‘You gotta love the bush,’ kelly laughed. ‘They can’t help themselves. They always have to bring a plate.’
‘Dawn’s set up a space for the teenagers to dance,’ said Faith, who’d just joined them. ‘And a spot for the little kids to crash. Good thing it’s Sunday tomorrow.’
‘That reminds me,’ said kelly, picking up a bucket, ‘time to start collecting.’
‘Hey, I’m paying, remember,’ said Martin. ‘We don’t need donations.’
‘Car keys,’ Kelly explained. ‘I’ve barely got enough regulars as it is. Don’t like having to pull any of them out of wrecked cars. I’m on the local volunteer rescue squad.’ He walked off in the direction of a large group of party-goers.
‘Might I say, Mr Carter, you look spiffing,’ Faith said.
Martin was wearing black jeans and riding boots and a colourful shirt. ‘You look very nice yourself,’ he said.
She had changed into riding boots and moleskins and a crisp white fitted shirt.
Martin picked up a jumbo bag of Twisties from a trestle table. ‘That lamb is starting to smell pretty good,’ he said, ‘and I think it’s time to teach Shari a lesson.’
‘Good for you, Martin. We can’t allow refugees to come to this country and take the mickey out of hardworking white-collar criminals.’
‘Faith, please, I’m an armed robber. There was nothing white-collar about my crime!’
‘And I guess I’m your moll, then?’ Faith said.
‘Are you? Really?’
‘It’s starting to look that way,’ she replied.
Martin liked that answer a whole lot.
*
At ten-thirty Fred and Kelly declared the party a raging success. Forty-seven seconds later, Fred passed out. Kelly then decided to see if there was enough water in the dam for an attempt on the world record for the hundred-metres freestyle. Luckily for Kelly, Shariffie had thought to post one of his friends on the bank as a lifeguard.
Faith and Martin were leaning on the rail of the front balcony of the hotel.
‘Quite a night, eh?’ Martin said.
Faith took his hand and nodded. ‘Quite a night indeed. For a first-time party-giver, you’ve done an excellent job, Martin Carter.’
He was chuffed at the compliment – and amazed at the rush of emotions he felt with her hand in his. ‘Thanks, but I think you and Dawn deserve most of the credit.’
‘She’s a dynamo, that Dawn,’ Faith said. ‘And who’d believe it? She looks more Asian than Kelly and she’s got an even broader Aussie accent.’
‘Did you get the story?’ Martin asked. ‘Goldfields?’
‘Yep. Both great-grandfathers came out for the Ballarat rush. Every generation intended to go back to China but none of them made it. Kelly’s just a Dubbo boy, born and bred. Dinki-di to the bone.’
‘And that would be a lamb bone,’ Martin said. ‘Did you see him at that spit? Wild man.’
‘I didn’t,’ Faith said, ‘I was watching you.’
Martin nestled a little closer. ‘That’s rather romantic.’
‘You spilled tomato sauce down your shirt,’ Faith said, pointing to a spot on his chest.
Deflated, he looked down at his shirt, but couldn’t see a stain. Faith flicked him under the nose with her finger.
‘Made you look,’ she said playfully.
‘I can’t believe I fell for that!’ he laughed.
‘Hey, I’m just busting your chops, Martin.’ She rested her head on his shoulder.
Martin really didn’t care what she busted as long as she didn’t let go of his hand.
‘You hear something? she asked suddenly, breaking away and leaning over the balcony, her eyes scanning the night sky.
‘If you mean country and western music, then I’ve heard way too much already,’ he answered.
‘No, I thought I heard a helicopter. Listen.’
Martin listened. He couldn’t hear anything over the noise of badly duelling banjos. ‘They probably use choppers out here for mustering stock,’ he said.
‘Not in the middle of the night,’ she said. ‘And not in the middle of a drought.’
There was a beep from Martin’s pocket. He pulled out the phone and read the message, Faith looking over his shoulder.
“Bang. Bang. Bang. Lose the dog,’ she read out. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘It’s Col,’ Martin said, ‘firing three warning shots for me. It means the ammo dump’s gone up, which is his way of saying the shit’s hit the fan.’
‘And the dog?’
‘The dog and bone,’ Martin said, ‘the phone.’
