Wife on the Run

by Fiona Higgins

  Marcelo’s breath was hot on his neck, unbearably close.

  ‘But I cannot say the same about your wife.’

  When Hamish came to, Marcelo was gone.

  And so was the hatchback.

  But next to his head was a bottle of water and the long-sleeved sweater Marcelo had been wearing.

  Hamish rolled over and spat into the dust; there was nothing he could do but wait out the night.

  He lay down on the top of a concrete picnic table and looked up at the glittering orbs of The Milky Way stretched above him. Eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep.

  In the coolest hour before dawn, Hamish awoke and, to his chagrin, reached for Marcelo’s sweater. Then, being unable to go back to sleep for the pain in his hand, he sat and watched the sky’s colours change. All was silent, save a solitary birdcall. A wallaby loped up out of nowhere and snuffled about, metres from his feet. Hamish didn’t move, wondering if the animal was even aware of his presence, following it with his eyes until it crossed the highway and disappeared into the scrub.

  The morning air was crisp and fresh, like the scent of a newly bathed baby. Now that was an aroma he hadn’t smelled in a long time; Catie and Lachie, all soapy and innocent, after bathtime together. Back when the kids were still little and the months and years had stretched ahead, tantalising in their possibility. Before those cherub-like children had turned into teenagers, moodier versions of their former selves. Those preschool years now seemed so simple with the clarity of hindsight. No hormones, no Facebook, fewer fuck-ups on his part.

  Hamish hung his head.

  How had it come to this?

  His life of merely a month earlier now felt like years ago.

  Sure, he’d behaved badly online. But did he really deserve this? Exile in the desert, a wild-goose chase to find his family, battling a Brazilian stranger with designs on his . . .

  Wife.

  Hamish shook his head, remembering the Brazilian’s final words. Claiming he was after Paula, not Caitlin. It was hardly believable, despite Paula’s weight loss.

  The distant sound of an engine made Hamish look up. A white mini-bus was rumbling along the highway in a westerly direction. He glanced at his watch; it was just after six o’clock.

  Hamish walked to the highway’s edge, waving his left arm.

  The mini-bus slowed. As it neared, Hamish could make out an intricate Indigenous dot pattern painted across its body, beneath the words Yalata Nullarbor Tours.

  The bus pulled up alongside Hamish and the window opened automatically.

  ‘You right, fella?’

  Hamish almost wept with relief as he recognised the red cap, the stone-wash jeans, the long-sleeved flannelette shirt. The unflinching poker face.

  ‘Thank God it’s you.’ He smiled at the Aboriginal man behind the wheel. ‘I’ve just spent the night out here.’

  ‘Farken stupid place to sleep.’

  ‘I know, I know . . . it’s a long story. Could I catch a lift to Norseman?’ The driver nodded. ‘Coulda walked there. It’s only ten clicks up the road. Get in.’

  Hamish sat down in the nearest seat, directly behind the driver.

  The door closed.

  As they hummed along the highway, the driver kept looking at Hamish in his rear-view mirror.

  When the township of Norseman appeared, Hamish tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘This is the second time you’ve rescued me,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Frank.’

  Farken Frank, Hamish thought.

  ‘Well, thanks, Frank.’

  ‘Just don’t make a farken habit of it, mate. You on the run from the pigs or what?’

  Hamish laughed. ‘My wife’s on the run. From me, with our kids.’

  Frank shook his head. ‘No good, mate. Happy wife, happy life.’

  He changed down a gear as they entered Norseman’s outskirts.

  Outside the hotel, Hamish scanned the camp site where the caravan had been parked. There was nothing there now except an empty patch of dirt.

  ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Paula’s gone already.’

  How had they upped sticks so quickly? It was only six-thirty in the morning. And where the hell was the hatchback?

  ‘I’m buggered, mate.’ He raked his good hand through his hair. ‘My knee’s stuffed, now my hand. A Brazilian ninja’s done me over twice and he’s latched on to my wife, too. She’s disappeared with him and the kids again. I’ve got nowhere to stay in Perth, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.’ He choked back the tears. ‘I’m sorry.’

