Draw the Brisbane Line

by P. A. Fenton

  ‘Don’t be a goose,’ Al said. ‘Get some glasses of water.’

  Jenny let herself into the house, her bladder suddenly squealing at the mention of a bathroom. She followed Jim’s simple directions and couldn’t get her shorts down quickly enough when she spied white porcelain. Discomfort gave way to relief by steady degrees, and she was able to admire the small touches which lent weight to the existence of a wife: a floor apparently free of urine spatter for one thing, not something a man on his own is ever able to maintain; the walls were papered by a surprisingly stylish design, small black charcoal-rendered birds on cherry blossom branches, not the kind of thing she expected to see on a farm; a scented candle sat on a narrow shelf over the sink, half melted away in a bent puddle of wax.

  She heard glasses clinking in the kitchen, drawers being opened and closed with more force than was necessary. Banksia’s voice carried down the hallway, muffled but unmistakable. She had a show on HBO which Jenny watched whenever she felt nostalgic about the Australia she never knew. She had to go on late night cable because her exclamations often stretched beyond the safety of crikey and strewth when dealing with some of nature’s more unpredictable wildlife. Jenny once saw an episode where Banksia came across a zebra giving birth, with a lioness waiting to pounce from the right of shot. Swearing like a miner in an earthquake, she shouldered her rifle and shot the big cat in the head before assisting the zebra in the birth, colouring the footage throughout with language which would have resulted in criminal charges in earlier decades. Not so much the neutral observer.

  Jenny finished up and washed her hands on a plain white cake of unscented soap. Apparently feminine influence can only be allowed to extend so far. She took a mouthful of water from the tap and her stomach gurgled, like bubbles had just been activated on some internal jacuzzi. A chicken sandwich would make her giggle with glee. And potato chips? Oh God, sweet potato chips. If Jim had sweet potato chips in the house, she thought she might start to like him. Really like him.

  She wiped her hands on a stiff brown towel and made her way back down the hall. Somewhere between the bathroom and the front door, Banksia stopped talking. Everyone stopped talking. She thought, maybe they’re all drinking their water, but then she stepped outside and saw Jim still holding a tray with four full glasses in his left hand. In his right hand, down by his side, he held a rifle. Four glasses in his left hand and he didn’t appear to have spilled a drop. Good balance.

  ‘What are you doing there, Jim?’ Al said.

  ‘Bringing some water, like you asked me to.’

  ‘You planning on a bit of rabbit hunting maybe?’

  ‘She’s carrying a gun,’ he said, nodding in Banksia’s direction. ‘Thought it was only fair.’

  ‘Fair how?’ Banksia said. ‘Are we at war?’

  Jim chewed at his lip, looking between Al and Banksia for some kind of direction or prompt. Jenny walked slowly around to his left side.

  ‘Can I take that?’ she said, holding my hand out for the tray of drinks. ‘I’m pregnant and thirsty.’

  A brief flicker of understanding passed through Jim, loosening his shoulders and filling out some of the deep lines between his eyes, and he turned to Jenny and held out the tray. She took it with a slight tremble, trying to focus more on the water and how thirsty she was rather than the gun in his hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and he actually smiled and nodded. The smile was gone faster than it came on when he turned back to see Banksia with her pistol aimed in his direction.

  Jenny looked for somewhere to set the tray down but there was no furniture out on the veranda, so she lowered it to the dusty wooden decking. She picked up a glass and drank it all down without pausing for breath. She returned her attention to Banksia, who was still holding the gun.

  ‘Ya see?’ Jim said to Al. ‘Ya see that? I told ya.’

  ‘Told him what Jim?’ Banksia said. ‘That I was unlikely to be intimidated by your QTA militant bullshit?’

  ‘That you’re not one of us,’ he said to her, almost hissing. ‘You’re one of them.’

  ‘Them? Who’s them? The Russians? The Indonesians? Maybe the North Koreans?’

  ‘Can it, Jim,’ Al said. ‘You’re not speaking sense. And Banksia, please lower your weapon.’

  ‘Tell you what Al. I’ll holster my gun when he puts away that rifle.’

  ‘Jim,’ Al said, not looking at him. ‘Put it down.’

