‘What do you mean?’ Noel was frowning, and Peter shrugged.
‘I just mean that they’ll get stranded. Like us. With no one else around,’ he answered. Then his eyes widened, as if he’d been struck by an awful thought. ‘I don’t mean they’ll get shot,’ he faltered. ‘I don’t mean that.’
There was a brief silence. Rosie began to swing from her mother’s hand, whining for a drink. Lousie headed back towards the caravan. It suddenly occurred to Verlie that she could have asked Ambrose for a lift. The Fergusons wouldn’t have fitted, of course, but she would have. And Ambrose could have dropped her off when they reached Del’s station wagon – wherever it was – and she and Ross would have been reunited. Why hadn’t it crossed her mind? Why hadn’t she thought of it, until her chance was gone?
But then she began to reconsider. For one thing, she couldn’t have borne the company in that hatchback. For another, Georgie probably wouldn’t have let her set foot in it. And what would have happened if they hadn’t encountered Del’s vehicle? Verlie would have found herself stuck with Ambrose and Georgie, who weren’t exactly a reliable or trustworthy pair.
No – she was probably better off where she was. At least she had the caravan. Ross wouldn’t approve of her leaving the caravan.
‘Let’s hope the next lot are more helpful,’ Noel remarked.
‘Let’s hope there is a next lot,’ Linda said mournfully, and Noel patted her shoulder.
‘Of course there will be. On this road? There’ll be plenty.’ Noel smiled a tentative smile. ‘And they won’t all be like that, either.’
Verlie profoundly hoped not. Oh God, she thought. God, when is this going to end?
‘I’m going in,’ Del announced.
She had one foot out of the car already. Beyond her, a screen door flapped gently in an intermittent breeze, and a venetian blind rustled and clicked as it was tugged against a window frame. Alec didn’t like the look of that blind. Someone might be hiding behind it. All the windows on this side of the house gaped, like voids, except the one shielded by the venetian blind.
‘You can’t go in alone,’ said Ross.
‘I’ll take Mongrel with me. Mongrel! Here, boy! ’ Del whistled through her teeth – three blasts, then a pause, then another blast. Mongrel had disappeared again. He had first vanished around the side of the house; after five minutes or so he had reappeared, heading south, before the gleaming bulk of the garage had concealed him from view. He had been ambling along, hips swaying, head down, not a care in the world. Alec had derived some comfort from the sight of Mongrel’s easy gait. It had suggested that there was nothing much to worry about.
But now the dog was gone. He had wandered away, and though Del had observed that he would bark if he found someone, Alec wasn’t so sure. Mongrel didn’t look like the kind of dog who could afford to waste energy. He didn’t look like much of a guard dog.
‘Mongrel!’ Del whistled again. Alec flinched. All this noise was making him nervous.
‘Stop shouting,’ he entreated.
‘There he is,’ said Ross.
‘Mongrel! Here, boy!’
The dog had emerged from behind the pen (or was it a coop?) that lay to the south of the garage. He trotted towards them, his tongue flapping. Del pushed her door open. She climbed out of the car and knelt to fondle her dog’s ears. This caress was bestowed with one hand; the other was supporting her rifle.
‘Goo’boy,’ she said. ‘There’s a boy.’
‘Be careful, Del.’ Alec was scanning the back of the house. ‘There could be someone in there.’
‘We’ll go and see.’ She rose, and positioned her rifle so that its butt was wedged beneath her right armpit, its barrel balanced on her left palm. ‘Youse blokes keep watch.’
‘You can’t go in alone,’ Ross protested. Glancing over at him, Alec caught his eye and flushed. It was obvious what Ross thought. Ross thought that any burly young truckie who was half a man should be volunteering to enter the house with Del.
Or would Ross, the sclerotic and silver-haired retiree, have to do it instead?
Alec considered his options. On the one hand, he didn’t want to be scorned as a wimp. On the other, he didn’t like the look of that house. But Del did have the gun – that was something to take into account.
‘You get behind the wheel,’ he finally instructed Ross, having made his decision. ‘Del, wait! I’m comin too! Ross, mate,’ he finished, with just the hint of a threat in his voice, ‘you’d better be ready to take off, if we need to.’
