But still Wild made no move.
Don’t make me shoot you.
Wild faced him. He breathed heavily. In the half-light, his face was a cliff of hollows and ridges. Wild blinked and ran a hand through his wayward fringe. He looked down. Let’s not go through this again, he said. He sounded afraid, but didn’t make a move.
Lee sat up to relieve the pressure on his wound, which had begun to throb. Please. Can we keep going? He paused. Please.
Wild scratched his neck and turned away. He appeared not to be even looking at the other car, but at nothing really, just staring straight ahead at God knows what. Something twitched in his jaw, some muscle working away beneath the skin as if attempting to surface. There was a sharp pop of exploding glass from the crashed car.
Lee jammed his gun into Wild’s side, but it drew no response and Lee wondered if Wild had even felt it through his huge overcoat. He made another movement with the gun but again it elicited nothing.
Then, unbelievably, Wild grabbed his bag, got out of the car and walked across to the wrecked car. Just walked right over to the car.
Lee remained where he was. Fuck, he said under his breath. Fucking Wild. He shivered and tried to curl himself into some position of warmth, to no avail.
After a minute, he too stumbled from the car and followed, the gun still in his hand. Whatever pipe or valve was hissing, it began hissing even more as Lee approached, as if aware of him. His breath fogged in front of his face and he had the sensation of stepping into a dream.
Wild banged on the passenger-side window with the heel of his palm and might even have said something, some sort of doctor-style reassurance, but the woman’s head just jounced against the glass. A smear of bloody drool bubbled near her broken lip and smashed teeth.
Through the rear window, Lee could see the driver slumped against the steering wheel. Wild walked around to the open driver’s-side door. There was a smell of hot metal and singed plastic, the aroma of the machine age, of chaos and organisation. It was also, Lee knew, the smell of loss.
Lee looked around. His breathing was loud. The wreck’s windscreen sagged with a damp crackle. He heard a low growl and remembered the dogs accompanying the couple when they left the motel. He stepped away, expecting them to leap from the wreckage, but the back seat of the car was empty. There was no sign of them. They had been killed or had run off into the forest. He imagined them bounding through the darkness with rolling eyes and pink tongues and wondered what would become of the poor things.
He wanted to get away from here. If he knew how, he could take Wild’s car and drive off into the night. Or just set out walking into the woods, into the forest, into the darkness? Keep going until something happened, until he fell into a fucking hole or off a cliff or something. Anything would be better than standing on a country road in the middle of a cold, cold night. Instead he shuffled over to where Wild was leaning over the driver’s-side door.
Again the low, strangled growl and the driver sat back in his seat. The man sighed deeply, unbuckled himself and stepped from the car with the demeanour of one who has recently completed an arduous journey. His face shone with blood and there was a deep horizontal wound along his forehead that bore the crenellated imprint of a steering wheel. The man swayed, and spat blood and matter from his broken mouth.
Lee’s heart scrabbled in his chest. He felt sweat beneath his armpits, the itch of perspiration on his neck. He wanted to shit or sob, as if his entire body were attempting to abandon itself.
The car continued to emit high-pitched squawks of regret and sputterings of mechanical distress. Wild dropped his bag onto the ground and placed his hands on the driver’s chest. Around them, beyond the penumbra of the headlights, the world dissolved into darkness. Lee licked his dry lips. His wound was sticky and painful beneath the bandages. This was bad. This was really fucking bad. The worst. Meanwhile, Wild was restraining the driver, saying: Wait. Hold it. You’ve been in an accident. Let’s wait a minute.
But the driver peered over Wild’s shoulder at Lee. A fringe of dark hair fell across his eyes, partly covering his wound. The driver stuck out his bottom jaw and then retracted it several times, as if testing the hinge. Then he appeared to finally notice Wild. He opened and closed his mouth. A ragged whisper: That was, uh . . . That was. What was that? Who are you, anyway? We were just . . .
