The Devil's Highway

by Gregory Norminton

Im at C camp

  heading home.

  Xx

  Given how slowly her father texts – brow furrowed, thumb hesitating over the display – the reply is swift:

  MEET ME AT STAR POINT.

  ON MY WAY.

  Bobbie rereads the text. Maybe he just fancies a walk. She shrugs the rucksack more comfortably on her shoulders and sets off to the rendezvous.

  Her father is waiting for her where all the tracks of the forest, like spokes in a wheel, converge. He is in full adventurer mode, binoculars knocking against his chest as he rushes to meet her.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing,’ he shouts, ‘disappearing like that? Bobbie! I had no idea where you were.’

  ‘I took my phone.’

  ‘Out here there’s hardly any signal, you know that. You should at least have left a note. Do you hear me? You’re a child, I’m responsible for you. How am I supposed to protect you if you just wander off like that?’

  ‘You’d gone out!’

  ‘That’s beside the point. Look, don’t … Roberta, I’m not scolding you. I just freaked out, OK?’

  If he tries to hug her, she’ll hit him.

  ‘Listen,’ he says. ‘I got a call from Mike, the forest ranger. There’ve been two attempted heath fires near Crowthorne and reports of youths on motorbikes.’

  ‘I’ve not seen a thing.’

  ‘Well, that’s good. Now let me walk you home.’

  ‘You didn’t come out here to find me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You came out to spy on the heath.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Be a have-a-go hero.’

  ‘I came out because I guessed where you’d be.’

  ‘So if you guessed, why did you freak out when I wasn’t at home?’

  ‘Don’t interrogate me, Roberta.’

  ‘Let’s just go, shall we? Since I need protection.’

  His jaw tightens. ‘Oh, you have your mother’s talent for turning the tables.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’m not prepared to argue with you.’

  ‘I don’t think you could.’

  ‘You have a serious attitude problem, young lady.’

  ‘Whose fault would that be?’

  Her father turns and walks down one of the firebreaks. Bobbie, in sorrow and rage, watches him go, till the growing distance between them tugs her after him.

  As they walk, he watches the trees on either side of the track. His pace is too quick for her – she’s tired, for heaven’s sake.

  They have gone half a mile when they hear the engines. Bikers coming on fast. Her father looks back towards Star Point and there they are, three of them, hurtling down the firebreak. Of all the paths available, they chose this one.

  Bobbie tugs her father’s sleeve.

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘Dad!’

  The front rider wears black leathers with a blue helmet. When her father holds out his arm, the biker stops and puts a boot to the ground.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘You are biking illegally on protected land.’

  The second and third bikers stop. They lift their visors. Teenagers.

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Under the Highways Act of 1980 –’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘– it is an offence to ride motorbikes on common land. Moreover, this is a Site of Special Scientific Interest.’

  The bikers look at her father. One stares at Bobbie till she cannot bear to look back.

  The front biker revs his engine and the air turns grey and foul.

  ‘You’re breaking the law!’

  ‘Why don’t you fuck off out of it? It’s not your land, is it?’

  ‘I’m telling you what the law says.’

  ‘Are you a police officer?’

  ‘No, but I can summon one.’

  ‘Go on then. Go on, wanker.’

  The teenagers rev. They circle Bobbie and her father. He stands his ground, tapping the screen of his mobile. The biker with the blue helmet comes very close. Bobbie feels the wind of him as he passes.

  Her father lurches like a striker reaching for a header. He drops to one knee, holding the back of his head.

  ‘Daddy!’

  The bikers roar up the firebreak towards the Devil’s Highway.

  ‘Daddy!’

  He puts a hand to the ground to steady himself. ‘Stop clawing at me, for Christ’s sake.’

  Bobbie steps away. Her right knee is trembling. She sinks her mind into it to make it stop.

  ‘Give me my phone.’ Her father rests his hands on his thighs. ‘I’ll be all right in a moment.’

  Bobbie picks up his phone and sleeve-wipes the dusty screen. ‘No bars.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be. I was trying to intimidate them.’

  He gets up slowly. Bobbie hands him the phone and he meets her gaze as he takes it.

  ‘Don’t worry about me.’

  ‘OK,’ says Bobbie, but her eyes are stinging, she’s letting him down but she can’t help it.