‘Of course!’
‘This means they’re on to us,’ Martin said. ‘Shit!’
‘But why isn’t there anything on the news?’ Faith asked. ‘This is very, very strange.’
Martin ran his hand through his hair. ‘I know. It doesn’t add up.’
Just then a campervan pulled in off the highway.
‘Hello,’ said Faith, ‘what have we here? Coolibah camper/ cruiser. Same colour and model as ours.’
Martin nodded absently, his mind on Colin’s warning.
A couple in their sixties climbed out of the van and came towards them, the man taking the woman’s hand as they walked.
‘Ah, that’s nice to see,’ Faith said.
‘We’re looking for a caravan park,’ the woman said when they reached the balcony. ‘Anything close by you know of?’
The woman’s hair was an interesting shade of blue. Martin blinked hard several times to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating again.
‘G’day,’ Faith said, ‘I’m Faith and this is Martin. I like your hair, by the way.’
Martin breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t hallucinating.
‘Ta, love. I’m Hazel and this is my hubby, Cliff. Having a party?’
‘You got it in one, Hazel,’ Martin said. ‘Can’t help you with a caravan park, but we’ve got free grog, free music, free dancing, and the best damn barbecued lamb you ever had in your life.’
Cliff sniffed appreciatively. ‘You can smell that bloody lamb about ten k’s down the road,’ he said. ‘We are a bit peckish. A cold beer would be pretty good too. What can I get you, Haze? The usual?’
While the men searched out the drinks, Faith and Hazel headed for the food. Faith saw her staring at the men tending the spits. ‘They’re Afghans,’ she said.
Hazel nodded, then strode up to the men and began talking in some language Faith didn’t recognise. Shariffie stared at her and then his face broke into a huge smile. Suddenly the blue-haired woman was surrounded by a group of grinning, chattering men.
‘Hazel did some volunteer work with refugees after we retired,’ Cliff said, handing Faith a beer. ‘She’s real good with languages, got an ear for it, they reckon. Put too much heart into it, though. Quack reckoned the stress would kill her before too long, so we hit the road.’ He held up a bottle of Scotch. ‘Hey, hon,’ he yelled, ‘got you a drink when you’re ready.’
Hazel smiled and waved back.
‘So which way you heading, Cliff?’ Faith asked.
‘Inland. Maybe do some opal fossicking. Just cruising, really.’
Faith noticed that Martin was looking at the text message on the phone again. ‘You and Hazel have a mobile phone in the van for emergencies?’ she asked.
Cliff shook his head. ‘Gotta watch the pennies, love, you know how it is.’
‘Martin’s got a spare he doesn’t need any more,’ Faith said. ‘You’re welcome to it if you want.’
Martin erased Col’s message and handed the phone to Cliff.
‘Gee, thanks,’ Cliff said, ‘that’s real nice of you. But aren’t the calls a bit expensive from out here?’
‘This one’s got free calls,’ Faith reassured him. ‘You can use it as much as you like.’
‘Jeez, Hazel’ll be in clover. She can call the grandkids without us having to stop.’
‘We’ve got a charger for the ca
r too,’ Faith added. ‘Plugs right into the cigarette lighter.’
‘You little beauty. Thanks, love,’ Cliff said. ‘You sure?’
‘Absolutely,’ Faith smiled. She looked around. ‘Seen that electrician who put up the lights?’ she asked Martin.
‘I think he’s passed out in the back of his ute.’
‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘He’s got a nice little electric screwdriver I need to borrow.’
As she walked off, Martin looked up at the night sky. She’d been right about that helicopter earlier. He could hear it now.
Back behind the hotel, the party was slowing under the weight of all the food and alcohol consumed over the past few hours. With the band on a break and the DJ nowhere to be found, one of the Afghan men produced a small drum and another began plucking on a stringed instrument.
‘The drum’s called a tabla and that other thing’s a rebab,’ Hazel explained when Martin and Cliff joined her and Bev on the back verandah.
Shari and a group of his friends formed a circle and, hands raised shoulder-high, began to dance. One of the dying barbecues suddenly flared into life, the flickering firelight illuminating Shari’s swirling tunic and beautifully embroidered vest. Cliff put his arm around Hazel’s waist and the party-goers watched the dancing in silence, under a star-dotted sky.