  As the van’s engine idled, Frank felt for something behind the sun visor.

  ‘Here, take this.’ He handed Hamish a business card.

  Frank Gamma. Owner Operator, Yalata Nullarbor Tours.

  ‘I’m doing a job this morning, but if you need help later, or any time, call me.’ His brown eyes looked sympathetic. ‘I know about chasing the missus, fella. Been there, done that.’

  He took his phone from his top pocket. ‘Gimme your number. I’ll text you a few places to stay in Perth. Good locations, decent grub, nothing too flash.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Hamish’s voice was croaky. Out here, this blackfella was his only friend.

  He recited his number, watching Frank key the digits into his phone.

  ‘Well, hooroo.’ The van doors clamped shut and Frank accelerated away.

  Hamish tucked the card into his pocket and walked across to the hotel, craving a shower.

  But my gear’s in the car.

  He sat down in the place where he’d been the night before, on a wooden bench in a corner of the veranda.

  ‘G’day there. Marcelo said you’d be along.’

  The pigtailed waitress appeared next to him, her breath rank with cigarettes and coffee.

  ‘You need some brekkie, love?’ She placed a menu card in front of him.

  Hamish suddenly realised he was ravenous.

  ‘Yes, please. But, uh, I don’t have my wallet.’

  ‘No, stupid. I do. That was some night you boys had, eh?’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Marcelo left in an awful hurry last night, poor thing. Said it was his gut, but I reckon he’d had a skinful.’

  Hamish’s head was reeling. ‘Where did you say my wallet was?’

  She nodded in the direction of the hotel. ‘In the car with the rest of your stuff, out the back.’

  Hamish stood up. ‘Show me.’

  If he left now, he might just catch them.

  He followed the woman through the bar, along a dark hallway that reeked of fried sausages, then out a rear door. There it was, the hatchback, shining yellow in the morning sun.

  He opened the driver’s door.

  ‘Darl, it’s dead.’ The woman shook her head.

  Hamish turned the key in the ignition.

  Nothing.

  He tried again.

  Zip. Zero. Zilch. Not even a sputter.

  ‘The engine was real hot last night, Marcelo said.’

  Hamish peered under the car, spotting the tell-tale ring of dampness beneath.

  ‘Hole in the radiator,’ he muttered, reaching under the chassis and pulling the offending stick free. ‘Fucker.’

  ‘Happens out here real easy, love,’ the woman said. ‘Especially at night. You run over a stick, or a rock flies up from the road.’

  But Hamish knew it wasn’t just an unfortunate accident. The Brazilian had killed it, good and proper. Tampered with it in the night, using a screwdriver or similar to pierce the radiator, making sure he couldn’t be followed. If it had been any other mechanical problem, Hamish could have fixed it; a dead battery, even a snapped fan belt. But not a hole in a radiator.

  ‘I’ll ask Kev to order you a new one,’ the waitress said. ‘Only takes forty-eight hours for delivery from Perth.’

  Only forty-eight hours. Hamish shook his head. He’d been shafted by the Brazilian again.

  ‘You okay, love? You look a bit worse for wear. And you’ll need a
n ice pack for that.’ She lifted his right hand, all bruised and puffy. ‘Fall over pissy, did you?’

  He didn’t reply.

  She tested several of his fingers. ‘Nothing’s broken, but the swelling’s nasty. Best to wrap ’em up.’ She looked up at him. ‘I’m Rhonda, by the way. What’s your name?’

  ‘Hamish.’

  ‘Just you wait here, Hamish, I’ll grab the first-aid kit. We’ll get you sorted.’

  Not soon enough, he thought.

  Three days later, Hamish was back on the road to Perth, with a bandaged right hand and a new radiator.

  His family had seventy-two hours on him, and they’d be ensconced in a caravan park on the coast by now. Perth was one of Australia’s smallest capital cities by population, but to Hamish it might as well have been New York. He knew no one there, and had little idea where to start looking for Paula and the kids. If he was lucky, Lachie might text him and tell him their location.