The driver’s wound was bleeding freely now and he wiped at it with both hands. His forehead was already bruised and swollen, the skin the colour of thunderclouds. Blood flooded his eyes. Wild continued to reassure the man, patting his chest with his palms, but the man brushed past Wild and shuffled towards Lee.
Resisting an urge to flee, Lee waited until the driver stood directly in front of him. He wanted to raise his gun, but instead held it against his thigh. He and the stranger watched each other, exchanging foggy breath.
The man inspected Lee as one might a newly discovered relative, as if he held an ancestral clue. You, the man said, and he emitted a belch and began to fold at the waist in a slow, architectural collapse. You again. And the driver coughed, exhaling a spray of blood and teeth before dropping to his knees.
Despite himself, Lee caught the man by the shoulder. The man was looking down at the ground, at the wet grass, moving inwards, breathing with effort. He was unshaven. His groans were weighty, crammed with sorrow. After a minute he stared Lee in the face. Lee could smell his breath, already growing cool.
You’ve killed me, the man said at last, crying now, adding tears to the wreckage of his face. You’ve killed us. And Lee and the man stayed like that for several long moments, a meeting of sorts, on a cold and lonely road. He wished that Wild would take this man away, but he just stood there. Lee knew there were many ways to die. The tarot of agonies. Regicide, fratricide, parricide, infanticide. Death by water or flame, by hanging and burial. Gunshot wounds. The random beating on a city street. In jail he met a man who had ground a broken bottle into a stranger’s guts because he spilled his drink in a crowded bar. The unchecked bolt of an aeroplane wing springs free and slips thirty thousand feet into the ocean.
And, of course, of course, a man loses control of a car and slams into a tree in the middle of the night. Accidents and murder, disease and terror. The frailty of human beings, these sacks of blood and gristle. How was it possible to live to a ripe old age?
Lee might have known this, but he stared into the bloodied face of a dying stranger and something within him broke clear and fell away. What are you talking about? What are you talking about? We just got here. You crashed into the tree. It’s not my fault—
You’ve blood on you, the man said. And then his gaze grew watery and began to drain away.
Lee could think of nothing to say. He was struck by the man’s phrasing. You’ve blood on you. The precision. An unfamiliar flavour stained his mouth. He swallowed and nodded. Then at last in a dry voice: Yes, I’ve got blood on me.
You’re hurt. But it will be alright. And the driver became even heavier, crumpled from Lee’s flimsy grasp and slumped to the ground.
Lee gasped. He wiped his hand, the one that had touched the stranger, and stepped back.
Finally, Wild approached and kneeled in the gravel beside the driver. From a safe distance, Lee watched him prise the man’s eyelids apart and shine a little torch into his eyes, all the while muttering to himself like a priest.
OK. What we do now is . . . What we do is, uh . . . And Wild fiddled about in his bag. But he didn’t really seem to know what he was doing.
Lee moved his palm across the heads of the overgrown grass beside the road. The sensation was slight, but pleasant, like being tickled by insects. He licked the dew from his skin. It was soft and tasted, or so he imagined, of clouds.
Shaking his head, Wild stood and wiped his hands on his overcoat. Jesus Christ. This is terrible. Just terrible. What a thing to happen. He scratched furiously at his thin beard. Bloody terrible.
Lee looked down at the man beside the road, whose he
ad was thrown back at an awkward angle and whose blood was leaking out and pooling on the ground. The grass had been flattened where Wild had been squatting but was now already springing back to its original height. In an hour or so it would be as if they were never here. Again he wished they had not stopped. They should never have come this way. It was Wild’s fault. Can’t you do something?
Do what?
I don’t know. Help him. You’re the doctor. You wanted to stop here, remember?
Wild sighed. It’s too late. They’re dead.
Both of them?
Yes. We’re too late.
What about the woman? Maybe you can help the woman. Help the woman, at least.
Wild shook his head.
Lee knew he sounded frantic and wanted to say something, but instead looked away. Moths and other insects flickered through the column of light in front of the ruined car. A breeze stirred the leaves of unseen trees. Otherwise, the silence was immense, a solid thing bearing down upon them. And still the foreign taste upon his tongue, like metal filings. Perhaps it was panic, he thought, and spat clumsily into the darkness. The flavour of panic or despair.