  ‘… the back of my skull is harder than that boy’s fist.’ He puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She feels his grip tighten.

  The bikers are coming back. Their engines fart in the distance.

  He grabs Bobbie’s arm and pulls her into the pines. ‘Down,’ he says and bundles her into a shallow trench. He presses on her head as the bikers roar past. They whoop and holler. Her father peers out but Bobbie cannot lift her head because he is pressing on it with his elbow.

  The noise subsides.

  ‘Are they after us? Why’d they come back?’

  ‘We’re going to have to stay put for a while.’

  She begins to snivel and wipes her face with her sleeve.

  Twice more the bikers ride past, as if on patrol. Bobbie and her father improve on their hiding place with a mass of rhododendron. They hide for half an hour, till Bobbie has to pee, squatting in the green stems, her spray fizzing into the soil.

  When her father thinks it’s safe, they cut through the pines and make for home. They move fast and, by Surrey Hill, Bobbie is out of breath. Even when she complains of a stitch, he says nothing, and this frightens her more than anything.

  Safely home, they drink tap water at the sink.

  ‘You need a shower,’ Dad says. ‘I have phone calls to make – I’m going to be in the study all evening. You can look after yourself, can’t you? Watch some television.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And don’t worry. About what happened. It won’t happen again, I promise.’

  ‘I won’t tell Mum.’

  Her father bites his lower lip. He seems to haul his words up from a great depth. ‘I’d appreciate that.’

  Hours later, when she is in bed, Bobbie senses or dreams that he is looking in on her, watching silently from behind the bedroom door.

  12

  The Heave

  What now?

  Im thinkin.

  What now Malk? Becca turn on Aban who hold the guidin stick. You say this track take us all the way to West Cunny. You tell us.

  Becca, say Rona, cool it.

  Malk and Aban have done their best, say Dowd. They led us this far.

  An wheres that then? Wheres this stinky place?

  All look bout an no thinks clear on the question. Davys Way just peter out. Stop in midst of driftin sand like the lost end of a dream. Elseways every turn nuthin but heave. Loomin over us, a mile of redwoods big like only the Fast Time make em. Aban look at the scorchy trunks, the high branches like dry bones. Still signs of life, more dark rags than boughs an crowns all weird an lightnin struck. He stroll to the nearest an sink his nails in the bark. The trunks wider than a hut, wider than a hunnerd yewkas all bound together. Aban go closer. Find hes pressin his face gainst the bark. His arms wide bout the trunk. Behind him Beccas rantin like she gone looper, Aban rest his cheek gainst the redwood, breathe in its smell, this livin
link with all thats gone. Like touchin it might send tree thinks deep into his brain.

  Aban. Oi!

  He turn blinkin. Malks pointin, his face all rage, at the guidin stick. Abans put it down. He put it down like it dont need holdin always. Fuck, he say an grab it up. Grab it up an feel for the guidin in it. Like it could be gone. Seep out cos he let it drop.

  Nathins stridin up to him. Aban tremble an hold out the guidin stick, lookin at Nathin Malk Efia. Leastways his forgettin shush Becca. She gape at him like he just piss him an all look to Malk for his say an he say to Nathin, Take it off him.

  I forget, say Aban. The shame in him like a knife. The walls of his heart cut by Malks anger. His bro. His bestest from way back. Hiccups shake Aban like hes gonna weep but he nod cos all gree an Nathin get the guidin stick.

  Wheres it brung us, say Rona.

  Nathin stare at the guidin stick like hes waitin for an answer. It come from Efia.

  Look she say. Over there.

  All follow her pointin past the redwoods. South an west in amid yewkas a darker stain of green. A stand of palms an willows. A waterin place? Wells an fresh water?

  Yeah but, say Becca. Could be trollers an juntamen.

  Could be, say Efia. Best chance it tho. Least its someplace what an this way all block up.

  So the group change course for the southways waterin. Aban trailin behind huggin his shame. Nathin turnin the guidin stick where Malk tell him to.

  At first sound of folk we scamp into hidin. Only these folk carry no sharpsticks nor akays. Kiddies with sacks an barrows. Women carryin babies on they hips. Blokes pushin carts or draggin goats.

