The Mover looked at me, his glare chilling.
‘My brother died when we last moved Him twenty-eight years ago,’ he said. ‘My son, my beautiful boy, died last week. Sacrifices are part of the deal. You’ve got three days to get to Sydney. And that’s me being generous.
‘This is not the way it was planned. None of it is. I’m the Mover and I barely have control of my own body, much less His. If I had my rathers, I’d rather not be sending an unlicensed seventeen-year-old girl to drive Our Lord to Sydney. But I don’t have my rathers. I’m stuck with what I’m stuck with. This is the will of the Lord. They say He works in mysterious ways – well, this is a doozy. My son is dead, your parents are missing. For some reason, this is your responsibility. I don’t have insight into why you’ve been chosen, I’m not privy to the machinations of the universe, I just know what is. And what I know is, you need to move.’
And the way he said ‘move’, the aggressiveness, the anger, the jealousy even, contained in that small word ‘move’, made me break like a plate.
But if I was looking for sympathy, I was looking in the wrong garage. He simply clicked his tongue in exasperation.
‘Excellent. I’m looking for someone to get things done,’ he said snappily, ‘and I get sent some little girl who bursts into tears at the press of a button. I’m too old for this. I’m too tired. I’m too sad.’ He held up his bandaged hands, pointed at his bandaged feet. ‘We were driving to get my son’s car blessed, and some idiot drives into the side of us. The car burst into flames and I was pulled out, but my son didn’t make it.
‘You’re my best option,’ he said to me, ‘and frankly, I’m not at all convinced you’re up to it.’
We all sat silently for a moment. I said, quietly, ‘I’m sorry about your son.’ He didn’t even answer. Finally, Enron spoke.
‘You said before, they know He’s here?’ Enron asked.
‘They’re out the front,’ the Mover said, as if it was a no-brainer.
‘But why don’t they just come in?’ Enron asked. ‘Why are they waiting for us to leave?’
The Mover looked at Enron, and I was relieved to see that he didn’t reserve his pissed-off look just for me. Enron copped it as well.
‘You think this is just some random house?’ the Mover said, as if it was obvious. ‘This is a holy place. It’s been blessed, it’s protected. Same with your joint,’ and he nodded in the direction of Coco and me, ‘but now that they know where He is, they’ll do whatever it takes to get Him. So He has to be moved. And He has to be moved now.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better to call the police?’ I said quietly. My last attempt at squirming out of it.
The Mover wheeled himself over to the other side of the room, facing away from me, as if looking at someone so stupid made his eyeballs ache.
‘People kill for their religion,’ he finally said, still facing the wall. ‘They go to war for it. They fight in the name of it, detonate themselves because of it, refuse to let their children marry people outside of it.’ He turned his wheelchair back to face me. To face us. ‘That’s how people are. That’s human nature. If they knew about Him,’ and he tipped his head towards Jesus, ‘Holy War would break out without a doubt. Your parents knew this. They thought He was worth protecting. And now, they’re not here and you’re the next best thing.’
Echoing back to me came all the what-ifs my mum had come up with over the years:
‘What if you need to tie something securely and Dad and I aren’t there to do it for you?’
‘What if you need to drive a manual car but you’ve only got your automatic licence?’
‘What if you don’t have a screwdriver? The tip of a potato peeler works just as well to unscrew a Phillips-head screw.’
‘What if you’re out bush and get a headache? Chew these leaves and it’ll go away.’
Be prepared. Know how to look after yourself. What if what if what if.
‘We’re in agreement on one point,’ the Mover said to me. ‘I wouldn’t be choosing you either. And now we’ve got that sorted, it’s time for you to go.’
I went to the bathroom and snuck my phone out of my school-dress pocket. Yes, Mover, I heard when you said no mobiles, no Facebook, no whatever. Tri-ang-gu-lation. Well, look at me taking out my phone and texting my friends. You didn’t think to take my phone off me yet, did you, Mover? Lookie here, there it goes, into cyberspace, a little text to Minty and Jools.
