Catherine Jinks TheRoad (30 page)

‘That’s okay,’ Chris replied.

Alec gave up. He wasn’t in a position to do anything else. He had a feeling that Graham was watching him, surreptitiously, in case he tried to choke Chris, grab the wheel and hijack the car. Well, you couldn’t blame him. The McKenzies were an organised pair of blokes; it was obvious enough from their equipment that they had a problem-solving attitude to life. Alec didn’t. His attitude was more fatalistic. So when confronted by something spooky he was less likely to want to analyse it, identify the problem, break it down into manageable chunks and tackle it one step at a time. He was more likely to accept the unacceptable and try to get the hell out.

Not a word was said for about ten minutes. Alec felt better, now that they were retracing their route, but he was still on edge. So were the McKenzies, he suspected. Chris kept glancing in the rear-view mirror. He probably didn’t want to acknowledge that things were getting weird, and had decided to blame his creeping sense of unease on Alec. People were always blaming Alec. He was used to it.

‘Hey.’ Graham sounded startled. ‘Hey, isn’t that . . . is that your
truck
, Alec?’

Alec leaned forward. Ahead, through the band of liquid-looking air that hung just above the road on the horizon, a remote white shape rippled and danced.

‘It can’t be,’ gasped Chris.

‘It bloody is, you know,’ Graham insisted.

‘But we left that truck ages ago! It must be something else. Another truck. It has to be.’

Alec said nothing. As they closed the gap between themselves and the white shape, he saw sun glint off chrome. He recognised the configuration. He knew that he was looking at Diesel Dog.

‘No,’ said Chris. The Land Rover slowed, and finally rolled to a stop when they reached the motionless road train. ‘No, this isn’t right. This can’t be the same truck – Alec, this can’t be your truck.’

Alec noted with some satisfaction that Chris’s face had lost a little of its ruddy colour.

‘It is my truck,’ he replied.

‘But it
can’t be
.’

‘Mate, it’s Diesel Dog. I know me own truck. Look, see? The name’s painted on the side.’

‘But how . . . what . . .?’ Chris stammered, before subsiding. He didn’t speak again for a while, apparently shocked into muteness – or perhaps preoccupied by some inner search for a logical explanation. Graham took a different tack. He twisted right

around, pulling against his seat belt, and challenged Alec bluntly.

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘what the hell is going on here?’

‘I dunno.’

‘But this is impossible. I mean, it’s actually impossible.
Physi
cally
impossible.’

Alec watched him carefully – warily. They eyed each other. At last Graham said: ‘You’ve got no explanation, is that right? None.’

‘I reckon –’ Alec began, then realised that he was hoarse, and cleared his throat before continuing. ‘I reckon we’re not meant to reach Broken Hill,’ he offered.

‘Why not?’

‘
I
dunno.’

Graham appeared to think for a moment. He looked at Chris, who was staring straight ahead, over the top of the steering wheel. Alec remarked: ‘I dunno what to believe. I just want to get out.’

‘Fair enough,’ Graham muttered. ‘Eh, Chris? Let’s get off this road for a start. Let’s find that mailbox.’

Chris gave a slow, distracted nod, and the Land Rover began to move again. Alec’s stomach felt as if it had tied itself into a tight little knot. He wiped his mouth, glanced out the window, licked his lips, rubbed his palms on his thighs. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t leave the road,’ he suggested.