by TJ Park
From whatever rode it.
Crazy thoughts. Nuts. Like imagining Cutter’s voice on the radio.
He had more than enough to worry about. Like the phantom light. It was still there, floating maddeningly out of reach, seeming like a callous wink, making fun of their poor efforts to catch up. It was impossible to tell if they were actually approaching it, or simply pacing alongside the damn thing. He even feared they were leaving it behind, though by rights that should be impossible if it stayed floating ahead.
The one fact he could rely on was that the jeep was very sick. It climbed out of the road ruts with heavier effort. The steering wheel was sluggish. The engine whined with no prompting. The wound-up windows could not keep out the stink of burning oil.
If all that wasn’t bad enough, their starlike companion had competition. The diffuse patches sparking left and right of the light could have been put there deliberately to mislead them. These flashes of brilliance extended along the rank and file of unseen hinterland, threatening to catch up to them before they could reach the winking light.
It was too much to hope that this storm, like the massive thunderheads of the night before, would pass on by a second time. Doug easily saw them losing their way, visibility reduced to a sweeping wiper swatting at a torrent; the dirt road turning into an endless corridor of bog, sucking down tyres.
He fixed on Mick’s tossed-off quip from the night before, the one when he had sardonically suggested they had died and were now ghosts. Jostled from side to side in the shaking cabin, his neck rigid with tension, a headache building from the stinking fumes, Doug couldn’t have felt less a shade.
Now if Mick had said they’d died and gone to hell, that he could believe.
Chapter Seven
In a cloud of stinking oil fumes, the failing jeep and its occupants were welcomed to “Y-Worry”: the name was burnt, cattle brand-style, into a board hanging over the gate.
A more conventional sign underneath stated they were entering a cattle station, as if the barbed wire fence, weed-filled cattle grid and steer’s horns lashed to the top of the milk-can mailbox weren’t a giveaway.
After Warlock opened the front gate they turned down a driveway that became a road trip in itself. But they were less anxious now. The min-min star they continued to follow was no longer a weak flicker, and it was motionless, no longer dancing around.
The three of them were cautiously beginning to congratulate themselves when a rumbling monster with two shining full moons for eyes came out from behind a copse of trees and bore down on them. Doug was set to crash the jeep into the ditch, but the behemoth turned away just before the fence line. After the sounds of “Shit me!”, “Jee-zuse!” and thudding heartbeats died down, they watched the fantastic, towering structure of the combine harvester as it rolled away from them.
Doug had one of the sawn-offs propped beside his seat. He’d kept it within quick reach every moment of their journey. Continuing to drive, he checked the safety and passed the weapon back to Warlock, not letting go until he saw that the punk’s fingers were nowhere near the trigger, all the while Warlock saying, “I’ve got it. I’ve got it. What have I got it for?”
“Find somewhere to stow the guns. Stick them under the plastic bags if you can’t find … no, wait. See if there’s a compartment back there for the jack. Put them in there. You hanging onto your pistol, Mick?”
“I’d prefer it.”
“I’ll keep mine, too. Warlock, put yours away with the other guns. And make sure you don’t shoot yourself – or us – doing it.”
Doug was prepared for an argument, but Warlock complied without a word. He’d had enough of guns. He leaned over the back and began shunting aside grocery bags until he found a compartment door like Doug said. He opened it, revealing a large jack and lever inside. Removing them he found that someone else had thought it would serve as a good hidey-hole as well. There was a tightly-bound bundle of cloth jammed into the far end of the cavity, out of easy view.
He swapped the guns for the bundle. It helped that the shotguns were sawn-offs.
Warlock plonked back down in his seat, looking over his prize with some trepidation. He recognised the symbols embroidered on the cloth as distant relatives to the motifs on a certain wall in a certain house. That alone might have persuaded him not to touch it, if it hadn’t been for the fact that the place was far behind them now.
He undid the beaded, leather ties that held the bundle together, then rolled out the cloth too quickly, the contents falling out into his lap.
