Pulling the Moves

by Margaret Clark

  ‘Come on, Sam. Into the van,’ he says, draping an arm round my shoulders.

  ‘It’s getting light,’ says Zac. ‘Let’s get back on the highway, grab a burger or somethin’, then go bush again.’

  I don’t know how they do it, but they find the highway and we rip down it, fast. No traffic. No cops. It’s like the end of the world’s come and we’re the only ones still in it. Then I see the lights of this truck, coming fast. Human life. I wish I could signal, but what’s the use? It’s going like a bat outa hell, and the van shudders as the rig flashes by, going like stink.

  I’m still figuring. What time did this crew nick the van? I look at my watch. It’s now seven on Saturday morning. It’s a three-hour drive to Portland and we’re not there yet. Must be close, but. We had the petrol stop and the piss stop. Still … must be near the border. And there’s a sign. Portland one way, Hamilton the next. And an all-night roadside truckies’ stop. Macca zooms off the highway and screams to a halt.

  ‘Don’t muck about,’ he says. ‘Burgers, fries, Cokes.’

  He hands Cola some notes.

  ‘What about Sam?’ she goes. ‘Will I get him something?’

  Amazingly I’m hungry. I could go a burger and fries. And an icy cold Coke. I look hopeful. Zac swings round and glares at me. Coming off the goey’s not mellowing him at all: he’s tired and mean.

  ‘Forget it,’ he goes. ‘Hostages don’t get fed.’

  Great. I’m supposed to starve before I die?

  ‘Nah, he’s all right. Get him a burger,’ says Macca.

  Cola climbs out over Zac who’s not budging, and swaggers off.

  ‘Hurry up, hurry up!’ Zac’s drumming his hands on the dashboard. He’s getting edgy and that’s a worry.

  ‘I’m drivin’,’ he says suddenly.

  ‘No way, man.’

  ‘I’m drivin’.’

  I think Macca’s going to lose it and punch out Zac’s lights, but then he suddenly slumps against the wheel. The drugs are wearing off and he’s coming down.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he mutters. ‘Whatever …’

  It’s time I split. Here I am in the middle of civilisation. I can get help. I shift slightly and Zac’s hand leaves the dash and grabs me by the hair.

  ‘You ain’t going nowhere. Sit!’

  Well, it was a good idea.

  ‘Come on.’

  Zac glares in the direction of the roadside cafe. ‘What the hell’s she doin’?’

  ‘Here she comes,’ says Macca, raising his head.

  Cola saunters out, taking her time, balancing a heap of food and cans.

  ‘Had to wait for them to heat it up,’ she says.

  I get a good look at her. Thin thighs in dirty white jeans. Torn T-shirt. Her clothes look like they need a good wash. But she’s sort of cute in a weird way. Clean clothes, hair brushed … yeah …

  She passes me a burger. And a Coke. We eat. Then Macca slides across as Zac gets out and comes round to the driver’s side. He guns the unit and we’re off again down the highway. His driving’s not so crazy. It’s a miracle we’re still alive after Macca’s maniac driving. Steve’s probably got a million stabilisers built into the chassis. If this van hadn’t been so stable I reckon we’d all be dead by now.

  ‘Portland,’ goes Cola, pointing at a sign.

  ‘Roadblock,’ goes Zac.

  He slams on the brakes and my burger flies across the van as I lose my balance and hit the far wall with a crunch. I land on the burger and squash it flat, but who’s fussy? I crouch and peer over the back seat. There’re cops galore, and three cop cars. It’s just like The Blues Brothers, only we’re not in a shit-box Dodge but a shit-box Holden.

  ‘Not a roadblock. It’s a random breath-testing unit, a booze bus to cop the nightclubbers,’ I say, but they’re not listening.

  ‘Hold on,’ says Zac, and belts the accelerator down hard as he twists the wheel.

  The Holden gives a surge and we bore straight through a fence and across a paddock, going like a space missile.

  ‘Watch out,’ I bellow.

  We’re heading straight for a tree. I shut my eyes and brace myself for the crash. The van lurches wildly. Miraculously we miss the tree and keep going.

  ‘Way to go, man,’ says Macca, gripping the dashboard.

