‘I don’t know. There has to be some explanation.’
‘Are we going to stop at a farm, in the morning?’
‘Probably. I don’t know.’
‘I can’t remember seeing one, can you? Not since the white letterbox. Do you think we should go back there?’
‘I don’t know, Peter! Please – it’s late, all right? Let’s not talk about this until we’ve had a bit of a rest.’
Peter fell back, startled. His father was not a man normally given to edgy outbursts; Noel was clearly far more shaken than Peter had realised. All this talk of guns couldn’t be helping, of course, because Noel regarded firearms with great suspicion. And if someone had been shot . . . Peter didn’t know exactly what had happened, because nobody would tell him . . . but if someone had been shot, and they were all stuck out here, unable to reach the police or call a hospital . . .
‘It’s all right, Peter,’ Noel said, apparently trying to make amends for his brusque response to an innocent question. ‘It’ll be okay. Just go and help Mrs Harwood in the caravan. Things will get better in the morning.’
Peter wanted to believe that. He wanted very much to believe that they would soon reach Broken Hill, or that someone would miss them and send out a search party. People were bound to start asking questions before long, weren’t they? The Fergusons were expected home tomorrow, after all. And Alec worked for a big company. His boss would be wanting to know where he was.
‘What normally happens when you don’t show up for work?’ Peter asked Alec, stopping beside the truck driver’s silent and solitary figure just a short distance from the caravan. ‘Do they send out an alert, or something?’
Alec’s face was in shadow, and difficult to read.
‘I dunno,’ he said.
‘There must be rules about what to do, if you break down.’
‘You call for help.’
‘Did you call for help?’
‘I couldn’t. Me phone’s dead.’
‘Oh.’
They looked at each other for a moment. Something about Alec’s silhouette, with its tightly muscled shoulders and the rifle weighing down one arm, made Peter suddenly blurt out: ‘You didn’t shoot anyone, did you?’
‘Me?’ Alec sounded appalled. ‘Shit, no!’
‘Sorry.’
‘Why’s everybody lookin at me cross-eyed?’ Alec complained. ‘I had nothin to do with this! It’s not my fault we’ve hit The X Files, and now you all think I shot someone? Gimme a break!’
‘What do you mean, The X Files?’
Alec clammed up suddenly.
‘Eh?’ he replied, in an evasive manner.
‘You just mentioned The X Files. Do you think this is like something out of The X Files?’
‘Oh, jeez, I dunno.’ Alec began to walk away, but Peter followed him, asking questions.
‘I used to watch The X Files. Why do you think this is like The X Files? What episode are you talking about?’
‘Peter!’ It was Linda. She was guiding a sleepy-eyed, shuffling Louise, while Noel carried Rosie. ‘Come and help set up these beds, please!’
‘I’m coming,’ said Peter, before turning back to Alec. ‘Do you think something paranormal is going on? Is that what you think?’
‘Peter!’
‘I’m coming!’
‘Do what your mum says,’ Alec suggested, and ducked into the Ford like a rabbit escaping down a drainpipe. Foiled, Peter had no choice but to follow his parents. He would have liked to question Alec further. He had a feeling – he had always had a feeling – that Alec knew more than he was willing to share.
Was it just that he didn’t want to talk about the mysterious shooting, or was it something else?
Though it seemed unlikely, Peter sensed that Alec might be the one person, among all the people in their little group, who would not automatically dismiss Peter’s growing suspicion that they were stuck on a kind of treadmill, like characters in an old cartoon, passing the same stretch of roadside (two trees, one rock, two trees, one rock) over and over and over again.
CHAPTER 10
Verlie slept very poorly that night, though she did sleep in her own bed. Linda had refused to eject her from the caravan, insisting instead that Peter and Louise lie on cushions and doonas disposed around its floor. Linda herself shared a bed with Rosie, and Ross laid claim to the back seat of his sedan. So no one was forced to sleep sitting up, like some unfortunate airline passenger in economy class, and Verlie should have enjoyed at least four or five hours of undisturbed slumber.
