Hitch

  When she hiked the Overland Track with her mother, they walked past bundles of wood and wire left in the scrub; they were dropped from helicopters so that rangers could mend parts of the duckboard trail. She had found comfort in this unspoken, inexact process, how the remoteness of the area caused people to adapt. As they walked, she had wanted to tell her mother about Zach. The confession was acid burning at the base of her throat. Though there was lots of time as they walked the track, it seemed to fill with small practicalities: adding layers of clothing or taking them off, sharing out handfuls of trail mix, trying to absorb mountain vistas. She couldn’t make the words come out, couldn’t poison the experience for her mother.

  A truck approached behind them. She pressed herself against the cement barrier and tucked Lucy in behind her legs. An image of her body striking the windscreen flashed through her mind too quickly for her to eliminate it. She saw herself lying by the side of the road, her body at odds with the life leaving it.

  The power of the vehicle pinned her against the barrier. Once the truck was gone, Lucy whimpered, her ears tucked back on her head.

  ‘Won’t be long, Luce,’ she said. ‘Sorry, girl. Not long now.’

  They continued walking along the highway. Amelia thought of all the steps she’d taken with her mother on their hike, how she’d slowed her pace so she didn’t get too far ahead. Of bathing her mother’s blisters while her mother drank a hot chocolate to sweeten the pain.

  Amelia’s footsteps crunched over gravel and she wanted to speak to her mother, wondered if she would be able to hear Amelia’s thoughts or whether she’d have to say it out loud. She opened her mouth; her throat was dry. She reached for her Mount Franklin and took a sip. The plastic crackled as she shoved it back into the side pocket of her pack. She walked further, washing saliva around her mouth in an effort to keep it moist.

  ‘Mum,’ she said. Her voice was a surprise. It hung heavy in the air, unanswered. Amelia left it there, rejected and alone amid the clicking and stirring of the night.

  She stepped slowly out onto the asphalt; felt the slick, hard surface of it beneath her feet. The road was quiet, and at the centre of it, where the white line was broken into large dashes, she stopped. With one foot in each lane she stared down any traffic that might be heading away from Crystal Brook. Lucy was obeying her order to stay at the side of the road, though she looked on with her head cocked to the side. Amelia closed her eyes, forced herself to turn; her shoes scuffed as she rotated, facing the other lane of potential vehicles. She held her arms out at her sides as if crucified, dared herself to block her ears. Her scalp bristled; she was suddenly cold. A fresh breeze lifted her hair off her face, and she wondered if that might be it, her mother’s answer.

  Lucy barked, piercing and sure, and Amelia scuttled back to the side of the highway.

  When they reached the rest stop, the night sky was starting to fade into deep grey. A light flickered over the entrance to a public toilet. Poles held up shelters over picnic benches, and they were like her, faceless figures in a sleepless night.

  A set of metal stairs provided a bridge over a fence; she crossed it and Lucy followed behind, her nails scraping on the metal. One of the fence posts was surrounded by thicker tufts of grass than the others and she set herself up against it. She took her pack off and opened it, digging around for her jumper. The rocket pen waited in its usual pocket; she fished it out and held it in her hand, clicking it up and down with her thumb. She bundled some clothes into a pillow and lay down, tucking into her pack, its contours pressed to hers. Lucy returned and snuggled against Amelia’s stomach; she draped her arm around her and closed her eyes.

  Liquid pattered the earth near her head. She sat upright, insides lurching as she tried to work out where she was. The liquid slowed and there was a cough, a shuffle of feet, before a second innings. She sat very still. Lucy looked beyond Amelia towards the activity. The smell of piss grew sweet and crisp.

  The dawn wasn’t deep enough to cover them; Amelia could identify the apricot colour of the T-shirt the nearby figure wore. A joint cracked, a fly zipped up. Lucy stood, her collar tags chiming like a cathedral bell. The intruder whistled and Lucy let out a low growl. ‘Here, pup,’ the man said.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Amelia said. She stood up, shook pins and needles out of her arm.

