Thunder Road (7 page)

AROUND THE BASE of each tree there was a black bag a bit like a hot water bottle. A sort of watering bag, keeping a small forest of dak in peak condition. Just one of these fairy trees would yield more dry weed than the two of us could buy in five years. In awed silence we squeezed through the plantation. The sticky buds tickled my face and caught in my hair. Greeted me. Stroked me. I looked at Devon. He was grinning like a fool. I reckon we had taken on a small fix by just moving through the throng.

I tried to count them, just to get my head around how many plants we were dealing with. It was impossible: the stand was too thick, too chaotic. At one end there were some felled plants, ready for hauling out. It seemed a crime to have cut them and just left them there. A violation. We would soon fix that.

Devon’s face appeared through a gap ten metres away; he was holding a torch under his chin. His head looked like a Halloween pumpkin. ‘Fucking amazing man!’ I was pleased he was blown away too … for once I felt that we were reacting on the same level. I wasn’t the dumb, small-town boy.

‘That says they’re coming back soon. Tonight maybe,’ Devon said, pointing at the fallen plants. ‘We better move fast. I reckon they’ll have stashed axes and stuff around here, there’s got to be a little shelter or something.’

We set off in different directions, circling the patch, peering into the gloom for something that resembled a shed. There was a sudden clank and I felt a jolt of pain shoot up my leg as
I fell down. Feeling tentatively around my heel I found I had stepped on a possum trap. I flicked the torch on again to see a whole line of them glinting off into the distance. Devon almost stood on one as he ran over to me.

‘You OK?’

‘Great. Just thought I would sit down for a moment.’ I shone my torch on the trap.

‘Jesus! Possum traps, we should have thought. Possums, the dope grower’s second biggest enemy.’

Devon held the torch while I levered the jaws of the gin trap open with my knife. It was an old trap, the teeth blunted by rust … just as well, because there was still plenty of bite left in the spring.

As we had suspected, there was a little ponga bivouac about the size of a pup tent. In it was a sleeping bag, camp stove, tins of food. Someone had been living there. And recently too: there was a carton of milk. Under the low part, below head height, were shovels, saws, axes as well as fertiliser and aphid sprays … all the clobber you would expect from a serious horticulturist. The most useful tool was a pruning saw: long-handled with a hooked end.

‘How many do we take?’

‘The lot.’

‘We can’t fit that many on the Ford.’

‘Then we’ll hide them and make a second trip.’

‘Jesus man! Risky.’

Devon had that snappy tone that made me take notice. ‘It’s all or nothing. Our one big chance … look at this … they’re harvesting, they’ll be gone by tomorrow. It’s a fluke we made it at all.’

He looked at me. There was no humour now, no touch of
irony. I was impressed … he had a core of seriousness I had rarely seen.

‘How shall we do it? Chop them up and put them in bags?’

‘No. Just cut them down, bind the stems … the trunks I guess … and drag out as many as we can. We’ll stash them on the side of the road and come back for more.’

Despite the thickness of the stems they cut very easily. I had felled half the patch by the time Devon had made up two
bundles
to drag out.

The moon was up high now and I was able to note a few landmarks as we dragged the bundles through the dense bush. We didn’t speak; there was no stopping. The sweat poured down my back inside my nylon jacket. Just when I was about to call for a stop, there was the road glowing dully through the thick canopy.

Devon dragged his pile to the far side and laid it in the gorse.

‘We want it handy,’ he said, ‘but not too obvious. Anything for a quick pick-up and get away.’

It was six trips before we had the last of the plants out. We scarcely spoke. The route became worn and familiar but the last hill felt bigger and steeper each time we approached it. I could see Devon begin to sag … he had nothing left in reserve when we made the last run.

Halfway back I said, ‘Sit down man. I’ll dump these and come back and give you a hand.’

He just shook his head, too exhausted to say a word, and plodded on. Honour. It must have been some honour deal.

I looked at my watch. Five-fifteen. It was lightening rapidly. We both tried to run up the road to the paddock where the pick-up was parked but we were so stiff and sore we could barely stumble. The cows were all standing by the gateway waiting to
be let out for milking. Surely any minute now we would hear the sound of the farm-bike. We had to move fast. Devon ran for the Ford and I tried to shoo the dumb beasts back. I was fierce but they stood their ground. They knew the routine; it was time to come out the gate. Devon brought the ute up behind them but they wouldn’t budge.

‘Fuck it. Trace, just let them out.’

So I did. I threw the gate wide and the cows made their
unhurried
journey down the road. You could almost hear them sighing with relief as they shuffled past. Devon followed them through. I jumped on the back of the pick-up. We really sprayed gravel as our red truck rocketed down the road to where the plants lay hidden.

The bundles quickly made a giant-sized mound on the back of the truck. You couldn’t drive anywhere like this, let alone on the main road. You’d get stopped for overloading. I climbed right to the top and tried to smash them by jumping up and down on them. They were springy and refused to break.

As we were squeezing on the last ones we could hear the sound of the farm-bike. We swapped looks. We were never going to make it.

