The guy was perusing the shelves. The girl was waiting, hands on hips and an expectant, impatient look on her face.
Frank stood. Hands in his pockets, he walked past them, taking his time. The guy didn’t look at him once. The girl watched Frank move for the front entrance. He opened the screen door and stepped out into the heat. The sun was high and the sky was the kind of bright blue that would be pretty if the heat didn’t make you feel like you were in a sauna that couldn’t be escaped.
As he’d expected, the handle of the pump’s nozzle was a little stiff. Frank gave it a good squeeze. Petrol spurted. He looked back through the front windows of the roadhouse. The hippies were a little closer to the counter now. Frank replaced the nozzle and cast an eye over their car. There was a half-empty bottle of wine on the passenger seat. He ignored the twinge in his chest as he headed back inside.
‘It’s fine,’ he said, walking through.
The guy jumped. He was a metre or so from the counter now.
‘You sure?’ the girl said. It was hard to tell if she was putting on the confusion or not.
‘A bit stiff is all,’ Frank said, passing the shelves and returning to his spot behind the counter. ‘Anything else I can help you with?’ He resisted the urge to look pointedly at the cash register. No need to invite or imply trouble if it wasn’t going to happen.
The girl gave her partner a withering look. ‘Go work those muscles, babe.’
The guy shook his head and loped back outside. Frank kept his attention on the girl.
‘Anything else I can help with?’ he repeated.
The girl bit her lip. Her voice lowered slightly. ‘Can I get a pack of smokes, please? Menthols, cheapest brand.’
Frank turned and slid open the cabinet behind him. He ran his hand over the plain packets, checking the handwritten prices as he did.
‘Sorry.’ The girl’s voice had taken on a note of urgency. ‘Do you mind hurrying?’
Frank didn’t speed up. He found what looked to be the cheapest brand, took it from the cabinet and dropped it on the counter just as the boyfriend re-entered.
‘As requested,’ Frank said.
‘I thought you quit.’ There was a note of accusation to the guy’s voice.
‘Yeah, um, I lied.’ the girl mumbled as she handed over some cash. ‘Sorry, Charlie. I’m a terrible person and all that.’
Charlie didn’t laugh. ‘They’re bad for you.’
‘I know, but I am cutting down, babe. This’ll be my last pack, I promise.’ She nodded to Frank. ‘You smoke, right? You get it?’
‘Nope,’ Frank said. ‘It’s bad for you. Anything else?’
‘Food would be good, actually,’ Charlie said. ‘Del?’
Together they moved over into the dining area. Frank hoped they weren’t bloody fussy – nothing sourced from a freezer would fit that bill – but he went through the internal door behind the counter and crossed the hall into the kitchen.
‘Is any of it vegetarian?’ the girl – Del? – called over to him.
‘You could try the veggie pie, but I can’t guarantee it.’
Her mouth twitched in what, left alone, could have turned into a laugh. ‘I’ll risk it.’
As instructed, Frank zapped one vegetarian and one beef pie. ‘Been in Australia long?’ he asked, as he delivered the plates to their table.
‘Six months,’ Charlie said.
‘Two years,’ Delilah added. ‘Practically a local.’ Charlie rolled his eyes. ‘I’m Delilah, by the way, and this is Charlie. And you . . . ?’
‘Frank,’ he said as he settled into a nearby table. ‘Dunno what brings you out this way. It’s not like there’s much to see.’
‘I wish I could say we had some deep and meaningful reason,’ Delilah said. ‘But I think Charlie took a wrong turn. Still, it’s cool to explore a bit. See the kinds of places people miss.’
‘Take it from a bloke living in the kind of place people miss,’ Frank said, ‘there’s better stuff to see.’
‘We’ve seen it,’ Charlie said. ‘The Harbour Bridge, the Opera House, Flinders Street Station, the Great Barrier Reef—’
‘Daintree, Nullarbor, Uluru,’ Delilah said. ‘We’ve ticked all the tourist boxes.’
‘Well, you’ve seen more of the good stuff than me,’ Frank said. ‘Dunno why you’re sticking around.’
