Wife on the Run

by Fiona Higgins

  ‘Now I’ve . . . had . . . the time of my life . . .’

  A hush fell across the room; clearly it wasn’t often that a Brazilian god visited Norseman. The women all had dreamy expressions on their faces, while the men looked intrigued or irritated.

  Paula couldn’t bear to watch Marcelo performing with her daughter.

  ‘I’m turning in,’ she whispered to her father. ‘Lachie’s tired too.’ She nodded at her son. ‘Come on, let’s go back to the caravan.’ You, who made me promise something I shouldn’t have.

  ‘No.’ He pointed at the stage. ‘I want to watch this.’

  Marcelo was holding Caitlin’s hands, trying to make her dance.

  Paula felt like dragging Lachie out of the pub by his ear.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ she said, slinging her handbag over her shoulder.

  ‘Paula.’ Her father reached across the table and touched her hand. ‘Is everything okay?’

  She nodded, knowing he saw all the fury and sadness below her composed surface.

  ‘We need to talk,’ he said, his eyes gentle.

  ‘Tomorrow, Dad. Can you watch out for Lachie and Catie tonight, please? Make sure they get back in one piece?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Marcelo and Caitlin were singing the chorus now. Caitlin only even knows this song because of me. Because I’ve been playing it all her life.

  The crowd was enjoying the spectacle; some singing along, others doing their best Dirty Dancing moves.

  Paula tucked her bar stool under the table, hating the sting of petty envy she felt toward her own daughter.

  ‘Pow-la, where you are going?’

  It was Marcelo’s voice, mid-tune, over the PA.

  She kept walking.

  Marcelo missed several beats, then resumed singing.

  She pushed the saloon doors open.

  The night air was a cool respite from the stuffy aroma of perspiring bodies. She took several steps out onto the veranda and closed her eyes, sucking the oxygen into her nostrils.

  Out and in. Out and in.

  If she breathed deeply enough, she could almost stifle the sound of Marcelo and Caitlin’s duet.

  Almost, but not quite.

  She began to walk across the crowded car park, then broke into a jog. Fleeing the music, fleeing her feelings.

  Reaching the caravan, she unlocked the door and groped her way to her bed.

  She could still hear Marcelo and Caitlin, and the mob egging them on.

  Paula felt for her phone in her pocket.

  You were right, Jamie, she typed. The Brazilian’s just a stupid fantasy.

  She pressed ‘send’.

  Now the crowd was cheering and cat-calling again.

  She screwed her eyes shut.

  Hours later, she opened them and sat up, instantly alert.

  In the car park.

  She’d rushed straight past it.

  A yellow hatchback that looked just like hers.

  She stumbled out of bed, past Caitlin and Lachie sleeping in their bunks, and opened the door of the caravan. She looked out over the moonlit car park, almost empty now.

  Had she imagined it?

  A dingo howled in the distance and she shivered, wondering if perhaps her father’s trap had snared its first quarry.

  A shadow moved. It was a silhouette she recognised.

  She peered at her watch. What on earth was he doing up, at this hour?

  ‘Marcelo?’ There was something unusual about his gait.

  ‘Pow-la,’ he said, staggering and almost falling against the caravan. ‘I need a doctor. This—’ he pointed to his abdomen—‘is sick, there is something wrong inside me.’

  ‘Have you had too much to drink?’

  He shook his head. ‘I only had one beer.’ He clutched his stomach.

  ‘What is it?’ Paula had all but forgotten her first-aid training. Marcelo groaned and doubled over.

  ‘Oh, God.’ She stepped out of the caravan and put a hand on his back, crouching down to look at his face.

  ‘In Brazil, I had this once before,’ he gasped. ‘I forget the English word. Problem in my . . .’

  ‘Intestines?’ she prompted.

  ‘No . . . an inside part.’

  ‘Spleen? Liver? Appendix?’

  He nodded vigorously, still doubled over. ‘Yes. Appendix is bad.’

  ‘Okay, that is serious.’

  Out here in the desert, a ruptured appendix could be fatal.

  She’d noticed a sign to the district hospital in Norseman earlier.

  ‘Get in the car, Marcelo,’ she said, plunging into mother mode. ‘You need to see a doctor.’

