Gary hears her trying to think one way but feeling another. He’s back in their quarters, door locked, feeling trapped and—
Nathan catches my eye. Gives me a disgusted shake of his head. All I can do is shrug and set my eyes on the river behind us. I can’t condemn Tregan. Not when I came so close to being seduced in much the same way.
Jack will be with us soon. I wonder if there’s anything I could say—do, promise—that’d spare Nathan and Tajik. Maybe if I took the .38 from my waistband and pointed it at my head he’d let them go just to keep me alive.
White water washes out behind the Erebus. Smoke billows from the car crash site. Our best chance is that they stop there to investigate long enough for us to get to the coast. From there we can hide on some secret beach until dark. Work our way north. Get away. Get far away.
We look at each other in awe as we round a bend and see a private jet’s tail and fuselage towering up out of the water. Its wings are gone, nose and cabin beneath the surface, buried in the mud. As Tajik steers us clear of the plane, I imagine the last desperate moments on board. Maybe a rich owner, a billionaire, thinking he could get away, trying to fly his expensive toy himself. Finding there was no escape.
Tajik steers us between bloated bodies and drifting kayaks and anchored houseboats. We arc around elbow bends, race along straights, thud by reedy shores and vacant lots decorated with rusting car bodies.
I worry that the ripples we leave in our wake point like an arrow to the way we’ve gone. The day is brightening around us and I’m amazed to see there are streaks of blue through the smoke and clouds.
‘Do you think they’ll buy it?’ Nathan asks. ‘That we’re dead?’
The corpses in the car weren’t exactly the same size as us. We didn’t leave our rifles behind. It was about buying some time rather than staging the perfect crime scene. Besides: I think Jack will sense I’m alive.
I shake my head. ‘Not for long.’
We thrum past the empty Portland car ferry, stuck on its cables in the middle of the river. The shadow in the wheelhouse says the ferryman tried to stay as far as possible from the car-stacked approaches on either shore. Just a little farther from where the Colo flows into the Hawkesbury River, the Portland Bridge is crammed with vehicles. As terrible as that dead traffic is, it confirms our choice. However scary this boat journey, if we’d kept driving the car we would’ve had to abandon it there and we’d now be on foot.
We thump away from the ferry and bridge, shoot along river reaches between caravan parks, sluice through switchbacks carved deep between bush escarpments, our eyes turning constantly to the sky behind us. The Erebus churns by a fetid resort. Holidaymakers decay around log cabins and along the sandy beachfront. Around another corner we breathe easier in clearer air and wider water. Up ahead is the park-lined bend where Wisemans Ferry’s houses and shops nestle below the tip of a rugged bush ridge. We’ve reached the fork in the river. This is where we could follow the Hawkesbury east to the ocean—or take the narrow Macdonald River north deeper into vast wilderness.
‘Keeping going?’ Tajik’s glance back at us becomes a shocked stare over our head into the southern sky. ‘Oh.’
We follow his eyes. Twin dots circle the column of smoke in the distance. The choppers have found the car wreck. We watch as one black helicopter spirals away from the crash site and heads our way. Our decision’s made for us—the river east is too exposed—and Tajik twists the wheel and thrusts the Erebus at the tributary.
‘Go! Go! Go!’ we scream.
If we haven’t already been seen we’ve got seconds to lose ourselves.
The Erebus speeds into the mouth of the Macdonald. We’re flanked by dirt roads and floodplain pastures beneath thick bush climbing steeply to honeycomb cliffs. We’re not hidden. This part of the river is a gunbarrel. Aimed back at Wisemans Ferry.
It’s a nightmare. Like running in slow motion along an ever-lengthening hallway, knowing the boogeyman’s going to appear back there at any second.
The thup-thup-thup intensifies as the Erebus twaps across little waves. Nathan and I struggle to keep our rifles trained on the river mouth that’s not nearly far enough behind us.
The hateful black chopper swoops from the valley and into view over the delta behind us. Mercifully, its tail is to us as it patrols the shore of Wisemans Ferry. As it turns around, we churn hard into a river dogleg and behind a row of dense pines.
Somehow it seems worse that we can no longer see the enemy and don’t know if they’re chasing our wake.