  There’re burgers, papers and Coke cans flying through the air. We rip through a paddock, scaring a bunch of cows outa their brains, and skid through some trees, and crash through another fence. A cop car’s given chase, trying to catch us but the cops value their lives: they’re not going to drive like it’s the last day on earth and kill themselves, are they? They fall behind. We zoom across another paddock, through another fence, and we’re back on the highway. We’re roaring through the City of Portland at 120 k, forget the 60 zone. I blink. Goodbye, Portland. That was the quickest visit in history!

  We’re flying down the road. It’s only a matter of time before we run outa juice again.

  ‘Turn on the radio,’ goes Macca. ‘We might be on the news.’

  Cola switches on the radio.

  ‘And Southern Victoria will be experiencing gale force winds east of Wilson’s Promontory,’ drones the weather man. ‘Showers, hail, a top of 12 degrees.’

  ‘Nothin’ about us,’ says Macca, after turning the dial to different stations.

  All he gets is static. He bangs the radio with his fist and skins his knuckles. He’s got this freaky look.

  ‘We gotta calm him down. Get him some Rohies or Serries,’ says Cola.

  ‘You’ll have to go back to Portland,’ I say.

  ‘I’m sick of all this. Let’s go back,’ says Cola. ‘I didn’t want to go with you guys in the first place.’

  She looks scared.

  But Zac jerks at the wheel to turn the unit round.

  ‘Hey. Man. Steady on!’

  The van swerves all over the road. Cola screams. Macca tries to seize the wheel. I reach over, grab Zac’s long red hair and try banging some sense into him by jerking his head hard. Zac fights to control the van, dodging two oncoming cars. Macca slumps back as Zac gets control.

  ‘He’s been speeding for two days,’ Cola says to me.

  ‘Driving like this for two days? No wonder he’s freaking,’ I go.

  ‘Speeding. Using. Shooting up,’ she snaps. ‘He’s coming down. He’s not usually so—tripped out.’

  ‘Hey. What ya tellin’ him for?’ snaps Zac. ‘None of his business, is it?’

  Then I hear them. Sirens. The cops again.

  ‘You may as well pull over,’ I go. ‘They’re going to get you in the end.’

  Zac grunts. ‘I guess it’s cross country again, eh.’

  He plants the foot, swings the wheel, and we plough up an embankment, through a fence, and across a paddock. This is getting boring! These kids have been watching too many American movies! I feel like I’ve been crashing through fences and roaring across paddocks and barrelling down highways at 140 k all my life. Was there a life before joyriding? And who the hell ever called it joyriding? Hell riding, more like.

  This paddock’s got humps and bumps like you wouldn’t believe. The chassis’s in major agony and we’re going to do the shockers any minute for sure. I’ve never felt so battered and bruised in my life as I’m flung about like laundry in a spin dryer. We do this huge donut then another as Zac loses control again. Cola screams.

  ‘Where the shit are we?’ says Macca.

  ‘How do I know? In the middle of somewhere.’

  ‘Which way’s Adelaide?’

  ‘How do I know?’

  Things are getting tense. We crash through another fence, plummet down an embankment and rip through a creek, spraying up a wall of water around us bigger than Niagara Falls. One thing about this mother, she keeps on going! Up the bank, around more trees, and onto a road.

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘Dunno, do I?’

  ‘That way,’ I go.

  ‘How do you know?’

 
‘That’s west,’ I lie. ‘And Adelaide’s west.’

  ‘Nearly outa juice.’

  Great, I think, that’s all I need, to be stranded in the middle of nowhere with this lot.

  ‘Look out!’

  We take the bend too quickly. The old Holden’s had enough. She skids out of control and we wallop sideways into a gum tree with a sickening crunch. I feel the panel work buckle in on my side as I’m hurled backwards against the door.

  ‘Steve’s not going to like this one bit,’ I say. Then I pass out.

  I come round to the sound of someone groaning. I open my eyes. Is everyone alive or dead? Zac groans loudly and rubs his head. He must have hit it on the wheel.

  ‘Aw, shit,’ he says.

  Cola groans. ‘My shoulder hurts,’ she whimpers.

  ‘You okay, Zac?’

  ‘Yeah, man.’

  ‘No sense, no feeling,’ I blurt before I can stop myself.

  ‘Shut up, you.’

  ‘My shoulder hurts.’ That’s Cola again.