  ‘In Perth?’ he asked.

  ‘No, there’s a hospital nearby. I’ll wake Dad and tell him what’s happened. He can stay here with the kids.’

  Marcelo straightened up a little. ‘I don’t want to wake Sid. The pain is not that bad,’ he said, in a slightly embarrassed tone. ‘I think it can wait for Perth.’

  ‘No, no.’ Paula dismissed him with a wave of her hand. ‘We’ll get you checked, just to be safe.’

  They followed the blue street signs marked with a white cross, arriving five minutes later at the district hospital on Talbot Street.

  The car park was inexplicably full. The word ‘Emergency’ was painted above an automatic door on the small hospital building. Beyond it, she could see the waiting room was jam-packed too.

  What were all these people doing here at two o’clock in the morning? She’d read enough newspaper articles to know that medical resources were limited in rural and remote Australia, but she’d never witnessed it firsthand.

  She helped Marcelo across the car park, through the door and up to the front desk. A young man was bent over it, shuffling through papers.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he said, in a distracted tone.

  ‘We’d like to see a doctor, please.’

  The young man looked up and smiled; he had silver braces on his teeth. ‘I’m it for tonight.’

  ‘You?’ Paula was shocked; he looked barely older than Lachie. ‘I thought you were . . .’

  ‘The receptionist?’ He laughed. ‘She’s just getting a cup of tea. We’ve been busy. It’s always like that on karaoke night, for some reason.’ He pushed a clipboard in Paula’s direction. ‘You can fill out these forms, please.’

  He walked into the waiting room and called out ‘Mr Jacobsen? William Jacobsen?’

  An elderly man raised his hand and, assisted by his wife, stood up unsteadily.

  ‘Come through,’ the doctor said, gesturing to a nearby consult room, ‘and thank you for your patience.’

  Paula looked around at the rest of the motley crowd in the waiting room. Several men, one pressing a bloodstained rag on a gash to his forehead, another wearing fishing gear. A mother with a young child asleep on her lap, a large Indigenous family, a young man muttering to himself. An assortment of others, sick or frail.

  What kind of care could Marcelo possibly receive here, tonight?

  A plump woman appeared behind the desk, holding a mug. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You’ve got the forms? Good. You might be waiting a few hours, I’m afraid, unless it’s urgent.’

  Paula turned to Marcelo. ‘How are you feeling now?’

  His face had slightly more colour to it.

  ‘I am okay,’ he said. ‘Just a little pain. This place is very busy. Can we go to Perth instead?’

  It was the choice Paula would make for her own children. ‘But can you wait that long?’ she asked doubtfully. ‘It’s an eight-hour drive.’

  ‘I think so.’ Marcelo appeared calmer. ‘The pain comes and goes. I can lie down in the caravan on the way.’

  Paula began weighing up the risk of Marcelo travelling in a caravan without a seatbelt.

  ‘Alright,’ she said, finally. ‘Let’s go.’

  They walked out of the hospital and across the car park to the ute. ‘But you can’t move around in the caravan when we’re driving, ok
ay?’

  Marcelo nodded, leaning against the headrest and closing his eyes. ‘Thank you, Pow-la.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘This is a lot of trouble for you.’

  As they drove back to the caravan park, Paula did some mental calculations. It might take a while to rouse the kids and her father at this ungodly hour, but if they packed up quickly, they could make it to a decent hospital by lunchtime.

  As long as his pain doesn’t worsen, she thought, glancing at Marcelo’s slumped form.

  Anxiety and tenderness coursed through her.

  I can’t deny it, she thought. I’ve tried to, but I can’t.

  She could push through eight hours of driving for him.

  She would do virtually anything for him.

  12

  This time, I’ll get it right. Teach that Brazilian a lesson he’ll never forget.

  Hamish drained the last of his coffee. Bitter and gritty, like warmed-up bilge water.

  Some dog-ugly woman was behind the microphone, butchering ‘Like a Virgin’, one of Paula’s favourite songs.

  Screw this, Hamish thought.