  Hoofers, whisper Nathin.

  Na, say Malk. No lifestock or weapons.

  Who then?

  Lets ask, say Efia but Rona Becca pull her back. Keep down, say Malk, an with branches screenin us we follow the strangers to see where they headin. Turn out its the green of willows an rushes. Smoke coilin up from cookin fires. Stink of bog grip our noses an we see folk bendin then straightin up with pots sloshin. Water comin from a brown rotty swamp. A foul place draggin trees an crits into it.

  Watch yer step, say Malk. Dont wanna sink in there.

  The women once they pots full lead us out on a stretch of sand that go to the ruins of a red brick manshun. Whole complex of manshuns. More redwoods in rows marchin up from the swamp. The trunks blast by fire an black as charcoal but high up still some branches leafin. Down at the roots folk everyway. Cookin fires an rough shelters made of sticks an cover with palm fronds an sackin. The lot like some angry wind just blow it here. Dozens to each hut. Old blokes, women, little kiddies. Huddlin under the redwoods. Eatin up every scrap of shade.

  Efia wait!

  Shes in the open, walkin to the huts. Whats to be fraid of, say Efia. Come on.

  Aban only then Dowd follow. Malk Nathin Becca Rona watch. Keepin low to see what happen.

  Up the redwood track Efia Aban Dowd keep they heads down. Talismans everyway on sticks in the ground. Heads of birds, grass dolls, strips of lizard skin. See-see boxes from the Fast Time rusty on crumblin walls. Under the gate a small crowds kneelin. A tall shaved bloke in white robes stand in the middle. Praise be the Law, he say an the kneelers say, Praise be. Fear the Law yer god who see us an watch us even in our secret places. Nights no hidin place nor under any roof. Thru nights blindness the Law pierce an thru that roof under that blanket even into yer heart he look an bring judgement on you.

  A stranger scamp past an Aban win him back. A bad-smellin bloke, he hold a skinned coon thats drippin blood an flies. Wassup, say Aban. That bloke there –

  The coon man take our looks walk then snatch back his eyes. Jellico man, he say.

  A what?

  Lots of em bout these days. Where theres poor folk run from they homes the Jellicos aint far behind. Its like they got a nose for it. Like kites an crows. Where death go they follow.

  Who are all these people, say Dowd.

  Why, say the coon bloke. Where you from an all with yer ouster talk?

  Hes cool, say Aban. Hes our mate.

  Lotsa robbers got mates. The coon bloke shake a dust of flies off his meat. Come from all over, he say to Efia. Crowstorm. Fansted Riches.

  Is there fightin, say Dowd.

  Aint there always when the rains fail? Now scuse me I got mouths to feed.

  Wait, say Efia. The Jellico man, can he help us?

  The coon bloke think on this but look at Dowd all sneery. Preachers all native, he say, only care for stedders. No ouster blood in em see. No polushun.

  Dowd turn from Efias look an watch the small crowd prayin. The Law mans swayin now, his face red, his arms liftin up to the arches.

  Every way you look, the Jellicos sayin, an every place you go its loyal folk suffer. Its christun folk like you an me. Every way the false gods marchin. Ousters an they demon prophet. Hoofers an they black magic. An now this Momma our girls talk about. What Momma? I ask. What demon bitch livin in the mud an forests? Aint no true gods I say just idols. Idols an lies. But they kill us good folk. They bring the Laws rage on us. Thunder an drought an sandstorm. Pox an blight an locusts. All you suffer an yer kin. Till we ask the Law to spare us as worship. Not the prophet. Not Momma with her milky dugs. The Law our Father. The Law our maker an our breaker. Turn away oh turn away yer anger from us! Fix it on our enemies that want us dead! Cut they roots an ring they bark so the tree of they people die. Dam up the rivers of they women. Smash they children like eggs on the ground. Heap they slaves like grass an set em aflame.

  Best be off, say Efia. She take Abans hand an feel the stone hes carryin. That carvin flint.

  Spread yer curses on they heads. Bring em pox an river blindness.

  Go slow, say Dowd. Dont look rushed.

  Let the wind strew they ashes in the ditch of forgettin.

  Efia, say Aban.

  Let beasts tramp they dust in the ground.