  Jim didn’t seem too keen on taking his attention away from Banksia, nor she from him, but Jenny saw him shake his head, slowly. She moved away from Jim, away from the line of fire, and when she was past Al she left the veranda and crossed the dry grass to join Tait.

  ‘Where’s my water?’ he whispered when she was next to him.

  She looked at the tray on the veranda, next to Jim. ‘I am not going back there to get it. You can help yourself.’

  ‘I think I’d rather drink my own urine,’ he said.

  ‘As long as it’s your own,’ she said. ‘Otherwise that’d be weird.’

  ‘Jim,’ Al said. ‘I said put it down.’

  ‘No,’ Jim said. ‘No. I want her off my land, now. You think we can use the actress, fine, but this one’s lost. She’s one of them, and I want her off my land.’

  ‘What do you mean you think you can use the actress?’ Jenny said.

  ‘What do you mean one of them?’ Banksia repeated. ‘Who’s them?’

  ‘Yanks,’ Jim growled. ‘You’re a fucken Yank.’

  Banksia shrugged. ‘Half. I’m also half Australian, but it’s a much bigger half. But the Americans are friends, Jim. They are us, not them.’

  ‘Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? We’re all one big happy western world, just stay on your side of the fucken line.’

  ‘Jenny,’ Al said. ‘I’m sorry about all this. But you could do some real good if you help us.’

  ‘Or,’ Banksia said, ‘you could come with me as I leave these nuts to their nutting.’

  ‘Over my dead body,’ Jim said, and began to raise the rifle.

  Banksia fired the pistol and a dull crack echoed around the hills. A small hole appeared in the flaked wood cladding just to the left of where Jim was standing, the rifle frozen at a forty-five degree incline. ‘Next one’s in your head, Jim,’ Banksia said. ‘Don’t raise your fucking gun at me again.’

  Shit, Jenny needed to pee again, and looking at the pale shock on Tait’s face, she thought he might too.

  ‘I appreciate what you’ve done for us,’ Jenny said to Al with a tremor in her voice. ‘I do. But we’re going to go with Banksia.’

  Al gave her a tired smile and nodded, like he always knew what the answer was going to be, given the company he kept.

  ‘Hop in guys,’ Banksia said. ‘Mine’s the black Range Rover, not the other rusty piece of shit.’

  She kept her gun on Jim, who lowered the rifle but didn’t put it down, and Jenny and Tait let themselves into the back seat. The interior was spacious and the tan leather seats were warm and the air was hot, but she shivered as though chilled. When she gave Tait’s shoulder what she thought was a reassuring squeeze, he jumped. They looked out the dusty side window as Banksia moved towards them, walking backwards and keeping her eyes and gun on the men at the house. Al raised his hand in their direction, and Jenny returned the gesture, but Jim scowled and clutched the stock of the rifle. Banksia slid behind the wheel and started the car without saying a word and they were immediately propelled at pace over the uneven landscape, bouncing towards the road and tearing up a dust cloud large enough to interfere with air traffic.

  Chapter 18

  Sammo couldn’t believe how stupid they all were, how they followed the rules even when the rules so obviously held them back. Cars and trucks and motorcycles choked the southbound highway, just keeping pace with the roadkill, while the whole of the northbound side sat there almost empty but for the odd car or semi-trailer. Not enough traffic, in Sammo’s opinion, to warrant sitting in the heat an
d the fumes in such a fine, rare automobile.

  He crossed over to the northbound side through the first service lane he saw. He swung straight across to the slow lane, figuring that might give him more time to avoid a head-on, and he dropped his foot on the accelerator of the LFA. They both screamed in glee.

  He knew it wouldn’t be long before more people had the same idea, and the northbound side became just as rammed as the southbound, so he kept his foot down. A couple of lorries charged past him in the opposite direction, and the car was nearly pushed off the road by their buffeting slipstream. Neither of them bothered blasting him with their horns.

  The speed soon began to feel normal, and he thought driving at the limit would probably be like walking. Fortunately, that crazy bitch had started off with nearly half a tank of petrol, so he had a good chance of making it to Brisbane before he ran it dry.

