Catherine Jinks TheRoad (7 page)

‘I’ve driven Mark’s!’ she replied, and began to haul at the wheel. She looked very small behind it. Tyres crackled on the stony ground. Beyond her labouring arms, Cyrene caught a glimpse of Nathan’s face, just for an instant, before he had to step out of the way.

Then the vehicle slowed. Grace leaned out of the window. ‘I’ll send someone back,’ she promised. ‘Just hang on, and ...and someone’ll come, okay?’

‘Yeah. But take it easy.’

‘I will.’

‘It’s a rough road, remember. Don’t go too fast or you’ll tear the guts outta me truck.’

‘I know. I won’t.’

‘It’ll be
all right
!’ Cyrene yelled after them. He began to cough. Glancing into the rear-view mirror, Grace saw him bent almost double, his gun barrel bouncing on the crook of his arm as his figure dwindled in size. He looked so old, standing there in the cloud of dust that the ute had thrown up. He was still wearing his slippers.

Grace felt the urge to stamp on the brake – to
insist
that he come with them. But it seemed as if her foot was welded to the accelerator. She couldn’t move it. She couldn’t stop. She was far too frightened.

Cyrene has the gun, she told herself. He’ll be all right as long as he has the gun. Anyway, he’s not the target – I am. And right now I’m a moving target, which is harder to hit.

The ute bounced and lurched.

‘Mum!’
Nathan cried, clutching at the door handle.

‘Sorry.’ The road was as rough as Cyrene had warned it would be – a washboard road, studded here and there with patches of bare, pitted rock. According to Cyrene, it had been six months since the last decent rain, so all the dirt roads around Broken Hill were in a ragged condition. You couldn’t grade and level a dirt road if it was bone dry.

Grace swerved to avoid a pothole, and the low, clawing branches of a mulga scratched along the side of the truck. She glanced in the mirror again. Already the road had begun to curve, and the house was partly screened by bluebush, mulga, kerosene grass. Then the road dipped, and the house disappeared altogether. A crow flapped into the air, startled out of its roosting place by the noise of the engine. The whole truck vibrated like a blender and rattled like stones in a can; it had to be at least twenty years old. The gearstick was tricky too – stiff and uncooperative.

Needless to say, there was no air conditioning.

‘Mum?’

‘What?’

‘Can I open my window?’

‘Yeah, sure.’ Poor little Nathan – he was so scared. Grace flashed him a smile, but couldn’t spare him more than one glance because she had to watch the road. It was a real obstacle course when you got near the creek, which was a tributary of the slightly larger, but no less parched, Rantyga Creek. Cyrene called it Stone’s Throw, and Bill Ricketts, his nearest neighbour, called it Joke Creek, because neither of them knew what it was really called. It was merely a crease in the earth, where the grass was thicker, and the clumps of brush grew closer together, and where a few copses of small trees seem to have collected – among them one or two stunted red gums. The low ochre sandbanks had eroded away here and there, like miniature canyons, but the creek bed wasn’t all sand; there were patches of gravel, patches of baked clay. The road forded the creek bed at one of these more stable patches, which could support the weight of a car when it wasn’t raining.

Even in the middle of a drought, however, the ride was still a bumpy one.

‘Ouch!’ Nathan cried, as the ute surged up over the shallow western bank. A small torch, dislodged from the dashboard by all the jolting, had rolled onto his knee.

‘Sorry, love. Not far now.’ In fact they weren’t even halfway – they hadn’t even reached the first gate – but how long would it take, after all? Not too long if the road improved, and it was bound to once they approached the highway. Grace seemed to recall that it had become worse and worse on their way in.

‘Mum?’

‘What?’

‘I need to go to the toilet.’

Only the tone that Nathan used – which was low and faltering and apologetic – prevented Grace from screaming at him. By exerting enormous self-control, she managed to reply calmly.

‘Can’t stop yet, Nathan.’

‘I know.’

‘Wait’ll we reach the highway, okay? Then we’ll see what we can do.’

Nathan subsided. So did the big bumps, because the land had flattened out. It became sandier, dustier; the vegetation became more sparse, and the trees disappeared. Dry grass stretched away to the horizon, with only the odd saltbush or salt pan to relieve the monotony. Everything else – everything beyond that – was swallowed up by flickering waves of heat where earth met sky. The highway, the fences, the endless line of power poles marching north to Broken Hill and south to Mildura . . . they were all somewhere up ahead, in the distance, beyond the mirage line. How far, exactly? Fifteen minutes? Twenty? At least that, if the road kept tracing slow, lazy curves around nonexistent obstacles, and offering up a corrugated surface. It was like driving over a giant ribcage. A never-ending cattle grid.

