The hand was quickly withdrawn. A moment of silence followed. Sheepishly Mullet emerged from the hole, and stood panting, nervous, ready to run. But the man didn’t kick him. Instead the man picked up his gun, aimed it, and fired.
Mullet’s legs were knocked out from under him.
The sound of the shot echoed across the silent landscape. Mullet twitched, blood pumping from the scarlet wound in his dusty white coat.
‘Fuckin dog,’ his master muttered, before squatting down to peer into the hole. ‘Nathan?’ he said, raising his voice. ‘Didja hear that? If you don’t come out, I’ll do the same to you!’
He waited, muscles tense.
But nothing stirred or whispered inside the hole.
CHAPTER 6
Verlie didn’t mind that it was a secondhand caravan because the Clulows had looked after it so well. They hadn’t been smokers. The oven and stove had been cleaned regularly. The cushions on the two couches (which converted into single beds) had been a little soiled, but Verlie had taken care of that by replacing the old covers with a brand new set. She had made curtains to match the cushion fabric, and had bought a rug to match the curtains. Ross had grumbled about the rug, but Verlie found the vinyl floor of the caravan a little cold and its pattern unappealing. She wanted the caravan to be as cosy as possible.
After all, they would be spending at least four months in it.
Ross’s plan was simple. Now that he had retired from the bank, he wanted to revisit all those towns in which he’d worked over the years as he strove to attain the senior management job that had been his ultimate goal. Ross had performed his duties diligently behind the counter, in Ledgers and in Lending. From a humble teller’s position he had progressed to the role of accountant, then branch manager, then regional manager, before finally becoming head of the bank’s training department. It was during his spell in Wagga Wagga that he had met and married Verlie, who had been a teller in his branch at the time. From Wagga they had moved to Melbourne, Ballarat, Broken Hill, Darwin and Sydney; they had settled in Sydney for twenty-two years so that their three children (Mark, Jodie and Susan) would benefit from a first-class secondary education in good private schools.
They had lived in a solid house in leafy Roseville, where for the first time Verlie’s homemaking abilities were given room to flourish. She had been able to plant and nurture a beautiful garden, full of roses and deciduous trees. She had renovated the kitchen, bought lots of old mahogany furniture – which she polished assiduously – and found herself a pleasant circle of friends, many of them churchgoers, most of them busy mothers with their own cars. Susan, Verlie’s eldest, now had two children; she had married a doctor, and lived in Hunters Hill. Mark was a partner in a big city law firm. Jodie was working in London. Verlie was proud of them all, but they lived separate lives now, and she hardly ever saw them. So she hadn’t objected when her husband had raised the idea of his retirement safari. In fact she had welcomed the prospect of getting away. The house in Roseville was really very damp, and required a lot of energy-sapping care. The neighbourhood was changing; many of her old friends were selling up and moving to the south coast or the Blue Mountains, making way for new families full of school-aged children who were too noisy for Verlie’s taste. She couldn’t understand some people. These days they seemed to give their kids everything except discipline.
She had welcomed Ross’s suggestion that they buy a caravan for their trip. While Ross pored over maps, NRMA directories and the Reader’s Digest Book of the Road, Verlie had busied herself in the caravan, which they had purchased from one of Ross’s former colleagues. She had stocked the cupboards, hung up pictures and bought some throw cushions. Together, she and Ross had made sundry purchases: an emergency camp stove, a water filter, a hand-held digital camcorder. Meanwhile, Susan had been offering up some muted objections, pointing out that Verlie had high blood pressure – should she really be undertaking such a long and stressful trip? But Verlie had scoffed at her daughter’s fears. It wouldn’t be a stressful trip. It would be a wonderful trip. Verlie was dying to revisit her old haunts – to chase up lost friends, to inspect familiar bank premises, to take photos of the houses that she and Ross had rented over the years. And Ross, of course, was in his element. She had been worried about his retirement; how on earth would he cope with it? Now she saw that she had been worrying needlessly. Plotting their itinerary, calculating their expenditure, alerting their friends and organising their supplies had kept him as happy as a lark.