This is a bloody funny country, Martin said to himself with a wry smile.
nineteen
Cliff and Hazel were making excellent time. Both early risers, they had left the hotel car park before dawn, after a quick cup of tea. They usually tried to get in three or four hours on the road before the day got too hot. Cliff was driving and, as usual, wishing the old Coolibah had cruise control. Soon be time for lunch though, he was thinking. Cold roast lamb and some of Hazel’s homemade mustard pickle in a white-bread sandwich. Yummo.
The camper was cruising at a steady ninety k’s through a desolate landscape when Cliff leaned forward and squinted. A thin black line crossed the highway a couple of hundred metres ahead. Too damn big and straight to be a snake basking in the sun. Hazel, in conversation with one of her grandkids on the mobile, noticed it too. ‘Gotta go now, sweetie. Love to mummy.’
‘Shit,’ Cliff yelled, slamming on the brakes just a touch too late. They were still sliding forward on locked-up wheels when the front end hit the spikes and the tyres disintegrated. The van covered another thirty metres in a haze of smoke, dust and sparks, dragging the spikes under the front wheels, before it finally stopped.
‘Bugger me dead,’ said Cliff, switching off the ignition. Then, ‘You right there, Haze?’
Hazel nodded and unfastened her seatbelt. They climbed out to inspect the shredded tyres and Hazel was the first to notice the men in suits. There were four of them, and three were carrying military-style assault rifles. She coughed and indicated them with a tilt of her head. Cliff whirled round.
‘You stupid pricks have totally rooted my two best tyres!’ he yelled. ‘Who’s going to pay for them? What if you’ve bent the rims, you bastards?’ He strode towards the men. There was a metallic click as someone pulled a bolt back, cocking his weapon. Cliff kept walking. ‘You and your poofy plastic rifles don’t scare me. I fought in Korea. The Short Magazine Lee Enfield – now, that was a real rifle!’
‘Cliff got the Military Medal,’ offered Hazel cheerfully.
The man without a rifle stepped forward, pulling his suit jacket open to reveal a pistol. ‘Where’s Carter?’ he asked.
‘Who the hell is Carter?’ demanded Cliff. ‘And who’s paying for my new tyres?’
They turned at the sound of a whistle. One of the men was standing at the door of the van, holding up a mobile phone. ‘It’s the right phone,’ he yelled. ‘The van’s clean.’
‘Course it’s clean,’ snarled Cliff. ‘Hazel scrubs it out every week. You could eat your tea off Hazel’s floor.’
‘Thanks, darl,’ said Hazel brightly.
‘You’re driving Carter’s van and using his phone,’ Smith said calmly.
‘It’s my van,’ snapped Cliff. ‘Got it with part of my super payout.’
Hazel looked at the men. ‘We found that phone in a rest stop about a hundred k’s back,’ she said. ‘And we’ve had the van since Cliff retired. We’ve got pictures in an album inside.’
‘Van’s got Carter’s plates,’ Smith said.
Cliff and Hazel looked at the licence plate on their van. ‘Never seen that before in my life,’ Cliff said. ‘Some bugger musta done a switch. Who gives a rat’s anyway? It’s my van. And what are you going to do about these tyres?’
‘Screw your tyres, Grandad,’ Smith said dismissively.
Hazel walked up to them. ‘Now, I think we’d better calm down before someone gets hurt,’ she said soothingly.
Smith ignored Hazel, talking over her head to Cliff. ‘You should really listen to your old lady, Pops.’
Hazel positioned herself directly in front of Smith. ‘I was actually talking to you, shit-for-brains,’ she said.
Smith suddenly stiffened, inhaled sharply and looked down. Hazel’s right hand was between his legs. His mouth gaped open, his face reddened, and he began breathing in short gasps. Hazel leaned in close to his face.
‘Now, we want a tow truck, money for new wheels and tyres, and a night in a nice motel to get over our trauma,’ she said. ‘Or I can squeeze harder. You choose.’
Smith winced, coughed and gasped all at the same time.
