He had stopped barking. Alec noticed this without really giving it much thought. Only later did it strike him as significant.
At first, his attention was focused almost entirely on his surroundings. He was as twitchy as hell, all keyed up for action, because he expected the worst: a shower of blood, maybe, or a giant snake, or a carnivorous tree. Nothing would have surprised him. The world, he’d decided, had been turned on its head. He really had strayed into the Twilight Zone, and therefore had to be ready for anything. The creek bed might open up and engulf him, like quicksand, if he so much as set foot on it. The trees might lean down and pluck the gun from his hands. If anything like that happened, Alec wouldn’t be surprised. He wouldn’t even be taken by surprise. He was expecting the worst – prepared for it – and he would go down fighting.
Gradually, however, his strung-out nerves began to relax. It was very peaceful, down by the creek. Even the galahs that settled onto a nearby gum tree didn’t quarrel and scold; they sat quietly fluffing their feathers and nibbling at their wingpits for a while, before flying off again. Flies buzzed lazily – not with the terrifying, chainsaw aggressiveness of the recent swarm – and a silent trio of emus crossed the creek bed, like three grey ghosts, some distance away. Mongrel lowered his head onto his paws, one ear and one eyebrow twitching. Occasionally he would even yawn.
Del pottered around boiling up water, so that they could all have tea; eventually she even started singing to herself. That was when Linda got out of the station wagon, joining her husband as he rooted around in its rear end for the last of Verlie’s long-life milk. ‘It’ll have to be used soon, now that it’s opened,’ he said. ‘No point letting it go to waste.’
When the tea was ready, Alec felt able to accept a cup. He actually sat down to drink it, the Lee Enfield propped between his knees. The warm, sweet liquid did marvellous things to his nervous system. Almost instantly he felt stronger, sharper, more lively and optimistic. When Rosie declared that she was ‘busting’, he even surrendered the rifle to Del, who accompanied Linda and her daughter into the bush. They were back within five minutes, having suffered no grisly setbacks.
From then on, the children were permitted to wait outside the car, though they were not allowed to stray far from it. Linda wouldn’t let Rosie dig in the sandy creek bed – not at first. So Rosie dug a hole in the dirt under a tree, ‘for the lizard’, and Louise experimented half-heartedly with her mother’s lipstick (looking up restlessly at regular intervals to check the sky), and Peter wandered over to Alec, who was once again in possession of the Lee Enfield.
‘Can I have a look at that?’ the kid inquired.
Alec hesitated. ‘I dunno,’ was his response. ‘What does your mum say?’
‘She says I can.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. As long as I don’t touch it.’
‘Right.’ Alec glanced at Linda, who gave a brief nod. He then scanned the immediate vicinity before thrusting his precious burden under Peter’s nose, for the boy to inspect.
‘Where are all the bullets?’ Peter asked.
‘In there.’ Alec tapped the magazine. ‘It’s spring-loaded.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that when you pull back this bolt, one of the bullets will pop up, and you can push it into the breech.’
‘How many bullets are there?’
Alec looked at Del, whose mouth was full of tea. She swallowed it before replying. ‘Six,’ she said.
‘Is that all?’ Peter frowned.
‘That’s all.’
‘Oh.’
‘Six is all we need,’ Del insisted. ‘They’re soft-nosed, them – make a hell of a mess. Not like copper tips. Ever seen a .303 calibre? They’re big.’
‘Oh, please.’ Linda sounded weary. ‘Not in front of the children. It’s been bad enough.’
‘Just tryin to make ’em feel better,’ said Del, and Linda snapped, ‘Well don’t!’
‘Mum? Can I hold it?’
‘No, Peter.’
‘Please? If I point it away?’
‘No, Peter!’
‘You heard what your mother said, Pete,’ Noel broke in, whereupon Alec, feeling somehow responsible for this family rift, hastened to remark, ‘It’s heavy, you know. It’s really heavy. You might drop it.’
‘I wouldn’t!’ Peter protested.
