Catherine Jinks TheRoad (95 page)

‘Could they be out of range?’ Linda suggested. ‘Maybe they can’t hear us, and we can’t see them . . .’

‘Shh!’ Alec had wound down his window a fraction. ‘Keep quiet!’

‘I can hear something,’ Peter suddenly quavered. ‘Can you hear something?’

It was a soft whistle, which grew louder as they listened. A breathy, moaning, hollow whistle. A whistle that ebbed and surged, but never quite stopped.

‘It’s the wind,’ Noel declared.

‘But Dad . . .’ This time, Alec could hear the suppressed sobs in Peter’s whimper. ‘Dad, the branches aren’t moving! Nothing’s moving!’

Alec swallowed. The kid was right. Every ruddy-coloured leaf hung still from a motionless twig. Every blade of grass throwing a spear-like shadow against the earth stood as stiff as a guardsman.

Yet still the whistle continued, rising in volume and urgency, like the sound of a 70 km gust pushing its way through a keyhole.

Beside Alec, Louise was curled up in a ball. He could feel her trembling. He himself was sweating, though the temperature had dropped since nightfall.

‘It’s happening,’ he panted. ‘It’s happening again.’ He pressed his nose to the glass, but could see almost nothing, because his side of the car was facing away from the fire. Something drifted overhead, but – no, it was smoke. It dissipated quickly.

He leaned forward, peering over Noel’s shoulder, through the windscreen. The windscreen was so filthy, however – so covered with dust and squashed flies – that the shapes beyond it were indistinct; he could vaguely make out tree-trunks, bushes, stones, all of them utterly immobile.

The shrill, droning whistle was now hurting his ears.

‘What’s happening?’ Linda cried. ‘What is it?’