by Greg McLean
‘It’s better now. There are younger girls at a nearby village.’
‘No thanks. I kill nogs, I don’t fuck ’em.’
Mick shrugs. ‘Suit yourself. But if ya change ya mind . . . Shit, a good root may loosen you up. May kill whatever bug you have up your arse.’
Stretch smiles, but it’s not one of warmth. ‘I’m still keeping an eye on you, Bushie. I still notice your bad legs and I’ve seen the scars on your back.’
Mick lights another smoke. ‘You been perving on me?’
‘In your dreams. But those are some nasty scars. Where’d ya get ’em from?’
‘None of your goddamn business.’
‘Look like knife wounds. What happened? Your daddy get drunk and pull a butcher knife on ya?’
Mick imagines grabbing Fred Perry around the throat and squeezing his scrawny neck till his head pops off. ‘You don’t know anything about my old man.’
‘That’s the thing about you, Mick – none of us know a thing about you. You talk a lot, but not about anything. You don’t tell us about your past, other than you’re from WA and you used to work at a cattle station.’
‘There ain’t much to tell,’ Mick says, sucking hard on the cigarette.
‘Well, some men don’t like a fellow digger who keeps his past to himself. Makes him untrustworthy.’
Stretch leans in close. Over the smell of the tobacco and the tang of the rain, Mick can smell sweat and stale breath. ‘We don’t trust you, Bushie. Christ knows why Sarge trusts you enough to take you out to the tip. The skipper is usually such a good judge of character.’
Mick swallows back a wave of violence.
He doesn’t want to get a charge and be confined to the barracks for a week, like Woody and Brownie.
Stretch stares hard at Mick, grins, and then walks away.
Mick watches him disappear into the rainy darkness. Then he turns and heads to the boozer.
9
Western Australia
February 1968
Bruce slid out of the Kombi and stepped onto the dry earth, stretching his arms to the overcast sky. His body was stiff from sleeping in the van, but considering who he had shared it with, he had no complaints.
Despite the hazy weather, the morning was already warm. Wearing only a pair of shorts and sandals, he started towards the group in the distance. Seeing him coming, Jewel got up out of her chair and strode over to him, looking exceptionally cute and fresh in a very short blue dress.
‘What happened to getting an early start?’ she said, smiling. ‘Most of us have been up for an hour.’
Bruce scratched his tanned, hairless chest. ‘What can I say? You wore me out last night.’
Jewel smile shyly. ‘Shut up,’ she said.
Bruce laughed. ‘What? It’s not like people don’t know.’
‘Still.’ Jewel shrugged. ‘Anyway, you want some coffee? Mick’s put some on. It’s surprisingly okay.’
Bruce followed Jewel over to the old drum, inside of which was now a collection of ash and blackened wood. The rest of the group were sitting around, drinking coffee, and some were munching on toast.
‘I could do with a good feed,’ Bruce said, his belly grumbling.
He was feeling good this morning and it wasn’t just because of his night with Jewel. Hopefully the Kombi would be fixed today and then they could get back on the road, away from this mine. Away from Mick.
‘Decided to join us, hey?’ Mick said as he came out of the shed.
Bruce gave him a quick smile, and then grabbed a deckchair and dragged it closer to the others.
‘You might not want to get too comfortable there, Bruce,’ Mick said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘And you might want to put on a shirt.’
‘Am I going somewhere?’
‘I’m gonna need you to come with me into town this morning. We’re gonna get us a replacement for your torsion arm and get you lot on your way.’
Bruce ran a hand through his shoulder-length brown hair. It was tangled, full of knots. He hadn’t fully woken, his eyes were still crusty with sleep – he just wanted to fill his belly and then relax here with Jewel, getting to know her better. He didn’t want to go traipsing off to town with Mick. ‘Can’t you just go and get it for us? I mean, you know what you’re looking for . . .’
‘And who’s gonna pay for it?’ Mick laughed, shaking his head. ‘I don’t mind putting you folks up for the night, giving you food and drink and all that. That’s just simple good manners. But when it comes to the actual business . . . Well, I hate to break it to you, tiger, but I’m not doing all this for me health, ya got me?’