“God almighty, Wally!” Mick yelled. “Did you release the A-bomb of farts back there?”
Warlock, indignantly said, “No.” But his reply was choked. The smell hit him hardest. It was like the stink of some exotic spice, too rich for civilised blood.
Mick twisted round in his seat to look Warlock over, but missed seeing what he had in his lap. “And clean yourself up! You look like a bloody criminal!”
***
The jeep limped over the more rugged sections of track, the engine noise rising in volume whenever it slowed. A banging started under the hood like someone trying to get out.
“That’s a new one,” Mick muttered.
But the swiftly worsening condition of their ride was not the tragedy it could have been. Warlock’s beckoning min-min light, growing by the moment, was briefly blocked by other structures. They saw the shade of a towering grain silo, and the black struts of a windmill etched into the subtly brightening night sky, along with the hulking shapes of other buildings.
They passed a neat little abode, almost a doll’s house, with a garden border of red geraniums, and a patchy lawn with a stunted tree not much taller than the clothesline attached to it. Warlock whined that they had gone past the place; Mick snapped that it was “the workers’ cottage, dimwit”. Their headlights had revealed dark, reflecting windows and an empty carport.
Next they drove past a huge, hangar-like structure – a shearing shed by the looks, Mick said – and when they rounded its corner, they finally caught up with the source of their wandering star.
It not only shone, it glittered. It was a long, low-stumped house, the ideal of a big country homestead. Standing in sweet isolation, it was a veritable wood and tin palace, the surfaces gleaming in the twilight with the distinction of pearl. The front and side verandas shone through ornamental iron lace, the interior lit up like a ballroom.
If the sick splutter-rumble of the jeep didn’t alert whoever was home, the mad barking of the dogs certainly would. The din started soon after they passed the workers’ cottage. Dark shapes ran alongside them, one dog briefly challenging the high beam when caught out by it.
Doug pulled up directly in front of the steps to the house, and the jeep was immediately surrounded by a pack of barking dogs, five or six of them. One howled like a vindictive old hag. Pondering his next move, Doug wound down his window, peering out. Mixed breeds, lots of bared teeth.
A boy burst through the front door of the house. Bounding down the veranda steps in one leap, he began chasing the dogs away from the jeep, threatening them with backhanders.
“Off! Off it!”
Unwilling to give up their quarry so easily, the dogs ran wide circles around the boy so as to take up their siege positions again, barking ferociously. Mick and Warlock weren’t as game to open their windows as Doug.
The boy, looking all of ten years old, fearlessly chased the dogs about, swinging kicks that would have connected if they hadn’t dodged so quickly.
“I said, get out of it, you stupid, stinking mongrels!”
The commotion began to taper off, until there was only the odd, jolting bark.
Doug leaned out his window.
“Hey, there. Is your mum or dad home?”
At his movement, the dogs were whipped into a fresh frenzy. They scooted around the boy to form new ranks, making a louder racket than before.
“Scott! What have I told you about putting your dogs away at night!”
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Arriving unnoticed in the commotion, a woman stood at the top of the veranda. Like the boy she was hard to make out clearly, mostly silhouetted by the glaringly-lit house.
“Just come out!” the boy shouted impatiently at Doug. He was engaged in pulling back the biggest dog by the collar. “It’s safe!”
“You sure?”
Doug wasn’t.
“Yeah,” the boy replied indignantly. He strained to rein in the keen, hang-jawed dog. The woman on the veranda neither agreed nor disagreed with the boy’s judgement. She just waited. Doug clicked his door open partway. The dogs were set off into an even greater uproar.
“C’mon,” the boy insisted, “I can’t hold him forever!”
Doug had to shout to be heard.
“What about the others?”
“Awww, they don’t wanna hump your leg as badly as this one does.”
Doug stuck his foot out the door. The dogs went nuts.
“Don’t do it, Doug,” Mick said behind him.
