No mercy was her mantra now.
In the soft light of late afternoons, in the place of Drinkypoos, they would go for a swim or a run—or sometimes both. After dinner, they gathered around a campfire and, in the absence of their Brazilian music-maker, Lachie took up Marcelo’s guitar. Lachie had only ever really managed to fumble a few chords, but with the recent inspiration of Marcelo and long afternoons of practice, he mastered several ABBA tunes, ‘The House of the Rising Sun’ and a simplified version of the Caetano Veloso song that Marcelo had sung nightly.
Each of us knows the pain and the delight of being who we are.
As they sang the same songs over and over, Paula gazed up at the cosmic vista above them, frosted diamonds studding a velvety sky.
Sometimes, usually at Sid’s prompting, they danced on the sandy earth, moving and weaving and collapsing into helpless laughter. Cackling themselves stupid without the benefit of alcohol, Paula was surprised to note. Hours of self-generated entertainment, without an iPad, tablet or laptop to be found.
Their former life in Glen Waverley, the orderly schedule of school and work and weekend timetables, seemed thoroughly alien now.
When did I stop dancing and singing? Paula sometimes wondered, on nights such as these.
When did I start just surviving?
15
The good thing about Doggo was he didn’t say jack shit.
They sat together in a café overlooking the Swan River, watching the eclectic folk of Fremantle—a tide of dreadlocked, bare-footed odd-balls—amble past.
‘Hungry as hell,’ said Hamish.
In hospital, he hadn’t eaten much; rehydration was the priority.
‘Maaate,’ said Doggo. ‘I could eat a horse and chase the jockey.’
They dived into their bacon and eggs, a level of comfort between them born of almost three decades of friendship. It was the type of amiable silence Hamish had once imagined might develop in a long-term marriage to the right woman. Complete mutual understanding, no words necessary; Doggo passed Hamish the tomato sauce before he even asked. Only breaking their peace when some nice piece of arse wandered by.
Not that arse held much interest for Hamish now.
Arse was what had gotten him into this whole God-awful mess.
They’d spent five days in Fremantle, holed up in some arty-farty bed-and-breakfast place that Tina had booked online. It did the job, allowing Hamish to recover from the hospitalisation. They’d played poker, read the newspaper, gone out for long walks and hot meals.
And slowly, he’d told Doggo everything. How he’d set out from Melbourne determined to find his family, just wanting his life back. How he’d discovered a foreign bloke in their party, and his increasing concern for Caitlin. The altercations with the Brazilian and the stupid plan he’d hatched to bully him out of Norseman. Its dismal failure and how, with his pride wounded and feeling lonely, he’d started Skyping with Lisel again. How in a moment of weakness he’d followed his dick to Mandurah, falling prey to some sick whore who used her daughter’s photo to bait suckers like him. The swamping guilt he now felt for betraying his wife’s trust, for real this time.
Doggo said all the right things.
Maaate.
You couldn’t have known, eh?
Could’ve happened to me.
Could’ve happened to anyone.
But Doggo’s consolations wouldn’t last; he was due to fly back to Melbourne in just two days, having taken a whole week off work. It was more than Tina had wanted, and more than Hamish could expect. But the prospect of being by himself again made Hamish’s guts twist.
Lifting the coffee mug to his lips, his eyes began to sting.
Doggo noticed, of course.
He put a hand on Hamish’s shoulder. ‘We’ve got a strategy, right? You’re going to get yourself up to Darwin, meet Paula there, and tell her everything. And I mean everything. You’re going to spend some time with the kids, then you’re going to go home. The sooner you’re back in Melbourne, the better.’
Hamish nodded.
‘Where did Lachie say they are, again?’
Hamish checked his mobile.
Lachie and Catie had sent several messages from Cottesloe, but Hamish had been too preoccupied in Mandurah to respond. Now they were making their way up the Western Australian coast, heading for the Top End.
‘Somewhere north of Carnarvon. Wherever the hell that is.’
‘Give ’em a week or two and they’ll be in Darwin. You’ve got to get up there too, buddy. Keep in touch with the kids and stay off the bloody grog.’
Hamish knew he was right.
