by Carl Purcell
“I don't know anything about you or why you fight, Roland. But I've seen my share of fights, and people always fight best when they have something to fight for. Maybe that's why you lost the last one. Maybe the little guy had more to fight for.”
“He was an idiot who wouldn't back down.” Roland said through a sip of water.
“But he won, didn't he?”
“Yeah, he won. Sometimes you lose fights. I don't know why you're making this into such a big deal.”
“I'm just trying to figure you out. It's not every day you find a top class fighter lying hung over and beaten by the side of the road.”
Roland couldn't argue with that.
“Feeling any better?”
“I've still got a headache and your questions aren't helping.” That would make him feel bad. A good start. He'd had enough of Malcolm's crap and the only way to stop it was to put Malcolm on the defensive.
“Remember where your home is, yet?” Malcolm turned off the stove and piled the sausages on a plate. He picked up the sauce, retrieved some cutlery from a drawer and brought it all over to Roland.
Roland skewered a sausage with his fork and bit into it. There were no good answers to that question. Malcolm was winning the conversation.
“Let me refill your glass.” Malcolm took hold of the half-empty glass of water. Roland put his hand on top of it and swallowed, clearing his throat to talk.
“Let me ask you something,” he said, staring Malcolm down. The edges of Malcolm's mouth turned up into a subtle, almost invisible smile.
“Sure.”
“Who picks up a stranger by the side of the road, takes him to their friend's house to feed them, learns that they get their kicks beating people up and still tries to pry into their life?”
“I guess, I do.”
“Why?”
“Helping people is what I do.”
“Why?”
“Because it's the right thing to do.”
“You're an idiot – and you're the second idiot I've met recently who thought they could save the world.” Roland let go of the glass.
Malcolm took it to the sink. “We should all be so lucky to know that many idiots.”
“I just insulted you. I called you an idiot. Doesn't that bother you?”
“No.”
“Well, why the fuck not? What does it take to make it clear that I don't need your help?”
“Need or want?”
“Both.”
“All right.” Malcolm brought the glass back and set it in front of Roland. “Tell me you're okay. Tell me you're fine with your life and then tell me where I can take you, and that will be the end of it.”
Roland stared at his plate of sausages. They were crispy and oily and everything he needed for his hangover. But he couldn't enjoy them or the relief they provided. He took another bite so he wouldn't have to talk.
“That's a nice ring you're wearing,” Malcolm said.
“You actually like it?” Roland looked down at the stolen jewelled ring. His right hand was bare. That ring was still in his pocket.
“Yeah. It's simple but gold suits you.”
Roland followed Mal's gaze to his left hand and the gold band on his finger. He clenched that hand into a fist and glared up at Mal.
“Is there another one that matches it on somebody else's finger?”
“You want to know if there's a Mrs. Roland somewhere that you can take me to?” Roland forced another chunk of sausage into his mouth.
Malcolm shrugged. “Is there?”
Roland swallowed. The chunks of meat burned his throat on the way down. He kept staring Malcolm dead in the eyes.
“Can't remember that, either?”
Roland didn't answer.
He gulped down another mouthful of water without looking at Mal before standing and leaving the bar. He followed a corridor towards the back of the house. He claimed the first bedroom he found, closed the door and dropped himself on the bed. The mattress and covers nearly engulfed him. It was the most comfortable bed he'd ever laid on. More fucking luxury.
Roland sat up and began to untie his shoelaces. Half-way through, he erupted into a coughing fit. Red specks sprayed his hand. He stood up and took a step to the door. He needed more water. The motion of standing sent a surge of pain through his body. His chest felt like a New Year’s fireworks show. He couldn't draw breath between coughs. The world started to blur and blacken at the edges of his vision. The words heart attack flashed in his mind. The room spun upside down and Roland hit the floor. He tried to cry out but only coughed. He beat his hand on the floor, hoping Mal would hear. He thrashed harder, making as much noise as possible, until the pain became so bad he couldn't move.