Doug couldn’t tell if the old man was teasing or not. He stepped out, planting one foot on the ground, then the other. The dogs miraculously parted around him and concentrated on barking at Mick and Warlock still tucked away in the jeep.
Doug didn’t fully shut his door, keeping his hand on the handle. The dogs continued to ignore him, intent on the other two. Seeing that Doug had been left alone, Mick exited and then Warlock warily did the same. The barking abruptly stopped. The dogs trotted forward, absorbed now by sniffing pants cuffs and snuffling boots.
The boy rushed forward with his captured dog and swatted the air in front of the others to drive them off. The woman remained in place on the veranda. Her features were unreadable in the same light that broke around her and nailed the three men to the spot. Doug could only wonder how they looked to her.
He checked out the dogs crowding them. They seemed goofy and cheerful now, but he’d seen for himself how swiftly their disposition could change.
The woman finally deigned to speak.
“How can we help you?” Her voice was strained, wary.
Mick hobbled forward, favouring a leg. “We’ve had an accident. Hit a roo.”
“Oh.” The woman’s demeanour changed on the instant. If there was anything else there before, she showed nothing but concern now.
“I thought it was something like that. Out here, a call at night usually means one thing – trouble.” She started to come down the steps. “Are you alright? Is anyone hurt?”
The old man canted to the left as if in a stiff wind. Doug, glad to do something other than stand there like a dummy, gave him an assist.
“No,” Mick assured her, “I just bumped my knee in the crash. Our jeep’s on its last legs though.” He grimaced at the unintentional pun. “We don’t want to intrude. We just need to know where we can scare up a mechanic.”
“I’m afraid the closest one is at Yurrodaw. You know it?”
Mick shook his head.
“It’s two hours drive. They’ve got a doctor there, too. Who was hurt?”
Doug became wary. “Pardon? No-one.”
She pointed at him. “There’s blood on your shirt.”
The three men froze. Doug could tell by the way Mick shifted in his grip that he was preparing to reach up for the gun under his shirt.
“What?”
Doug stammered stupidly to fill in the sudden silence. He looked down, then plucked his shirt away from his chest so everyone could see the mark better. A dry, maroon splash, smeared large, but still undeniably the blood-soaked imprint of someone’s hand. What a stupid thing to do, to forget about it completely, but it was easy to overlook something in plain sight all the time. It just became another stain.
The boy was fascinated, nearly letting his dog get away from him.
Doug recovered.
“Look at that. Must have got it from the roo.” He looked up at the woman sheepishly. “It got caught up in the bullbar. I was the lucky one who got to pull it out.”
The boy hauled his dog by the collar to the front of the jeep.
“Aw, mum! You should see the front. It’s all bashed in.”
“I can see well enough from here.” She turned to the men. “They’re terrible around here. Thicker than flies. But we can only cull the quota Canberra sets for us.”
She turned around, starting back toward the front door. Doug saw her briefly in profile. Her face was more welcoming than he first supposed. It was only her manner that was cool. “Come inside. We’ll figure out what to do with you.”
The dogs blocked the men’s way, interrogating them with as many sniffs as could be got away before they escaped.
“Scott! Put those dogs away!”
“Aw, mum! It’ll take ages!”
As Doug helped Mick up the steps, the old man leaned in, whispering: “Not too slow off the mark there, Doug.”
“I learned from a pro,” Doug replied. “Loved that pretend limp of yours.”
Mick grumbled. “What ‘pretend’? My foot’s gone to sleep.”
***
The woman held the door wide as they all trooped in. She wasn’t one for poetry.
“I’m Janet Clarkson.”
Doug was struck by her copper-coloured hair and eyebrows. She was very brown from outdoor work, but she was in no way wizened or dried out. Her eyes were such a steadfast blue it was hard to figure if they were shrewd or just looked that way.
The men introduced themselves: “Mick.” “Doug.” “Wayne.”
She was a handshaker. When Doug put his out, he held it up for inspection first.
