True West

by David Whish-Wilson

  He could feel her looking at him. ‘Take the next right, over toward North Beach. He lives in City Beach.’

  Lee decided to come clean. ‘I don’t know where I’m going,

  so you’ll have to guide me there.’

  She laughed. ‘I thought so. At first I assumed you were

  returning from the city – I noticed your city plates, but you’re giving off a different vibe.’

  The city plates on the truck were stolen from a tourist van outside the Tarcoola a month ago, and he wondered if she

  wondered. ‘What kind of vibe?’

  ‘Like a refugee from a Tom Waits song.’

  He glanced at her and put his eyes back on the road. He

  didn’t know what the hell she was talking about, but she didn’t let him wonder too long. ‘So you don’t have a phone number

  people can call you on when they get stuck?’

  He shook his head. The traffic had begun to thicken as

  workers returned from the city.

  ‘No phone number, no map, how are you going to get

  customers?’

  All Lee had was a memory that’ d stayed with him since he

  was a child, visiting the city while his father did a shady deal with an elderly man in a suburb called Kenwick. They were

  supposed to head back to Geraldton, but his cashed-up father suggested that they divert to Fremantle to get some Cicerello’s fish and chips. On a hard shoulder off the Kwinana Freeway

  was a tow truck – a Bedford with a homemade rig. The driver 18

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  was seated on the roobar, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper, oblivious to the traffic that hurtled alongside. It was only a moment but it stayed with Lee, and last week when he knew that he was city-bound, the image crystallised into something more real.

  ‘You’ll need this at the very least.’

  She put the UBD street directory on the seat between

  them, tapped ash into the Passiona can. The road lifted over a crest and suddenly there was the Indian Ocean, vivid blue and silvered with southerly chop. Lee had just travelled

  three hundred and fifty K, but this was the same ocean that pounded the shoreline behind the dunes where he lived with

  his father – the bush block strewn with cannibalised car bodies and guard dogs that hunted rabbits in the scrub at night. The sight of the ocean made him feel at home.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  She was looking at his unguarded expression of relief. He

  grunted and wiped his eyes, felt his shoulders loosen, realised he’ d been propped forward like a worried child.

  ‘We’re on the coast road now, which leads to Fremantle.

  Until they build the freeway north, use this or Wanneroo

  Road to get up here. You real y don’t know your way around

  the city? Where are you planning to stay?’

  Lee didn’t like the question, and he didn’t answer it. The

  ocean was replaced by grassed verges, power poles and

  peppermint trees. The light was soft and buttery, and the air was cooling fast. They rolled through a lowland park that was green and damp and was probably once a swamp. Say what

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  you wanted about Lee’s father – Jack Southern knew the land.

  He’ d always schooled Lee on what the environment had been

  like, even in the city, which he considered a malignant growth.

  When the invasion came, it’ d be the country that’ d sustain the renegades, and they’ d better learn to feed off her, and feed her back.

  ‘Not far now.’

  They were alongside the ocean again, and there were the

  familiar sand dunes and coastal heath, shrouded in pink and purple light.

  ‘This is City Beach, and up on the hil ’s my ex’s place. Hard to see because of the glare, but it’s that white box on the corner with the ocean view.’

  Lee couldn’t see any house, just a big white block with

  tinted windows facing west. Didn’t even have a roof on it, or a garden, or even a fence. Like Sophia said, a big white box.

  The truck laboured up the dual carriageway that carried

  traffic from the beach, and Lee listened to the engine under strain like he had a stethoscope in his ears. It all sounded good, and he took the cigarette that Sophia offered as she lit one for herself. It was hard to read whether the expression on her face was excitement or anxiety, but either way she pointed him left, then left again. There was nobody on the street and each of the houses had high wal s. They drove past the white box. Apart from a potted palm on the drive the front was

  bleak and anonymous. The rendered white wall was double

  his height and the garage had a white roller door.

  Lee scoped the street for dog-walkers, but it was empty.

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  Every house had security cameras, however, trained on the

  drive and the yard.

  ‘Not real inconspicuous, this truck, is it?’ she said.

  Lee agreed. He pulled around the corner where there were

  no cameras and got out. His number plates were hinged, as

  his father had taught him. He covered the plates on Sophia’s car with rags and lifted up his own, got back in the truck and reversed around the corner and down onto the drive.

  He looked at her. ‘You sure?’

  The barest nod of her head.

  ‘He have an alarm system?’

  ‘Yes, but he never turns it on. Don’t think he even remem-

  bers the numbers.’

  Lee passed his cap and indicated that she pull it low. He

  took a crowbar and a slim jim from the toolbox and levered

  the crowbar under the left side of the roller door and cracked the steel bracket, then did the same on the other side. He lifted the roller door and waited for an alarm. A car passed on the street but he didn’t turn his head. The little black Mercedes was parked alongside a Porsche 928. He got the slim jim down inside the Mercedes driver’s window and lifted the lock. He used the crowbar to shank off the steering cowling. He found the ignition wiring and pulled it out of the key-turn, joined the wires and turned the engine over.