But she didn’t. She was far too conscious of all the strange bodies occupying the space normally reserved for herself and Ross alone. The children’s heavy breathing, their rustles and moans, kept jerking her awake. What’s more, she was cold. Her supply of bedclothes had been stretched too thinly, for the caravan contained only limited storage space, and the temperature dropped as the hours passed. If the heater had been turned on they would have been quite comfortable, but of course there was no power supply. There wasn’t even a light. Linda and Verlie had both agreed that leaving the kerosene lamp burning was far too dangerous. As a result, a dense blackness enfolded them, and Verlie was afraid even to get up and empty her bladder in case she accidentally stepped on one of the children. For someone whose pelvic floor muscles weren’t strong (owing to the fact that she had given birth three times) a long wait for relief was always difficult. Little wonder that she slept only fitfully.
When dawn finally came – and with it a pearly light that seeped into the caravan like gas – Verlie was able to rise and go to the toilet without injuring anyone. Modesty had decreed that she wear, not her pyjamas, but a fleecy-lined tracksuit to bed, and in this (plus a silk scarf and pair of sheepskin slippers) she judged herself sufficiently presentable to leave the caravan and seek out her husband, who had probably slept no better than she. Ross, she knew, was fussy in his habits. He liked clean clothes, a daily shower, a neatly made bed. He would compromise his comfort only so far; hence the fact that he had never taken his children camping, nor allowed them access to his north shore ensuite during that sacred half-hour in the morning when he was preparing for the day. He had very specific requirements as to inner springs and pillows, and Verlie was sure that the back seat of their car would have afforded him little comfort.
She was therefore hugely surprised when she peered through the rear passenger window (which was frosted with condensation) and saw that Ross was lying with his eyes closed, curled up under a plaid picnic blanket, his head pillowed on Verlie’s ergonomic back support cushion.
He wasn’t awake after all.
Feeling a bit lost, she turned from him. The air around her was as fresh as peppermint toothpaste, still and silent. The endless vista of dirt and saltbush stretched away in every direction, each low, spiky outline slowly becoming harder and clearer as sunrise approached. Verlie wondered if she could return to the caravan without disturbing its occupants, and was debating the wisdom of going back to bed (as opposed to settling down in the breakfast nook with a torch, a muesli bar and a detective story) when she heard Mongrel growl behind her.
He was tied to the bumper of Del’s old Ford, a bowl of water within easy reach. His gaze, she noticed, was turned to the west; it was fixed on something in the distance, something that Verlie couldn’t see, not in the dim light, not without her glasses. Whatever it was, though, he didn’t like it. His upper lip was lifted slightly over exposed yellow teeth. His growl didn’t explode into a bark or howl but kept rumbling away in his throat, as he slowly raised himself out of his basket.
‘What is it?’ she murmured. ‘Mongrel?’ Nervously she tapped on the rear window of the station wagon, tapped and tapped, while the hackles rose on Mongrel’s neck and shoulders.
‘Del!’ she said hoarsely. ‘Del, wake up!’
There was a stirring from inside the car: a shifting of shapes, a few grunts, a loud thud. Then a bird cheeped somewhere, and Mongrel stopped growling. He still stood alert
, his ears cocked, but his appearance was no longer as alarming as it had been.
The first rays of sunlight were gilding the horizon.
‘Whassup?’ a voice mumbled. Verlie saw that Noel had wound down one of the Ford’s windows, and was peering out, ruffled and bleary-eyed.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It – it’s the dog.’
‘The dog?’
‘He’s acting a bit strange. At least, he was acting a bit strange. He’s stopped, now.’
Suddenly the driver’s door popped open, and Alec emerged. He was wearing his jeans and T-shirt, but padded towards the caravan on bare feet, fiddling with his fly. Verlie looked away, anxious to give him a bit of privacy.
The birds were quite noisy now, though she couldn’t see any of them. It was almost as if the bushes themselves were chirping.
‘What’s wrong with Mongrel?’ Del asked. She too was leaning out of a window, her stiff grey hair sticking up like the coarse bristles of an old straw broom. At the sound of her voice, Mongrel abandoned his post and bustled towards the car, his tail whipping about furiously.
‘Yeah, yeah, all right,’ said Del. ‘I’ll get ya breakfast, just hang on a sec. What’s he been up to, has he peed on something?’