‘Can’t take the risk, though. Not with a loaded gun.’ Seeing the kid’s grubby, disappointed face, Alec found himself adding, ‘Sorry.’
Peter grunted. Linda offered him a muesli bar. Rose immediately asked for one too; then Louise pointed out that she didn’t like muesli bars, and Linda gave her a piece of chewing gum instead; and Rosie wanted chewing gum, and Linda reminded her that she wasn’t allowed to have chewing gum, and suddenly Alec felt the world shift. It seemed to click back into place, as the Twilight Zone retreated. Nothing seemed invested with menace, any more: the sky was just sky, the creek just a creek. Bewildered, Alec found himself thinking of Janine for the first time in hours. Was there a chance that he might see her again? Talk to her again? All at once, he felt hopeful.
It was the kids, of course. The kids often had that effect on him: they argued and whined and pretty soon everything was normal – at least for a while. At least until the next unnatural occurrence.
Looking around, however, Alec wondered if there was going to be another unnatural occurrence.
He realised, with a start, that nothing bad had happened since the departure of the Harwoods’ sedan.
CHAPTER 17
‘No,’ said Georgie.
Ambrose took a deep breath. He had anticipated this response, and beneath his weariness and impatience he felt a certain sense of satisfaction. Not only had he been right; he had been right in regarding her as a selfish piece of white trash. Of course she didn’t want to help Verlie. Of course she expected Ambrose to bend to her will – he generally had in the past. But the situation had changed. Ambrose was no longer in thrall to Georgie. (He couldn’t believe, now, that he ever had been.) Ambrose was determined to do what was right, because he had woken up to himself, and he realised that this was one of those moments in life when you either demonstrated that you were a worthwhile human being, or discovered that you were a waste of space.
Georgie, he realised, was a waste of space. And the more she protested, the more pleasure he derived from insisting that he had to go and see what had happened to John and Ross and Verlie. It had been nearly half an hour since John’s departure. If he wasn’t on his way back by now (with or without the Harwoods) then he must be in some kind of trouble. Ambrose and Georgie couldn’t just abandon him. That, at least, was what Ambrose told his girlfriend – though the truth, he grudgingly acknowledged to himself, was a little more complicated.
The fact was, he took a fierce delight in proving that he was better than Georgie, more selfless than Georgie – a superior form of life, in other words. His dislike of this whining dead weight, and her hysterical demands, and her inadequate costume, and her lack of compassion, had suddenly become quite profound. He had realised that, while antisocial behaviour might be amusing and intriguing when the world was functioning as it should (which is to say, in an orderly manner) such conduct was dangerous and unlovely when one was a castaway, dependent on cooperation and intuitive thinking for one’s very survival.
Georgie didn’t understand that. Though she expected Ambrose to look after her, she refused to consider the needs of other people. On reflection, it had always been like this. How on earth had he ever put up with it?
What a joy it now was to punish her for that unabashed narcissism he had once found so fascinating.
‘I’m going,’ he declared. ‘Wait here.’
‘You can’t!’ she screeched. ‘You can’t go! You can’t leave me!’
‘Why not?’
‘You bastard!’ She was crying. ‘You prick! You’ll get killed! It’ll kill you! That thing’ll kill you!’
The possi
bility had crossed Ambrose’s mind more than once; it was why he had waited so long to follow John. If he hadn’t become so revolted by Georgie, and everything she stood for, his fear of what awaited him back at the bog might have prevented him from doing his duty. As it was, however, he was compelled by his anger and dislike to do the exact opposite of what Georgie wanted.
Apart from anything else, he was desperate to get away from her. And he knew that, if he walked off down the track towards Pine Creek, she would try to hobble after him, grizzling and whimpering. Whereas, if he retraced his steps, she would unquestionably stay put. Nothing on earth would persuade her to follow him back to the bog.
‘If it was going to kill us, it would have killed us already,’ Ambrose informed her, with a fine touch of insouciance that he didn’t really feel. ‘It had plenty of time.’
‘Don’t leave me, please!’
