‘If that keeps it away from Amber’s arse, that would be nice.’
‘Come on, guys, what’s the hold up?’ Amber called.
Bruce looked over at her. The cute blonde was sitting in the front passenger seat, one arm dangling out the window.
‘I’m starved!’
Duncan grinned and then winked at Bruce. ‘Yeah, but it’s a damn fine arse.’
2
Mick was sitting in the roadhouse drinking a pint of Foster’s and tucking into a lunch of steak and chips when he saw the van pull up.
Nestled at a corner table, away from the counter but still within earshot, he slurped at his beer (which was nice and cold), and munched on the chips (which were soggy), while he watched through the front window as the van’s doors opened and people poured out.
He saw mostly men, including a Chink – or maybe a Jap, he could never tell the difference between the two, though he knew for sure he wasn’t Vietnamese – but his mood brightened when he spotted the women.
He got up and moved his seat and plate about ninety degrees so he was facing the wall. Now the counter was on his left, and if anyone were to glance over his way they would see the side profile of a non-descript stranger sitting there eating his lunch, minding his own business.
‘You okay, Mick?’ Clapper said. ‘That wall look particularly good today or somethin’?’
Clapper, a backfella who worked odd jobs at a local farm, was sitting at the table next to Mick’s. He was onto his third beer.
‘Just sick of looking at your ugly black mug,’ Mick said, and chuckled.
Clapper chuckled back and then he said, ‘What do we have here?’
Mick heard the door open and it remained open as the group of travellers entered the roadhouse.
Aside from Mick and Clapper, there were only two other people inside the roadhouse, not counting Terrance, the owner, and Derrick, the cook.
It wasn’t a thriving business, and it wasn’t normally a tourist hub: just a local watering hole and greasy spoon. But, for some reason, this group had decided to stop here.
Mick had seen them through his binoculars earlier. Standing on the cliffs that overlooked his mine, he had watched them pack up a small arsenal, and then, rather than continuing north up the highway, they’d turned around. He watched them drive south for a ways before turning off the dusty Rudall River Highway onto the narrow unsealed road that led to this dump. So someone on board the van knew about this place – there was no sign for the Emu Flat on the highway.
Mick glanced over his shoulder at the group. There were six men (well, one was a boy, a skinny, gloomy-looking teenager) and four women. Up close, he saw that two of the girls were young and pretty. One was rather plain and frumpy, while the last was Asian – pretty for her kind.
Three of the men looked formidable, while the rest looked weak. Of the younger, stronger guys, two had long hair, like surfers or hippies, the kind of people who didn’t work and were content to leech off society. The third younger male looked well muscled and with his short-cropped blond hair and straight back he could almost be a soldier.
Definitely doable. Might be a bit of a handful – especially with the guns on board – but he could probably handle them.
He’d seen them put the bag of guns in the back of the van, so he would need to take possession of that as quickly as possible. But he needn’t be too worried. Most of the passengers couldn’t shoot worth a shit; only a few actually knew how to handle a firearm. And Mick would bet his left nut he was both a faster and a straighter shot them any of them.
‘Cripes, the women are nice,’ Clapper said. ‘Two of ’em especially. I wouldn’t mind . . .’
‘Quiet,’ Mick grumbled. ‘Can’t a man have a meal in peace?’
‘Sorry, bro,’ Clapper said, and continued drinking his beer.
Mick listened.
‘Afternoon,’ Terrance said. The small owner had a nasally voice that Mick found grating. ‘How can I help you folks?’
‘Hey, man, we’re just here for a bit of grub.’
Sounded like one of the surfies.
‘No worries. Well, take your pick. We ain’t exactly run off our feet.’ Terrance laughed, and it was a horrible sound, like nails down a chalkboard. ‘I’ll bring you some menus.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Excuse me, is there a bathroom around here I could use?’
The girl’s voice was pretty, full of young life. Mick stirred.
‘Sure, it’s in back. Just walk down that hallway. Toilet’s on your left. Should be clean.’
Not if Clapper’s been at it, Mick thought, and stifled a laugh.
‘Okay, thanks,’ the girl said, and while she headed for the bathroom, the rest of the group ambled over to the tables near the front of the restaurant.
M
ick heard mutterings, inane small talk that was of no interest to him, including, once Terrance had brought them their menus, what to order for lunch.
Thankfully Clapper sprang into action. The three beers had worked wonders on the middle-aged farmhand. Usually a quiet, reserved guy, the boong from Newtown always became more talkative once he had downed a few ales.
‘Are you folks lost?’ Clapper said, following his question up with a small laugh. ‘It’s just we don’t get many strangers through here.’
‘No, we’re not lost,’ one of the young men said.
He sounded less flaky, more guarded. The soldier perhaps?
‘We’re on a wilderness tour,’ one of the girls said. She had an American accent – generic, not southern, maybe west coast. ‘This is only our second day.’
Clapper took a chug of beer. ‘And Emu Flat is part of your tour?’
‘No, no,’ the American lady said, sounding way too perky for such a searing day. ‘This is a little side step. Just stopping in for something to eat . . . and to sample some local colour.’ She coughed, obviously forced, at the realisation of her accidental racist faux pas. ‘I’m Cindy, by the way.’
‘Clapper. Me name’s really Frank, but everyone calls me Clapper.’
‘Oh. Well, nice to meet you.’
‘Why do they call you Clapper?’ the first young man said.
‘I dunno. I think it’s either because I clap a lot when I’ve been drinking, or . . . because when I was younger, I got a bad case of the clap.’
There was some awkward laughter.
Mick shook his head. Fucken Clapper. Never knows when to shut up. But this was good. He hoped Clapper would continue with his little interrogation. Or maybe the chatty Yank would simply offer the information Mick was hoping to find out.
‘So, where are you folks headed? Up north?’
Too easy, Mick thought, smiling to himself. Thank you, Frank.
‘Yeah,’ the second man said.
‘The Kimberly?’
‘No, as far as Halls Creek, and then onto Broome.’