  ‘Stop moanin’, will ya?’

  The ding hasn’t improved their tempers. I look out. We’re hard up against the gum. There’re paddocks as far as the eye can see. I look at my watch. Nearly nine. I should be home in bed.

  Then we hear this rumbling noise. Some sort of vehicle’s coming and it sure doesn’t sound like the cops. It pulls up alongside. I peer out through the mud-spattered rear window.

  ‘Hey. You lot all right?’

  It’s this farmer, driving an old red ute. He gets out and walks over to us. Big mistake.

  Macca grabs the steering lock off Cola and leaps out. He’s spotted the petrol drum in the back of the ute. The heeler riding shotgun snarls at him, but heelers are bright. This one knows when to back off or it’ll end up splattered crow fodder.

  ‘Get that drum out,’ he says to the farmer. ‘Now.’

  ‘Eh? But—’

  ‘Do it, Grandpa.’

  The farmer shambles back to the ute, drops the tray, and rolls out the drum. He’s an old dude, brown overalls over a checked flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, no coat, battered hat, the kind who usually drives at 40 k down the highway in the middle of the road. Probably fought in World War I. Tough as nails, but not tough enough for this crew. He’s outnumbered. I feel kinda sorry for him, meeting up with us. He sets the drum down and the dog growls but stays in the truck.

  ‘Young larrikins,’ says the farmer. ‘Good-for-nothings, I should …’

  Macca gives the steering lock to Cola.

  ‘No,’ she goes. ‘I’m not hitting an old man.’

  ‘Cola. DO IT.’

  She’s out of the van, legs braced, a scared look on her face.

  ‘Here. You. Sam. Make yourself useful. Pour it in.’

  I roll over the front seat and out the passenger door. Zac’s still holding the wheel, looking dazed. That’s all I need, a feral driver with concussion. Macca and I lift the drum. The petrol gurgles into the van, some spilling onto the ground as we heave the drum higher. The last drops run into the tank. Macca tosses the drum on the ground.

  ‘Right. Now let’s see if this shit box’ll go.’

  The engine’s stalled of course. Zac fiddles about and the engine coughs into life. He gives the accelerator a couple of pumps and revs the engine a few times as I climb back in, with Cola and Macca following.

  ‘Watch out, he’s got a gun,’ yells Zac.

  The old guy’s got a .22 pointing at us. I was going to split out the rear door, but when I see him taking aim I change my mind. Who wants their kneecaps shot to bits? Or their head ventilated? He’s going to shoot first and ask questions later. I’ll be dead while I’m halfway through explaining that I’m a hostage. Forget it.

  We bounce backwards off the tree and belt in reverse down the road.

  A bullet screams through the rear window, just missing Zac’s head. Glass shatters all over us like hailstones. Cola screams. I shut my eyes then open them again. I’ve got little cuts all over my hands from the glass.

  The farmer stands beside his truck with the .22 smoking, looking disgusted. Even the dog looks disgusted. How could he have missed at such close range? Just as well it’s an old rabbit-shooting .22 and not a machine gun or we’d have more holes in us than a crumpet.

  Zac spins the wheel. We do a donut then head back, engine roaring, towards the ute. The farmer’s frantically trying to reload.

  ‘Don’t kill him,’ I scream, as we whiz by with centimetres to spare.

  Another bullet shrieks past. Just as well he’s a lousy shot. Potting rabbits is probably easier than potting speeding vans.

  We roar on down the road. But over the howl of the V8 I hear something else, a sort of humming noise. It’s coming from—

  ‘Copter. Up there. It’s onto us,’ snaps Macca, pointing.

  A copter?

  Cola sticks her head out the window.

  ‘It’s got “POLICE” written on it,’ she goes as she pulls her head back in.

  They must’ve been cruising along up there going on a mission and noticed the fun with the farmer.

  The copter dives and swoops in tightening circles above us. About time something happened, I’m thinking, as we rip away, gravel spurting like volcanic lava from the tyres. Now they’ll pinpoint us, close in, and I’ll be rescued at last.

  We scream down the road, bouncing over potholes, as the copter follows like an angry wasp, hot on our trail.

  ‘Lose him!’ yells Macca.

  Sure. They can fly faster than we can drive. Grow a brain! But Zac nods and plants the foot.