Of course, she didn’t know what would happen when the trip was finally over. But she would face that hurdle when she came to it. Perhaps Ross, too, would decide to sell up. And if he did, the complicated process of moving to the south coast would keep him occupied for a long time.
Whatever he decided to do, Verlie would go along with it. She always did. Over the years, she had learned that life was only bearable if Ross made all the big decisions; she had long ago ceased to resent his assumption that because he made the money, he laid down the law. Being a peaceable, amenable sort of person, she didn’t fret about it too much. Instead she quietly pursued her own interests – the children, the garden, various handicrafts, English detective novels – restricting her complaints to a few very close friends. After all, she wasn’t a giddy young thing any more. If there was one thing she had learned in life, it was not to expect a fairy tale ending.
When packing for the trip, Verlie had made sure to take a couple of pot plants along with her, hanging them in pot holders to prevent them from falling and smashing when the caravan hit a stretch of rough road. She also took her knitting bag, her quilting bag, and a number of modest gifts for old friends: pewter items, pieces of linen and damask, scented soap, decorative stationery. Nothing breakable. Nothing big. It was she who had insisted on taking a portable television set as well. Ross had objected, but Verlie had prevailed. She knew Ross. She also knew what she would have to put up with if he was deprived of his Sunday-afternoon sport. Besides, there were the evenings to consider. Ross didn’t read books – only newspapers – and Verlie couldn’t bear the thought of having to converse with him during that golden time of the day when she liked to relax with a cup of cocoa and the latest PD James.
The television would keep Ross entertained if he couldn’t find anyone to talk to. He was a restless sort of person who liked a bit of noise. Verlie was different; after bringing up three children, she preferred silence. In this, as in so many other aspects of their lives, they differed fundamentally.
In Mildura, for example, Verlie would not have complained to the catering manager of the Leagues Club about a serving of undercooked chicken. She would simply have asked for a replacement dish. Similarly, she would not have kicked up such a fuss about the error that Ross found when he checked the bill issued to them by the owner of the caravan park. Ross seemed always alert for examples of fraud and poor service – perhaps it was the inevitable result of working in a bank. Verlie, on the other hand, disliked confrontation. She had to concede that she was a coward, in this respect. But where would Ross be if she hadn’t always been so reluctant to speak her mind?
He couldn’t have it both ways.
Fortunately, the pitstop at Coombah roadhouse had passed without incident. Despite the number of flies inside the shop, and the restricted range of ice creams in the freezer, Ross had found nothing worth taking exception to. He had filled up his tank, bought himself a mint Cornetto, and smiled indulgently at Verlie’s choice of a Triple Treat. Then they had pressed on, rejoicing in the fact that there were hardly any cars on the road. Cars on the road meant people backed up behind their lumbering caravan, and that in turn meant people risking their necks when trying to overtake Ross on a two-lane highway. Not that there was much danger in overtaking on such a straight, flat road, but even so, there were always tailgaters. And Ross hated tailgaters with a passion. They put him in a very bad mood.
Verlie preferred to drive with him when he was feeling calm and content.
‘Oh look,’ she said, a short time after they had crossed Pine Creek, ‘isn’t that somebody waving? Look, Ross – I think someone’s in trouble.’
A grey dot on the horizon had taken definite form as they rapidly approached it. Verlie saw a car parked beside the road; the people standing around it were at first only visible as ant-like black shapes. Despite the fact that Ross began to slow his speed, however, it soon became apparent that a man was waving them down – a man and a small child.
By the time they reached the grey car, Verlie could see that this man was tall and thin and balding, with the gentle, benevolent face of an absent-minded professor. He wore sandals and shorts, a flapping T-shirt and an expensive wrist watch. Verlie took note of the wrist watch, the little girl hanging off his left leg (which was very hairy) and the fact that he removed his sunglasses when Ross eased to a halt beside him. This man, she decided, was not a threat. His mild blue eyes and sheepish smile were as reassuring as the size of his family.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Ross, and the man approached Ross’s window.