What was he saying to you? Wild said. Did you know him?
No. No.
He seemed to recognise you.
Lee shook his head quickly. No. Don’t know. Guy was dying. Dying people will say anything. Maybe he recognised me from the motel. Lee paused. I saw them leave that place this afternoon, a few hours ago. With their dogs. They left with their dogs on the back seat.
Wild nodded, although he didn’t appear convinced.
What about the dogs? Lee asked, to change the subject.
What?
Their dogs? They had dogs in the car. When they drove away today from the motel. Maybe we should do something? What will happen to them?
Wild shrugged and rubbed his nose. Who knows? They probably ran off into the forest. They’ll be OK.
Really? They’ll be OK?
Maybe. Yeah. They’ll eat possums or something. Go feral. How many dogs?
Three, I think.
They stood in silence. Although he tried not to look at the dead man, Lee was aware of a dark shape at the periphery of his vision. He began to shiver. He needed clean, warm clothes and went to the open boot of the crashed car. It smelled of motor oil and mildew. Tools were scattered about, along with a dark-blue travel bag. The car-boot light was buttery and he was aware of Wild’s questioning gaze behind him as he unzipped the travel bag and checked the contents. Sure enough, there was what appeared to be a weekend’s worth of clothes and toiletries. He pocketed his gun and dragged the bag free with a grunt.
Then Wild was behind him. What are you doing? You can’t just take that bag. I don’t think this is a great idea, I really don’t.
Lee gestured to his t-shirt and jeans, both patterned with dark smears of blood. I need some clothes.
They stood face-to-face in the middle of the empty road. Lee became aware of a small burring sound. It grew steadily louder. They stared at each other. Wild’s face glowed like a coin in the gloom. His blue eyes widened.
Lee sensed a now-familiar panic swelling inside him. Shit, he said and his breath hovered on the air. He looked at Wild, wanting him to realise that this was all his fault.
It was the sound of an approaching car.
8
The car drew closer. Lee looked back the way they had come. He hugged his leather coat tighter around himself and the pain of his wound throbbed through him. There wasn’t enough time to get back into the car and leave. Fucking Wild. Trapped. They stepped off the road. Lee held his gun out of sight against his thigh.
The first thing he saw was the searching beam of headlights throwing the trees beside the road into sharp relief. Then the car came around the bend, as they had done ten minutes earlier. A roar and a blast of light. Unable to raise his arm to shield his eyes, he turned his face away.
The car skidded and slowed, coming to a halt on the shoulder of the road. Dust billowed and there was the warm, underwater sound of music. The music was switched off after a few seconds, followed by the engine. Again the dense, forest silence was interrupted only by the twitterings and sighs of a cooling engine. Lee stroked his gun with his thumb. He waited.
Eventually the sound of a car door opening. Shoes crunched on gravel, some indistinct muttering. Little, human sounds. Lee peered into the fierce light, but could make out nothing through the glare. He was aware of the dead man on the ground beside him.
Are you OK? A young woman’s voice, followed by the sound of the other car door opening. More shoes crackling on the gravel.
Lee flinched as Wild stepped forward with an arm raised against the light and indicated the car behind them. There’s been an accident, he was saying.
Two shapes emerged from the light. A man and a woman. They were young and eager, like deer. Jeans and baggy hair. University students. At least it wasn’t the police. The woman squinted at Wild, then slowly across to Lee, with a kind of intense inspection. Lee watched her gaze move through the darkness and sensed her trying to understand the scene.
She mouthed something, then gasped and held a hand to her red mouth. Oh my God!
Then the boyfriend was beside her, grabbing at her arm. Shit. What happened here?
Before Lee could say or do anything, Wild explained how they had just arrived and that he was a doctor but there was nothing he could do, so they might as well keep driving while he and Lee waited for the police. It sounded plausible. It was even sort of true. Wild made shooing motions with his hands.