  Efia Im sorry.

  Let no sign remain of they stay on this earth.

  Bout the guidin stick.

  Let it go, say Efia. It dont matter alls forgot.

  Thru the redwood camp an its silent people. Hungry dull eyes under fronds an trash. To the shelter where the others waitin.

  No good, say Efia. Theres fightin hereabouts an folks scapin it. This aint no safe place.

  On then, say Nathin who hold the guidin stick. If fightins come we best be off before the ways flood.

  How, say Becca. Davys Way take us no place it just fizz out.

  The roads, say Dowd. We follow the big roads.

  With juntamen all over em?

  I say follow. Not travel on.

  No good, say Aban. First time he speak to all since he forget the guidin stick. Thats no good as a plan Malk. Look we trust to the suns settin. Westways innit? So we track it an keep outsight. Cos stedders wont treat us gentle.

  Nor juntamen, say Becca.

  Well an we cant stay here. Heave it is or might as well hand us over at the nearest sted.

  Nathin look hot at Aban, his teeth showin. Malks eyes shut like hes lookin under his lids for a better plan. He find nuthin an tell all to gree. Only Nathin shake his head till Malk say, You too.

  No, say Nathin. Dont trust him.

  Then don’t, say Efia. Dont trust Aban nor Dowd nor me. Cos we aint got no other way.

  He aint fit to hold the stick.

  Then I wont, say Aban. I wont hold it no more.

  Nathin think on this. He look at Becca Rona Malk. Look at the guidin stick in his hand. Rightyer he say.

  So the group enter the heave for the last time.

  First bloke we meet next days not the talky kind. He grin at us tho like he know sumthin we dont. His stretchy-out arms dont greet us cos they tied to stakes in the sand.

  Malk kneel next to the corse. Tho rot to bone, clothes at the ankles might hold loot. Malk poke bout in em with a stick an dig out a skin hat. Group watch him shake out the sand. Sniff it. Try it on. Good enuf, he say, for cold night
s.

  Wont he mind, say Becca lookin fraid at the skull.

  Na, say Rona. He dont need it now.

  But the bone curse –

  What bone curse, Malk say an he raise the guidin stick that live now only in his an Nathins hands.

  Slow we walk where we reckons west. Slings an sharpsticks ready, watchin the heave for danger.

  What, say Malk. You. Dowd. Whats yer eyes for?

  Dowd say, Sorry?

  Look at me like I stink.

  I dont.

  Give me bad eye cos I take what he dont need?

  You did right, say Dowd fallin back like hes fraid Malk might hurt him.

  Rightyer. Bad for you I get there first.

  You are welcome to the hat.

  Aint for you to give ouster boy.

  Dowd keep out Malks way after this. Drop back down the group to its footprints in the sand. Only Efia meet him with a smile but Dowd dont smile back.

  Come dusk an the heat less we come cross a hut in the sand. Malk make the shufty click with his tongue an we all drop. Faces low, watchin the hut. Dust risin up behind the thatch. Into sight a bloke come. A boy follow with his hands full of stuff.

  Lets go round em, say Aban to Malk. Malk say, Watch first.

  We study the bloke an the boy with our sharpsticks close an growlin guts. Bloke all scuzzy an his beard like crits could live in it. Strong tho, his arms like yewka trunks an hands ropey an black with use. Like his boy the bloke turn all his strength to a knot of broom, usin it to sweep the flinty ground of deadwood an brush. Nathin say, Theys looper but Aban shush him.

  I seen hoofers do it, he say. Preparin campment. Clear ground of spidies. Snake tracks ul show in the sand.

  Whos the boy, say Rona.

  Slave. Ho. Maybe his son.

  Maybe his slave ho son all one, say Nathin. Loners like that often peedo.

  Peedo or not we need grub. Upyer, say Malk, lets get em.

  Boy see the group first an give a yelp of fear but the bloke hardly lift his head, he just keep on sweepin. Malk Nathin up first an still the bloke dont seem to mind. Malk Nathin stand waitin for him to turn or pay heed of our silly-feelin sharpsticks. Without lookin up the bloke say, Found the bone man did you? Say hey to him? Hope you dint ask him the way cos he wont remember.

  Who done the killin, say Malk.