Bruce nodded. ‘Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t think about that. We were always going to pay you. How ’bout we give you the money and you go and buy the part? Or maybe you buy whatever it is we need and we’ll pay you back later?’
Mick’s face tensed. Bruce noticed the way it turned rigid, more angular. His eyes narrowed. ‘You want me to do all the work?’
Bruce shook his head. ‘No, it’s not that . . .’
‘Besides, how do ya know you can trust me? I might jack up the price and tell you it’s twice the amount I paid for it.’
‘He’s got a point. It’s probably best someone goes along,’ Duncan said. He looked tired but happy, munching on his toast.
‘Nah, I don’t want no troubles,’ Mick continued. ‘In cases such as these, I always require one member of the party to accompany me whenever I buy some replacement parts. That way, I can’t be accused of ripping anyone off.’
‘Fine,’ Bruce said, turning back to Mick. ‘I’ll go with you. But can I at least have some breakfast first?’
‘The sooner we get going, the sooner you all can get going. You can have something to eat at Emu Flat, okay? My shout.’
‘Hell, if you’re shouting, maybe I’ll go,’ Duncan said.
‘Don’t put yourself out, Dunc,’ Bruce said.
‘I’ll meet you in the truck, okay?’ Mick said.
Bruce nodded. He looked at Jewel, who had a dour look on her face. ‘I’ll see you when I get back, right?’
Jewel poked her tongue out at Mick’s back. ‘Arsehole,’ she muttered. She turned to Bruce. ‘Just hurry back.’
‘Well, I’ll try.’ With a sigh, Bruce turned and walked to the Kombi.
A whole morning with Mick. Alone. His good mood had turned sour.
The desert landscape surrounding the mine looked less threatening in the daytime. Low mountain ranges stretched far and wide, but the farther he and Mick got from the mine, the fewer hills there were, until eventually they were surrounded by the familiar flat, endless expanse of red desert. The thought of getting stuck out here without food or water never failed to creep into Bruce’s head and cause a small stir in his gut.
Staring out the passenger window of Mick’s truck, he asked, ‘Why did we go the back road? Wouldn’t it have been quicker to get onto the Great Northern?’
‘Nah,’ Mick said. ‘This way’s faster.’
They were roaring along the bumpy dirt road. Much faster than Mick had driven last night towing the Kombi, and much faster than Bruce would ever dare on such a rough, dangerous road.
‘Glad you came along,’ Mick said, after a short spell.
He was steering the truck with one hand, the veins in his strong brown arm looking like worms that had burrowed underneath his skin. The other arm was resting on the edge of the open window. Clouds of red dust blew in, but Mick didn’t seem to mind.
‘Gives us a chance to chat,’ Mick said, then glared at Bruce. ‘You don’t like me very much, do you?’
Bruce swallowed. He tasted soil and felt dust particles irritating his throat. ‘What? No, I do . . . Well, I mean, I don’t really know you, but . . .’
It was stuffy inside the car, the air coming in through the driver’s side window uncomfortably warm. Clad in a loose-fitting shirt and shorts, Bruce grew hotter.
Mick smiled. ‘Relax. I’m not
having a go at you. I just want to clear the air. I want us to be friends. After all, who knows how long you’ll be staying.’
Bruce’s mouth turned dry. ‘Staying?’
‘Yeah. If I can’t get the part I need today, then it might take a couple of days to get it in.’
‘Oh.’
A couple of days? Maybe he should call his contact in Broome and let him know there might be a small delay. Chan wouldn’t like it, but shit, it was beyond their control.
‘So why don’t ya like me, Brucey? Do I smell? You don’t like my humour? What is it?’
‘Huh? N-nothing,’ Bruce stammered. ‘You’re a top bloke. Really. I appreciate all the help.’
Mick laughed. Despite the bumpy road, his laugh was strong and steady. ‘Don’t mention it. As for the rest – you’re full of shit. I know ya don’t like me, don’t trust me. I can see it in your eyes. But that’s okay. I don’t like those two monkeys, either. Tell me, Bruce, why didn’t you go over and fight for your country?’