  ‘Shit!’ The man scampered off, checking over his shoulder before disappearing into a car. Amelia reached out to the fence to balance herself; her hand closed around a barb, and she tightened her grip into a fist. The sting of it awakened her, sliced through the mist in her still-waking mind.

  The sky was grey, still on the cusp of night, though a thin layer of gold was unfolding along the horizon. The car with the pissing man in it backed out of the rest stop and made its way onto the highway, indicator flashing. She checked her pack for dark patches of piss but it was dry. Lucy sniffed at the wet patch one pole down, then marked her own place there. Amelia followed suit, walking a few steps into the dry paddock. She tugged her shorts down and squatted behind a lone shrub.

  Some birds were beginning their day; two kookaburras gargled from overhead powerlines. Amelia pulled out a dog treat for Lucy, then crossed over the bridge into the rest stop. She walked on tiptoe over the crunchy ground, not wanting to disturb the inhabitants of a campervan who were yet to emerge.

  The top semicircle of the sun peeked out over the land. The branch of a gum tree framed the pastels in the sky, the curve of the surrounding hills. The light burned white flares into her vision. It was beautiful, that was clear, but it was hard to know what to do with the view. Sitting still to watch it wasn’t an option, wasn’t the relaxing experience it was meant to be. There was a limit to how much she could appreciate the sky when it was her constant companion.

  In the white room, she had dangled her legs out the window and watched the sunrise most mornings. It was easier to appreciate it when she looked out that window, her own private view of the whole big thing rather than it watching her as she travelled for hours beneath it. She had to wrestle the flyscreen off, then sit on the window frame with metal ridges digging in to her thighs, but it was worth the effort. Watching the sunrise from the white room, right on the east coast, she could guess at how many people had seen the sun already that day, and she wondered where she would have to go to be the first. Each morning was a slightly different palette, different shades and strengths of colour, and she liked the structure it gave to her days. That small view of the morning made the following hours simpler, somehow; if she achieved nothing else, at least she’d seen the day begin.

  Since leaving the white room, she couldn’t get the same feeling when she looked at her surroundings. Instead she found herself standing, staring, as she was then, at an apple-juice box that had tumbled out of a rubbish bin, while the spectacle of the sun or the desert or the rainforest continued all around her.

  She crouched in front of Lucy, who wagged her tail and licked at Amelia’s face. Amelia pulled her close, laid her face against the fur of Lucy’s back. There was a whiff of Brenda’s floral perfume there.

  She walked to the highway. The traffic came in little bursts, as if a bunch of vehicles had been set loose all at the same time, like racing greyhounds. After dumping her pack on the ground, she stood where an extra lane peeled off, leading to the rest stop entrance. Fighting the reluctant muscles in her arm, she stuck her thumb out and waited.

  The sun rose and heated the day quickly as the hours passed. Amelia rolled up her T-shirt sleeves so they sat in rings around her shoulders. She guessed it was about ten in the morning. Cars rolled past her, indifferent. Lucy explored the scrub by the side of the road; something stirred and scuttled away. Lucy bounced after it then came to a sudden standstill and sneezed. She caught Amelia watching and her ears flattened, her tail wagging then sinking between her legs as she approached for a pat.

  ‘This is no good, Luce, is it,’ Amelia said. She scratched beneath Lucy’s collar, then moved round to behind her
ears. ‘This is no good at all.’

  Amelia rummaged in her pack for the remainder of last night’s muesli bar, then stepped off the road for a break. They headed to find shade at the rest stop. A few cars passed as her back was turned, and she wondered what opportunities she’d missed. Perhaps she’d be stuck here. She could find a place a bit further from the cars and people, make a little den, and no one in the world would know where she was. Maybe she’d tell Sid, though; walk back into Crystal Brook and send him another postcard to let him know where he could find her. It wouldn’t be fair on him if she was to disappear completely.

  Three sets of benches and tables were in a line, spaced along the length of the rest stop, each with a metal roof angled over it for shade. The first two were occupied so she walked on to the last in the row. As she stepped up to it she saw a small red knapsack on the ground, leaning against the table. The name D-A-R-R-Y-L was printed on it in clumsy letters with thick black texta. A worn sticker of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles graced the front pocket. Lucy sniffed at the bag. Amelia turned to leave but, as she did so, a man in a beige T-shirt and shorts emerged from the scrub. He wore gaiters, and a set of binoculars hung around his neck.

