He tried to remember details about his dad’s old .303, and how accurate it had been over long distances. His dad always used to say that it was accurate within four hundred yards, but he didn’t really know how far away a person would have to be if they wanted to hit him with a bullet. It would depend on the gun, he supposed.
His speculations on the subject were brief, however, because musing about guns only made him nervous. So did dwelling on the dead people he had left behind. Occasionally he found himself wondering who had killed them, and why, but after a few moments his thoughts would veer away. He couldn’t concentrate on anything for long. He was too twitchy.
Then all at once he heard the shot.
It was very faint but quite clear; his heart seemed to turn a somersault in his chest. When the next shot rang out, and the next, he began to run, desperately, without stopping to think. He only knew that he had to get away, that the shooter was somewhere behind him, that Graham and Chris were the probable targets. There had been an ambush. The McKenzies had walked right into it. Alec stumbled, and his bottle of water hit the ground, rolling. He snatched it back up. His heart was pounding in his ears, his soles slithered, he was puffing and blowing like a steam train. The echo of a fourth shot pushed him along like a powerful wind, and the fifth made him whimper. But he was opening the gap. He was putting some distance between himself and the gun. He charged ahead; though aware that he couldn’t possibly maintain such a speed all the way to his truck. He seemed unable to pace himself. Fear drove him on. Another few minutes and he was gasping, sobbing, almost tripping over his own feet. He stumbled again, this time fending off the ground with one hand, which he grazed badly. The pain barely registered. He was already up and running before he felt even a twinge, his mind busy with the realisation that it had been some time since the last shot. The gunfire appeared to have subsided. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?
His chest heaving, he began to slow. His legs were all right, but his lungs weren’t up to it. Too many bongs. Too many pizzas and too many beers. He stopped at last and stood with his hands on his knees, back bent, ribcage labouring. He was dizzy, and pouring sweat. The flies were attacking him from all directions.
He thought: If you don’t fucking calm down, Dozy, you’re going to pass out. Get a bloody grip, you nong.
Fortunately, it was late. The sun was low and the temperature was falling; at least he wouldn’t be felled by heatstroke. As his heart rate dropped he began to move once more, not running but walking briskly, looking back over his shoulder every so often. The minutes passed – five minutes, ten minutes. It was quiet again. Small birds chirruped in the widely scattered clumps of vegetation, preparing to retire for the night. A rustle in the grass to his right marked the passage of some small reptile – a shingle-back, maybe – but there was no other sound except the thud, thud of Alec’s footsteps.
And something else.
Alec stopped when his ear caught the soft purr. It was very low, but it was . . . yes, it was an engine. From the highway, perhaps? No. He couldn’t even see the highway.
No, it was coming from the other direction.
Strangely enough, he didn’t panic. He knew that he didn’t have time to panic. Instead he was suddenly very calm; his head cleared; the blood in his veins seemed to chill and grow sluggish. He gazed around, noting the nearest large outcrop of saltbush. It was about twenty metres away. A mulga tree had sprung up near it, but the tree, like most mulgas, was shaped like an inverted triangle, with all its foliage springing from a narrow base that would offer no concealment. No – it was the saltbush or nothing. Hurrying towards it, Alec offered up a prayer of thanks that he hadn’t yet reached the salt pans. The saltbush out there – what there was of it – ran to nothing higher than mid-calf. This saltbush, in contrast, was bulky. About the size of a cow at rest.
Just big enough to hide a man, if he curled up like a foetus.
Alec was quite sure, now, that the approaching vehicle was heading up the dirt road. Its muted purr had become a high-pitched whine, with a rumbling undertone that suggested something more powerful than your average biscuit tin on bicycle wheels. The Land Rover, perhaps? Had the gunman stolen the Land Rover? Or had Graham and Chris escaped with their lives – were they making for the highway at top speed, with the gunman in hot pursuit? Either way, Alec wasn’t about to break cover and look. He knew that if he raised his head and peeked over the top of his sheltering saltbush, he ran very little risk of being seen. But as the engine’s roar drew ever closer, Alec found that he couldn’t move a muscle. He cowered in the dirt, holding his breath, his chin on his knees and his hands clasped around his shins, praying to God that the car wouldn’t stop. He didn’t care if Graham and Chris were in it, as long as it kept going, taking with it whatever evil bastard might be trailing along behind. The noise was almost on top of him. He closed his eyes and winced. It was coming . . . it was coming . . .