‘We’ve run out of petrol,’ he said.
‘Oh.’
‘And our mobile won’t work. Not out here. Would you happen to have a satellite phone?’
‘No. Sorry.’
Then the man’s wife spoke. (At least, Verlie assumed that she was his wife.) She looked younger than her husband, and more vital; her eyes were a vivid green against the tanned skin of her face. Nudging aside the little girl, she stooped to address Ross through his half-open window.
‘Have you just come from Coombah?’ she demanded.
‘We stopped there, yes,’ Ross replied.
‘How long ago?’
‘How long ago did we stop there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well . . .’ Ross glanced at Verlie, who opened her mouth to help. But Ross needed no help. He was simply collecting his thoughts. ‘About an hour and a half, I suppose,’ he remarked.
‘Oh!’ The woman looked surprised. She pulled back. Her husband said: ‘We were trying to get to Coombah, but we seem to have miscalculated. It’s taken much longer than it should have. We left Broken Hill just after ten, this morning –’
‘But you’re heading the wrong way,’ Verlie interrupted. ‘I mean – you’re heading for Broken Hill.’
A babble of explanations immediately broke out. Even the children started to talk; there was an older boy and a pretty young girl, about ten, who looked very nice in a pink and white cotton sundress. (Verlie thought it a sad thing that so few little girls wore dresses any more.) Their mother clapped her hands: ‘Kids!’ she barked. ‘Quiet!’ Then she peered into the car again.
‘We saw how low our petrol was getting,’ she informed Verlie, ‘and turned back. We were hoping to get to the farm up the road.’
‘Is there a farm up the road?’ asked Verlie.
‘Well . . . there’s a mailbox.’
‘I see.’
‘We don’t know how far off the road any house might be,’ the woman continued, and then faltered. ‘If you – I mean – if you can actually see it – if it isn’t too far away . . .’
‘I don’t suppose you could make a call for us? If they have a land line?’ her husband finished. ‘I realise it’s a lot to ask, of course . . .’
‘Oh, we won’t need to do that,’ Ross said crisply. His manner was pleasant, but Verlie could sense the impatience lurking beneath his calm, well modulated tones. ‘It’s not far to Broken Hill. We’ll find a phone there.’
‘That’s very kind of you – it’s just that we’re a bit worried about the children.’ With a wave of his hand, the absent-minded professor indicated the smallest girl. ‘It’ll take at least two hours to get there, and two hours to get back here, and since it’s already gone two –’
‘No, no,’ said Ross. ‘Two hours to get there? Nothing like that. No, no. Half an hour at the most.’
The family exchanged glances that were pregnant with meaning. At last the father said: ‘Well, you see, we drove for three hours before we had to turn back. And we didn’t get very far –’
‘But we just crossed Pine Creek. Look here – Verlie, get the map out, will you?’
Obediently, Verlie removed the map from the glove box. It was folded to show the Silver City Highway. Plucking the wad of well-thumbed paper from her hand, Ross stabbed at a thick red line with his index finger.
‘There – you see?’ he said. ‘That’s this road, that’s Coombah, and that’s Pine Creek. We crossed Pine Creek a few minutes back. Which means that we can’t be more than forty-five kays from Broken Hill.’
The absent-minded professor knocked heads with his wife as they both moved in to study the map. Ross apologised. He thrust it at them, then glanced in the rear view mirror. Verlie knew what he was thinking. The whole stranded family was clustered around his window now, and he hadn’t pulled very far off the road. If anyone came up behind them, there was bound to be an accident.
‘But we drove for hours,’ the boy protested, his voice rising. ‘How come we only did forty-five kilometres in all that time?’
His father was frowning at the map. ‘There has to be an explanation,’ he began, before Ross interrupted him.
‘Look, you’d better get off the road,’ Ross pointed out. ‘There aren’t many cars, along here, but you never know.’
‘Oh yes! Yes, of course –’
‘Get in the car, kids!’