‘I will,’ said Ross.
Alec got out of the car. Bent double, with hunched shoulders, he scurried after Del, who had reached the bottom step. As she held the screen door open for Mongrel, Alec swivelled on his heel to check the immediate vicinity, his gaze jumping nervously from saltbush to car wreck to caravan. The vastness of the country beyond the fence – the infinity of red dirt and silver-blue brush stretching off towards the pinch of a ridge on the horizon – distracted him from the cover nearer to hand. The sun was quite high now. The sky was streaked with just a few, vaporous clouds.
‘Come on,’ said Del. She was following Mongrel into the house, which engulfed Alec like a tunnel. It was so dark, he couldn’t see a fucking thing. But he could smell plenty – tobacco, citrus, old grease, musty carpets. Nothing rotten. Nothing noxious. Ahead of him, Mongrel’s toenails made a scraping, sliding noise on the linoleum floor.
Somewhere, a tap was dripping.
Del ducked into a door on her left, still pursuing Mongrel. Alec backed through the door after her – his eyes still adjusting to the dimness – and found himself in a big sunny kitchen that put him in mind of his dead grandmother. It might have been the china biscuit barrel shaped like a cat, or the antique fridge, or the loud ticking of the clock. It might have been the wooden cupboards, which were painted pale green.
Whatever the reason, against all logic, he suddenly felt safe.
‘Check the bottom cupboards,’ said Del.
‘Eh?’
‘There’s a kid, remember. Check the cupboards.’
Alec did so, as Del left the room. He found onions, potatoes, dog biscuits, saucepans, tinned food, rolled oats, sugar, tea – all manner of valuable supplies – but no cowering child. He also picked up the receiver of the big black telephone near the door, and was dismayed to discover that there wasn’t a dial tone.
He nearly hurled the useless machine at the wall.
‘Phone’s dead,’ he announced.
‘What?’ Del’s voice came echoing down a corridor. ‘What’s that?’
‘Phone’s dead!’
No response from Del. Apprehensively, Alec sidled out of the kitchen (why didn’t she speak?) but when he finally reached the first room off the hallway he discovered Del calmly checking a wardrobe inside it. Mongrel had already moved onto the next room, which was long and narrow and stuffed almost to the ceiling with junk: old chests of drawers, magazines, golf clubs, ashtrays, a wireless, cardboard shoe boxes, gramophone records, lampshades. One drawer hung open, spewing twists of old socks and yellowed underwear. More clothes lay tumbled on the floor in front of the wardrobe, which stood with its doors flung wide; to Alec’s untrained eye, it looked as if someone had been carelessly rifling through the shirts and pants and jackets, discarding those that didn’t appeal.
Despite all the mess, however, there wasn’t enough space in which to conceal a person – not even under the bed. The bathroom offered no hiding place, either. But it did contain some ominous traces. The limp towel that hung from the towel-rail was smudged with pinkish stains. Faint pink splatters were also visible around the basin.
Alec swallowed.
‘Del?’ he said hoarsely.
She suddenly appeared beside him. ‘Did you see that suitcase?’ she inquired. ‘The one in the first bedroom? It was half full.’
‘Like someone was packin?’
‘There were kid’s clothes. For a boy, I reckon.’
‘Look
,’ said Alec. He pointed at the towel.
Del clicked her tongue. She stepped forward, picked up a corner of the towel, and sniffed it.
‘This doesn’t look good,’ she said quietly. ‘This looks like someone took their bloody time.’
‘Maybe we should check in the roof,’ Alec suggested. ‘Just in case.’
‘And the caravan,’ Del added. ‘And the garage.’
‘I think they’ve gone, Del. I don’t think there’s anyone here.’
‘No point takin chances.’
Del sent Alec out to inform Ross that the coast was clear, while she grabbed a chair, mounted it, and stuck her head – and her gun – into the crawl space above the ceiling. There was just enough light filtering in, up there, for Del to satisfy herself that the roof cavity contained nothing but mouse traps.