“Don’t worry. I’ve washed,” he said.
She smiled back perfunctorily. “Don’t worry, I washed mine, too.”
Like the last place they’d stopped at, the living room fronted the house, but it was much, much larger. Two big padded sofas, an old recliner and its newer replacement sat before a home entertainment system that took pride of place.
Janet told them to sit down and make themselves at home; it was almost a command.
Mick hesitated. “We’re not impeccable.”
Janet waved his doubts away. “A little dirt won’t cross my eyes. You should see what the men tramp in with every other day.”
Doug’s hackles rose at the mention of men. How many?
Through an entry to a kitchen in back, a teenage girl moved from her place at the stove to see them better, a wooden stirring spoon in her hand.
“That’s my daughter … Lauren. Scott, you’ve already met.”
The girl ducked away, not out of shyness, but to check something on the stove.
“You’ve got good timing,” Janet told them. “We’re about to have dinner.”
“We don’t want to be a bother,” Mick said.
“I’m afraid you don’t have much choice. Not unless you think your jeep is up to going another two hundred kilometres.”
Doug and Mick shared a wince. Just the last half-kilometre alone had been trying, the smell from the engine as crook as a tyre on a bonfire.
“No,” Doug replied, “I don’t think we’d get that far.” He said it with regret. For themselves, for her and her family, for what was about to happen soon enough.
“Well, you’d better sit down then. My husband should be back soon. He went to reap some hay before the storm broke. Would you like anything? Coffee? Tea? Water?”
The men made their requests and Janet retired to the kitchen. Mick took the old recliner. Doug and Warlock sank into a plump couch each. They looked at each other. They scratched their chins. They looked around. Doug surprised himself with a yawn and forced it shut before it could fully emerge. He didn’t care to feel too cosy.
Near where they sat was a large fireplace made of scavenged brick, a tidy woodpile leaning beside it, prepared in case a cool night became a bitterly cold one. A few trophies and ribbons were set on the mantel, although they didn’t look like the best. They were probably leftovers from what didn’t fit on the show wall: one w
hole side of the living room was hung with framed and captioned photographs, the majority honouring a colossal, dark-rust coloured bull, while trophies gleamed inside a large display cabinet, most of them capped goblets with blocky, cubist steers on top.
Scott came running in through the front door, not saying a word as he swept past the men and into the kitchen, but eyeing them with great interest as he went. The kid was heavily freckled, though the spots seemed mostly faded from relentless sun, leaving him bleached and peeled to the point of almost being albino under his short black hair. He was very bright-eyed despite the developing sun-squint. And from first impressions, joyfully rough as guts.
It was also apparent that he had no fear and no tact. Evidenced by the first thing he said to his mum when he disappeared through the kitchen entryway.
“Maybe they’re the mob who stole the diamonds from that plane!”
The men froze in shock, helplessly listening.
“Shush! Don’t talk rubbish. They can hear you! Besides, it was opals, not diamonds. Help your sister get dinner ready.”
Janet came out directly with a tray of drinks. Who knew what she would have made of the looks on their faces if the loud rumble out front hadn’t distracted her.
“That’s him now,” she said.
Through the windows they saw the same spotlights that had surprised them on the track to the house. To Janet it was simply her husband coming home, but Doug found the hunched shape of the slow-moving harvester unnerving. It seemed for all the world to be seeking them out, as impassively and unerringly as a judgement.
***
Janet had been apprehensive on first seeing strangers pull up out front, for exactly the reason Doug feared. She and her family, like anyone else with a working television and radio, knew of the massacre at Mirribindi Aerodrome two days prior. If it had happened in a city like Brisbane, Cairns, or even Rockhampton, the people who lived out west like her would have considered it an urban crime, a barbaric act associated only with a heavily populated area. But to have it happen in a small country town … such an event touched everyone who lived in rural places, no matter how great the distances in between. The old adage applied: if it happened there, it could happen here.