This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have with Mick. He didn’t particularly want to chat with Mick about anything, period, preferring the desert wind and the tyres crunching over dirt and stones to do the talking for them. But, if they had to chat, then let it be about small things, where he grew up, what he did for a living, that kind of thing. Not about the war.
Bruce swallowed again. ‘Just lucky, I guess.’
Mick slammed on the brakes, jerking the truck to a sliding halt.
Bruce’s forehead smacked against the dashboard. ‘Jesus!’ he cried. He was thrown back in his seat, stunned by the blow. ‘What did ya do that for?’
‘Lucky?’ Mick said, voice low. He was breathing hard. ‘What do you mean, lucky?’ he growled.
Bruce touched a hand to his forehead. The spot where he had knocked against the dash was tender and he felt warm, sticky blood.
‘I’m cut,’ Bruce said.
‘Answer me. Why did you say you were lucky?’
Bruce couldn’t believe how riled up Mick was getting. It scared him. ‘My number didn’t come up, that’s all. Jeez, what’s your problem? I bet I’m gonna get a nice bump on —’
Mick threw open the driver’s side door.
‘Where are you going?’ Bruce called.
‘Thought I heard something fall in the back of the truck when I stopped. I’ll be back in a sec.’
Mick hopped out and Bruce watched the big man stride around to the back of the truck.
‘Bloody hell,’ Bruce sighed, facing the front. ‘Guy’s a nutcase.’
Stopping like he had in the middle of nowhere . . . and for what? Bruce still had no idea what had happened, why Mick had gotten so upset. As he waited, he checked his cut in the rear-view mirror. Blood trickled from the little wound. Perfect – on top of everything else he’d have —
The passenger side door popped open.
Bruce turned and froze at the sight of the long rifle barrel pointed at his face.
‘Get out.’
Mick’s voice was robotic.
‘What are you doing?’ Bruce puffed.
‘Out.’
Though his limbs felt numb, Bruce managed to ease out of the truck. Mick stepped back but kept the rifle trained between Bruce’s eyes.
‘Walk away from the truck,’ Mick said.
Bruce’s feet filled with lead. His body began trembling. ‘Please, Mick, I don’t know why you’re —’
‘Move!’
With heavy steps, Bruce walked away from the truck, Mick crunching the gravelly soil behind him.
They’d gone ten paces when Mick said, ‘Okay, that’s far enough. Now give me the keys to the Kombi.’
He wanted to steal Ursula?
Bruce, mouth dry, said, ‘I . . . I don’t have them on me.’
‘Bullshit,’ Mick growled, and Bruce felt the barrel of the rifle press against the back of his head. ‘I saw you lock it after you got changed and then pocket the keys. Now give ’em to me.’
With hands shaking, Bruce dipped into his right pocket and drew out the keys. Mick snatched them from his grasp like a snake striking at its prey.
‘Down on your knees.’
Tears fell from Bruce’s eyes and splashed his cheeks. ‘Please don’t kill me.’
‘I’ll show you how lucky you are, you fucken bastard. Now down on your knees!’
Bruce lowered himself to the ground. It was like kneeling on a hotplate.
‘It’s too hot!’ he cried and jumped up.
Mick kicked him in the back of the legs and he collapsed to the scorched earth.
‘You’ve been nothing but trouble for me,’ Mick said. ‘Right from the get-go. Almost screwed with my plan. Well, I’ve got you now.’
Suddenly, Bruce jumped up and started running. He didn’t know whether it was because of the hot ground, whether it was just naked fear driving him, or whether it was survival instinct. Maybe it was a combination of all three. All he knew was that he had to run. To stay under Mick’s guard meant certain death.
‘Stop or I’ll shoot!’ Mick yelled.
Bruce zigzagged through the desert. He kicked his way through clumps of spinifex, expecting to hear the report of the rifle, expecting to feel the sharp sting of a bullet.
‘Get back here!’ Mick shouted, but there was no longer menace in his voice – there was a playfulness that was even more unnerving.
‘Fine. You wanna play it this way, we’ll play it this way,’ Mick called. ‘I enjoy the hunt just as much as the kill.’
Bruce continued running, unsure of where he was going.