‘But Mum –’
‘Get in the car, I said!’
‘Do you belong to the NRMA?’ asked Ross. ‘I can call the NRMA.’
There followed a lengthy discussion about the NRMA, affiliated motoring organisations, and whether or not these organisations were in a position to help a member who had run out of petrol. Ross promised that if he didn’t have any luck with the NRMA he would call the police.
‘But it might be better if you came along,’ he said. ‘You or your wife. Maybe the little girl, as well.’
‘Oh no. Thanks, but we shouldn’t separate.’
‘Couldn’t we all go?’ the boy suggested, and the little girl tugged at her father’s shorts.
‘Can I go in the caravan?’ she pleaded.
‘Oh no, dear.’ Verlie leaned towards them. ‘It’s against the law for anyone to ride in a moving caravan.’
‘We can’t all fit,’ the mother explained to her offspring. ‘Don’t worry. The man and the lady are going to call someone to help us.’
‘But not without knowing your names,’ Ross muttered. He took out his notebook and fountain pen, and wrote down all the necessary details. The absent-minded professor was Noel Ferguson. His wife was Linda Ferguson. Ross made a note of their address and registration number, together with the make and model of their car. Then he tucked the notebook into his breast pocket, and gave Verlie the pen for her purse.
‘Hopefully someone might come along soon who has some spare petrol,’ he said. ‘We don’t, I’m afraid.’ He and Verlie had actually discussed the advisability of carrying a spare can of petrol, but had decided against it in the end. They wouldn’t be leaving the main roads, after all. And petrol could be dangerous stuff to have hanging around if there was an accident. Besides, Ross was too well organised to risk a long drive without access to a petrol pump.
‘I can’t understand people who don’t plan,’ he said, after they left the Fergusons behind. Verlie was waving at them over her shoulder. ‘Obviously, that bloke left Broken Hill with hardly any fuel in his tank. So he ends up stranded in the middle of nowhere with a wife and three little kids.’ Ross shook his head. ‘Some people just don’t think ahead, do they?’
‘He seemed nice enough, though. They all did.’
‘Oh, I’m not saying they weren’t nice. I’m saying that they’re almost criminally negligent. And then they expect other people to bail them out – like those fools who go bushwalking without the proper equipment, and have to be airlifted to safety.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘It’s the ol
d story, I’m afraid. Lack of foresight.’
Verlie made no comment. Ross had foresight, certainly, but not in every area of life. He had never displayed much foresight when it came to mixing light colours with dark colours in the laundry, or anticipating (and heading off ) clashes with his children.
She let him declaim for a few minutes on one of his favourite subjects before another object by the road caught her eye. This time it wasn’t a car, however. This time it was a mailbox.
‘Oh, look,’ she said. ‘Could that be the mailbox they were talking about?’
‘Probably.’ Her husband didn’t spare it a glance.
‘It isn’t very far, is it?’
‘No.’
‘Could they walk there, do you think? Should we go back and tell them?’
‘Verlie,’ said Ross, ‘just because the mailbox isn’t far, doesn’t mean the house is close. It could be miles off the road. Miles and miles.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Anyway, we’ll be there in a minute. There’s no point going to look for a house when the town is so close. It’s a waste of time.’
‘I suppose so,’ Verlie repeated.
All the same, she didn’t like leaving three young children stranded on an outback highway. It didn’t seem right, somehow. It made her uneasy.
And she felt even worse when, a few kilometres down the road, they passed an empty truck – a big, white truck with two enormous trailers attached to it, parked in the middle of nowhere.
That really made her wonder.
‘We’re going to run outta gas soon,’ said Graham.
It was stating the obvious, Chris thought. He himself had been worrying about the fuel levels for at least fifteen minutes. He knew that something was wrong because he’d calculated his petrol consumption down to the last millilitre. He had that sort of mind and it had never let him down before.
‘I can’t believe we’re not there by now,’ he muttered. ‘What time is it? Half three? We should be there.’
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