  Barely thirty seconds had passed. He climbed into the

  truck’s cab and Sophia climbed out. No words were spoken,

  which impressed him. Like she’ d done this before.

  Lee put the Ford into gear and rolled up out of the drive,

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  and then he heard the breaking glass. She was smashing up

  the Porsche, which didn’t impress him. But he was on his way.

  Seconds later, she overtook him on the corner and smiled and waved and settled in front. Every now and then she accelerated ahead but always fell back. The truck was sluggish under

  load and he didn’t remember Perth being so hil y. This was

  limestone country, made of ancient sand dunes hardened over time. Drill down into it, his father had told him, and there was a freshwater sea. The thought of his father and the adrenalin that was dumping from his bloodstream were balanced out

  by the amphetamine that kept Lee’s head clear and made his

  body shiver.

  Sophia was taking rat-runs down leafy streets. He lit a

  cigarette and wiped his eyes. When they crested a final hil he couldn’t believe the size of the place. There was the city shimmering in the distance. All around it were suburbs as far as he could see. A faint smog settled over the great sand plain, and the range to the east was burnt looking, and beat down.

  They were some of the oldest rocks in the world. The range

  had once been mountains but for billions of years of abrading heat and rain. The grids of houses on the sand plain looked as permanent as tents.

  *

  It was dark by the time they reached Sop
hia’s home in

  Mosman Park. Stirling Highway was busy with traffic, and the streetlights made his eyes sting. Most of all he wanted to stay 22

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  with his plan of doing a complete run of the Kwinana Freeway, to find a place to park up and wait. Lee didn’t have the petrol to cruise the roads and needed a position where he could see if someone was broken down and needing help.

  Lee parked beside a gnarled old peppermint tree and Sophia

  rapped on the window. He nodded to her and climbed out of

  the truck. The air smelled of resin on account of the Norfolk Island pines that rose above the homes up and down the hil .

  They were still in limestone country, and he could smell the briny ocean, or perhaps the river. This was clearly a rich area.

  Most of the houses were two-storey brick buildings with

  balconies and tin roofs. There were some blocks of flats in the distance that looked like termite mounds.

  Sophia was talking to him but the sound came from a great

  distance. Lee nodded and pulled the winch lever and lowered the Volvo to the ground. He got on his knees in the dust and unhooked the canvas sling and pulled it loose. He stowed it in the steel box and fixed the padlock. He stood back and rubbed his eyes, felt himself shifting in the sea breeze.

  ‘Look at you. You’re so tired you’re wobbling. I won’t take no for an answer. At least take a cold shower and wake yourself up.’

  The Mercedes engine ticked as it cooled. He could smell the sour oil that leaked from its bel y.

  ‘You need to change the oil in the Merc,’ he said.

  She laughed. ‘That can wait.’

  He let her take his elbow. They walked arm in arm down

  the drive, arched over with some kind of vine. It was an oddly 23

  DAVID WHISH-WILSON

  formal way of walking but Lee didn’t mind. He could feel the heat of her skin in the press of her elbow against his forearm.

  She released him at the porch of her weatherboard home when a security light came on. Moths began to circle the light. Then she had his elbow again, and he was in a long hal way with cool dark floorboards. The place smelled of jasmine and everything was white. She flicked switches as they entered deeper into the house. The backyard was full of flowering bottlebrushes that had dropped red bristles onto the bricked patio. The kettle began to hiss, and then it stopped hissing, and instead a fridge opened and he watched Sophia pull the cork from a bottle of white. She poured two glasses then passed him one. The wine tasted cold and sweet and he drank it down. That made her

  smile, and she led him to the bathroom that was all yellow

  tiles with prints of cockatoos and native flowers. There were towels and bras hanging out of a washing basket. The room

  smelled of coconut. The shower began to run and then he

  was alone. He stripped down and walked into the jet of hot

  water. He leaned his head on the tiles and let the water bash his shoulders, watching the cinders and dirt eddy at his feet as the stink of the fire was washed from his body.

  24

  3.

  Lee Southern was used to waking to a dawn chorus of

  wattlebirds, honeyeaters and magpies in the saltbush scrub

  behind their Geraldton home. Last night he’ d slept on the

  couch, and the alien rumble of traffic on Stirling Highway and Sophia’s hesitant snoring in the nearby bedroom were loud

  enough that he couldn’t return to sleep. He lay there until sunlight framed the heavy drape curtains that took up the

  eastern wall of the lounge. He had no idea what time it was, and barely remembered last night.

  He didn’t want to wake her. On the floor beside the couch

  were his clothes, folded beside his boots. On top of his clothes were his truck keys, inside the cap he’ d told her to wear.

  Lee stood and picked up the bundle, then began to dress.

  The sunlight was fierce in the kitchen and he drank four

  glasses of water and left by the front door.

  *

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  DAVID WHISH-WILSON

  The traffic into the city was steady until the suburbs broke and the Swan River opened wide and tea-coloured. The two-lane

  was snug against the Kings Park cliff face that was covered with the purple flowers of Geraldton wax and the orange

  fruits of zamia palm. The abandoned Swan Brewery to his

  right looked like a haunted castle. There were some derelicts sitting in the sun beside the brewery, their naked feet poised above the river.