‘So that’s all right,’ she told Alec, when he returned. ‘The house is safe. I’ll check the sheds, and you can start loadin some stuff into the backa me car. There’s a lot of good stuff here. Plentya food. Water tank –’
‘You mean now?’ Alec exclaimed. ‘Load it up now?’
‘Time’s marchin on, Alec.’
‘Don’t you think I should come with you? Why doesn’t Ross load up the car?’
‘Because I want ’im where he is. Watchin the back door. We can’t see it, from out front.’
‘I still think I should come with you.’
Though Alec had no real desire to inspect the corpses that lay in wait for them, he was even more reluctant to let the gun out of his sight. So he persuaded Del that she would need another pair of eyes – in addition to Mongrel’s – and she finally agreed that he could join her on a quick ‘recce’ of the yard. Mongrel himself was already exploring the piles of junk that reared up like rocky outcrops among the saltbush. He exhibited no symptoms of excitement or alarm as he sniffed around them, though he was clearly very interested in certain patches of ground which probably bore the scent of other dogs, to judge from their position.
He behaved rather cautiously when he encountered the body near the garage, veering away from it as Del and Alec approached. It was Graham’s body, without a doubt; Alec recognised the gingery hair and the goatee. One quick glance – at the outstretched arms, the crumpled legs, the open mouth, the blood (so much blood!) – and Alec could look no more. He turned away. His very bones seemed to ache in protest against this encounter with yet another mutilated body. How many corpses could a man endure before he went insane? They would haunt him for years – he knew it. They would populate his dreams.
Alec scanned the bush behind the fence, while Del gingerly felt for a pulse. There was a definite smell in the air, overripe, unpleasant, but not too overwhelming. Not yet.
‘Nothin,’ said Del, quietly.
‘Don’t move ’im,’ Alec responded hoarsely, wetting his dry lips. ‘We can’t move any of ’em – might destroy evidence.’
‘He’s been shot.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Twice, I think. Maybe. I dunno.’
‘Come on,’ said Alec.
They moved cautiously towards the Land Rover, which was probably salvageable, Alec decided – maintaining a brittle kind of composure – though not without a spell in the shop. Chris had really rammed that tree; the bonnet was bowed and crushed, oil had leaked onto the ground, there was glass everywhere. But the impact, however powerful, wouldn’t have caused the carnage inside. It was like an abattoir in there. One fleeting look was enough for Alec, and Del quickly acknowledged that there was no point trying to find a pulse.
‘Half ’is head’s gone,’ she croaked.
Alec shut his eyes, briefly.
‘The Good Lord have mercy. Who would do a thing like this?’
‘A fuckin maniac,’ Alec replied, in a hoarse voice.
‘We’d better check the garage.’
They crossed the open space in front of their destination cautiously, like infantrymen in some old war film. Both kept their gazes stubbornly averted from the nearby corpse. Del entered first, treading with care, stopping to listen between each step, because her eyes were still adjusting to the shadows. Alec followed close on her heels, sniffing. The garage reeked of petrol.
‘Smell that,’ he whispered.
‘Shh!’
But there were no suspicious rustles or creaks from the depths of the cluttered interior. Every shape in there was still, and hard-edged. Seeing Mongrel waddle past them, tongue lolling, Alec was reassured. He began to poke about, identifying a tin of engine oil, a ladder, a chainsaw.
‘I’ll stand guard,’ said Del. ‘See if yiz can find any petrol, eh?’
‘Yeah. Right.’
The stench of petrol was so strong that Alec was already becoming dizzy. It was as if something had leaked. Mongrel, certainly, didn’t like it; he turned tail and trotted out after the most cursory inspection. Groping around on the dirt floor, Alec discovered two things: that the earth was faintly damp – damp with petrol (he smelled it on his fingers) – and that there were some empty jerry cans scattered around like discarded rose petals.
‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Fuck.’
‘What?’ From her post by the door, Del threw an anxious look over her shoulder.
‘Someone’s emptied all the petrol out. Onto the ground.’
‘Deliberately?’
‘Looks like it.’
Del grunted. ‘That’s not good,’ she said, after a while.
Alec backed out, coughing, wondering what to do with his shoes. They probably had petrol all over their soles – would they be safe to walk on?
‘Any sign of the kid?’ Del queried.