It was going.
It was fading.
Alec opened his eyes again. He listened to the vehicle disappearing into the distance. He was still afraid to move in case its driver happened to glance into his rear-view mirror, and catch a surreptitious movement or a flash of blue. (If only he had worn his black jeans!) He was also alert for the sound of another motor, a motor in pursuit. If Graham and Chris had just passed him, then they might very well be fleeing another car with a gun on board. Alec didn’t want to stand up just as this other car was passing, and get his head blown off in consequence.
Gradually, however, he began to relax. The minutes ticked by and nothing else came down the road. At last he lifted his head, just slightly, and scanned the surrounding landscape. It lay passive in the golden light of a setting sun, each rock and root and blade clearly defined by the shadow it was casting. It looked utterly harmless. Detached.
Glancing at his watch, Alec saw how late it was and realised that he didn’t have much time. Unless he reached the highway before nightfall, he was well and truly stuffed. He’d end up staggering around in circles like a blind man.
He had to get to his truck. Now. Now. He had to get up and walk, though it would be – no contest – the hardest thing he’d ever done in his entire life.
Del lived in a shack near Silverton, with her dog, a sheep, a kangaroo and four chickens. She liked the peace, she said, though it was becoming more and more busy out there, what with the tourists and the film companies. She’d seen the film companies come and go, all the way back to Mad Max.
‘We saw photos at the pub,’ Peter volunteered. ‘From when they shot Dirty Deeds and A Town Called Alice.’
‘Oh, ya can’t move for cameras,’ Del squawked. ‘Every time I wander on down for a beer, there’s some bottle blonde bullin around, lookin for extras. I been an extra, once or twice. German beer ad. Japanese beer ad. They pay good money for a day on the booze, I’ll say that for ’em. They wanted to use me car, once, but that fell through.’
‘It must be good for the economy,’ Noel remarked, and Del snorted.
‘Haven’t bloody got one, out there,’ she said.
‘But all the artists . . .’
‘Oh, them. They’re from Broken Hill,’ Del scoffed, as if Broken Hill was some far-flung metropolis. She began to talk about her father, who had worked on the Broken Hill to Silverton tramway (when it still existed) and her mother, who had come from Cockburn. Peter tuned out. He was keeping a careful eye on the passing countryside, which was slowly dissolving into the dusk. There was still an orange blaze on the western horizon, but a blue-grey shadow was creeping in from the east. It was lapping at the highway already. Rose had just wished on the first star.
Even the changing light, however, couldn’t transform the look of the landscape. As everything took on the same, monotonous tint – as the colours were dulled, and the sky darkened – Peter found himself unable to judge whether the scenery was different or not. He didn’t think so. There was the same dirt, the same low scrub, the same endless stretch of fence . . .
>
‘There’s the mailbox!’ he suddenly cried, jolted from his trance. ‘The white mailbox!’
‘What?’ said Linda. ‘Where?’
‘Back there!’
‘I told you,’ Louise muttered. Linda addressed her husband.
‘Noel? What do you think?’
‘Eh?’
‘Are we going to stop, or . . .?’
‘Oh.’ Noel realised what she was talking about, and turned to Del. ‘We didn’t know if maybe we should phone the NRMA from that house back there,’ he explained. ‘It was our original destination when we realised that we were in trouble.’
‘Well, you’re not in trouble any more,’ Del pointed out.
‘Yes, I realise that, of course –’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll be there soon. No point gettin stuck in a creek bed after dark.’
Louise’s stomach rumbled. Rose had dropped off to sleep, her head bobbing gently against her mother’s chest. Occasionally she would snuffle and stir. Once she had opened her eyes a crack and asked a groggy question: were they home yet? Linda kept checking her watch. Noel had taken upon himself the task of making polite conversation with the driver, who had at one time – briefly – been married to a minister of the Uniting Church.