A creak from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see Allie standing in the doorway behind the counter. Her black hair hung down over her delicate, dark-skinned face. Her brown eyes narrowed as she looked back and forth between him and the couple.
Absurdly, a sudden rush of self-conscious panic hit Frank. The last thing he wanted was strangers’ eyes on him as he tried to be grandfather to somebody who had no interest in him. It wasn’t that he gave a shit what Charlie and Delilah thought; more that he would be happier with them not witnessing the inevitable awkwardness. ‘My granddaughter,’ he said, hoping he sounded appropriately warm. ‘Allie. You here for something to eat, love?’
Allie said nothing. It could be hard to tell whether her silences meant yes or no, but given she had come over from the house, he was inclined to assume this one was a yes. He quickly excused himself and headed into the kitchen. Allie joined him, looking with obvious distaste at what was on offer.
‘I can make you something?’ Frank suggested.
‘What are you reading?’
Frank was confused.
‘The book,’ she said. ‘On the counter.’
‘Oh,’ Frank said. ‘Jaws. Not as good as the movie, but without a DVD player . . .’ He’d meant to make a joke out of that, but wasn’t sure where to take it.
Allie tugged at her sleeve. ‘I didn’t know you liked to read. I was going to get you a book but Mum . . . Anyway, that’s why I got the binoculars.’
Frank blinked, surprised. Not by Allie’s mother’s advice – he could just imagine her smug chuckle at the suggestion of a book – but that Allie had thought to buy him a gift. He’d figured the binoculars were something Nick had made her bring.
‘Well, for next time,’ Frank said. ‘Not that you have to get me anything.’ He almost said something about her visiting being enough, but caught himself, not wanting to sound clunky or forced.
‘I’ll take a burger,’ Allie said. ‘No pickles.’
It didn’t take Frank long to fry up a frozen meat pattie and toast a bun. He added some limp lettuce and watery tomato, and squeezed on a blob of BBQ sauce. He dished the lot up, and Allie carried the plate to the dining area, taking a seat as far away from Charlie and Delilah as possible. She kept her eyes down as she ate. Frank didn’t check to see if the English backpackers had been watching them. He didn’t want to know.
He had just turned his attention back to the kitchen, figuring he might as well have something himself, when he heard it. A shriek of tyres out the front. He looked up as an old station wagon came to a halt near the pumps. It had stopped at an odd angle. The bonnet had just missed the bowser and was now facing the roadhouse.
Frank waited for the car to correct itself. It didn’t.
He walked through the dining area, past the staring Delilah and Charlie. He opened the front screen door, stepped out and put his hands on his hips, waiting.
Seeing the car clearly now, he felt a prickle of unease. It wasn’t just old; it was battered. And . . .
The driver’s door opened. Somebody stumbled out.
She might have been young, not much older than Allie. But it was hard to tell. Stark against the afternoon sky, she didn’t look human. She was coated all over in what he recognised as dried mud and blood. She staggered away from the car. Veered towards him. Her dark eyes, striking in the filth that covered her face and matted her hair, were locked on his.
She opened her mouth as if to speak. She swayed on the spot. And then she fell hard onto the concrete.
CHAPTER TWO
Then
At first, Simon had enjoyed the long highways, passing expansive paddocks populated by
grazing cows and tangled kilometres of arid bush. Mountains lurked in the background, rocky formations jutted jagged from the otherwise flat landscape, and small towns of plain brown buildings arranged around war memorials came and went within minutes of each other. Above it all stretched an endless blue sky and the burning sun tracking slow across it. Every now and then a cloud appeared – the small, fluffy, lazy kind that broke up the blue rather than threatening rain. It was all so beautiful and contrasting: the colour of the sky, the dryness of the land, the sense that this was Australia, the country of tough extremes that had never truly been tamed. He had taken it all in with a satisfied sense of appreciation.