The last thing Roland saw before passing out was Mal kneeling over him. His lips moved. He touched Roland chest. Then everything was gone.
He was lying in bed when he woke up; shoes off and hands blood free. He hurt in all the places he'd hit the floor; otherwise, he felt okay. He was confused but he was getting used to waking up confused. Every time he woke up these days he was somewhere different. A different hole in the ground, a different motel bed. He'd seen a poster once that said Home is where you hang your hat. If he'd been hanging his hat in all these places, did that mean they were all his home or did he have no home? Why did it even matter? He didn't own a fucking hat. That was a stupid poster.
Roland fought his way upright and out of the bed, freeing himself of the needlessly comfortable mattress. He stopped to listen for the sounds of Malcolm. He couldn't hear anything above the sound of his own breathing. It was safe. Trying not to make too much noise, he opened the door and made his way back to the kitchen. Sleep had left his mouth feeling like the Sahara in a heat wave. Roland's glass was still sitting on the counter but the sausage plate had been washed and left to dry by the sink. Roland took the glass over to the fridge and searched for liquid – anything would do. The only thing in the fridge was a spherical jug of something orange. Roland pulled it out and sat it on the bench in the centre of the kitchen. This was the orange juice Malcolm had mentioned- at least, he thought it was orange juice. Whatever was in the jug bubbled and had some kind of white sediment floating on the top. Roland unscrewed the top of the jug. An alcoholic smell, like methylated spirits, wafted from the bubbling orange liquid. Roland found a spoon and scooped off as much of the white sediment as he could, before replacing the lid and pouring the juice into his glass. It didn't look any better than it smelled but booze was booze. You weren't supposed to like it.
It tasted horrible but he forced it down. He told himself that he had to drink something to wet his mouth. Not drinking wasn't an option. After the first glass, his mouth still felt like it was made of sand, so he poured himself another drink. He told himself that going for the disgusting accidental home brew instead of the tap water was an innocent mistake. The next glass wasn't any easier to swallow and neither was the third one. By the fifth glass, he'd stopped caring and stopped making excuses. The sixth glass left the jug half empty. Whatever the orange juice had become tasted awful and there was no end to the white sediment that kept floating to the top. Roland didn't care. It felt good.
“Besides, I drink whiskey.” Roland shouted at the empty kitchen. “It's not like I have any taste, anyway!” He downed his seventh glass in one long slurp. His body finally screamed ‘enough’ and his stomach threw a tantrum. He vomited a hideous mix of sausage and fermented orange juice into his cup until it was overflowing, at which point he dropped the glass and the rest of his stomach contents into the sink. When the torrent ended, he fell to the floor and burst into messy, gurgling laughter. He couldn't help it. He couldn't beat Lloyd or Pentdragon in a fight, he couldn't beat Griffith or Malcolm in a conversation and now he couldn't even drink some piss-flavoured, accidental home brew without chucking like a teenage girl doing her first tequila shot. The whole miserable tragedy of his existence hit him with one crushing blow and it was hilarious. He had to laugh. Crying would
take away the last shred of dignity he had in his bruised, unwashed, vomit-soaked body.
He didn't notice that Mal was at the door until the lights came on. Mal looked down at him the same way he had when they first met. He looked like he wanted to cry for him. Roland hated him for that. But he still wished Mal would cry. He wished he had at least one person who cried for him.
Chapter 16
Griffith woke up shaking violently and smacking his head on the window.
“Ow!”
“Why the hell are we stopped in the middle of the road!” Caia demanded.
“The car stopped!” Griffith checked his head for bruising. “I think we ran out of petrol. And we're not in the middle of the road, we're on the side of the road.”
“We're lucky we weren't hit by another car in the middle of the night.”
“They would have seen us. We're hardly on the road.” His head was clear of bruises. Griffith opened the door and stepped out of the car, breathing deep the cold, damp morning air. Caia followed his lead out the passenger door.