  When all the looting started to kick off, with everyone pissing off out of town as fast as they could pack, he thought it’d be an idea to stick around Noosa for a while, have some fun. He changed his mind when the fires started springing up. He had the car and a few thousand bucks he’d liberated from the tills of the shops along the beach-front, from those stupid enough to leave cash behind, so he thought it might be a good chance to see what was going on in Brisbane. Maybe head down to the Gold Coast too.

  He did think about taking Biff with him, for about five seconds. The big fucken retard was no doubt wandering around town, looking for someone to latch onto. He could be useful in a fight, but sometimes he took too long to get going. And getting him angry? Too much work. No, Sammo wanted to stay open to opportunity on this particular adventure, and Biff would probably slow him down.

  A white ute travelling north hit him with some horn. The ute was a pale dot in his rear-view mirror before he even had time to think about showing him the finger, so he laughed and let the LFA’s engine do his talking for him. The ride was so smooth, he couldn’t be sure the tyres were actually touching the road, or travelling on a thin cushion of air.

  He stopped at a house on the way out of town and used his black Spyderco folding knife to cut a couple of metres off their garden hose, figuring he might need a siphon at some point. He had no idea what kind of mileage the LFA got, but he didn’t think it’d be all that economical.

  One other thing he should have stopped for before hitting the road: a change of clothes. His shirt was heavy with the sour stink of vomit, and his body-heat cooked it into a rancid vapour, which was ever-present beneath his nostrils. Fucken rich bitch. First she spits in his face, then follows it up with a spew. Took him by surprise, he had to give her that.

  Smoke drifted across the road up ahead from the inside of a steady bend to the right, curling and wavering in the heat-haze above the blacktop. Sammo lifted his foot slightly from the accelerator, and the car immediately began to pull up. He felt as though he was holding reins instead of a steering wheel.

  God he loved this car. Wasted on that Lucas bitch, no doubt.

  He cleared the bend and saw the source of the smoke, a Commodore halfway up the shoulder with a small fire burning from under the bonnet. A young couple stood a few dozen yards behind it, their backs to Sammo. When they heard him, and turned to see him slowing down, they took a few steps further up the shoulder.

  He leaned out the window as he pulled alongside them. They were younger than him, maybe early twenties. They both wore a lot of Quicksilver and Rip Curl, looked like it was fresh out of the shop. The car was a black late model HSV, full spoiler and tinting and mag wheels. ‘What happened?’ he asked them.

  ‘Fucken truck,’ the guy said. ‘Bloody thing ran us off the road.’

  ‘Did it now?’ Sammo said. ‘Wouldn’t change lanes?’

  ‘Changed lanes at the last minute. Backwash blew us out of the lane and we hit a fucken emergency phone post.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Sammo said as he looked for the remains of the post, and soon saw it a few yards beyond the Commodore. He rubbed his right hand over his close-cropped hair, feeling it spring back against his palm as he pressed into it and released, pressed in and released. It had become a kind of habit, a tic, like fingering worry beads or cracking knuckles. ‘HSV is it?’

  ‘That’s what it says on the badge,’ the smart-mouthed prick said. His girlfriend didn’t throw in her two cents, she looked to be in shock.

  ‘Hmm, right.’ Sammo drove the LFA alongside the Commodore. It was most likely filled with a premium unleaded. The flames licking out from under the hood weren’t big, but still, he was going to have to be quick about it. He turned the engine off and walked around to the boot where he’d stashed the length of hosepipe.

  ‘Oh you’re fucken kidding me,’ the guy said as Sammo opened the fuel cap on the LFA and went to do the same to the Commodore. ‘You’re gunna steal our petrol?’

  ‘Not steal,’ Sammo said. ‘Save.’ He slotted one end of the hose into the burning car. If the fuel tank ignited, he’d quite likely be blown to fuck, but what the hell, right? He started sucking on the hose. Fumes flooded his throat, burned his sinuses how he imagined napalm might feel. He slotted the hose into the fuel tank just as the petrol started splashing out. The Commodore’s higher position off the road meant he might get as much as half a tank out of it, depending on how much was in there to start with.

  ‘Oi,’ the guy said, plucking up his courage. Sammo had at least a foot on him, and several kilos of bulk. ‘If you’re taking our petrol you need to give us a ride.’