At that moment a large tour bus appeared over the crest of the hill and the road spikes and automatic weapons magically disappeared. From somewhere off behind a sand dune came the sound of a helicopter starting up. The bus pulled up with a loud hiss of air brakes and the door slid open.
Smith reluctantly pulled his wallet from a back pocket and pushed a wad of notes into Hazel’s free hand. She smiled and released her grip. His sigh of relief was short-lived as her knee connected with his already traumatised testicles. He went down hard.
‘It’s not nice to frighten vulnerable old pensioners and war veterans,’ Hazel said as she counted the money.
Cliff, the tour bus driver and a group of elderly men were standing around looking at the van’s front end. Hazel surreptitiously showed Cliff the cash. He was impressed.
‘When we add that to the ten grand we found in the fridge this morning, we’re doing all right, old girl,’ he whispered.
*
‘You swapped licence plates with Cliff and Hazel?’ Martin asked in amazement.
Faith pulled a small electric screwdriver from the glove compartment and pressed the start button. It whirred. ‘Not a straight swap, of course,’ she said, ‘that would be pointless. Our plates on their van, their plates on Red’s ute, and his plates on our van.’
Martin glanced at her. ‘Red?’
‘The unconscious electrician from Taree. I didn’t think he’d mind after what we paid him for the party lights. Every little bit of confusion helps.’
‘I’m beginning to see that,’ he said. ‘I think.’
They were heading through greener bush and down towards the coast, a route Faith had suggested since Hazel and Cliff were taking an inland road. They had left the pub just a little after Cliff and Hazel, not having done much drinking at the party. Around nine, they pulled into a truck stop to refuel and have breakfast, although after last night’s feast they didn’t feel much like eating.
‘That lamb of Shari’s was really fantastic,’ Faith said. ‘I’m still stuffed. And those Afghan boys can certainly put it away.’
‘Fred told me that since it was certified halal, it’s kosher for them,’ Martin said, taking a seat at a laminex-topped table.
Faith gave him a bemused look.
‘I don’t think that came out right, did it?’ he asked.
‘A magnificently mangled metaphor, Martin,’ she laughed. ‘Now, how about trying to flag down a waitress while I’m in the loo.’ She glanced towards the counter. ‘Mine’s a cappuccino and raisin toast, thanks.’
Martin waved to get the waitress’s attention, and when Faith returned, the table held two plates of raisin toast, a cup of tea and a cappuccino.
‘Tea, Martin?’ Faith asked. ‘And not even attempting the artery-clogging breakfast special?’
‘I saw it passing – a steak, eggs, tomato, chops and chips combo – but it just didn’t seem to have that magic glow about it.’
‘Jeez,’ she muttered, ‘every second middle-aged bloke in this country is living out a fantasy of the Great Roadhouse Breakfasts of their youth. You just have to say the word breakfast and they all start whining like a ute with a rooted diff.’
‘Steady on, Faith,’ Martin said in mock outrage.
‘The great Aussie roadhouse breakfast is a myth, Martin,’ she went on. ‘When you were a kid you went on a holiday trip to the hills or to visit your Uncle Jim’s farm and stopped in some country cafe and had the most fantastic breakfast of your life. But it was just greasy bacon and eggs. It was a treat because it was so different from the Vita-Brits with warm milk and the toast and Vegemite your mum made, you thought you were in heaven. But it was just breakfast on the road. Get over it.’
She took a sip of her coffee and suddenly spluttered and gagged.
Martin laughed, his face full of mischief. ‘I watched them make it while you were in the loo,’ he said. ‘They use one of those frill-free supermarket instant coffees. Flavour-free too, from your reaction.’
Faith looked at the big red espresso machine taking up a large part of the counter. ‘But that’s a La Pavoni! And I heard the pump running.’
‘They just froth the milk with it,’ Martin chuckled. ‘I think the giveaway was probably when the waitress said, Here’s your wife’s cup of chino.’
Faith grimaced, wiping her lips on a paper napkin.
‘Not quite the cup of coffee of your youth then, Faith?’ Martin smirked.
She smiled sweetly. ‘Fuck you, Martin Carter.’
‘I think that might be very nice, Faith,’ he smiled back, holding her gaze.
She looked into his eyes for a long time. ‘Indeed it might, Martin,’ she said evenly.
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