‘Let’s book the flight now,’ said Doggo, reaching for his telephone.
‘Nah, mate. I’ve got a better idea.’
Hamish showed Doggo a message he’d received from Farken Frank a few days earlier.
Attention Customers & Friends of Yalata Nullarbor Tours. We have a small tour bus departing Perth–Darwin this week and can offer reduced fares for passengers wishing to travel between 7 and 18 December. Beat the Xmas price hike!
Doggo rolled his eyes.
‘Just catch a flight, for God’s sake,’ he urged. ‘It’ll be much quicker, mate.’
‘I don’t care how long it takes.’
‘Just spend the money, Terry Tightarse.’
‘It’s not about the money, Doggo.’
‘Well, what is it about, then?’
It was the first time that Hamish had detected a note of impatience in Doggo’s voice.
The prospect of spending a lonely week in Darwin waiting for his family was more than unpalatable; Hamish feared he wouldn’t be able to stay off the grog. Not all by himself.
He dialled the number on the card.
Frank answered within three rings.
‘It’s Hamish here. The one you . . . yeah. Look, about that fare you’re advertising to Darwin . . . Five hundred? Where’s the discount in that?’
Doggo was shaking his head and drawing a finger across his throat.
‘Seven o’clock tomorrow? Roger that. Pick up from Freo, hang on.’
Hamish read out the address.
‘Righto, mate. What’s that?’ Hamish pursed his lips. ‘Alright, five hundred plus shared fuel. Shit, man.’
He put down the phone.
‘You just got shafted, didn’t you?’ said Doggo.
Hamish shrugged. ‘Yeah, but I owe the guy already.’
Hamish threw his bag into the mini-bus and passed Frank an envelope containing ten fifty-dollar notes.
‘I’ll count ’em,’ said Frank, pressing his finger under the seal.
Hamish turned to Doggo, who was standing awkwardly on the kerb.
‘Maaate.’ Doggo pulled him into a tight hug.
It surprised Hamish, but he didn’t shrink from it.
Not until Frank coughed from the driver’s seat.
Hamish grasped Doggo’s hand and shook it, hard, trying to transmit everything he felt about his friend through the firmness of his grip.
‘Thanks for coming over.’ Hamish’s voice was shaky. ‘And say thanks to Tina, too, for putting up with me again.’
‘She’d do anything for you, mate. She loves you.’ Doggo’s eyes flickered a little. ‘We all do. See you in Melbourne soon, okay? And not bloody anywhere else. I’m not comin’ to get you out of the shit somewhere else, mate. Don’t go shaggin’ another sandgroper.’
Hamish laughed and clapped Doggo on the shoulder. Then he climbed onto the mini-bus, sitting down in the seat immediately behind Frank.
‘You got the whole bus to y’self, mate,’ said Frank, gesturing at the empty seats behind him. ‘It’s just you and me to Darwin.’
‘Yeah? Well, it’s easier to talk from here.’
The doors whipped shut and Frank shifted the bus into gear.
Hamish waved at Doggo until he was out of sight.
After several minutes, Frank spoke again. ‘Don’t like farken talkin’ anyway.’
�
��What’s that?’
‘You said you wanna talk. Well, I don’t like farken talkin’.’
‘Okay.’ Hamish said. ‘Not much of a tour guide then, are you?’
Frank’s mouth, reflected in the rear-view mirror, curled upwards.
Hamish watched the galleries, cafés and antique shops rushing past his window. Paula would’ve been in her element in Freo, he thought, with all those trendy trinkets for her dustless shelves.
‘Which way are we going?’ Hamish asked.
‘You’re payin’ me to take you, right?’ said Frank. ‘So leave it to me.’
Hamish did just that, closing his eyes north of Perth.
It was a hot, fitful sleep, plagued by disturbing dreams. Aberrant images of Caitlin and Lachie, Paula and Sid floated like ghosts through the recesses of his mind. Pale-faced, solemn, trying to say something that he couldn’t quite discern. And others, too. His dead mother-in-law standing in a car park, holding a rifle. His own mother, sitting in the nursing home in Mallacoota, looking up from a book as if she didn’t quite recognise him. His father walking through the door of his childhood home, scooping him up and tossing him into the air. And Hamish, a child again, shrieking with joy. Then, suddenly, the pockmarked face of Lisel—or was it Toni?—pressed up against the front door, her mouth a ragged maw, her eyes blood-shot and unseeing. His father striding to the door and slamming it in her face.