‘I’ll open the gates,’ Grace declared, her voice shaking along with the truck. Nathan actually cracked a smile.

‘Your voice sounds funny,’ he said. ‘Hey! So does mine.’

‘Yeah. Didja hear me? I said I’ll open the gates today.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

And then the ute began to slow.

Even as Grace pressed down on the accelerator, her glance strayed, for the first time, to the gauges. Her heart skipped a beat. A red light glowed near the fuel gauge, which was quivering below ‘empty’. ‘Oh God,’ she gasped, stamping hard with her right foot. It was no good, however. The ute continued to slow, slow, slow. It ground to a halt. ‘Oh God!’ Grace shrieked. ‘Oh my God, no!’

‘What is it, Mum?’ Nathan wailed. ‘What?’

‘Oh no, no,
no
!’ Grace pounded on the steering wheel. Her head slumped against it. Then she jerked upright again and looked around, her heart pounding, her breath harsh in her throat. But no one lurked nearby. The dry, shorn earth baked quietly in the sun.

‘Okay,’she muttered.‘Okay,think.’They had run out of petrol. Maybe Cyrene had forgotten to fill up. Thank God he was a bushie – he probably kept a spare can in the back of his ute. ‘Hang on, love,’ she said. ‘I’m just gunna check something.’

‘Don’t get out, Mum!’

‘I have to. I won’t be long.’

She climbed down from the cabin, leaving the driver’s door open. Her feet landed on powdery dirt, the colour of the dye she used in her own hair. (There was a black streak at the parting now, though, as wide as a bloody highway.) She went round to the back of the ute and peered over the tailgate. She saw a length of plastic hose, a couple of old sacks, a spare tyre, a toolbox, a roll of electric insulation tape – but nothing that resembled a can or container of anything.

‘Oh Christ,’ she moaned. ‘For
Chrissake
, what’s the
matter
with him?’

How could there be no petrol? There
had
to be petrol! She wondered if a jerry can had somehow been inserted behind the seats in front, and went to look. To her dismay, she found nothing wedged behind or under the seats except a National Topographic map of Menindee, a set of radiator hoses, and an empty crisp packet.

‘Oh Christ.’ She flopped back into the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel with both hands.

‘Mum?’

‘It’s all right.’ She had to think. ‘We’re out of petrol.’

There were now three options open to them. They could walk for an hour or so towards the highway, where they could try to hitch a ride. They could walk south for a couple of hours until they reached the Ricketts’ place – Kallinga – in the hope that at least one of the Ricketts wasn’t out moving stock, or shopping in town. Or they could turn around and walk back to Thorndale, a trip that would take them at least half an hour.

Staying in the truck wasn’t really an option.There was no two-way radio installed, and she hadn’t brought a thing – no water, no hats, no food, no nothing. Besides, she had to keep moving. She couldn’t stay still, in case . . .

In case he was out there. Waiting.

In case
he
had emptied the tank overnight?

She gasped, and looked around frantically, trying not to let her panic get the better of her. She had to think. She had to concentrate. There was no one around. If he
had
emptied the tank, why had he done it? To stop her from leaving Thorndale, obviously.

But what did that mean? Was he back there, lying in wait? Was he up ahead, parked on the highway? What did he expect her to do?

‘Okay,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘Okay.’ Kallinga was a long way for Nathan to walk without any water – and there were some vicious dogs on the property. Really vicious. Besides, Grace wasn’t exactly sure how to get there – not without using the road. What if she got lost? And what if she did get there, and no one was at home?

Hitching a ride would be easier. There wouldn’t be many people who could drive straight past a woman and a little kid on the Silver City Highway. But it would mean a long walk, and a long wait, and she had never hitchhiked with Nathan before – she had never wanted to take the risk. Because there
was
a risk, no doubt about it, although staying at Thorndale would be riskier. Except that Cyrene had that gun of his. And perhaps some more petrol. Didn’t he keep a lot of engine oil and brake fluid and kerosene in the garage? Hadn’t he mentioned something about a stash of petrol for the ‘nongs’ who occasionally turned up on his doorstep, begging for a top-up so they could make it to Broken Hill? They often asked for water, too, because they hadn’t brought any along with them – and because they had assumed, seeing his letterbox, that Cyrene’s place was closer to the highway.