  ‘No need to go,’ he said, walking in big, bouncy strides towards the picnic bench. ‘Plenty of room.’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine, thanks,’ Amelia said.

  ‘Please, be my guest.’ He took off his wide-brimmed brown hat. Sweat ran in lines down the side of his face. He sat down. His hair was white and thinning, and patches of bare scalp were speckled with red marks.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, looking up at her.

  ‘Sorry?’ she said.

  ‘What would you like? You’ve got questions written all over your face.’

  ‘I was just going to sit here in the shade and cool off.’

  ‘Well, by all means.’ He eyed Lucy, who stood at attention, watching him.

  Amelia slid in to the very edge of the bench, diagonally opposite from the man, and unhooked her bag from her shoulders. He pulled out a pocket book of birds, scanned the index, drawing a long-nailed finger down the page.

  ‘You travelling alone?’ he said, keeping his eyes on the book.

  ‘I could ask you the same thing,’ she said, pulling her Mount Franklin bottle out of her backpack and cradling it in her lap.

  ‘You could,’ he said. He smiled, his eyes still down, licked his thin lips. Lucy snuffled at his feet, found something of particular interest on his knee.

  Amelia lifted the front of her shirt, used it to wipe her face. She unscrewed the cap of her bottle and gulped the warm water. A small island of dry skin had dislodged from the man’s scalp and worked its way to the end of a hair.

  ‘I’ve been looking for birds, you see,’ he said.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she said. ‘Found any good ones?’

  ‘Lots of Corvus orru.’

  ‘Crows?’ Amelia said.

  ‘That’s right. Eye-eaters.’

  She waited for him to go on but he didn’t. ‘Surely you’ve seen something more exciting than a crow.’

  He smiled up at her, his small eyes flashing with something despite their blackness. ‘Well, I found you,’ he said.

  Something folded over inside her gut; heat rose in her cheeks. ‘What bird am I?’

  ‘A Gouldian finch. Rare, fast, colourful.’

  She smiled though she didn’t want to. He drummed his fingers on the table, then scratched his head. The flake of dried skin fluttered to the bench.

  ‘Will you please get your dog away from me?’ Lucy was still investigating something on his leg.

  ‘Oh, yeah, sorry. Lucy, come.’ She obeyed. Amelia moved out from the bench, swung her legs around and to the ground.

  ‘I do love dogs. They are an exceptional species.’ He held her eye. ‘I didn’t mean to snap. They’re just so changeable. And they usually don’t like me.’ He laughed and it was reedy and nasal, over as soon as it started. He clicked his fingers, trying to regain Lucy’s attention, but she ignored him.

  ‘Well, see ya,’ Amelia said.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘East.’ She hefted her pack over one shoulder. Lucy followed closely as she walked away.

  ‘But –’ he said, his voice breaking. She was already a few paces away as he cleared his throat. ‘You can come with me. Gouldian finch. I’ll take you!’

  Amelia pretended she didn’t hear. She raised a hand to her brow as a shield from the sun. In need of a mission, she walked towards the toilet. There was a queue. A child hopped from foot to foot, clutching herself while her father looked frantically for other options. A teenage couple were kissing, and Amelia caught flashes of tongue; the boy’s hands were on the girl’s bottom, pinching where her shorts revealed the beginning of her bum cheek. Amelia changed her trajectory, turning abruptly away from the couple and walking up beside the toilet cubicle. Stupid girl.

  A bin overflowed, flies suckling at melted chocolate around the rim. Lucy found half a bread roll; she extracted a slice of ham with her teeth, swallowed it, then ripped into the bread, holding it in place with a paw. Amelia dug in her pockets, wanting to rid herself of junk she’d collected along the trip.