A thumping sound jolted Hamish from sleep. Frank’s unblinking eyes were trained on the road ahead, his back erect and unmoving.
‘Hit a galah,’ he said. ‘Farken stupid birds.’
A single pink feather fluttered across the windscreen.
Lulled by the rhythm of the bus rattling along the highway, Hamish closed his eyes again. It was as if everything that had happened in recent months, the unravelling of his ordinary life, suddenly caught up with him. Freed of the need to drive, and still weak from the alcohol poisoning, Hamish abandoned himself to sleep.
It was well after dark when they pulled into Newman, a mining town surrounded by sandy plains of red desert. Frank had managed to cover twelve hundred kilometres from Fremantle in just one day’s driving.
They found a pub with basic guest rooms upstairs for travellers and, hungry for a counter meal, walked straight into the bar below. A pack of miners in high-visibility shirts milled about, playing pool, watching football on gigantic plasma screens and downing beers.
‘G’day,’ said Hamish, nodding at a small group as he waited at the bar.
A young blond miner scrutinised Hamish, then Frank. His eyes narrowed. ‘Where’re you blokes from?’
‘Melbourne,’ said Hamish. ‘Frank’s from the Nullarbor.’
He gestured to the bartender, trying to attract his attention. The cranky old geezer wouldn’t even acknowledge his presence.
‘Frankie, eh?’ The man folded his arms across his chest and smiled; Hamish noticed then that one of his teeth was gold-plated. ‘You boys an item, then?’
Hamish doubted he’d heard him correctly. ‘Pardon?’
The blond man nudged a mate in the ribs with his elbow.
‘Pardon?’ he mimicked Hamish, with an accent reminiscent of Prince Charles. ‘We don’t have queers in Newman. No ebony-and-ivory action here, ain’t that right, Boner?’
A large bearded man wearing a pair of wraparound sunglasses turned towards Hamish. Tattoos covered every exposed section of Boner’s skin, except for his face.
‘No fuckin’ faggots in Newman,’ he growled.
The pub turned quiet; the entire room of miners was watching them.
‘But we’re just here for a meal,’ said Hamish, squeaking a little. ‘I’m not a pillow-biter.’
Hamish didn’t mind homos, as long as they steered clear of him.
But out here in the Great Sandy Desert, being gay was clearly a crime.
Frank suddenly appeared at his side.
‘That’s not what you said last night, honey,’ Frank purred, laying his arm across Hamish’s shoulders. He puckered his lips, leaning forward to kiss Hamish.
His response was reflexive, jerking his head back and knocking Frank sideways.
Frank fell hard, arse up on the wooden floor, collecting two bar stools on his way. The collision was loud, and probably painful.
But Frank looked up at Hamish and began to laugh.
‘Farken stupid idiot,’ said Frank, shaking his head at Hamish. ‘Can’t you take a farken joke?’
The miners looked between them, a little uncertainly now.
Frank stood up and dusted off the seat of his pants. Then he turned and rolled his eyes at Boner. ‘Farken citysiders. All wound up, aren’t they? Tight as a Taiwanese cunt.’
Hamish’s mouth dropped open.
Boner roared with laughter. ‘Too right, mate.’ He clapped Frank on the back. ‘Take ’emselves too fuckin’ seriously.’
The other miners exploded in convulsive laughter, taking their leader’s cue.
Hamish laughed too, as if Frank was his best buddy. As if they poofter-bashed for fun together on the weekend. Then he turned back to the bartender, hiding his relief.
That was almost a lynching, he thought. Until farken Frank intervened, defusing the situation like a munitions expert in landmine country.
The bartender was polishing glasses at the other end of the bar, still ignoring Hamish’s entreaties. Must be stone deaf, Hamish thought. Frank, who was now jesting with the miners, called out, ‘Get me a Diet Coke, will ya, Hamish?’ He looked around the group. ‘Poofters don’t drink beer.’