We’re out of the drains, I texted, but have to keep going. Leaving my phone so we can’t be tracked. I’ll call you when we’re done. Will be a few days. Coco and I are okay. Delete this text immediately. Don’t call the police. See you on the flipside.
And you know what, Mover? Get someone else to drive the car if you’re not happy about it.
We slept on the floor of the garage.
It was my one act of defiance.
As soon as I’d agreed to drive, the Mover said we had to leave immediately. Three days, Saturday morning, blah blah blah. But I was too tired. Too upset. Plus, I wasn’t comfortable driving at night – my one gap in all my hours had been my nighttime driving, mainly because Mum had a problem with seeing properly on the roads at night, which meant her problem with night-driving had become my problem with night-driving.
The Mover, in that kind, charming, gentle way of his said, ‘You’re unlicensed anyway, so what’s the difference if you’ve got your nighttime hours up or not? You have to be in Sydney by Saturday morning at the very latest so you have to leave now.’
And I pointed out, in that respectful, calm, rational way that I sometimes have, that, ‘I don’t care if you don’t care. I’m not driving at night, so, just, whatever, it’s not going to happen.’
‘Whatever’. Such a great word. Encompasses every possibility known to mankind.
Taxi hauled some old mattresses out of a cupboard in the garage and loaded on top some cruddy blankets that looked like they were flea-infested, but it was so bloody cold and the floor was so hard that I figured I’d just have to wash the germs off in the morning.
Cold and uncomfortable, or germs? You go with germs every time.
I lay on my mattress, pretending to be asleep, but in actual fact rotating my mind like a Lazy Susan at the Chinese restaurant, picking over all the things that could possibly go wrong: the bad guys would get us as soon as we left the Mover’s house; I’d get pulled over by the cops and lose my licence that I didn’t even have yet; I’d have a car accident; someone would rape us; the bad guys would wait till we were driving on a quiet country road then ram us off the road; my folks would be furious; my folks would be dead; I’d fail my exams; I wouldn’t get into the course I wanted to get into, even though I wasn’t even sure what course I wanted to get into, or what I was going to do with my life; but it might not matter because I might die in a car accident; or die when the car broke down in the middle of nowhere; and where were we going to stay each night; but who cared anyway because we might not even get as far as the end of the street; someone might rape us; the bad guys would catch us; and round and round like a never-ending yum-cha of disas-ta.
And the Mover didn’t help, sitting in the darkness, Jesus’s punctured hand cradled in his bandaged one, muttering prayers the whole night. Snatches of ‘Hail Mary full of grace,’ and ‘Our Father who art in heaven,’ and ‘Hail Holy Queen,’ and ‘Glory be to the Father and the Son.’
Seriously, just shut the fuck up. Trying to sleep here. And work out where we were going to stay each night; and why was I the only one who could drive to Sydney; and Hail Mary full of grace; and the cops would catch us; and Our Father who art in heaven; and my parents were missing; and round and round and round and round.
At five o’clock the Mover hissed at us to wake up, have a shower, and ‘get this show on the road’.
His words, not mine.
After I’d taken my time in the bathroom (especially for you, Mover, in case you didn’t realise) the Mover sat down with Taxi and me, tamped a map of
Melbourne down on his lap and pointed with his wadded fingers at the routes we could take to get out of town.
‘Sydney Road turns into the Hume, that’s the quickest way,’ he said, ‘or Dandenong Road becomes the Pacific and takes you up the coast road. It’s a longer drive, so I’d go the Hume if I were you.’
That in itself would have been a good enough reason to take Dandenong Road, but because the Hume was the quicker route, I’d go that way. Not because he’d recommended it. Because I wanted to.
Just before six we were all showered, toothbrushed and dressed.
The Mover hugged each of us in turn (even me), said a couple of special somethings quietly to Taxi, then whispered, ‘God bless. Stay safe,’ over the lot of us and let us get in the car.