  Now that he was near the freeway, Lee turned on the

  UHF radio that his father had installed in the truck. It was important for a man who carried contraband to know the

  police frequencies in every city and town. In Perth, the coppers broadcast between 467MHz and 469MHz. The UHF didn’t

  have the range of CB but the sound was clearer, and there

  were no problems with powerline interference. The sweet spot was 468.8, and there was a crackle and then a communication in code that Lee didn’t understand. The code that Lee needed to identify was the one for a traffic accident. It would also pay to learn which traffic cops went by which signal number; a

  friendly or helpful cop especial y. Cops he discovered to be unfriendly he could just avoid.

  The morning traffic was snarled at the interchange that

  forked onto the Narrows Bridge. Most of the traffic turned

  left into the city, but Lee kept straight over the roundabout and then he was banking into a turn that brought him round

  onto the bridge and south over the river. His eyes were drawn to the pelicans and shags on the water, but he focused instead on the traffic, looking for a place to park the truck. This was 26

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  the busiest route into the city and the lanes were bumper-to-bumper, right down to Canning Highway. He didn’t know

  if this was the result of an accident, or was normal for peak hour, but any situation where you get tens of thousands of cars together in one place, there was always going to be breakdowns and accidents. He just needed to find the place to wait.

  The traffic was lighter heading away from the city. Lee

  slowed into the emergency lane to test the width of his truck against the traffic breaking past. The sign said no stopping, and he rejoined the flow of traffic and kept to the slow lane, watching the frustrated looks on the faces of those headed

  north. He looked for a stalled vehicle that might explain the jam. Pretty soon he was near Canning Highway, and he took

  the exit and turned onto Canning Bridge. He searched for

  the apron he’ d seen that other tow truck parked upon those many years ago. But it wasn’t there. Perhaps the road had been widened, or perhaps he was on the wrong road, Lee didn’t

  know. He had no choice but to cross the bridge and search on the other side. He found a side street a kilometre to the east.

  It was the first side street that wasn’t blanked with concrete barriers. Lee pulled up behind a parked Mitsubishi van and

  killed the engine. He kept the radio on and went and pissed against a tree. He returned to the cab, lit a cigarette and felt the heat building on the steel above his head. He reached for the UBD street directory and began to memorise it, starting by locating where he was parked. He read the names of the

  major streets that radiated out from the freeway.

  The radio crackled and went silent, and then burst with

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  static. ‘Charlie 44. Civilian just called in a minor accident on corner of Scott Street and Mill Point Road. White Pajero disabled across one lane. VW Beetle pushed onto median

  strip. Please respond.’

  The radio hissed in reply but Lee wasn’t listening. He’ d been looking at the South Perth map where the streets fed onto the freeway lanes north and south. Mill Point Road wasn
’t far

  from where he was parked. He closed the UBD and laid it

  on the seat beside. If he headed toward the river, he’ d see the accident. He turned the key and pulled from the kerb, making good time until he reached Mill Point Road, where beneath the apartment towers his lane became blocked. Lee put the gear

  into neutral and opened the door and stood on his seat. He

  looked over the stalled traffic but there were no flashing blue lights. He got seated again and indicated into the oncoming lane. There were two hundred metres to cover. He wished he

  had an orange light on his roof to encourage the traffic headed his way to pull over until he passed. He drove down the middle of the road, two wheels on the concrete median strip while

  flashing his headlights. The tow rig was higher than his cab and anyone with half a brain could see it, but there was stil confusion, and some idiot sat on his horn shaking his fist until Lee passed him, swinging round the crash site. He pulled in front of the white Pajero.

  First on the scene. No coppers yet either. The driver of the Pajero was a man in a suit, seated behind the wheel. The front end of the 4WD was crushed in. He held a hankie against his forehead. The Beetle was already angled toward the kerb. The 28

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  driver was a young woman in a tracksuit who stood under a

  nearby peppermint tree smoking a cigarette. Lee nodded at the VW, whose rear section was smashed, and she nodded back.

  He got down on his knees and saw that the undercarriage was intact and he put his head in the open window and took it out of gear. He got behind the door and with one hand put some

  weight behind the steering. He pushed the car across the lane onto the grass verge.

  Lee went over to the Pajero driver. ‘You’ll have to get out, mate.’

  The driver didn’t respond, but when Lee opened the door

  he climbed out anyway, holding his head and taking his brief-case. He joined the woman in the shade.

  Lee put the 4WD out of gear and ran to his truck and did

  a quick three-point turn and backed up. It was a straight

  sling tow, and he took out the canvas and got down on his

  knees. He attached the slings and then went to the winch and released some chain. He hooked the slings and took up the

  slack, then winch-lifted the Pajero’s rear wheels. There was a side street twenty metres away. He got into the cab and put her in gear. He felt the weight and hoped that the front-end bal ast was sufficient. He edged the truck forward until he was sure, and then eased down on the accelerator. He took the corner