Tajik speeds us through another bend. With every curve, more ancient bush piles up around us and the chopper’s reverberations seem both closer and farther away. I don’t think we’d know if it was about to pop up over the next cliff top.
Then the sound cuts out. They’ve landed somewhere. Hopefully at Wisemans Ferry. Our motor suddenly sounds deafening. Tajik powers down to a hum. But now it feels like we’re merely drifting—waiting to be found.
Thunder rips the sky. Rolls over escarpments. Bounces off rock walls. Fills the river valley ahead. Ripples up the water behind us. Echo on echo. Ever louder. There’s no way to know where it’s coming from.
We look around frantically. Tajik twists the throttle and the Erebus rears in the water and surges along the channel. I’m not complaining. We won’t be heard over the roar—but the helicopter causing it may drop on us from the sky at any moment.
‘Chinook!’ Nathan shouts.
The massive double-rotored chopper skims over bush-covered bluffs to the south as it spirals into Wisemans Ferry with that shipping container strung below.
Seconds later, the valley narrows, the hills close in, and the landscape hides us from view.
TWENTY-NINE
We race north on the river as it carves through steep gum-filled gullies and beside empty country roads.
‘. . . on the map it was the biggest town around here,’ Nathan is saying of Wisemans Ferry. ‘Makes sense they’d use it as a base. But they don’t know where we are. We could be hiding there, be back in Portland, in those holiday houses, miles of bush, we could be anywhere. I
I don’t mean to stop listening. It’s just that details and theories and possibilities don’t seem to matter anymore. I can only think one thought.
‘The radius,’ I say. ‘He’s reset it again.’
‘Yeah but—’ Nathan cuts himself off.
We’re out of buts.
‘Evan,’ I say, looking at my little brother, nestled down against the hull, head resting on the life jackets we should really be wearing. ‘As soon as he wakes up they’ll know exactly where we are. How long do you think that’ll be?’
Nathan’s throat tightens and he nods. ‘A few hours . . . max.’
If Alex was here, he’d suggest putting Evan over the side. I’m glad I don’t even see the slightest flicker of that in my friends’ eyes. But I know I’m the one Jack really wants. Nathan and Tajik might be able to get away if I stay behind with Evan.
We plough on, eyes and rifles on the hilltop horizons, ears alert for the thrum of choppers over the drone of our outboard. Bodies on the banks and in the water become more frequent as the river tapers and sandbars crowd in from the shores.
‘I think, this is it,’ Tajik says, easing the outboard down to an idle. ‘As far as we can go.’
From here the waterway is choked by stagnant pools and tall reeds. Up ahead a wooden bridge traverses the river and links the roads that have flanked us on both banks. We don’t need to see patches of buildings through branches to know we’ve hit a pocket of civilisation. The heavy stench tells us that. Tajik steers the boat up onto a little strip of sand. We sit in silence for a moment.
I pull liniment from my pocket and smear it under my nose.
‘Freshen up?’ I ask.
Tajik accepts the tube from me.
‘This is Samsara,’ Nathan says. ‘I saw it on the map.’
There’s no sense of triumph or escape. If Jack was back at the
air base in Richmond we’d be out of his radius. But Jack’s in Wisemans Ferry only a dozen kilometres behind us, which is only a few minutes away for his choppers.
Without even knowing it, I’ve made my choice.
‘I’m not going to keep running,’ I say. ‘I’m staying here with Evan. I want you two to keep going.’
Nathan and Tajik look at me with tired and bloodshot eyes. I expect them to say we can find another car. Chance a dirt road north. Risk blindfolding my little brother. Disappear into the wildness.
Instead, Nathan sighs with something like relief and nods wearily. ‘This is where I stop too.’
‘Me, three,’ says Tajik with a little smile.
A moment ago I was numb. Now my heart swells. These guys are willing to die with me. Me with them. Jack hasn’t been able to stamp that out of our spirits. His victory over us will only be physical.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
Nathan smiles. ‘Don’t mention it.’ He looks at the water, the sand and sky, ‘Check it out.’
We follow his gaze. Through tears in the brown smoke clouds, a streak of blue has appeared.