  She reached deep into them and thought of the keys Zach always wore hanging from a belt loop near his front pocket. They jangled as he worked in the garden, and the weight of them pulled down on his shorts. At the beginning he gave her some jobs to do to help him, and she’d been bursting to tell her mother how she’d used her foot and the force of her body to break through dry soil. How at first it was too hard, but Zach showed her how to angle and wiggle the fork so that cracks appeared in the ground and it eventually broke through. When he looked at her, her insides turned to powder. He pressed on her lower back to correct her posture as she dug, and as they worked, the smell of his sweat grew stronger.

  She plucked the bands at her wrist. Stupid girl.

  She pulled handfuls of rubbish out of her pocket and threw them away: tissues in dry, hard balls, the foil of the empty pill packet. A two-dollar coin fell out and she picked it up, kept it. The paper towel with Brenda’s red digits on it fluttered towards the ground and Amelia snatched it from the air. The numbers were smudged; one of them was either a seven or a one, another a four or a nine. She tore the paper towel in two, then into squares, and smaller still, reaching her hand over the bin and sifting the pieces through her fingers. There was a chance they would drive past her, or perhaps they already had. If she had to see them again, she would pretend she didn’t know them, was already working hard to forget their faces.

  Next to the bin, a tap was attached to the side of the toilet block. She pulled her Rage Against the Machine T-shirt from the side of her bag, releasing the smell of Will soaked into its weave. She shuddered, holding it between her thumb and index finger. Moving quickly, she put the shirt under the tap and turned it on. Only a dribble escaped but she held the material up to it, kept turning the tap with her other hand, searching for more pressure. It was no good. She scrubbed the material of the shirt together but parts of it were still dry, others hardly even damp.

  ‘Shit.’ She shoved the shirt back into the pocket of her bag. Lucy watched, blinking slowly, on the edge of dozing. Amelia took a deep breath, tried to let Lucy’s calmness enter her. She crouched and Lucy stepped forward, allowed Amelia to rest her forehead against the soft fur of her own. The sun found a new angle down her neck, heating the skin on the top of her back.

  ‘What are we doing, Luce,’ she said. ‘What are we doing.’

  Lucy pulled away and licked at a wet patch on the ground. Amelia stood up, held her unsteady hands out in front of her, turned them over, palms up. She wet her face, then breathed. Counted to ten. Breathed again.

  A group of four middle-aged people sat ten or so metres away on another picnic bench. A curly-haired woman wore a long purple dress, and her feet tangled under the table with those of a squat man wearing a straw hat. The woman threw her head back and laughed. A
nother man in board shorts and no shirt drank from a large bottle of Fanta, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, watching the slim woman across from him as she smoked with an averted gaze. Amelia forced herself to walk over to them, each step a battle.

  The man in the hat saw her coming, whispered something to the others. They stopped talking and turned towards her.

  ‘Hello there,’ the man said when Amelia was still several metres away. ‘What can we do ya for?’ His voice was low and muffled, his eyes unreadable behind Ray-Ban sunnies.

  ‘Well, looks like you might have a full car, but thought I’d try my luck anyway,’ she said.

  ‘Go on then,’ the man said, looking around at the others, as if making sure they were tuned in to his performance. Only the purple-dress woman paid attention; she leaned forward, showing the creased, sun-damaged skin of her cleavage.

  ‘I’m looking for a ride out of here, for Lucy and me,’ Amelia said, indicating Lucy with a tilt of her head.

  ‘Why?’ he said. ‘You on the run or something?’ It was a joke; he appealed to the others for support. The woman in the purple dress laughed enough to make an opal pendant jiggle on her breasts.

  ‘You have any space for the two of us?’

  ‘Well, there’s the boot,’ he said, and now he had won the whole table over. ‘Or the front seat, but that’s only if you put out more than this one,’ he said, nodding at the purple-dress woman. She pretended to slap him. The smoking woman flashed dark eyes up at Amelia, quickly looked away.

  ‘Great. Thanks for that,’ Amelia said, turning her back.

  ‘I’m just joshin’ ya, jeez. Try a sense of humour on for size,’ the man said. She continued walking, didn’t quite catch the man’s newest witticism, but heard the round of laughter that rewarded it.

  She exhaled and tapped the side of her shorts. Disgusting. You are disgusting.