After the first day he had listened to music and audiobooks, then, concerned he was diluting the experience, turned them off and tried to appreciate the landscape again. The problem was that after hours and hours in a hot station wagon with a faulty air conditioner it was hard to feel especially appreciative of anything. Part of him started to worry he had somehow ended up on a circular road, as what he could swear was the same paddock with the same cow passed for what had to be the sixth time. Without company, there was no real distraction from how boring the trip was getting. In the mirror, he looked rough: unshaven, with bags under his eyes and a sheen of sweat on his face. Part of him didn’t mind that: it made him feel more authentic than just an honours student going off on some bullshit trip to find himself. He had tried to explain to his friends back home that this was something more, but that hadn’t stopped the jokes. Nor had it stopped the uncomfortable feeling that maybe the jokes were justified. Looking for experience was a beautiful idea when you were lying on a couch reading Kerouac in your share house; less so when your determination to just follow the road only meant ending up on more road. And when driving was the extent of what you were doing, even the most generous petrol budget started to look naïve. Probably something he should have thought of before setting off on a road trip with more road than worthwhile places to stop.
What he needed was somewhere to stay for a few days, to spend a bit of time, relax, and see the kinds of things that weren’t forthcoming back in Melbourne. Somewhere authentic; not like the few promising little hamlets he’d stopped at only to discover them filled with city people like himself, all looking for an escape but essentially just transplanting their everyday lives a few degrees west. Saving all that money to ‘go see Australia’ felt pretty stupid when the only experiences on offer were small-town versions of the already familiar. He pulled over and consulted his map, an old one he’d picked up at a second-hand shop in Brunswick a few weeks back. He studied it, but it was hard to tell how long this kind of land went on for, and where he might find what he was looking for. If he was reading it right, there should be a town about one hundred kilometres along.
After driving through a satisfying sunset that turned the entire sky into an inferno of blazing pink and orange, he found a roadside strip of shops and houses which, according to a ‘Welcome to Cotham’ sign, constituted a town. He pulled his car over not far from a brightly lit bluestone pub which stood alone on a block of land hemmed in by narrow side streets that had no discernible destination. Simon stepped out onto the road. There was still the barest light of day keeping the sky closer to a velvety blue than black, and he allowed himself a few moments to watch the darkness deepen and the stars come to life. It was hard to be cynical about that.
Making sure his car was locked, he headed into the pub. It was almost empty, but a sign said there was going to be a band that night. That boded well. He greeted the elderly, confused-looking bartender as he took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer, taking it all in. Part of him had expected it to be grimier than this, but the place was well maintained, if old fashioned; carved out of stone, with mahogany booths and a pool table near an empty fireplace. Country music played and the walls were adorned with pictures of men Simon assumed were famous footballers. With a sinking feeling, he realised the pub would not have been out of place in a suburb in Melbourne. But he had to wonder how it could survive in the middle of nowhere. Maybe truckers frequented it. Maybe it was a money-laundering front. Maybe it was a secret biker clubhouse. Maybe he shouldn’t ask the bartender any of this.
By the time he finished his first beer a few more people had wandered in, mostly middle-aged men who shot him curious looks, and about halfway through his second, the band took to the stage. They suited the clientele: all grey beards and flannelette shirts, and they muttered something unenthusiastic before launching into their set.
It struck him as they started to play that he had been hoping for something unexpected from them, some glimpse of the genuine, but no – they were a Celtic band, playing fiddles with impossible speed while a drum kept time and a flute lilted under it. They sounded good, but that was more the pity. They sounded like they belonged to another country. He finished off his second beer and had just ordered a third when the girl walked in.
She caught his eye immediately. Medium height and lean, she had shoulder-length black hair and wide dark eyes to match. Her face was fine-featured, but the set of her jaw and the way her eyes scanned the room gave her a hard edge. She was dressed plainly: shirt, jeans and a large, worn black leather jacket, despite the lingering heat. A small backpack was slung over her shoulder, the strap grasped tight in her right hand. She was extremely pretty and entirely out of place.