I settled myself into the driver’s seat, while Taxi and Enron manoeuvred Jesus into the back so He’d be sitting between Coco and Enron. I watched in the rear-view mirror, struggling to get my head around the fact that I was about to go driving Jesus up the Hume without anyone supervising me and if I got caught I was probably going straight to jail, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. They clicked His seatbelt across His lap and adjusted His legs to make sure He was comfortable.
I gripped the steering wheel tight as I tried to psych myself up for the drive, imagining myself on the open road.
I was used to my mum’s little Honda whereas this 1964 Falcon was big and slidey with bench seats front and back that stretched from one side of the car to the other, and no gearstick in the floor. Instead, the gears were a finger-extension away from my left hand on the steering wheel – a stick shift it’s called, according to Jones. And talking of the steering wheel, you should have seen it. It was like a joke one. At home in a bus or truck, not a car.
Me, Jones and Taxi sat three-along the front bench seat (Jones had shotgunned the front as soon as the trip was decided), while Coco and Enron were in the back with Jesus. I’d been worried that Coco wouldn’t like sitting next to Jesus, what with Him being dead and all, but she didn’t seem to give it a moment’s thought. Instead, I watched in the rear-view mirror as she asked Him what game He thought she should play (typically she’d managed to scam Taxi’s phone off him pretty much straight away) then grinned and said, ‘Good choice’ and settled in to gaming like a pro.
Coco and I were both wearing old army pants and random T-shirts from an op-shop. Enron was wearing an op-shop pair of jeans and a checked shirt and Jesus actually looked pretty cool with a baseball cap, sunglasses, hobo gloves to cover the gaping wounds in the palms of His hands, jeans and top, and a pair of shoes that were awkward to put on because His feet wouldn’t flex the way a live person’s would have.
Taxi had stuffed the Mover’s wheelchair into the boot so we could transport JC whenever we stopped in a country town, and a wad of cash from the Mover bulked out Taxi’s pocket. The Mover stood in the garage leaning on a pair of walking sticks, one for each bandaged hand, and watched as I turned the key in the ignition as quietly as I could.
The Falcon roared like some kind of prehistoric monster being woken from a good dream. I was pretty sure we were supposed to be leaving as quietly as we possibly could so the guys out the front didn’t hear us, but try telling that to a 1964 Ford.
I drove out the garage and down the driveway onto the street, turning left when I came to the road. I flicked a last look at the Mover standing in the garage, and caught sight of Jesus in the rear-view mirror. Weird. Although, something about looking at Him calmed me down. I didn’t feel anxious or nervous. I felt like everything was going to be okay. That we would be fine.
At the stop sign at the next street a car came up right behind us, a big four-wheel drive, black with tinted windows.
‘Is that them, do you reckon?’ I asked anyone, trying to see who was in the car behind us but their dark windscreen prevented me.
‘It’s probably just some other car,’ Jones said, turning around to have a look at them, then shifting back to face forwards. Three across a bench seat is pretty squished, and I could feel his leg next to mine. Not touching, but right there. I saw Coco turn to see the car behind.
‘Turn left at the next street,’ Jones said, ‘and we’ll see if they follow us.’
I turned at the first street, my heart suddenly making itself known inside my chest. The other car followed.
‘Turn left here,’ Taxi said.
I turned left. So did they.
‘Okay,’ Jones said, ‘turn here, and then floor it!’
I turned into the first street, which was smaller than the ones we’d been in. The problem was it was too narrow to get any speed up. Especially for an unsupervised, unlicensed L-plate driver like me.
‘Floor it!’ Jones repeated.
‘I can’t. There’s cars all parked along the street. I might hit one of them.’
The car was right behind us, too close.
‘I wish they’d get off my frickin’ tail. They’re freaking me out.’
‘Think that’s the point,’ Taxi said.
‘It’s okay,’ Jones said, his voice settling me a bit. ‘Stay cool and when we get to the end here, just bolt out into the traffic and try to lose them.’
‘But what if there are other cars coming?’
‘Just go for it. We’ve gotta shake them.’
