When there’s nowhere else to Run

by Murray Middleton

  ‘I haven’t really decided yet.’ Even though Emily’s dad had never actually asked whether she wanted to work at the stables when she was older, she was sure that he wanted her to.

  ‘Well, I thought you were the star of the show,’ said Marilyn.

  ‘Me too,’ said her mum.

  ‘And I think you’re going to be a famous actress someday,’ added Marilyn. ‘If you want to be.’

  Emily’s dad chuckled.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Marilyn.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, still chuckling.

  Emily ran her fingers along her forehead. The foundation was starting to feel crusty. Had Mr Whitlock liked seeing her with make-up on? She recalled the intensity of his gaze in the audience. There was no doubt anymore that he wanted her to meet him at the lake.

  ‘What’s the name of that boy you were married to in the play?’ asked Marilyn.

  ‘Sam,’ said Emily, already knowing where it was going.

  ‘I sensed definite chemistry.’

  Emily shook her head. ‘He’s not my type.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Marilyn. ‘I think he’s going to be very handsome.’

  ‘Why don’t you date him then?’

  ‘There’s no need to get defensive, sweetie.’

  ‘Leave her alone,’ said Emily’s mum.

  They were almost home. She stared at the foggy rows of the winery, hoping that she’d finally be able to get some sleep tonight. Marilyn was doodling on the window, her finger trembling. Emily’s dad slowed the car as they approached the pine tree plantation.

  ‘That could be a good one,’ he said, pointing to a small tree on the side of the road.

  ‘You just concentrate on driving,’ said her mum, slapping him on the shoulder.

  Two weeks before Christmas every year, he’d take the HiLux out at night and saw down a pine tree from the side of the road. Afterwards they’d all decorate it in front of the fireplace. He always boasted that he was saving the family forty dollars on a tree, but Emily suspected that he’d saw one down every year even if it didn’t save them money.

  ‘All I’m saying is, it’s got potential,’ said her dad, not daring to glance sideways. ‘You’ve just got to picture it in another four or five months.’

  ‘You’re on your last warning,’ said her mum.

  Even though it was too dark to see her expression, Emily knew her mum was smiling.

  ■

  Her drama teacher kept the class back after the lunch bell to run through the schedule for the bump-out. Then the other kids kept asking annoying questions about the after-party. Sam assured everyone that his dad wouldn’t care if there was drinking. Emily kept glancing at the clock on the classroom wall. He’d probably be at the lake already. She felt like she was going to throw up. When the class was dismissed thirteen minutes late, she told Maddie she was busting and made a run for it.

  She was panting by the time she emerged from the underpass. Two buses were parked at the terminus. There was an interschool football match going on. Boys with square shoulders were shouting and whistles were being blown. Some of the girls from her year were barracking from the hill overlooking the oval. They were so pathetic. She tried to sneak behind the cricket nets without anyone noticing her. The grey-bearded driver from the last three mornings was standing in the shade, leaning against the nets and reading a newspaper. He glanced up as she walked towards him.

  She climbed down the slope that led to the nature trail, being careful not to slip on the grass, before breaking into a jog again. The sun was poking through the tall trees and most of the mud on the trail had already dried out and hardened. It was difficult running in her school shoes because they kept losing traction on the dirt. Her heart was racing. Perspiration streamed down her forehead. She was starting to get a stitch. There was barely any saliva left in her mouth. She hoped her breath didn’t smell. She reached into her blazer pocket and took out a packet of chewing gum that she’d bought from the canteen at recess.

  Every stride was bringing her closer to him. It was probably best this way, meeting him head on, so she could finally stop thinking about it. He’d know what to do. She was happy to abandon the play, if he wanted. She didn’t care where they had to go or what they had to give up to get there. She could keep any secret. But could the bus driver? He definitely knew something was going on and for some reason that made her feel guilty. Was it too late to turn back? They hadn’t broken any rules yet. But it felt like something had already begun, something serious, and she’d regret it forever if she didn’t go through with it.