  He’d been sitting in a corner of the pub’s veranda since the karaoke started. Obscured by several large, decorative cacti, seemingly a compulsory fixture for a desert pub. A continuous line of smokers moved in and out of the bar, taking their pleasure against the wooden railings. A waitress with greying pigtails had asked Hamish, more than once, if he needed anything. He’d said no, but the old girl kept popping her head around the saloon doors to check on him, until finally he’d felt compelled to order a coffee.

  Bloody rural Australians. Always in everyone else’s business.

  He’d been patient for an hour, but the duet from Dirty Dancing was too much. That greasy Brazilian making eyes at his daughter, in public, on a stage. And no one doing anything about it. Not even Paula—she didn’t give a shit, apparently—leaving in the middle of it, abandoning their children to the care of old Sid.

  Hamish didn’t stir as Paula walked out of the bar and stood within metres of him. She looked up at the night sky for a moment, before jogging off across the car park. He watched her arse as she moved; it was definitely smaller now.

  And I should know, I’ve seen that view a thousand times.

  He was on the verge of following her, when he caught the duet’s climax in the bar. In a smooth dance stunt that wowed the crowd, the Brazilian lifted his daughter in the air.

  He could deal with Paula later, Hamish decided. For now, he had unfinished business with the Brazilian.

  It was almost eleven o’clock when they finally emerged from the pub. The Brazilian had one arm around Catie, the other around Sid, who looked a bit pissy. Lachie was bringing up the rear, like a faithful dog trotting at the Brazilian’s heels.

  Hamish followed at a distance as they lurched across the car park. He crouched next to the hatchback, watching as Caitlin disappeared into the caravan. Sid urinated behind a tree, then proceeded to brush his teeth in a small bucket outside the van. The Brazilian took a towel and toiletries from the tent, then walked towards the amenities block. It was exactly as Hamish anticipated; Eucla had taught him that the foreigner took showers at night. The Brazilian whistled as he walked, obviously in a good mood.

  Not for long, amigo.

  Lachie suddenly jogged after the Brazilian, calling his name. Hamish couldn’t hear their conversation, but his son appeared to be doing most of the talking. The Brazilian kept shaking his head; Lachie looked pretty worked up.

  Is Lachie defending his sister?

  At one point, Lachie pulled a telephone from his pocket. The Brazilian reached for it, but Lachie ducked away.

  Touch my son and I’ll kill you.

  The Brazilian held his hands up, open-palmed, and Lachie slipped the phone back into his pocket.

  They talked some more before, finally, the Brazilian turned away. He continued walking, slower now, to the amenities block.

  Hamish waited until he could hear the water running before sneaking across the sand. Standing a metre from the shower door, he laid a small hand towel over the plastic revolver and aimed it at the door handle.

  For a moment he thought of Doggo’s wife, Tina, and her crazy predilection for carrying toy guns around. When he’d left Melbourne a week earlier, he never could have imagined using Tina’s weapon of choice against a Brazilian sleazebag.

  His hands trembled a little as he heard the taps being turned off, a towel buffing skin, clothes being donned.

  Then the click of the lock and the handle turning.

  The Brazilian stopped dead.

  His eyes settled on the shape in Hamish’s right hand and a muscle twitched at the side of his neck.

  ‘Come for a chat,’ said Hamish, motioning towards the door. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them. Don’t say a word. Now walk.’

  Miraculously, the Brazilian obeyed.

  Hamish’s heart was battering at his chest as he skirted behind the Brazilian.

  ‘Walk to the yellow hatchback parked near the Mack truck.’

  The Brazilian complied.

  ‘This little one?’

  ‘Shut up.’ Hamish didn’t need the reminder. ‘Open the door. You’re driving.’

  Hamish climbed into the seat behind the Brazilian, and pointed the gun at his head.

  ‘Start her up.’

  They drove to the place Hamish had scoped out earlier: a deserted rest area overlooking clay salt pans about ten minutes west of Norseman. Hamish didn’t think much of the view, but figured it was a prime spot for intimidation.

  ‘Park it down there.’

  The Brazilian drove to the furthest reaches of the parking area, beyond the glow of the single streetlight.

  ‘Get out of the car and put your hands on the bonnet.’

  Hamish stepped out of the car behind the Brazilian, training the gun on him. He took a small Maglite torch from his pocket and shone it in the Brazilian’s eyes.