‘This is a beautiful spot,’ Nathan says, ‘It’s beach-like, beach-esque. We can put the tiki bar over there.’
I laugh—just.
We clamber from the Erebus and on to the sandbar, crabs scuttling away from our shadows. Tajik heaves Evan over his shoulders and we follow him up a grassy track that leads to a shaded children’s playground. A woman sits in the swing, hands tight around the chain, lank pink hair screening her slumped head.
Across a narrow road stands an old sandstone pub. Beyond it is a single intersection and maybe a dozen houses set into a steep hillside. On the other side of the river another handsome colonial building is set high among white gums. Above us is an acute angle of streaky sky between rugged bush escarpments. Visibility back down the valley stops at a bend only a few hundred metres away. The place feels like it’s hidden—and a cage.
‘We won’t see or hear them,’ Nathan says. ‘Not until they’re almost on us.’
I nod. ‘Well, we better be ready.’
A commune’s worth of people is spread around the car park and beer garden of the Rainbow Arms Hotel. Collapsed at tables, reclining against tree trunks, sprawled on grass and gravel in a carpet of broken bottles and cigarette butts. Some bodies bear terrible wounds but most are just spaced out with their dead phones and tablets.
I dig the crumpled packet of chewing gum from my pocket. It’s been soaked in rain and river water but the remaining pellets are still minty enough to help. I share them out.
Nathan laughs. ‘Hmm, that freshness burst,’ he says, echoing the brand’s annoying ad.
Nathan doesn’t bother with his stethoscope and we walk among the bodies to the open pub door. Inside, the public bar is dark, a few corpses in booths. There’s an oak bar, shelf bustling with spirits, rough walls decorated with paintings of Aborigines and convict labourers, sepia pictures of settlers and loggers, colour photos of New Agers and alternative lifestylers who most recently called Samsara home. Unless we’re going to drink our problems away, there’s nothing here for us.
We leave the pub behind, trudge onto the little main road. Pass the Chaistyle Cafe whose sign says it’s open ‘Sometimes’. The window to Antique Antics is filled with Walkmans, Super 8 cameras, handheld game consoles: the sort of retro stuff that was Mum’s specialty.
At the intersection, we look in every direction and see houses, bush, hills, high ridges. Diagonally opposite us is a weedy block of land. A faded sign says it’s for sale. I wonder whether the rusty tin shack at one end and a decrepit caravan at the other were offered as part of the property package.
Nathan’s asking me something but his voice seems distant as I slowly turn through a circle.
‘Danby?’
Tajik’s looking at me too. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Look around.’
Samsara, this little hamlet, is closed up tight. Every property except the vacant block of land is surrounded by tall trees. The few streets are lined with gums and oaks and telegraph poles. The roads in and out are set in thick bush.
‘What is it?’ Nathan asks.
I glance up at the sky and look back at them.
‘I think this is the only place choppers could land.’
‘Meaning?’ Tajik says.
‘I’m not sure yet,’ I say. ‘Let’s check out the other side of the river.’
We squeeze past a hatchback wedged sideways across the bridge. A steep dirt driveway takes us up the hill to the old sandstone courthouse that’s been converted into a bed and breakfast but is still called the Courthouse. Samsara is spread out below us. We’ve got a good view of the roads in and out.
The Courthouse’s heavy front door is locked. The curtains are drawn. Under a verandah, the back door is heavy steel and padlocked. In this alcove stands a barbecue, tall gas cylinders. Shovels and rakes and brooms lean against the wall with other gardening supplies.
Nathan picks up an axe and nods towards the kitchen window.
‘Shall I?’
He shatters the glass and uses the axe head to mash out the remaining shards. He pulls on old gardening gloves and climbs through the frame.
We meet him around at the front door.
‘Do come in,’ he says. ‘This place is sweet.’
Off a long floral-scented hallway there are four large rooms. In each there’s a welcome basket of soaps and neatly folded towels on big comfortable beds and water bottles on side tables. It’s heavenly. The deep lounge room has dark bookshelves and Chesterfield sofas. The kitchen’s bright and airy with a big rustic table. A wall clock ticks that it’s just after eight in the morning. At the back of the Courthouse, two sandstone cells that once held prisoners have been transformed into bathrooms, the original heavy steel doors kept for a bit of extra ghostly convict atmosphere.