  Life wasn’t meant for regrets. There was no use ending up like Marilyn, pretending to be happy with the hand life had dealt her. What was she doing right now? Probably sitting at the kitchen bench with a midday soap playing in the background, working away at the jigsaw and waiting for the swelling to go down. They’d found the mountains and the trees the night before. All that remained now was to find the rest of the water and to work their way into the bodies of the wild horses.

  Marilyn could finish the puzzle by herself, and Emily didn’t care if she never saw another one of her aunt’s colourful outfits. The fascinator she wore to Jubilee Mile’s last race was so over-the-top. The race had been up in Wangaratta and Jubilee Mile was taking on a galloper from the city over twelve hundred metres. She set the pace for most of the race, just like she was supposed to. Usually once she hit the front in the straight, no horse could get near her. But something went wrong. The jockey knew it straight away. He tried to relax her. She faded and finished near the back of the field.

  The vet was already at the stalls by the time the family got there. No one knew what to say. Then Jubilee Mile’s hind legs suddenly gave way, then her forelegs, and she was down, the big muscly shining weight of her still and heavy on the ground. Emily’s dad was panicking in a way she’d never seen before. It didn’t suit him. As the stewards started arriving, Marilyn had picked Emily up and carried her away. She struggled in her aunt’s arms, just wanting to see it all for herself, hearing the murmur spreading through the grandstand, that lull just before something big and important happens.

  No one was holding her back anymore. She could imagine what it felt like to be a horse, drawing oxygen into her giant lungs and galloping towards the winning post. Her stitch had miraculously vanished. She was so close now. He was so close. She couldn’t quite believe it was happening. She rounded the final bend and there he was, just as she’d imagined, sitting on the rock. Everything was so still. He smiled knowingly and put down the style guide, as though nothing out of the ordinary was about to take place.

  HINTERLAND

  ‘Good luck,’ said Sonny, shielding his eyes from the glare and squinting through the open window of the yellow kombi.

  He was left standing on the side of the old Pacific Highway, looking out over the lush, subtropical terrain of the Brunswick Valley. He slung his backpack over his left shoulder and set off.

  By the time he’d walked all the way to Uncle Tom’s Pies, he wasn’t hungry anymore. Two petrol bowsers stood out the front of the roadside bakery. He’d always loved the smell of petrol. It reminded him of being out on the boat with his dad at Blackwall Reach, fishing for mulloway, when he was supposed to be sitting in a cramped classroom.

  He turned left and followed a sealed road in the direction of town. He stuck up his thumb out of habit, not caring whether anyone pulled over. It was around three o’clock in the afternoon by his reckoning. He was getting better at guessing the time. A fortnight ago he had donated his watch to a young boy in a roadhouse on the Eyre Highway. He already missed the dry heat of the desert.

  No cars passed by in either direction for the best part of half an hour. He lowered his right arm and climbed a steep hill, enjoying the strain on his calves, which were bronze, taut and hairless. Even though it wasn’t particularly hot, the back of his shirt was sopping. At the top of the hill he caught sight of a mountain that soared above the rainfores
t, piercing a bed of white clouds and dwarfing the township of Mullumbimby.

  Vast rows of banana plantations stretched across the surrounding hillsides. He didn’t eat bananas anymore. The price had quadrupled since the cyclone up north the previous summer. He was happy to go without small luxuries if it kept him on the road a little longer. There’d have to be a job soon, though. He just hadn’t found the right place.

  On the outskirts of town he passed a group of stilted houses with tiled roofs. The houses were painted aqua, lime and peach. It reminded him of a big fruit salad. The front porches were cluttered with old mattresses, camping chairs, pot plants and deflated footballs. Most people’s lives were one big mess, he was starting to realise, and maybe he was lucky to be rid of it all, not tied down in any way, even if things did get a bit lonely from time to time.

  He stopped at an op shop that was inside a Seventh-day Adventist church. It was closed. Clothes were scattered across the car park and a stack of crockery was leaning against an overflowing charity bin. He sorted through the clothes and picked out a long-sleeved shirt that he could see himself wearing to a job interview.