  Hamish kept his mobile connected to a recharger as he drove through the hamlets of Salmon Gums, Grass Patch and Scaddan. He could have taken the northern route to Perth through Kalgoorlie, but he’d had his fill of deserts and salt lakes. The southern route, while slightly longer, at least held the promise of ocean views.

  Just after he passed through Gibson, a text message arrived from Frank outlining four budget options for Perth, one of which was in Cottesloe.

  Thanks mate, Hamish typed back, hoping he wouldn’t have to use any of them.

  He stopped for a coffee at a roadhouse in Esperance, noticing all the other people doing the same. Some were truckies on the job, but everyone else—what the hell were they doing? Grey nomads with motorhomes, families with young children in kombi vans, a handful of lone travellers like him, some poring over thick Lonely Planet guides like converts reading the Bible. A German cyclist, gaunt and hairy-legged, who was having an animated disagreement with a stern-mouthed roadhouse staff member about the price of a sandwich.

  ‘Look!’ cried the German, pointing at a fluorescent yellow sign stuck to the refrigerator. ‘It says two dollars special.’

  ‘Read the fine print,’ replied the attendant in a bored tone. ‘That’s for salad sandwiches only. You’ve picked ham and cheese. That’s five dollars.’

  The cyclist ranted in German before throwing his money onto the counter. Then he turned and flounced away, click-clacking across the tiled floor in his cleats. He was obviously hungry; he’d devoured half the sandwich before he was even out the door.

  We’re all crazy, Hamish thought, watching the German straddle his heavily laden bicycle and push off towards the road. Every single one of us, thinking we’re so damn important.

  Hamish drained the last of his coffee and, feeling a little morose, reached for his phone again.

  Lachie had done the right thing by him in Eucla, maybe he would again.

  He began composing a message.

  Lachie, are you still in Perth? Where are you staying?

  Just as he pressed ‘send’, an instant Skype message arrived.

  Hi Hamo, r u online?

  Do u miss me?

  He zeroed in on Lisel’s profile picture, as he’d often done when they’d fooled around online. He glanced around the roadhouse, as if someone might read his mind. But no one did; everyone else was engrossed in the minutiae of their moment. Chewing gum or sucking barley sugar, guzzling soft drinks or deep-fried food, restraining unruly kids or not even trying.

  We’re all human, Hamish thought. I’m human.

  Yes I miss u, he typed back, feeling guilty as he did.

  She replied instantly.

  R u ok?

  Not really, he thought, looking around the roadhouse at the sea of unknown faces. His own family was close by, but not close enough. He desperately needed some human contact.

  Am in Esperance, he typed, not answering her question.

  Wow! So near 2 me. Only 700 k.

  Then, quickly, another message.

  R u coming 2 Perth, Hamo?

  He paused, nursing his right hand in his left, thinking about Paula. He’d pursued her across the desert, trying to make amends, and been rewarded with two altercations with a Brazilian. His family had been so preoccupied welcoming Marcelo into their fold, they’d almost forgotten about him. Yes, he’d fucked up. But their punishment was disproportionate to his crime.

  Yes, he typed back to Lisel.

  OMG! came the immediate response.

  He laughed aloud.

  Where r u staying, Hamo?

  He stalled for a moment.

  Another message arrived.

  We have a guest room. I can ask my mum. I can make something up. Let me think.

  A long time ago, he’d imagined flying to Perth on a business trip. Meeting Lisel in a park, maybe. Reaching out and touching that soft red hair of hers, kissing her if he was really lucky. But staying in her home? That was beyond the stuff of fantasies.

  Be careful, he warned himself. She lives with her parents.

  He stood up and ordered another coffee.

  Suddenly he felt as nervous as hell. Good nervous, like when he was fourteen and about to kiss a girl for the first time.

  Several minutes later, another Skype message appeared.

  U can be a sports teacher billet. We’ve had two stay at our house b4, a lady and a man. I can ask Mum 2day. Get back to u l8r.

  He reread the message, trying to envisage it.

  If Lisel’s mother agreed, then somehow discovered he wasn’t a teacher, she’d call the police for sure. He quickly Googled ‘age of consent in Western Australia’, aware that sometimes states and territories differed on these matters.