‘Better call it quits,’ Devon said. ‘We’ll try another load later.’

I lashed the load down as tightly as I could but it still spewed out the back in all directions. How could we drive down the main road like this? Reluctantly I hauled the four extra
bundles
deep into the scrub. Normally you pick your way carefully through gorse but this time I strode into it like it was soft as emu feathers. I saw blood but felt no pain. Fatigue or T.H.C.? It was unreal.

‘Let’s get out of here!’ Devon screamed, his voice cutting through my stupor.

We were both too tense to talk on the road back to the
highway
. We passed the herd of cows blocking the farmer from
getting
out his gate. His stare followed us as we shot past. I tried to shrink down into the cab. By the time we hit the state highway the sun was up and the cars we met no longer had their lights on. Devon drove tentatively, like a learner, sometimes so slow that the cars built up behind him and then too fast so we closed in on the slower traffic. He couldn’t get it right.

‘Are you trying to get stopped?’ I asked.

‘No. I’m trying to be inconspicuous, actually!’ He hated any criticism of his driving. I remembered thinking how hard it was to tell when Devon was stressed. He had so many faces, so many layers of irony and play-acting. Just when you thought you had scoped the real Devon, some new incarnation would appear. I wondered whether he would ever completely emerge. Whether I would ever be able to say I knew him.

THE JOURNEY might have taken 20 minutes, it might have taken two hours. We just stared at the road ahead with such
intensity
the truck seemed to be propelled by will power alone. For a while we existed in a realm where time had a charged reality – its passage was registered in heartbeats, sweat and hope.

As we approached the outskirts of Warkworth, Devon swung the truck down a side road. Suddenly there were no other cars. Few houses. Dust. The sky seemed bluer. We coasted quietly down the hills and I could feel the tension lifting from my body … it was like being released from ropes. I fired a glance at Devon.

He grinned and shook a smoke out of its packet.

‘Better than sex.’

‘Jesus! You don’t just do this for the buzz!’

‘Course you do.’

We came to a gateway where a bunch of axles and cogs had been welded together to resemble a figure with its hands on its hips. Next to it was an old wooden letterbox leaning on a crazy angle. It had been hard yakka and over 24 hours since I’d slept. I had that spaced-out feeling you get when you are no longer completely connecting with the earth: a balloon attached by a thin, cotton strand.

The driveway was lined with macrocarpa trees, tall and thick and old. At the end of it there was a gate. Beyond it I could see the house and all these old vehicles. There must have been 30 or 40 rusty old cars and trucks. Even a couple of housetrucks. A dog stood at the gate barking and two or three others arrived.

‘Get the gate, man!’ Devon yelled, waking me out of my inertia.

‘Shit! I’m not going to tangle with those hounds.’

He jammed on the handbrake angrily and swung down. The dogs seemed to recognise him and quietened down as he opened it. Behind the macrocarpas there was a cluster of ramshackle buildings all leaning against each other. There were cars everywhere. Weird old American ones.

‘Is this guy a wrecker?’ I asked Devon.

‘No, a collector. He collects Studebakers. He’s got over fifty.’

This man appeared on the verandah of the huge old villa. He was carrying a shotgun and several more dogs had
materialised
. We cruised slowly down the hill across the rough lawn and parked in front of the house.

I could see a wide scar running down the left-hand side of the guy’s face. It began at the hairline, went down across his eye and cheek and finished on the jawbone. His whole face was lopsided and the eye looked lazy or maybe made of glass. There were thick burn scars on his neck and God knows what lay hidden behind his clothes.

‘Hey, Johnno… .’ Devon yelled as they pulled up.

The man immediately lightened up. ‘Devon the Dealer! I thought it was next weekend.’ His voice was thin and produced with great effort.

‘It was, but everything had to be moved forward.’ Devon put his hand and head on the other man’s shoulder and pretended to cry, ‘God knows, I should have written, forgive me Father for I have sinned.’

Johnno laughed and pushed him away. ‘Back off ya homo. This your off-sider?’

I stepped forward and offered a hand. ‘I’m Trace Dixon.’

‘So you’re the one who keeps him on the straight and
narrow
eh?’

‘I try … that’s why I’m here.’

Devon said, ‘Hey I’m kind of anxious to unload.’

‘You don’t want a cup of tea first?’

Devon looked at me and said, ‘If I look anything like you Trace, I
need
a cup of tea.’

We all went into the house, accompanied on all sides by a pack of excited dogs.

‘Our gear OK there?’ said Devon pointing at the back of the truck. It was a pretty outrageous load to have parked on your front lawn.

‘The dogs are on duty,’ Johnno replied.

It was a big house and every room was full of junk: engines, books, machinery. We eventually came to a large kitchen where it seemed Johnno lived. His bed was in one corner with piles of books all around it: mostly oil-stained car manuals. A wood-
burning
range was being fired up and near the ceiling was a drying rack, suspended by sash ropes and pulleys. It seemed to hold all of Johnno’s clothing, including a couple of pairs of boots. All in all it looked like a bad day’s collection for the Salvation Army.

Johnno saw me staring.