‘You can always come too.’
‘Fuck that! Are you crazy? I don’t wanna die!’
Ambrose shrugged, and smiled a taunting little smile. Then he left her. He retreated down one of the tyre tracks, listening to her scream and curse behind him. Although they were profoundly irritating – like the skull-piercing sounds of a dentist’s drill – Georgie’s sobbing imprecations were also deeply gratifying. They kept Ambrose marching steadily, chin up, for as long as they were audible.
Only after they had faded into the susurrus of the wind did his pace begin to slow. That was when he found himself glancing nervously from side to side, straining to hear, casting quick looks over his shoulder. As his fear grew, it overwhelmed his anger. He began to wonder why he had allowed this anger to drive him in such a stupid direction. That bloody woman was still in charge. She was still dictating his actions, though in an indirect way. The problem was, he couldn’t exactly turn tail now. Not if he wanted to retain any dignity. No; if he went scurrying back to Georgie she might laugh or sneer at him, and if that happened he would . . . well, he didn’t know what he would do. Something childish and shameful, perhaps. Maybe even something extreme. Since the incident at the bog, Georgie’s voice had set his teeth on edge. Her scornful laugh might drive him to violence – especially in view of the fact that his nerves were on edge.
He didn’t know what to do. Around him, the thick scrub rustled beneath the light caress of a passing breeze. Its long shadow rippled across the track in front of him. Then everything became still again, so still that Ambrose thought he could hear Georgie’s sobs. He stopped, and listened. No. Yes. No, it was a bird. No, there was something else.
Footsteps.
They were brisk – even hurried – and it was fortunate that John appeared within seconds of his footsteps’ rhythmic crunch-crunch-crunch reaching Ambrose’s ears, or Ambrose might have run away. As it was, he still got a fright. The first flash of movement had sent his heart fluttering wildly around inside his ribcage (or that, at least, was how it had felt).
When John waved, Ambrose leaned forward, his hands on his knees. The relief, following hard on the shock, had weakened him.
‘Bloody hell,’ he gasped.
‘Hey! Mate!’
‘Fuck, you gave me a fright!’
‘What’s up? Where’s the girl?’
‘Back there.’ Ambrose straightened, cocking his thumb. ‘You were so long, I started to get worried. What happened? Where are the other two?’
John advanced, closing the gap between them. If Ambrose hadn’t been in such a fragile state, he might have laughed at the other man’s appearance, which was becoming more and more bedraggled. Portions of his hair stood up stiffly, while the rest was plastered down, held in place by dried mud. His clothes were filthy, with fresh stains overlaying the old; he shed clouds of dust and grit with each step. It occurred to Ambrose that John now bore more than a passing resemblance to Pig Pen, the dirty little boy in the Charlie Brown cartoons, who was accompanied by a kind of small tornado of grime wherever he went.
Ambrose didn’t really pay close attention to the fresh stains on John’s clothes. He noted, without genuinely processing the fact, that the new mud looked redder than the old. But he was too preoccupied to draw any conclusions.
‘Is Verlie all right?’ he asked. ‘Is she coming?’
‘I dunno.’
‘You don’t know?’
John stopped in front of Ambrose. ‘I couldn’t find ’em,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘They weren’t there.’ John rubbed his forehead with one dirt-encrusted fist. ‘Neither was the car. I don’t know whether they just drove off, or –’
‘Drove off?’ Ambrose couldn’t believe his ears. ‘How could they do that? We were bogged, for Chrissake.’
John shrugged.
‘Are you sure they weren’t hiding? Were there any tracks?’
‘Nup.’
‘Did you call out?’
‘What do you think?’
‘So . . . so . . .’ Ambrose felt as if he’d had the breath knocked out of him. He couldn’t believe . . . my God, it was impossible. ‘Are you sure? I mean – do you think – you don’t think they were dragged into the bog?’ said Ambrose.
Again John shrugged. He seemed singularly unconcerned. As Ambrose stood rooted to the spot with horror and disbelief, John brushed past him, obviously unwilling to waste any more time on Ross and Verlie.