‘No,’ Verlie replied, and described Mongrel’s curious behaviour. By the time she’d finished, Alec had returned. Unshaven and red-eyed, he looked more disreputable than ever. He stood scratching various portions of his anatomy while Del – who was on her feet, at last – stretched and groaned and adjusted the vertebrae in her neck with a nasty little click that made Verlie grimace.
‘Ah – bloody hell – me joints aren’t what they used to be,’ Del muttered, glancing down at her dog. ‘Well, I dunno, Verlie. He seems all right now.’
‘Yes. I know. I just thought I should mention what I saw . . .’
‘Could have been anything. A fox. A snake. But we’ll keep an eye out. Who’s got the gun?’
‘You have,’ Alec and Noel both chorused. In his grubby T-shirt, with his bristling jaw and uncombed hair, Noel was beginning to look almost as wild as Alec. But as soon as he donned his steel-rimmed spectacles, his appearance changed from that of a gaunt and hairy, sandal-wearing mendicant to that of an absent-minded professor too absorbed in his work to worry about personal grooming.
It was marvellous what a difference one pair of glasses could make.
‘You took the gun to bed with you,’ Noel went on, in tones of reproof. ‘Remember?’
‘Oh yeah.’ Del rubbed the back of her neck, blinking and wincing. ‘Okay. Well, I’ll get that sorted. Is everybody up?’
‘No,’ said Verlie.
‘What time is it?’
Noel consulted his watch.
‘About half past five.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘We ought to decide what to do,’ said Noel. ‘Should we start breakfast, and let the others sleep in, or should we wake them up and get going?’
‘Breakfast,’ Alec suddenly blurted out. The startled stares of his companions made him flush, but he stood his ground. ‘I’m really hungry,’ he added. ‘I hardly ate a thing yesterday.’
‘And I could do with a cup of coffee,’ Noel admitted. ‘However, that’s not really the issue right now, is it? I mean, the important thing is to get out of here.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Del agreed, ‘but don’t forget our little problem. We used up mosta me bloody fuel gettin nowhere last night. So let’s not waste the rest of it chasin our own tails, eh?’
‘What do you mean?’ Verlie was rather fuzzy-headed, owing to the fact that she hadn’t had a shower or a cup of tea. ‘Do you mean we’ve been driving in circles?’
‘I dunno. Whatcha think? I know Alec’s got a theory. He told us about it last night, in the car.’
Glancing at Alec, Verlie saw his colour change. A red wash mounted to his cheeks and forehead. He stopped scratching his chest.
‘Alec doesn’t think we’re ever gunna get to Broken Hill under our own steam,’ Del continued. ‘He reckons we should turn back and head for the nearest station. Call the coppers from there. He reckons if we don’t, we’re gunna get stranded.’
Verlie frowned, wondering what she had missed. Surely turning back was no solution? They had come such a long way already . . .
‘What nonsense,’ a voice declared. Verlie jumped, and gasped, before she realised that Ross had joined them. He was standing right behind her. He had put on his shoes and belt, but his hair was in his eyes.
‘If we turn back, we’ll definitely end up stranded,’ he said. ‘If we push on, we should make it. We can’t be far away now.’
‘We aren’t,’ Del retorted. ‘We weren’t last night, either. Trouble is, we don’t seem to be gettin any closer, no matter how far we drive.’
‘And that’s the thing,’ Noel broke in, apologetically. ‘I had the same problem yesterday, going the other way. And so did Alec, heading north. And so did you, Ross. It’s pretty odd, don’t you think? I mean, there must be some sort of explanation, but it’s certainly very odd . . .’
‘I don’t see how turning back’s going to help us,’ Ross objected, his voice a mulish croak. He was never at his best in the morning, before he’d had his shower, his breakfast and a quiet ten minutes with a cup of coffee and a newspaper. Verlie hoped that he wasn’t going to start snapping at people. They were bound to take it badly, if he did.
‘We could just stay here,’ Noel suggested. ‘Someone’s bound to come along soon.’
‘Yes, and maybe they’ll be coming from Broken Hill,’ said Verlie. ‘So they’ll be able to tell us how far it is.’