‘Thank God,’ Tajik says. ‘I’m seriously in need.’
I take Evan from his back and he bustles into the toilet and bolts the door behind him.
Nathan opens the fridge and my stomach clenches then relaxes and rumbles. Eggs, tomatoes, oranges and apples and a jar of coffee and a container of long-life milk: none of the food has gone off.
‘I could use some breakfast,’ Nathan says.
I laugh. ‘Me, too.’
Nathan helps me carry my little brother to a bedroom and we ease him down on a soft double bed. I’m so tired I’d like to crawl in beside him. I’m running on five hours rough sleep on the grandstand concrete.
Nathan listens to Evan’s heart and breathing, brushes a tear from his cheek. ‘He’s still under.’
He takes out the last saline bag and hangs up an IV from the bedpost.
We don’t need to say it. After this, Evan won’t need us to hydrate him—he’ll be able to do it and everything else under Jack’s direction. Unless we remove that bastard from the equation.
‘He should be out for a while yet,’ Nathan says.
‘So we can just kick back and chill.’
He smiles and surprises me by stretching out beside Evan. I join him so that our heads share a pillow as we gaze up at the fancy ceiling and chandelier.
‘You know they could arrive before Evan comes around,’ I say. ‘Bikes, choppers, they’ll be out looking, they could still just—’
‘Sssshh.’ He finds my hand with his. ‘Let’s just take a minute, okay?’
We do. Then we take another one.
‘Hello?’
Nathan and I jump up like busted lovers.
‘We’re in here,’ I call.
Tajik appears in the doorway. We’re back on our feet, rifles slung over our shoulders, doomed and dishevelled soldiers.
‘How is your brother?’
‘He’s okay.’
‘Guys,’ Nathan says, ‘you wanna keep an eye out while I rustle us up some breakfast?’
While Nathan raids the fridge, I sit on the grass by a l
ow stone wall and watch and listen to the valley below. No bikes or choppers appear but the landscape isn’t still and silent. Birds claw along branches, dart between trees and flap over the river, filling the air with whip cracks and morse-code pips. Skinks creep out onto rocks to soak up whatever heat they can from the day and a black-nosed wallaby bounds along the road beneath the Courthouse. All around me there are insects and spiders and frogs and snakes and marsupials and whatever else. They’re not going to die today. They’re going to go on regardless of what happens to me and Evan and Nathan and Tajik. They’ll keep on no matter how far Jack extends his reach. Life won’t end because we die, any more than it began when we were born. Somehow it’s comforting to think it’s bigger than us all. Jack included.
I stand and walk to the outdoor table where Tajik has finished sharing our ammunition between our rifles.
He looks up at me. ‘Thirteen bullets each—that’s all we have. Thirty-nine in total.’
I touch the .38 in my waistband and grin. ‘Forty.’
Tajik smiles. ‘Well, in that case, we’ll be fine.’
‘Here we go,’ says Nathan, angling out through the back door with a tray of eggs, tomato and coffees. Nathan sets the breakfast down, ducks back into the Courthouse and returns with a letter and a big leather guest book. ‘Check this out,’ he says, taking his place at the table.
We eat as we examine what he’s found.
Tajik lifts the sheet of paper and reads. ‘Dear Parkers, Please enjoy your stay at the Courthouse. Happy New Year! Best, John.’
The poor Parker family never made it.
I flick through page after page of inscriptions left by those who did. They came here to celebrate birthdays and anniversaries and Valentine’s Day.
‘3rd visit, GR8 as always!’—Eddie Lazarus and Tilly Singer
‘Even the spiders are friendly!’—The Allen family
‘Better than our last time in a courthouse!’—Peace Out Crew
‘Girls weekend away—found a frog . . . still no prince!’—Suze & Gem
The declarations of good times stretch back a decade. I tell myself that fun can’t be undone—not even by everything that’s happened. Somehow in some parallel universe where all time exists simultaneously those people are still here and enjoying themselves and each other.
The Last Shot Page 29