At the end of the street I put my foot down and just bammed into the oncoming traffic, cars flashing their headlights at me for cutting in front of them. Leaving the four-wheel drive stuck behind in the side street, just like that.
‘Now you can floor it,’ Jones said.
I put my foot down and got as far from them as possible.
‘And left here,’ Taxi said from over his side.
I turned a quick left.
‘And now left again,’ Taxi said.
Left again. It didn’t make any sense to me but hey, baa.
‘And another left,’ he said.
We’d now gone full circle and were back at the main road we’d turned onto a minute or so earlier. The other car was nowhere in sight.
‘Good job,’ Taxi said. ‘So now you turn right here and head off to Sydney Road.’
My first time driving unsupervised and I’d burned off a big black four-wheel drive with bad guys in it. Good job me.
At the next set of lights, one car up and the next lane along was a police car. And here’s me, at the wheel, unlicensed.
‘Police,’ I said.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Taxi said. ‘Just keep driving. You’ll be fine.’
As the lights turned green, I drove off slowly, letting the police car get way in front of me.
‘They said on TV the other night that there’s a blitz on at the moment,’ Coco said, as the police merged in with all the other cars. ‘Coming up to Melbourne Cup, they’re cracking down on speeding, drinking, everything. They said there’s going to be heaps of cops on the roads over the next few months, right up till Christmas.’
‘Good. That’s great news,’ I said. ‘A blitz is excellent. Because now I’ve got a much higher chance of being caught. Fabulous. Thanks, Mover.’
Coco raised her eyes at the snitchiness of my voice, not realising I could see her perfectly in the rear-view mirror, then put her headphones back in and looked down at her lap, fiddling with Taxi’s phone.
I balanced my foot carefully on the accelerator, keeping my speed legal.
A good half hour later we were driving along Sydney Road when we saw them again. The same car. Big and black and mean. Right on our tail.
‘How did they do that?’ Enron said. ‘How did they figure out where we’d be?’
‘Good guess?’ Taxi suggested, looking behind at them.
Coco dragged the headphones out of her ears and looked at the car behind us, then back at Taxi, her eyes wide.
‘Shit,’ I said, panic flooding my system and heating up my blood. ‘They’re just going to keep following us. This is impossible. We’re never going to get rid of them. I can’t believe they found us agai
n. And so quickly. I can’t do this.’
But Jones’s voice beside me was smooth and calming.
‘Stay cool,’ he said. ‘We’ll lose them – you’ve done it once this morning with your legendary driving.’ Legendary driving. I couldn’t help but feel a bit chuffed. ‘You can do it again, and then we’ll circle round and go up Dandenong Road and follow the coast. If they’ve worked out somehow that we’re going to Sydney, they’ll keep following us up the Hume. Except we won’t be on the Hume because we’ll be going the coast road. It isn’t a problem. Just keep driving. You’re doing fine. They won’t do anything while we’re in the city.’
‘But what about when we’re in the country? If we can’t shake them.’
‘We’ll shake them.’
‘But what about when we get to Sydney?’ I panicked.
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’
‘Cross that Harbour Bridge when we come to it, I think you meant to say,’ Taxi said.
Talk about cool in a crisis. My voice was rising to breaking-glass level and they’re having little wordplays to entertain each other.
‘The traffic’s too heavy. And they’re right on my tail.’
‘Just slow down,’ Jones said, ‘and then at the next amber light, go through.’
‘But they’ll follow us through on the red.’
‘They might not. If you can swing it so that someone’s between us and them, they won’t be able to. Just give it a go. Otherwise we’ll lose them a bit further along. Don’t sweat it.’
I wasn’t sure things were as simple as Jones was making them sound.
We were coming up to an intersection, and they were still right behind us. The light turned amber, so I slowed down, ready to brake. It wasn’t the plan, but I was scared. Scared to run the red light, scared they were going to follow us anyway. Scared to be driving an old Ford Falcon when I was used to a zippy red Honda.
Reluctant Hallelujah Page 7