  We leave the road again and bore flat out across a paddock. Bright idea. The copter sticks to us like a burr on a sheep’s bum. Sheep raise heads then take off in a mad panic in the opposite direction. I wish I could join them. I’ve been bounced and jolted so much that I feel like I’ve done five rounds with King Kong.

  ‘Into those trees,’ yells Macca.

  He seems to be down from his psycho speed trip and functioning like a rational human again. Well, sort of.

  We make for the bush. It’s the start of some hills. There’s a narrow track meant for four-wheel drives or tractors, but we’re on it. The copter hums overhead, trying to spot us through the trees which are tall, stopping the copter from getting in low, and we’re roaring down into a valley now. The copter can’t get in too close because of the hills. It’s starting to rain. The gums are hanging over the track, making a perfect screen. Where’s the infra red? They must know where we are despite lack of visibility. Dense scrub scrapes the sides of the van, scratching the duco. Steve’s going to seriously spew when he sees it. There’s this thumping great dent in the side, more scratches than a horse race on a wet day at the Melbourne Cup, and Coke and burgers splattered all over the inside.

  We keep going. And going. And going. Up hills. Down into valleys. Other tracks lead off. Must be an old logger’s track. The Holden wasn’t built for this sort of treatment. I just know it’s going to fall apart any minute. And will this track never end? It’s got to lead somewhere.

  It does. Next thing we’re out of the trees and onto the flat paddocks again, going flat out.

  ‘Where’s that copter?’

  ‘Don’t know. We’ve lost him.’

  ‘He’ll be back. Head for that hayshed.’

  There’s this half-collapsing shed on thin stick-like supports, full of hay.

  ‘Hang on.’

  We bore straight into it at 120 k. Hay collapses around us, falls all over the van. Now I know I’m going to die, buried in hay.

  LEANNE

  The phone rings.

  ‘Is your mother there?’ It’s Steve.

  ‘Well, she’s—kinda busy.’

  ‘Tell her that some cops have spotted Sam in a paddock near Portland and they’re closing in. He’ll be delivered back in time for the wedding,’ he says. ‘Then we’ll deal with the criminal bit. Tell your mother I’ll see her at the church.’

  He se
ems so cool. I guess cop school trains you to be like that.

  ‘You still want to go ahead with the wedding?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course. This is just a small hiccup. Take care of your mother, Leanne.’

  He hangs up. But underneath his casual voice I can tell he’s worried.

  Mum’s in the lounge room.

  ‘That was Steve.’

  She looks hopeful.

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘The cops have found him in a paddock. They’ll post him back by helicopter, so lighten up,’ I go.

  ‘But—maybe I should try and get to Portland,’ goes Mum.

  ‘Look, you’re better off here. By the time you get there Sam’ll be on his way back. He’s okay, Mum, he’s not hurt.’

  I don’t know that for sure, but here’s hoping.

  ‘I think you should go,’ says Mona. ‘You’re his mother.’

  ‘No, I don’t think you should,’ says Mrs Strachan.

  Mum stands there looking miserable. Then she starts howling again. I can’t stand much more of this.

  Someone’s banging on the back door. What next? I go to answer it and Cooja’s standing there.

  ‘Is Sam here?’

  ‘No,’ I say, resisting the urge to strangle him. I lead the way into the lounge room. Cooja follows, then pulls up short when he sees the wailing women.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Sam’s pinched Steve’s car and done a runner.’

  Cooja gapes. ‘Sam? Sam’s nicked Steve’s unit and done a runner?’

  ‘Yeah. Amazing, huh. But that’s not the big issue here. Come with me.’

  I drag him into my bedroom, which is easy, because he’s skinny and short. He’s wearing baggy green shorts and an even baggier grimy once-white T-shirt with “Rip Curl” across the ribs. His blond hair’s falling over his eyes with a number two undercut at the back, showing up his pointy little ears. He’s got bright blue eyes, a small beaky nose, and a crooked grin. He’s definitely not a look, but he’s got this sort of cheeky appeal which must be the turn-on for heaps of girls, because there’s nothing else that could be a turn-on that’s visible to the naked eye. I push him down onto the beanbag that Cathy just left. It suits him.

  ‘What’s this I hear about you and Cathy?’