  It was sixteen years old in the west, he discovered, the same as in Victoria. Lisel was old enough to decide for herself.

  His cock sprang up in his jeans like a jack-in-the-box.

  Walking to the car, he wondered who would contact him first—Lachie or Lisel.

  Either way, things are looking up.

  Their messages arrived within the hour.

  Lachie dutifully advised him that they were staying at a caravan park near Cottesloe Beach, and would be heading north in a few days.

  Have fun! Hamish replied.

  And then Lisel’s Skype message.

  I faked a note from school about teacher billets. Mum said yes. U can stay 2night and tomorro. But u need to go out during the day. I said u r training Year 7 and yr name is Hamish Black.

  Hamish began typing, but another message arrived.

  What time will u get here?

  It was an eight-hour drive to Perth.

  Around six o’clock, Hamish replied.

  Okay. I am working at Maccas til 10, she wrote, posting a sad-looking emoticon.

  Hamish couldn’t imagine a girl like Lisel working at a fast-food chain.

  I will sneak into ur room after Mum is in bed.

  All wet now just thinking about u.

  This was meant 2 b Hamo.

  He thought for a moment, then typed another message.

  Will your dad be home?

  It took several moments before she responded.

  My dad’s dead.

  Thank God for that, Hamish thought.

  Munglinup, Jerramungup, Manjimup. Long blackfella names for the arse end of the world, deserted forest country. Then a swathe of suburban shit-holes at which he didn’t care to stop, before suddenly, Perth’s skyscrapers towering like shiny beacons in a majestic sky. Manicured gardens and bike paths. Wide streets, with enough sandstone to offer a sense of history. Beaches, white and long and sandy, close to everything. A city neither big nor busy, but still cosmopolitan.

  It’s paradise, Hamish concluded. Totally underrated by east coasters.

  And Lisel lives here.

  He looked up her address and plugged it into the GPS, then swore under his breath.

  He’d assumed Mandurah was a suburb of Perth; it was actually seventy kilometres south. He’d driven through it already. The return trip
would take another fifty minutes.

  Night had fallen by the time he finally pulled up in front of 9 James Street. The unit block was neat and Mediterranean-style, four storeys high with a wall around its perimeter and a security gate. It was perched on the edge of a man-made canal, just one in a long row of almost identical apartment blocks.

  It was past eight o’clock, much later than he’d said he’d arrive, but still two hours before Lisel was due home. Perhaps he’d turn in early, pleading fatigue.

  As he got out of the car, he began to feel apprehensive.

  If it’s not working, I can always leave.

  At the security gate, he pressed number nine.

  ‘Yes?’ A female voice, soft and insipid.

  ‘It’s Hamish Black . . . the teacher billet.’

  ‘Oh yes, come in.’

  An electronic beeping signalled the opening of the gate.

  Hamish walked into the foyer and checked the unit listing. Pressing the elevator call bell, he straightened his shoulders and waited.

  Man, he needed to do a shit. It always happened when he was nervous or excited. Before his Sunday-morning cycles, before important work meetings. Before contacting Lisel by Skype.

  Lisel. He sucked in his stomach, doubting he was good enough for her. But every part of his body was thrumming at the prospect of finally meeting her later that night.

  The elevator doors opened, then closed behind him.

  Level one, level two. He began to sweat. Level three. Another bell announced his arrival.

  He strode out of the lift, attempting to look relaxed.

  A woman was standing in the doorway of unit twelve, holding the door ajar with her foot.

  ‘Mr Black?’ Her smile was like Lisel’s.

  He extended his hand. ‘Call me Hamish.’

  ‘I’m Toni.’ She brushed her ginger-coloured fringe out of her eyes. ‘Come in.’

  She would have been beautiful once, he thought. A willowy, well-proportioned body in a long figure-hugging dress. Summery green eyes, warm and friendly. But the sun hadn’t been kind to her pale skin, which was smattered with freckles and moles. And when she turned to speak to him, he noticed the deep lines on her face. She had to be late forties at least, Hamish guessed, maybe even early fifties.