“Where are we?”
“That's Warialda, there.” Griffith retrieved his backpack from the car and found the map. He wiped the dew off the roof of the car with his sleeve and unfolded his map. “Which means we're a couple of hundred kilometres from Salem. Oh! I just remembered what was so important about Inverell.”
“What is it?”
“We're off the Tablelands. We're not just half way there; we're officially out of Pentdragon's territory. His law no longer applies.”
“His law never applied. His law is bullshit. But at least we've put some distance between us and him.”
“Everything works out in the end.” Griffith folded up the map and slipped it into his bag. “Let's go get breakfast.” Griffith rounded the car, checking to see how close to the middle of the road he'd parked. Closer than he thought. A lot closer. He remembered getting to the side of the road but it looked like he'd been heading towards the wrong side. He said nothing and left the car there.
Warialda was still asleep when they arrived; only the bakery and service station were open for business. Griffith and Caia wandered from one side to the other and then back again, looking for what Caia insisted was a proper breakfast.
“I've lived off the land and I've had dead camper's scraps for breakfast, before. This might be a sad, tiny little town but it's a town with people and we're going to get a proper breakfast while we can,” she said in no uncertain terms. Griffith conceded. They eventually found a cafe opening its doors and starting business for the day. It was the only cafe open and it smelled of bacon. That made it a winner.
They ate quickly. Griffith pored over his map between bites and Caia tore into her breakfast roll like a cheetah into a gazelle.
“All right, I guess this was a good idea.” Griffith said after finishing his breakfast.
Caia kept eating. Griffith waited for her to talk but she wasn't interested.
“I probably would have skipped eating altogether if you hadn't made the decision for me.”
“That would be stupid.” Caia answered, before stuffing the last of her meal into her mouth. She didn't have anything else to add. Griffith wiped his mouth and stood up.
They left the cafe and followed the highway. They'd gained some distance now and left Lloyd in their dust. If he and Pentdragon were still on their trail, they'd have some catching up to do. The pilgrimage would continue on foot.
The town of Warilda began to wake up and the people started coming out of their homes just as Caia and Griffith put it all behind them and set their sights on the long, barren countryside. Rows of evergreens lined the road on both sides, separating the asphalt from the khaki coloured land and obscuring the horizon. A road sign marked: Gravesend 25.
“Do you think it's Grave Send or Grave's End?” Griffith asked.
“I don't know. Either way, it's not a town I'd like to live in. There's no good in the fate of a name like that.”
“If you say so.”
The Gwydir Highway ran through thinly spread trees and curved south of Warialda through more farmland as it snaked westwards before bending north again. Caia powered forward ahead of Griffith, slowing only to let him catch up before picking up the pace and leaving him lagging behind.
As evening set in, Gravesend appeared like all small country towns do – The highest roofs appeared over the tree line as the highway bent towards it. What seemed like it might have been a trick of the light suddenly became a tiny collection of houses with wide front yards. Near the centre of it all, an unnamed weatherboard pub advertising the main attractions of beer and an ATM.
But the town was wrong. Griffith noticed it as soon as they passed the pub. He slowed to a stop outside a red brick house with drawn curtains over every window. The street lights had come on but there wasn't a single light on inside or outside the houses. Cars sat in driveways and on the side of the road but not one had a person driving it.
“There's nobody here,” Griffith said.
“There are people here.”
“How can you tell? Can you smell them or something?”
“Yes.” Caia started towards the door of the brick house. “There are definitely people here somewhere.”
“Oh, you can smell them.” Griffith shrugged. Of course she could smell them. He felt stupid for even asking. Why wouldn't the animal woman be able to smell them?
Caia rapped her knuckles on the door. No answer.
“What are you doing?” Griffith asked.
“Knocking,” Caia answered.
“Well, nobody's home.”