‘Presbyterian, it was then, and a bloody good thing too,’ Del revealed. ‘Yeah, there’s too much of the tree-huggin, these days, they’ve lost the plot. I don’t hold with drugs and that – no one’s shovin it down their throats, or up their arms – so what’s the excuse? Phil spent all his time with no-hopers, and I got sick of it. Pearls before swine, I told ’im, but he was a stubborn old bugger – hang on. What’s this?’
They were already slowing when Peter, stretching to peer over Mongrel’s velvet ears, caught sight of the stranded truck. Like a beached white whale it was out of its natural element, looking curiously powerless in the dust at the edge of the road. Del’s headlights illuminated its vast hindquarters, which were branded by a NSW number plate. Something was written on its flanks, too, but Peter didn’t notice what the words said. As they crawled past the truck’s great bulk, his attention was caught by the sight of its driver’s door flapping open. Someone was leaning out of the cabin, waving furiously.
‘Bloody hell,’ Del exclaimed.
A man’s silhouette jumped down onto the road, his arm lifted against the beam of Del’s headlights. Linda leaned over and tapped her son’s knee.
‘Roll up the window,’ she murmured. ‘Lock the door.’
Startled, Peter did so. He spotted his father doing the same, leaving only a centimetre of space above the glass. Del, however, seemed quite unconcerned, thrusting her head out of the car to address the approaching motorist.
‘What’s up?’ she called. ‘Breakdown?’
The truck driver shook his head. When he reached her, and stooped, Peter saw that he was covered in dirt and sweat – even his brown curls were dusty. He had a stubbly chin, wide green eyes, and muscles in his arms. They swelled out from beneath the sleeves of his tight T-shirt.
His mouth was a thin line until he caught sight of Rosie. Then it seemed to relax.
‘I’m outta petrol,’ he revealed, in a hoarse but pleasant voice. ‘Are you headin for . . .’ He jerked his thumb.
‘The Hill?’ said Del cheerfully. ‘Hop in. This is the Broken Hill express.’
Linda leaned forward a little, as if to protest, but she didn’t need to because the truck driver hesitated. His gaze ran over Louise, Peter, Rosie. His eyes were bloodshot.
‘There’s no room,’ he rasped.
‘Plentya room,’ Del replied. ‘It’s a wagon. Mongrel can go back there with the bags, and one a the kids can hop in front here. No worries.’
‘But Del –’ Linda began, looking nervous. Del interrupted before she could proceed.
‘He’s in the same boat as you, darl. Wouldn’t wanna leave ’im.’
‘Do you have a CB radio?’ Noel suddenly asked. He was addressing the truck driver. ‘Or a satellite phone, maybe – something like that? Our mobile doesn’t work out here, but if we could call the NRMA, we could arrange something about our car.’
The truck driver looked strange. Watching him, Peter became more and more convinced that something was wrong. The guy’s breathing was erratic, his face was smeared with dirt, his eyes were slightly glazed. He seemed distracted, and kept straightening up to peer around him before lowering his head again, so that it was almost level with Del’s.
Instead of answering Noel, he asked abruptly: ‘Did you run outta gas?’
‘That’s right,’ Noel responded. ‘We were heading for Mildura, and we –’ ‘Headin for Mildura?’ The truck driver’s voice was so sharp that Linda flinched. Peter, who saw the guy’s knuckles whiten where he was gripping the edge of the window, wondered uneasily if he was mad. An actual nutcase. He was certainly behaving in a very weird way.
‘Look, mate, ya comin or not?’ Del sounded testy. ‘We can’t wait around.’
‘There’s something wrong,’ the truck driver blurted out.
‘Eh?’
‘There – there’s been a shootin.’
‘What?’
Peter gasped. His mother grabbed Louise. ‘Noel!’ she exclaimed, but Noel lifted his hand. The truck driver was still talking, his voice unsteady.