A few of the older blokes seemed to have noticed her and, for a panicked couple of seconds, Simon worried he was going to have to step in and be chivalrous, but nobody bothered her as she walked over to the bar and sat on the stool next to him. She asked for a straight vodka and did not look at him as she knocked it back and ordered another.
It occurred to him that he was a bit tipsy. That was pathetic; two pints shouldn’t have had that effect, although dehydration and little more than a muesli bar to eat that day probably hadn’t helped. He sipped at his beer and tried not to look at the girl as the few patrons clapped politely and the band started another song.
‘You like Irish music?’ he asked.
She didn’t look at him. ‘It’s Scottish.’
‘Right. Yeah. So it is.’
She drank. He did the same.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘You probably want to be left alone.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I don’t know. A vibe?’
‘I had no idea I was giving off a vibe.’
‘Only a little.’
‘But enough to say I want to be left alone?’
‘Better safe than sorry.’
She ordered another drink. ‘Can’t argue with that. Although, vibes aside, why would I come to a pub if I wanted to be left alone? I could just be drinking at home.’
‘You could,’ he said, sipping at his beer. Maybe it was the booze or maybe he was just feeling bold. ‘So, why aren’t you? If we can assume I’ve read the vibe right, that is.’ He gave a goofy smile.
She met his gaze now and those eyes made him want to both turn away and look at her forever. ‘I don’t have a home to drink in,’ she said. ‘And I don’t fancy drinking on the street. So, here I am.’
‘You’re homeless?’
‘Yep.’ Her expression did not change.
‘But . . .’ He could feel his face growing hot. ‘But you don’t . . . you don’t look homeless.’
‘Oh, well, I guess I’m lying then.’
‘Where do you sleep?’
She shrugged. ‘Motels, mainly. Sometimes I rough it.’
‘How many motels are in this town?’
‘One, maybe. Can’t be sure. I’ve never been here before.’
‘You’re a hitchhiker?’
‘I prefer to call myself nomadic.’
The answer seemed laughable. Simon didn’t pretend to be especially worldly, but he knew enough to know that a girl like her shouldn’t be on her own on the road, thumbing down total strangers for a ride. It wasn’t safe. There were dodgy men out there. Maybe, a vague thought occurred to him, she was
lying or exaggerating, and he ought to be cautious. But, looking at her, the only thing he felt was a growing intrigue tinged with a hint of something else, something close to excitement.
‘What about you?’ she said. ‘City kid?’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘You look like one.’
‘What does a city kid look like?’
‘If I had to guess? You or me.’
She wasn’t wrong. He finished off his beer and raised his hand for another. It took him a moment to notice she was still watching him.
‘What?’ he said stupidly.
‘I’m wondering if you’re going to introduce yourself.’
‘I . . .’ The hot flush worsened. Shit, he was out of practice. ‘I’m Simon. You?’
‘Maggie.’
‘Short for Margaret?’
‘Long for Maggie.’ She finished her drink. ‘Game of pool?’
A couple of wiry, singlet-wearing guys with cigarettes behind their ears were finishing off a round. Maggie placed a two-dollar coin on the rim of the table without acknowledging them or the obvious looks they gave her as she joined Simon, who had found a side table to wait at. He had bought them another round but was conscious that his budget wouldn’t stretch to many more. Calculating the costs in his head was giving him a gnawing sense of guilty anxiety, but Maggie’s smile as she drank went a long way towards banishing that thought.
Lining up the cue to break, he half-wished he hadn’t agreed to the game. Pool was a universal language Simon had never been fluent in, especially when he was drunk, which realistically was the only time he would ever play. But he tried to look casual and relaxed while focusing on hitting the triangle of balls as hard as possible to create that satisfying cracking noise he associated with somebody being good at the game. The break wasn’t great, but Maggie said nothing about it as she followed it up by easily sinking a ball. As she went to take her shot, Simon caught the briefest glimpse of a small, circular scar below her collarbone, like a cigarette burn. Her next shot missed, and Simon took advantage of where the white had ended up to, with more concentration than he cared to admit to, sink a ball. His next shot, predictably, missed wildly.
The Hunted Page 2