‘Okay,’ Grace repeated. She remembered now that Cyrene definitely kept petrol in his garage; he had pointed it out to her. So she could return to Thorndale, get the petrol, get Cyrene, get the gun, and try again. Or she could leave Thorndale – and the threat that a mutilated corpse implied – heading west for the main road, where she might (or might not) be lucky. Either way, she had to face the fact that she and Nathan would be walking.

Exposed. Out in the middle of nowhere, like sitting ducks. Like emus trapped by a wire fence.

She rubbed her temples, trying to decide the best course of action. Which would be more dangerous: a long walk to the highway, or a short walk to Thorndale? There was hardly any cover on the road ahead – very few bushes, and only one or two trees that she could recall – but what about dips in the ground? And what about standing on the side of the highway, thumbing down cars, looking for a harmless one? Suppose her husband was expecting her to do just that? Suppose he came barrelling down the road in a rented car, and ran her over before she realised who he was?

There was more cover on the road back to Thorndale, and it was a shorter route – much shorter. And Cyrene would be able to hear her soon enough, if she called out. And he had a gun, and petrol, and there was a toolbox in the back of the truck, with tools in it . . .

‘Okay,’ she said, turning to Nathan. ‘This is what we’re gunna do. We’ve run outta petrol, but Cyrene’s got petrol at the house. So we’re gunna walk back there, and get the petrol, and he’ll come back here with us, and we’ll all go to town together. How ’bout that?’

Nathan stared at her sombrely.

‘It’ll be all right,’ she assured him, with a wavering smile. ‘It’s not a long walk.’

‘What about Dad?’ Nathan asked, in a very small voice.

‘Well...’ Grace looked away. ‘Well, if we see Dad, and he’s mad at us, then we’ll just . . . then you can run and get Cyrene, okay? But we won’t see Dad. We won’t.’ Grace was trying to convince herself as much as her son. ‘If Dad was anywhere close, we’da seen him already.’

‘Can’t we stay here?’

‘No, love, it’ll get too hot. We don’t have anything to drink. And no one else is gunna come down here, are they? Cyrene doesn’t have any visitors, except people who break down.’

‘And us.’

‘And us. Yeah.’

So they left the ute, and set off for Thorndale. Grace took her purse, and some of the tools from Cyrene’s toolbox: a screwdriver, which she concealed in her purse; a hammer, which she carried; and a chisel, which she gave to Nathan. She felt reasonably safe, with a hammer in her hand. If he comes anywhere near me, she thought, I’ll break his skull. She tried to hurry, but Nathan couldn’t keep up; he was only six after all, and his poor little legs weren’t as long as Grace’s – though he was too big to carry. She had to linger, to slow her pace, while every cell in her body itched to run, to sprint, to make a dash for it.

Breathing deeply, she forced herself to stay calm, even as her eyes flicked from saltbush to saltbush. At least it was still pretty early. At least the sun wasn’t too high or too hot, yet. With Nathan’s sweaty palm pressed against her own, she walked as briskly as she could, keeping to the middle of the road, straining to catch any sound beyond the flap-flap-flap of Nathan’s soles, the rush of a distant breeze, and the occasional, drawn-out wail of a crow.

The flies soon found them, of course. She had to keep chasing the damn things off her lips and out of her eyes. Nathan’s face was soon crawling with them; he began to wave his chisel around so wildly that she told him to put it in his pocket. He obeyed without speaking, and they trudged on. Between tufts of grass beside the road they saw animal pellets. They passed a bush covered in sharp spines and red berries. Grace watched the shadows beneath the larger shrubs, and stayed alert for any quick and sudden movement among the outcrops of mulga, which grew thicker as they approached the creek. She could feel the sun boring into her scalp. She remembered her sunglasses, and put them on. The hammer dragged at her arm, becoming heavier with every step. She realised that she had to go to the toilet.

I should have gone before I left, she thought. I was in too much of a hurry. I should have checked the fuel gauge. Why didn’t I? Because I panicked, that’s why. Because I didn’t have time to think.

Nathan tugged at her hand.

‘Mum?’