The sun was only sporadically poking its head over the clouds, but the humidity was oddly high and it quickly sucked the life out of him. He tired almost immediately, his legs like rubber and his lungs aching.
The sound of the truck grumbling to life reminded Bruce of a lion going after its prey.
He knew it was hopeless.
The truck ploughed off the road and soon gained on him. The swirling dust that rolled around made it impossible for Bruce to see. Lost in a haze of sand and exhaustion, he stumbled to the ground. He lay there on the fiery desert soil, finding it hard to breathe. It felt like he had swallowed a cupful of sand. He heard the truck stop close by.
When the clouds finally settled, Bruce saw a dark shape looming over him.
‘Didn’t get far, did ya?’
Mick lowered the barrel of the bolt action and settled the muzzle against the tip of Bruce’s nose. Bruce shut his eyes and sobbed.
He hoped it would quick.
He waited. And waited.
‘Just get it over with,’ he pleaded.
‘Nah, I ain’t gonna shoot ya,’ Mick said.
The barrel left Bruce’s face. He opened his eyes and squinted up at Mick, who had shouldered the gun.
‘Thank you,’ Bruce sobbed. It was all just a sick game: payback for whatever Bruce had said or done to piss Mick off.
‘Nah, that’d result in too many questions. Gun blasts carry out here. I should know.’
Mick pulled out a large knife and then squatted, holding it in front of Bruce’s face. It wasn’t the one from last night – his makeshift bottle opener – no, this was about three times the size and it looked clean and sharp.
‘Kind of ironic when you think about it,’ Mick said. ‘The very things you were using to help you survive ended up causing you harm.’
‘W-what?’ Bruce breathed in gasps, eyes locked on the fearsome blade.
‘I heard you lot shooting yesterday. That’s how I first discovered you. Watched you all from the top of my mine. That’s how I know that gunshots carry. If I were to shoot ya, the others would hear, and they’d have too many questions when I get back without ya.’
Without him? Dread curdled inside Bruce’s body.
Mick sank a knee into Bruce’s gut, then plunged the knife into his left shoulder. Pain like a thousand needles burned Bruce’s body. Mick chortled as he ground the blade hard. Bruce screeched as the pa
in spread like wildfire through his upper body. He could feel sharp, pointy stones dig into his back.
‘This is just the entrée,’ Mick said, voice straining a little with the effort. ‘Wait till you see the main course. And dessert? Well, let’s just say that rather than a cherry on top, it’ll be your head.’
Though the pain was overwhelming, something inside Bruce retained some sense of composure. It was this part of him that reached down and grabbed a handful of hot desert earth and flung it at Mick’s snarling face.
‘Shit!’ Mick cried.
The knife was pulled out and the weight lifted from Bruce’s body.
Momentarily blinded, Mick scrambled away and staggered to his feet, body racked with great coughing spasms.
Too many thoughts bounced around in Bruce’s head: Grab the knife – no, grab the gun – just get in the truck and drive away – wait, does he have the keys? He has my keys! Kick his head in and then grab everything . . .
He got to his feet and lunged forward, kicking at the hand that held the knife. But his kick was weak and did little more than annoy Mick.
Still spluttering, Mick gasped, ‘You’re gonna pay for this you bastard!’
Holding onto his wounded shoulder with his other hand, Bruce stumbled over to the truck. He looked into the driver’s side – the keys weren’t in the ignition. Around the back he found a tyre iron on the flatback. He grabbed the heavy metal rod and returned to Mick.
Mick, his coughing starting to ease, was spitting clumps of orange phlegm to the ground.
‘I’m gonna gut you and feed you your innards for dinner,’ he said, voice gravelly. He hacked again and squinted in the general direction of where Bruce was standing.
Bruce had to act fast. He ran at Mick, holding the tyre iron high. Mick turned towards him late as Bruce swung down.
The round end of the tyre iron struck Mick on the back.
Mick grunted. The bar jarred in Bruce’s hand, causing pain to shoot up and down his arm – the strike probably hurt him more than it did Mick.
‘You’re gonna have to do better than that,’ Mick laughed. ‘I can’t be hurt.’