  He crossed the railway tracks. Thistles protruded through the planks and the platform was deserted. He remembered what the widow who’d given him the lift had told him when he asked about work in the local area. Three years ago trains had stopped running between Casino and Murwillumbah, she’d said, as though the town had already been written off the map.

  Even though she was a local, she didn’t seem to care. She didn’t seem to care about much. Her husband had suffered a brain haemorrhage the day before his forty-second birthday. Sonny had no idea what any of the medical terminology meant, in spite of the widow’s lengthy explanations. He’d just sat there next to her in the kombi and nodded, feeling the engine eating up the kilometres that he no longer had to walk.

  ■

  The publican at the Middle Pub was standing behind the main bar, polishing a rack of pint glasses. An elderly man with a grey crew cut was slouched over the bar talking to him. Every so often he glanced over his shoulder in Sonny’s direction. Sonny didn’t think the publican needed any help behind the bar and there wasn’t much else going on in town from what he could see out the window.

  Sonny finished his beer and walked over. He decided to wait until there was a pause in the conversation before ordering another beer.

  ‘It’s easy for you,’ the elderly man was saying to the publican. ‘You’ve got a great commodity.’

  The publican made eye contact with Sonny, but before he could order, the elderly man laid a hand on Sonny’s forearm. His grip was surprisingly strong. ‘Guess how long I’ve been selling fuel,’ he said.

  ‘Leave him alone, Turbo!’ said the publican.

  ‘He doesn’t mind,’ said Turbo, maintaining his grip. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  Sonny shrugged.

  ‘See, he doesn’t mind. Go on, guess how long.’

  ‘You don’t have to guess,’ said the publican dryly. He slung a damp tea towel over his shoulder and slotted the rack of pint glasses underneath the bar.

  ‘No, no, he wants to have a guess,’ said Turbo. ‘I can feel it in my bones.’

  ‘I’ve got no idea,’ said Sonny.

  Turbo took a gulp of beer and grimaced. There was something about the grimace that reminded Sonny of his dad and all his dad’s old friends.

  ‘Go on, have a guess. Pick a number.’

  ‘I can’t think of a number.’

  ‘Jesus almighty, they breed them dim these days. I’m worried this young fellow won’t even land a job stacking shelves at Woolies.’ Turbo produced a spurt of laughter. ‘Alright, alright, I’ll tell you. Twenty-one years. Twenty-one years of sweat. But we all know the drill. The big boys come to town and the rest of us just get swept away.’ He finally released Sonny’s arm.

  ‘Do you know of any jobs going at Woolies?’ asked Sonny, trying to be proactive.

  Both Turbo and the publican looked at him like he’d said something shameful. He was starting to feel like this wasn’t the town for him and that the bright lights of Tweed Heads might be a better bet.

  He bought a schooner and returned to his stool by the window. The sun had finally breached the low-lying clouds and was gushing over the palm trees. Rainbow lorikeets were chattering away in the branches. Aside from three dodgy-looking kids lingering outside a pizzeria, the main street was dead. There’d even been more action in Bangalow.

  Sonny spotted a crumpled form guide on the floorboards near his feet. There was only one race remaining at Randwick, but there was a night meet at Ascot in Perth. He’d grown up in a flat a few kilometres from the track. He used to love it when his dad took him down to the track to watch visiting horses labour when they hit the uphill straight. They’d laugh like it was just the two of them in on the joke. But even then when he could see his dad’s yellow teeth, a part of Sonny still knew that his childhood wasn’t going quite how it was supposed to.

  He read the form guide and marked the horses he liked with a red pen. When he’d finished he stood up and walked into the small sports bar, but there was still ten minutes until the final race at Randwick. It was probably a good thing that he was trying to watch his money. He knew that once he placed that first bet, no matter how good he was feeling about it, his life might as well be over.

  He went and had a good look at the slot machines. He understood how it could all become comforting, like a home away from home. That patterned carpet, the glowing screens and the high-pitched noises from the machines. Sonny’s dad once drunkenly told him that the only two spots where time never dragged were out on the water and playing the slots at the casino.