The laughter erupted again.
They spent the next few hours playing pool with the miners, many of them glorified truck drivers on six-figure salaries. Permanent itinerants, flying in and out of Newman every week or ten days, returning to the major centres of Broome, Port Hedland, Perth or Darwin to take their pleasure with wives or whores.
Hard-working, hard-drinking, rough-talking frontier men.
For Hamish, who had always considered himself a bloke’s bloke, the night couldn’t end soon enough.
The next day’s drive was lurching and uncomfortable for Hamish, who was nursing a nasty hangover, despite the fact that he’d only drunk one schooner. The recent alcohol poisoning had obviously played havoc with his liver; as soon as Hamish pressed a beer to his lips, he’d felt queasy. He’d drained the glass anyway, mostly because he didn’t want to attract the miners’ attention again. But that one beer now caused him to groan with every bump on the road. Frank, by contrast, embarked on the fourteen-hundred-kilometre drive to Fitzroy Crossing without complaint.
They stopped once to refuel and drink bland coffee.
‘Fuck,’ moaned Hamish, as they stood watching the rain stream off the roadhouse roof. ‘I feel like shit, man.’
‘We’re driving a farken long way today, fourteen hours or so. You should’ve stuck to the Diet Coke last night like me,’ said Frank.
‘You been to Newman before?’
‘Nah.’
Frank reached out and caught some rainwater in his empty styrofoam cup, then lifted it to his lips.
‘So how’d you know what to say to those miners last night?’ Hamish grimaced, reliving the fear. ‘I mean, they thought you and me were . . .’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Frank rocked his hips back and forth, with a roguish grin. ‘I meet fellas like that every day on the Nullarbor. They’ve got egos bigger than their dicks, mate. Always thinkin’ city fellas know nothin’ about the bush. I just confirmed their opinions for ’em. Told ’em what they wanted to hear, y’know?’
It was a principle Hamish understood perfectly. He’d used it professionally and personally for years; listening earnestly, like he really cared. Nodding solemnly, before telling his family or staffers whatever they wanted to hear. It stopped the wife nagging, the kids whining, the employees grumbling. Got them off his case long enough to develop a backup plan.
Hamish nodded. ‘Yeah, well. How you managed those miners was pretty bl
oody cluey, mate.’
Had a few assumptions of my own, before I met this clever bugger.
‘Let’s go,’ said Frank, glancing at his wristwatch. ‘We don’t want to be gettin’ to Fitzroy Crossing too late.’
Hamish followed him to the van, rather reluctantly. He wanted to linger and watch the tropical downpour. And to talk some more, too.
Arriving in Fitzroy Crossing later that night, Hamish suddenly understood Frank’s urgency.
The atmosphere was oppressive; an uneasy silence broken only by the distant murmuring of dissatisfied voices. Drunken bodies were splayed under trees, behind bushes, across public benches. Hamish opened a window in the mini-bus and tried not to be caught staring. On one side of the road, young men played cards next to a small campfire, bickering as they gambled. Nearby, a toddler—who should have been in bed hours ago, Hamish thought—played in an abandoned car, perilously close to broken glass. Further along, a teenager shrieked at her barefoot son, slapping his hand away from her handbag. She looked up at Hamish, her eyes hostile, as the mini-bus passed.
If it’s like this on the street, what are their homes like?
Hamish vaguely recalled a current affairs program he’d watched from the comfort of his suburban lounge room. Something about an alcohol ban yielding positive results in Fitzroy Crossing, reducing domestic violence and other crimes in the area.
But the ban had since been lifted, and the scourge of alcohol had returned.
Hamish had done his fair share of travelling, but he’d never seen anything like it. He tried to imagine a similar spectacle in Glen Waverley: drunk and disorderly adults with their innocent, wide-eyed charges. If it happened there, the police would be called, support services galvanised. Back in Melbourne, playgrounds were closed at the suggestion of a faulty swing; a child with unusual bruising would be interrogated by its carers; potentially dangerous toys were whisked off shelves faster than you could say ‘eye gouge’. Yet you could get away with anything here, it seemed, a world away from the eastern seaboard.
Wife on the Run Page 26