‘There’s a property down the road – you musta passed it. Thorndale. I went down there for help with two blokes – they picked me up – there were bodies on the road –’
‘Hang on,’ Del interjected. ‘There’s kids in here, wait.’ She unlatched her seatbelt and pushed open her door, causing the truck driver to step back. Linda sucked in a lungful of air, so quickly that she disturbed Rose, who uttered a plaintive protest. The driver’s door banged shut. Peter swallowed.
A shooting?
‘I don’t like this,’ Linda hissed at Noel. Del and the truck driver were moving away from the car, Del hitching up a pair of sagging, greyish track-pants. She had left her keys in the ignition, and the headlights on. ‘Noel? What are you doing?’
‘I’d better see what’s up.’
‘Noel!’
‘It’s all right, Linda, just stay with the kids.’
Peter’s dad climbed from his seat without closing the door behind him. He passed in front of the headlights, which bleached the colour from his mauve T-shirt, and threw odd shadows across his face. Mongrel whined. The old dog stuck his head out of Del’s window, his heavy pink tongue unfurled like a limp flag. His mistress was standing a few metres in front of the car, talking to the curly-haired truck driver.
Noel joined them tentatively, but soon became absorbed into the conversation – which was a serious one, to judge from the body language. Peter knew his father; he knew what it meant when Noel covered his mouth with a clenched fist. The truck driver was hugging himself like someone chilled to the bone, and Del’s hands kept moving, from her hips to her hair to her collar to her pockets and back to her hips again. Once she pointed, and the truck driver pointed too. Once she took off her hat and wiped her forehead, before jamming her hat back onto her scalp, pulling its brim down almost fiercely. Once they all glanced towards the car, and then Del shook her head, and they looked away again.
‘What’s going on?’ Louise asked, very quietly.
‘I don’t know.’ Linda couldn’t take her eyes off Noel. ‘Shh.’
‘Mum? I don’t like it here.’ Louise’s voice was shrill, and Linda put an arm around her shoulders.
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘Has someone been shot?’
‘Shh, Louise!’ Linda jerked her head at Rosie, who was still half asleep, her eyes dull and groggy under heavy lids. Peter gnawed at a thumbnail. Things were getting out of hand. Something was wrong. He wished desperately that he was at home, tucked up in bed, with a full stomach.
‘I’m hungry,’ Rosie moaned.
‘Soon, sweetie. Soon.’
‘I’m hungry now.’
Mongrel’s whine beca
me louder – more insistent – and Peter realised why: Del was heading back to the car. She walked briskly, frowning, with the truck driver at her heels. Upon reaching the driver’s door, she yanked it open and gestured at Mongrel.
‘Hup!’ she snapped. ‘C’mon!’
Mongrel sat panting, his eyes liquid.
‘Git!’ Del snapped, snatching at his collar. She dragged him onto the road and around to the back of the station wagon, where she forced him into his wicker basket. There was a lot of scraping and grunting and whimpering, and even a few muttered ‘Christs’, which Peter pretended to ignore. It wasn’t hard, because other people were talking. Leaning into the car, Noel addressed his family over the top of the front seat.
‘Alec’s coming with us,’ he declared, fixing his wife with an intent, warning gaze. ‘He can squeeze in front with me, all right?’
‘Will there be room?’ Linda asked, more as if she was raising an objection than seeking to be reassured. But Noel was firm.
‘He can’t stay here. Believe me, we can’t leave him here.’ He mouthed the word ‘later’, before sliding into the centre of the front seat. ‘Alec? This is Linda, my wife, and this is Peter and Louise and Rosie.’
Alec nodded, mumbling a salutation. He threw his weight into the seat formerly occupied by Noel, causing grief to the car’s ancient suspension. Springs creaked. The whole car wobbled.
Alec slammed his door just as Del opened the one on the driver’s side. She pushed something long and dark across the men’s knees. It took Peter a few seconds to realise that he was looking at a rifle.
‘Del!’ Linda screeched. ‘What are you doing?’
‘It’s me .303,’ Del replied, in the puzzled tone of someone stating the obvious.