  He joined a small congregation in the sports bar to watch the final race at Randwick. It was a Group 3 handicap. His money would have been on an outsider to run a place. He rated the jockey. Besides, there was no value in betting on favourites. The horse missed the start, but ran gallantly through the middle stretch. It got boxed in on the rail when the field turned for home. The jockey led the horse wide in an attempt to gain a run at the post, but it was no use. The horse ran a narrow seventh. Sonny decided it probably wasn’t a bad sign.

  ■

  A three-piece band was tuning up on a small stage in the corner of the main bar, where tables and chairs had been shifted out of the way to make a temporary dance floor. Sonny ordered a beer from the publican’s wife, a heavy woman who looked like she could hold her own against anyone in the bar if push came to shove. He couldn’t wait to get that next schooner into his body. He was feeling a bit of a buzz coming on, which was a rare thing, probably because his dad let him try it out on the boat when he was only nine years old. There’d been a few chunks in the water afterwards, but it had all been smooth sailing after that.

  He settled on a stool at the bar and faced the stage. The band began their set with a slow blues song before shifting into an upbeat country number. Some devoted locals took to the dance floor. They seemed to be hearing notes that escaped Sonny’s ears, but then he didn’t really know much about music. He would have liked to play an instrument, and to be up on stage, but he doubted that he’d be able to hold a rhythm.

  The guitarist broke into a solo and an emaciated man with a long rat’s tail performed a strange dance, his legs quivering uncontrollably. He opened his mouth and wailed over the top of the music. No one seemed to mind. He was missing most of his teeth, which allowed him to unfurl his tongue and ripple it in time with the music.

  A young Aboriginal man shuffled his way from the dance floor to the bar and took the stool next to Sonny. ‘Woo-ee!’ he said, wiping his brow.

  Sonny took a long drink from his beer and continued to watch the man with the rat’s tail, who was now crooning to a nearby woman. He wasn’t getting much enthusiasm back.

  ‘Bullfrog will go all night, don’t you worry about that,’ said the Aboriginal man, releasing several short breaths.

  ‘I’m sure he will.’
/>   ‘The name’s Roy,’ said the young man, offering his damp palm.

  Sonny introduced himself and Roy repeated his name out loud. Sonny often found that people enjoyed saying his name. He wasn’t sure why.

  Roy ordered a shot of tequila. ‘I live upstairs,’ he said, pointing at the ceiling. ‘I’m the only permanent lodger. There was a bloke named Sid and his daughter, but they shot through last month. We’d been working at a site in town.’ He surveyed the dance floor.

  ‘What kind of site?’ asked Sonny, hoping that something might come his way out of it.

  ‘An unpopular one, if you follow my meaning. We started the job six months late, lots of protesting and angry letters. I try to stay out of it. The way I see it, none of it’s on me.’ Roy knocked back his shot of tequila.

  ‘Word is we’ll be finishing up soon. Not fussed either way. This is a nice place,’ he said, looking Sonny in the eye, his hair glistening with gel. ‘Sure as hell nicer than where I come from.’

  Roy’s face was round and cushioned and he had more wrinkles than Sonny, even though he didn’t look much older than eighteen.

  ‘My girlfriend’s staying with me tonight,’ said Roy. He pointed at a slim girl with long limbs on the dance floor. ‘She goes to school in Lismore. Every Saturday night she comes to stay with me, lies to her parents, says she’s sleeping at one of her friends’ houses. We don’t get much sleeping done.’ He nudged Sonny. ‘Truth is, we’re not supposed to see each other anymore.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Danielle.’

  Sonny finished his beer and ordered two more schooners.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ said Roy.

  They watched Danielle sway to the music. No one else in the bar was swaying. She kept her eyes closed the whole time. Every so often she ran her fingers through her hair, allowing it to fall over her exposed shoulders.

  ‘If you don’t mind my saying, she’s very beautiful.’

  ‘Music to my ears,’ said Roy, slapping Sonny on the back. ‘I’m hoping to put a ring on her finger sometime soon. I’ve just got to figure out the right way to make it happen. Hopefully I can put away enough money here to buy a nice big diamond ring, something she’ll remember forever. Don’t want her telling her friends I skimped on the ring.’