“There's definitely somebody there.” Caia beat her fist on the door. Silence followed. Caia turned the door knob, pushed and the door swung open. Griffith grabbed her wrist and pulled her back.
“You can't just walk in there.”
“Of course I can. Let go.” Caia peered through the open doorway.
He let go. “No you can't!”
“Don't you want to know what's going on?”
“Of course, but that's no reason to start breaking and entering.”
“Nothing broken.” Caia walked through the door and called out: “Hello! Are you home?”
“Fine, you go through and look. I'm going to try to find some answers down the street.” Griffith left her and made his way back to the road.
Caia let him go and went further into the house. Why was Griffith so hung up about going into people's houses? If there was anybody there to complain, she'd just leave. It wasn't as if she was there to kill them. She didn't do that any more.
Somewhere towards the back of the house she could hear low voices. She followed the sound through the kitchen and past the master bedroom. She tracked them to a living room at the back of the house. A television showed a DVD menu screen, looping the same clips from the film. Now that she was at the door to the living room she could hear soft snoring. The presumed man of the house reclined in his chain in front of the TV, eyes closed and mouth open. Caia stood for a minute, deciding what to do. He was a heavy sleeper but there was nothing unusual about that. But there was something eerie and unusual about Gravesend. She approached the sleeping man and prodded him with a finger. He kept sleeping. Caia slapped him across the face and he rolled away, nearly dropping out of his chair. He kept sleeping. Trying one more time, she put her foot on the arm of the chair and kicked it over. Man and chair flipped and fell to the floor and he went on sleeping like the dead.
“Ah, shit,” Caia muttered and started running back for the door.
Griffith tapped on the window of a dress shop. Beyond the display pieces, he could see a woman slumped over some books on the counter. She either didn't hear him or didn't want to hear him but he wasn't going to get anything from her. Griffith tried the pub across the road from the dress shop. The lights were on and the open sign hung on the door but there was no sound from inside He expected the roar of chattering crowds muffled by hard rock to explode from inside as soon as he opened the d
oor; instead, he opened the door to more silence. He followed the empty sound to the bar and finally he found the crowds of people he was looking for. The pub was busy with men and women, sleeping in their chairs or spread out across the floor. He could hear the collected sound of their heavy breathing but that was the only sign that any of them were alive. He shook one, tapped another and even tipped a beer over one man's head. Nobody stirred. A waitress on the floor still held an empty bowl, chips scattered over the floor in front of her. Griffith picked up a chip; it was cold. Not uncooked, just cold.
He crossed the room and, feeling a little more daring than normal, explored behind the bar. The bar staff were collapsed on top of each other on the floor in a pool of beer. Two of the taps had been pulled but no beer flowed. Griffith stepped around them into the kitchen, then into the office beyond that. The scene was the same in every room: What people he could find in Gravesend were in a deep, unshakable slumber. He fled back to the street. There, he spotted Caia, further down the street, calling for him.
“Over here!” He answered.
Caia ran to meet him. “Did you find them?”
“The pub is full of people asleep.”
“The house was the same. This isn't normal. We need to get out of here.”
“We can't go, yet. We have to help them! Plus, if we leave now we'll be out in the middle of nowhere all night. Who knows what will happen to us?”
“I trust out there more than I trust here. Whatever put them to sleep might put us to sleep next.” Caia stood light on her feet, shifting, ready to start running.
“Caia, we have to do something. This has got to be magic and, if it's magic, we can reverse it.”
“Not if we're put to sleep, too. We don't know what's doing this or how the spell works. We can't fight it. Not now.”
“Are you tired?” Griffith asked.
“No.” Caia breathed deep and settled. “No, I'm fine. You?”
“I'm okay. I've got lots of energy. So whatever is doing this hasn't hit us – yet. We have some time to look around, then.”
“Griffith, this is reckless. Didn't you say there was no more getting side-tracked until you reached Salem?”