Ambrose hesitated. He stared down the receding track, knowing that if he turned away again, it would be for good – that he would be abandoning the Harwoods to their fate. It occurred to him that something looked strange, down there. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it might be. The perspective, perhaps? The shadows?
Then something flashed past his eyes. An arm – John’s arm. Ambrose was jerked backwards, choking and gasping for air, clawing at the limb that was clamped around his neck. Then he saw a flash of brilliant metal, chopping down.
The pain was astonishing.
There wasn’t time for his outrage to become fear. There wasn’t time for anything.
At four o’clock, Del started to make preparations. She put Linda and Noel in charge of dinner. She gave Alec and Col the job of collecting wood. She drew up a watch bill, leaving herself the nastiest watch, between twelve and four. ‘I know I can trust me not to fall asleep,’ she said. ‘I dunno about anyone else.’
Alec was given the evening watch, and Col the morning one. Noel was excused because he couldn’t fire a gun, and Linda because the children would need her. Del even designated one scrubby area (some distance from the camp) as the official latrine, and insisted that anyone using it should be accompanied by an armed guard. Mongrel, she said, would take care of the camp while the gun was required for latrine duty.
‘It’s all in the details,’ she declared. ‘If we’re careful, we should be right.’
Peter put his hand up. He couldn’t help it. Standing around like this, being told what to do, he felt as if he were at school again. (It wasn’t a bad feeling, in the circumstances. Quite comforting really.)
‘Yeah?’ said Del.
Peter hesitated. He surveyed the circle of waiting faces, wondering if he should reveal his thoughts.
‘What if – ?’ he began, and paused.
Noel laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘What’s up, Pete?’ he asked gently, and Peter took a deep breath.
‘Well – I mean – what if the gun doesn’t work?’ he blurted out, blinking back tears. ‘What happens then?’
‘Oh, it works.’ Del spoke with confidence. ‘Believe me, I used it the other day. It works.’
‘No, I mean . . .’ Peter tried to find the words. How should he put it? Fortunately, Alec did the job for him.
‘He means, what if bullets won’t work?’ Alec said. He glanced at Peter, his green eyes sombre in his dusty face. ‘That’s what you mean, isn’t it? What if bullets won’t work against . . . well, against whatever comes along?’
Peter nodded. He felt his father’s grip tighten on his shoulder. Del cleared her throat.
; ‘Well,’ she conceded, ‘that is a possibility –’
‘Oh, surely not!’ Linda exclaimed.
‘– but there’s other things we can do.’ Del went on as if Linda hadn’t spoken. ‘There’s the fire. We’re gunna build a big fire, just in case someone spots the smoke. I mean, they’re bound to, out here, we’re on someone’s property. Fire on the property? They’ll be comin from every direction. And even if they don’t, we’ll still have fire. Hell, fire’ll drive off everything. And there’s Mongrel, too. You should see Mongrel get ’is teeth into a bloody rat, I’m tellin ya. He’s a bloody machine.’
Everyone looked at Mongrel, who yawned. There were flies crawling around his eyes; though his eyebrows twitched, he obviously couldn’t be bothered to chase them off with a more energetic movement.
Peter’s heart sank. He wasn’t too confident about Mongrel’s strength or agility.
‘Look,’ said Alec, and there was an intensity in his tone that made Peter squint up at him. Alec didn’t often volunteer anything, and when he did, it was usually for a good reason. Over the past twenty-four hours, Peter had come to regard Alec’s instincts as infallible.
‘Look,’ Alec repeated – and for once, everyone was listening to him. ‘I dunno if you’ve noticed, but . . . well . . . for the past couple of hours there’s been nothing. Nothing bad I mean.’ A brief silence, as his gaze swept the assembled company. ‘We’re still stuck, but the flies . . . I mean, they’re actin normal. Ants are the same. No dead animals anywhere. You know?’
Peter knew. Suddenly, he knew what Alec was talking about.
‘Since the car left!’ he cried.