  The Brazilian looked nervous, shying away from the light.

  ‘Spread your legs, or I’ll blow your fucking balls off.’

  ‘Please, I—’

  ‘Shut up, motherfucker.’ Hamish was beginning to enjoy this. ‘Pissed yourself, have you?’ He shone his torch at the crotch of the Brazilian’s jeans.

  The Brazilian didn’t reply.

  Hamish took a step forward. ‘That’s what pussies like you do. Pussies that prey on little girls. It’s illegal in Australia, mate. And the big girls in prison will get you for it. They’ll rearrange your arsehole for you, down in maximum security.’ His voice was shaking. ‘So, what do you reckon I should do? Shoot you now, or call the coppers for a holiday in the big house? What do you reckon?’

  The Brazilian held one hand up to shield his eyes.

  ‘Don’t move!’ yelled Hamish, lifting the gun higher.

  The Brazilian put both hands in the air, then suddenly turned around and sat on the car’s bonnet.

  ‘Stand up!’

  The Brazilian didn’t move. He seemed to be taking Hamish in; his clothes, his shoes, the towel over the gun. After a moment, he stood up from the bonnet and walked once around the hatchback, kicking idly at the back tyres.

  ‘Freeze!’

  The Brazilian shook his head.

  Hamish was losing control.

  ‘Who are you?’ the Brazilian asked. ‘Tell me now, and I won’t hurt you.’

  ‘Hey, I’m the one with the gun, mate,’ Hamish spat, brandishing it under the towel. ‘I don’t think you’re in a position to—’

  A sharp pain ricocheted through his right hand.

  ‘Fuck!’ Hamish screamed, dropping his Maglite.

  The revolver landed nearby, kicked clean out of his fingers. The Brazilian pounced on it, turning it over in his hands. Then he began to laugh. ‘So you are not police.’ He held up the plastic revolver and pretended to shoot. ‘Pow! Pow!’

  Hamish began to edge towards the car; his big idea had gone pear-shaped and he didn’t have a P
lan B.

  The Brazilian moved with feline speed. ‘Tell me who you are.’ He leaned against the driver’s door.

  There was no escape.

  ‘I’m Caitlin’s father,’ Hamish said defiantly. ‘And I know exactly what you’re up to.’

  The Brazilian looked blankly at him. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Come on, mate,’ said Hamish. ‘You’re a guy, I’m a guy, Caitlin’s hot. I’m not going to let you just waltz in and tag my daughter.’

  The Brazilian stood for a moment, then he smiled. ‘You are Pow-la’s husband?’

  ‘Paula, yeah.’ Hamish didn’t like his accent.

  ‘And you say I am interested in Caitlin?’

  Hamish rolled his eyes. ‘I know you are, mate. I’ve seen you with her.’

  The Brazilian nodded slowly. ‘Mr . . . what is your name?’

  ‘Hamish.’

  ‘Ah yes, Pow-la mentioned it.’ The Brazilian’s stance was no longer defensive. He extended a hand. ‘Hamish, I am Marcelo and you are mistaken.’

  Hamish crossed his arms. He couldn’t shake the Brazilian’s hand even if he tried, his fingers were throbbing. ‘Don’t bullshit me, mate.’

  Marcelo hesitated. ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘I want you to leave my daughter alone and get the hell out of my family. Go back to the Brazilian hole you came from.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that.’

  ‘Then I’ll call the police,’ Hamish exploded.

  ‘I see.’ Marcelo nodded, as if resolving something. ‘Then I have no other option.’

  The Brazilian melted away into the night.

  Hamish spun around, desperately trying to locate him.

  There was nowhere to hide nearby; how could he have just disappeared?

  Then the pressure, slowly tightening around his neck.

  He could smell Marcelo’s body, feel him clamped against his back like a barnacle. It was a sickening sensation, just like in Eucla. He flailed about, but couldn’t peel Marcelo’s arm off his neck; the crush was excruciating.

  Hamish knew exactly how it would end.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Marcelo whispered in Hamish’s ear. ‘I didn’t want to do this, but you gave me no choice.’

  Hamish’s legs kicked about uselessly.

  ‘I want you to know, I am not interested in Caitlin. I will not touch her.’