The couple observed the dead man with tight faces, curious and appalled. Lee nodded as Wild told the story but he began to feel faint, insubstantial. All this death, he thought. All this death.
The girl frowned. She broke away from her boyfriend and approached Lee. But are you OK? Were you in the crash too? She was looking down to where Lee was clutching his coat around him with one bloody hand. Did you crash?
Lee was inexplicably moved by the girl’s concern and would have liked to squat by the road for a minute until satisfied everything was finished here, that it was all over, but he just said in a small voice: I’m fine.
Wild moved forward again. Lee watched several stray hairs waving about from the side of his head. They glowed in the white beam of the car headlights.
We just got here ourselves, Wild was saying. The car spun off the road, but there’s nothing we can do now. The people have . . . passed away. We’ll tell someone in the next town. We’ll tell the cop—the police, I mean. We’ll tell the police. Don’t worry.
The boy nodded, but the girl walked over and kneeled beside the dead man with a hand still clasped over her mouth. Although several feet away, Lee could smell the apple scent of her shampoo and feel the warmth of her body. He tried not to look at her.
Wait a minute, the boy said. What’s going on here? You’re not going through their stuff, are you? Why is the boot open? What’s that bag there?
The girl stiffened and turned on her heel. Lee swore softly and was possessed of the now-familiar sensation of things sliding out of control. In a gesture he began to regret even as it was happening, he strode forward and put the barrel of the gun to the girl’s head. I told you. I said we’d be OK.
Wild groaned. The girl appeared not to realise what was happening for a second, then let out a low moan. Her friend took one step forward with his mouth open. The girl attempted to stand but then lowered herself into a half-crouch with her head retracted into her shoulders, as if trying to disappear. Her hands were waving about in front of her, appealing to the darkness.
Lee observed all this from somewhere outside himself. The whole thing, he thought, was just like another car accident: that slowing of time and thick liquidity of action before impact. You know it’s coming, and yet it’s always a surprise. He felt enormous, inflated, a giant astride this puny road. He imagined he would be able, should he try, to observe each leaf on every tree for miles around, to smell woo
d smoke from ancient fires and to hear, beneath the breeze and this girl’s dry wail and the thuddering of his own heart, the sound of a witchetty grub chewing at a leaf, the very snicker of its tiny jaws.
Then Wild was flailing about in the middle of the road. Lee, he was saying. Whoa. Whoa. What are you doing? This is crazy. He walked backwards, hands up in some gesture to inform the boy to back off, until he stood beside Lee. The girl was sobbing and making tiny, inarticulate sounds. Her body trembled. Lee, Wild said softly. Don’t do this. This is stupid. Really stupid. He stepped closer. Think about it. We’ll have cops all over us.
Lee watched Wild’s mouth opening and closing. Why was it, he wondered, that men’s beards change colour and tended to be darker around the mouth? Like a nicotine stain, even on people like Wild, who didn’t smoke?
The boy just stood there with his mouth open. He had placed one hand palm-down on his head, as if preparing to screw himself into the earth. His face shone with tears.
Wild continued to plead with Lee. Come on. Come on. This isn’t the right thing to do. Please. Lee?
Then the girl turned her head slightly, just enough for Lee to see her luminous face. Her skin was stretched tight across her skull and she looked up at him through wet lashes. Blue eyes. Please, she murmured. Please, mister. Have mercy. Please don’t shoot me. Please don’t kill me. I’ll do anything. Please.
Lee stared down at the girl. He could hear Wild’s breathing at his other shoulder. His leather coat creaked and again he felt like weeping, unsure whether for himself or the girl. Why?
Please, the girl went on, her voice growing in volume and pitch as if suddenly certain this approach was the key to her survival. Please. Please.
Why? Why did you have to stop? Why did you even come this way? This is an old road, not even the highway. This is nothing, not even scenic. A piece-of-shit road. Look what you’re making me do. Look at me! We told you to go away.
The boy spoke up. We were going home.
The Low Road Page 5