  Sammo laughed. ‘Only two seats in this baby,’ he said. ‘I can take your girlfriend. She looks good company, eh?’

  ‘She’s my sister,’ he said, trying to give Sammo a hard stare.

  Sammo shrugged. ‘Fine. I can take your sister. She looks good company.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll just take this car,’ the guy said.

  Now Sammo laughed harder. This guy was really funny. ‘Mate, I think you should go and stand with your sister over there, before you get hurt.’

  He started fumbling around in his back pocket, and his sister came to life. ‘Jase, don’t,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah Jase, don’t. Whatever it is you’re doing there. Listen to your sister.’

  Jase eventually pulled a small wood-handled knife from the pocket, a fishing knife from the look of it. He waved it back and forth, probably just to disguise how much he was shaking.

  Ah, fuck.

  Sammo’s senses closed in to a narrow corridor of sight and sound. A muffled pulse beat away inside his head, throbbing at his temples. He felt his balls tighten.

  ‘Put it down Jase,’ he heard himself say. ‘Last chance.’

  He really did hope Jase put it down, hoped he was intimidated enough to let it go. Sammo didn’t like knives, and if they were being used in a fight, he usually found a reason to be somewhere else. Blades made him twitchy. But that didn’t stop him from carrying one.

  And where was the knife? Back in the fucken car. Genius.

  Jase didn’t put it down, and he didn’t back off. Did he sense Sammo’s discomfort? He stepped closer, holding the knife at chest height. ‘Step away from the car.’

  ‘You don’t know me, Jase.’

  Jase came closer. Surely he couldn’t be thinking of stabbing Sammo. He was probably hoping to use it as a threat only, but knives don’t work anywhere near as well as guns in that respect. With a gun, you know it can go off from any distance and do serious damage. But with a knife, you have to get close just to make it seem properly dangerous. Jase apparently realised this, took a few more tentative steps. With one long lunge, he could be in striking range.

  Sammo whipped the hose out of the LFA and flicked it at Jase, splashing petrol over his head and chest. Jase shouted and tried to wipe his face clean, but instead of backing off as Sammo had hoped, he came forward, still swinging that fucking knife. Sammo dropped the hose and stepped forward to grab Jase’s wrist. He thought he’d be able to give it a twist and make him drop the knife, but Jase was surprisingly s
trong, and propelled by momentum. Sammo staggered backwards in a clumsy dance with Jase taking the lead, both of them fighting for control of the weapon. Sammo tripped and they went down. Somewhere in the background Jase’s sister was shouting, pleading for them to stop. Jase’s hands and wrists were slick with sweat, but Sammo gripped them hard, wrenching and twisting them as they struggled on the grit of the roadside. Sammo twisted his hips and his shoulders, trying to get himself on top. He succeeded, straddling his opponent cowboy-style and Jase grunted something deep and wet.

  His sister was screaming now in throat-wrecking horror.

  Sammo looked down at Jase. The hilt of the knife jutted out beneath his chin and blood was suddenly everywhere. His eyes were flickering and rolling back and forth, his arms and legs tapping out Morse code on the blacktop.

  Run.

  Sammo didn’t look at Jase’s sister. He got off the body — not Jase any more, just the body — twisted the fuel cap back on the LFA and slid in behind the wheel and drove. He drove that car as fast as he could straight down the middle lane, heading southbound on the northbound highway, and if any of those other trucks or utes or cars didn’t like it then they could just go fuck themselves.

  Chapter 19

  ‘It’s me again. I hope this is you still being pissed off at me, and. Um. It’s OK if you are. Well, not OK, I don’t like it, but … I understand, and I’m sorry. And I really hope we can sort this out because, you know. You know. Anyway, I hope you’re OK, but if you do have your phone, please call me, OK? Please. It’s important. I’m coming to pick you up.’

  ‘No love you?’ Papetti said after Dave ended the call.

  Dave shook his head. ‘Pisses Jenny off, if we’re fighting. The way I know she’s forgiven me is when she says it first.’

  ‘How long has it been since she’s said it?’

  Dave counted the days in his head, measuring time by the number of nights on the sofa or in the bed on his own. Twenty-two days since the Big Fight, the one that might have choked off his happiness. ‘About three weeks.’