‘Oh, they’ll be headin south for sure.’ Del nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s too early for northbound traffic, unless they got started in the middle of the night.’
‘I recommend we head for Broken Hill, and stop if we see any cars or farms or houses along the way,’ Ross decided, employing his most authoritative tones. ‘The only other option is to wait here – presumably someone is going to be missed very soon, and the police will be notified. But even if that happens, we might as well start moving anyway. It can’t possibly hurt.’
Del and Noel and Verlie exchanged questioning glances. Verlie thought that Ross’s solution made sense. It even gave them time to have breakfast, and perhaps clean themselves up. Besides, she was nervous. The previous night Ross had told her all about the shooting incident, and she was anxious that they should put as much distance as possible between themselves and the site of the tragedy.
Alec, however, was shaking his head.
‘You won’t get anywhere,’ he groaned.
‘Of course we will,’ said Ross.
‘The laws of physics decree that we’ll have to get somewhere, Alec,’ Noel appended, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘It’s impossible not to.’
‘Yeah – if the laws of bloody physics are actually workin,’ Alec growled.
‘Alec, we went into this last night,’ Noel said gently, and Verlie wondered when that might have been – she didn’t recall any discussions about the laws of physics – before it occurred to her that the issue must have been raised after Alec and Noel and Del had bedded down in the old station wagon. ‘This X Files idea, well, it’s a theory,’ Noel conceded, ‘but I have to say it’s pretty low on the list –’
‘Okay, wait.’ Alec suddenly threw up his hand. His voice became clearer – more urgent. ‘Listen. Yesterday, when Chris – the bloke who picked me up? When he turned back, it was like two hours or something since we left my truck, right? But when he turned back, and drove south again, we reached my truck in like . . . I dunno, maybe ten minutes. It was like we’d hardly gone any way at all. Like we’d put in all that time for nothin.’
He surveyed the faces around him. Ross’s was frankly sceptical. Del was frowning. Verlie didn’t know what to think – she was sure that she looked as bewildered as she felt.
Noel rubbed his cheek.
‘Alec –’ he began.
‘Just check it out, and see if I’m crazy,’ Alec interrupted. ‘Just hop in the car and head south. If you haven’t reached my truck in fifteen minutes, then I’ll – well, I dunno.’ He seemed to search for an answer, in a confused sort of way. ‘Then I’ll admit I’m a loony. Or the time warp’s gone, or something. Like it disappeared overnight.’
‘Things do look better in the morning,’ Verlie remarked, for no particular reason. It was an unbelievably stupid thing to say. She blushed as four pairs of eyes swivelled in her direction. ‘Sorry,’ she added.
‘Be that as it may,’ said Ross, turning his attention back to the rest of the group, ‘I don’t see any point in retracing our steps. Whatever Mr . . . um . . .’ He had obviously forgotten Alec’s surname, but didn’t let that deter him. ‘Whatever Alec may have experienced yesterday, for whatever reason, it’s neither here nor there.’ (Clearly, from his tone, Ross attributed strange temporal anomalies to drug taking or epileptic fits or some other embarrassing habit.) ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t see the relevance. Not to us.’
‘Well I do.’ Del spoke stridently, folding her arms. ‘What if he’s right? What if it really happened?’
‘Of course it didn’t happen,’ Ross responded testily. ‘How could it?’
‘Easy. How could the Red Sea part? Because God ordered it to.’ Del began to lecture Ross, who drew himself up to his full height, and looked down his nose at her. ‘God works in mysterious ways, y’know. He works miracles. And I tell ya what, mate, something pretty bloody peculiar is goin on here.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Hey. Just a minute. What gives you the right to call me ridiculous?’
‘Ross,’ warned Verlie. She put a restraining hand on his arm, bestowing an apologetic smile upon Del as she did so. If Del was one of those manic born-again Christian types (a possibility that Verlie would never have anticipated, after studying Del’s general demeanour and appearance) then arguing with her would be worse than useless. It would simply put her back up, and cause endless difficulties. ‘I’m afraid we’re none of us at our best, just now,’ Verlie twittered. ‘The important thing is that we don’t lose our tempers.’
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