‘Nuh.’
‘Where could he be?’
Alec shrugged, eyeing the nearby pen warily. On closer inspection, it looked like a doghouse. There was something inside, but it was swarming with insects. ‘Could have escaped,’ he suggested. ‘You wanna check in there?’
‘Don’t have much choice, do I?’
The doghouse contained another dead dog. The collapsed chicken coop beyond the peppercorn tree was empty save for a few weeds and rusty tins. The caravan, when they explored it, was uninhabited, though it did contain some evidence of habitation: a dirty tea cup, an open packet of shortbread biscuits, an issue of the Reader’s Digest with a bookmark inserted between its pages. The cover on the bed was slightly rucked, and the whole space stank of tobacco smoke.
There was also a photograph. It was very old – at least fifty years old – and showed a woman in a sundress, smiling.
Alec picked it up hesitantly.
‘There was an old bloke on the road,’ he said. ‘Out there . . . an old bloke and a woman.’
‘But no kid,’ Del finished. She was peering inside the cupboards of the kitchenette, which were mostly empty. ‘One or two things, here. Sardines. Cough lollies.’
‘I’ll take ’em back to the car,’ Alec offered.
‘But where’s the kid? We can’t leave without ’im.’
Alec swung around, disconcerted.
‘What do you mean?’ he demanded.
‘We gotta find the kid, Alec.’
‘No we don’t.’
‘Yes we do.’
Alec was appalled. Find the kid? There were thousands of hectares of desert out there – not to mention a mad gunman. How were they supposed to track down a little kid? ‘Del, the kid mightn’t even be here,’ he pointed out. ‘He might have escaped with someone else. He might have been kidnapped. For all we know, he could be in bloody town for the day! For God’s sake, don’t be stupid.’
‘But –’
‘We’ve got to go back, Del! We said we would! Christ, we’ll be hours late as it is – especially if we have to load up the station wagon!’
Del pondered this remark and was forced to acknowledge the sense of it. Still, she was reluctant to abandon their search for the lost child.
‘I can look for ’im,’ she said, ‘while youse blokes are packin the stuff.’
�
�No, Del.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because we need someone to stand guard, for God’s sake!’ Alec was losing his cool. The stifling caravan, the ache in his temples, the churning in his gut, the faint odour of petrol that clung to his shoes – they were all getting to him. ‘We’re sittin ducks, here, give us a break!’
Del sighed. She scrubbed at her wiry grey hair with one hand as she surveyed the caravan: its checked curtains, wood-grain Laminex, souvenir ash trays, painted wall clock. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she murmured, shaking her head. ‘This could be my place . . . I just can’t believe it . . .’
‘Believe it,’ said Alec, shortly.
Then, impelled by a sudden wave of nausea, he rushed to the door, staggered down the steps, and vomited onto a tussock of windmill grass.
Col didn’t stop at the Coombah roadhouse because there were some bikes parked out the front of it. Not neat little Japanese toys but big, stripped-down American bastards. He tried to be optimistic about these things, but sometimes he was just too tired. He didn’t think he could cope with a biker gang. Not while his visit to Elspeth still lay ahead.
He couldn’t afford to waste energy.
The road beyond Coombah offered little in the way of distractions. You could fall asleep at the wheel, if you weren’t careful. Col was very mindful of this danger. Because he woke up so early in the morning, he had a tendency to drop off sometimes when his mind wasn’t fully engaged – in front of the cricket, perhaps, or while waiting in the car for Moira. So he extracted a very strong peppermint from the jar in the glove box and sucked on it vigorously. Then, when that was finished, he turned on his radio. But the reception was already becoming problematic, breaking up at increasingly shorter intervals. He finally had to turn it off again, and shove a tape into his cassette player. Though this ageing machine had seen better days (most of its black plastic buttons had long ago cracked and fallen off, to be replaced with tape and putty) it was sturdy and reliable. It never spewed out twisted brown ribbons, or refused to yield up any cassettes that it had swallowed. On the contrary, it was the most cooperative part of the whole ute, continuing to provide hour after hour of flawless music while fanbelts shredded and radiator hoses snapped.
The Road Page 23