‘Admiring my wardrobe are we? Envious of my apparel are we?’ He laughed. ‘So tell me Trace, what’s it like being a big wheel in the drug world?’

‘Hard work … look at my hands.’ I held out my palms, which were bloodstained and ragged. The blisters had ruptured and torn.

‘Better put some alcohol on those. How about yours, Devon?’

Devon’s were OK.

Johnno winked at him. ‘Ah Devon, Devon. Nothing changes
eh? Did you do anything besides drive?’

‘My hands are tougher, that’s all. Eh Trace?’

I was dabbing meths on the palms of my hands with the front of my T-shirt. The sting was reassuring.

After the tea, Johnno took us out into the yard to show us where to unload. The buildings seemed to have grown on the earth like a scab. All of the old implement sheds or barns had lean-to structures on each side, and they in turn had canopies adjoining. They were all full. Every one contained some vehicle or at least a collection – a couple of chassis, or maybe a pile of engines. This was as well as the cars and old trucks we had passed on the way in.

‘Are they all yours?’ I asked.

‘Mate, this is only some of it. The best ones are stored under cover at my mates’ places around the district. I’ve been
collecting
for years now. It mounts up.’

Behind the row of sheds was what at first appeared to be another long narrow shed. It was actually an ancient bus
converted
into a camping truck with a full-scale corrugated roof on the top.

Johnno left us to it and after Devon backed the pick-up closer we began to hang the plants upside-down from the old chromed luggage racks in the bus. By the time we had finished, the central walkway was filled right to where the driver once sat. Our hands were sticky with sap and the smell of the plants was pungent and heady. We both sat on the old dashboard to have a smoke and admire our handiwork.

‘What do you think all that would be worth?’ I asked Devon.

‘Six, maybe seven numbers in the long run, but we’ll lose heaps of it, long before that. Trade-offs and pay-offs …
Johnno’s
the first.’

‘Hell, Johnno … what’s the matter with his face?’

‘He was a courier for a parcel company in Aussie. He was doing this run up to Newcastle in the middle of the night, when the front wheel came off his van. He hit a power pole doing a hundred. He was wearing a belt, but some of the steering column still got stuck in his face and neck. Lost an eye, and an ear too, although they sewed it back on… .’

‘When was this?’

‘A while back. He did all right, eventually the insurance companies paid up, that’s how he bought this set-up.’

‘He spent it all on old Studebakers?’

‘And other old yank tanks … some of them are worth a packet though. I did an article on him for the paper when I was up North. He’s a good guy, quite lonely but not … you know, bent.’

We closed the door of the bus and walked back to the house. The dogs seemed used to us now and followed us around at a distance.

Back in the house we smelled bacon cooking as soon as we opened the front door. There was a shotgun leaning up against the wall just inside.

I nudged Devon. ‘Ready for armed response?’

‘You have to be around here. The whole area is full of whacked-out growers who think you’re after their patch. You wouldn’t believe how many shootings around here never get reported.’

‘Is it loaded?’

Devon broke it and showed the brass ends of two cases. ‘Of course. You’d look pretty stupid waving an unloaded gun at someone. That’s asking for trouble.’ He sounded authoritative, like he’d done it himself. He passed the gun to me. It was the first time I had ever held one. It was heavy and awkward. I tried
to imagine myself threatening someone with it – but I couldn’t. That was just cowboy fantasy stuff.

Johnno appeared at the end of the hall. ‘Come on you two.’

He took the shotgun off me and leaned it against the wall next to the wood stove.

We sat in the kitchen and ate our breakfasts. Johnno, who had already eaten, sat on a stool and watched.

After a while he left and came back with a .22 rifle. It had a burst barrel.

‘What do you make of this?’ he said, handing it to me.

I examined it. The violence of the explosion had ripped open the steel barrel like plastic and left frayed sharp metal spines radiating out. Quite beautiful in its own way.

‘I bet that made a hell of a bang.’

Johnno began a long account of how it had happened when he was in Aussie opal grubbing at Lightning Ridge. I had my head against the wall, and as Johnno finished his yarn I was just beginning to nod off when Devon said, ‘You’re going to hate me, Trace, but we have to go back.’

‘What?’ I said.

‘We’ve got to go back and get those last bundles.’

‘Devon, we’re home free … all that skin of our teeth stuff … and you want to go back?’

‘Don’t worry man, I know you’re knackered. I can do it by myself. I’ll be in and out in about two minutes, I reckon, and then I’ll know the job is done properly.’

‘We’ve already pulled an unbelievable pile. This could sink us.’

Devon seemed to agree. ‘I guess you’re right. It doesn’t
matter
.’ And then he walked out.

I couldn’t believe Devon. What a dumb idea. There is a point
where you’ve got to back off. Good gamblers know where it is. Bad ones keep going and start to lose. I leaned back and felt the warm sunshine pouring life into my aching body through the kitchen window. Johnno’s place was such a sanctuary, a life lived exactly the way he wanted it. I wondered what sort of place I would end up in if I had the money and time to do it. There wasn’t a lot around here that I’d change. The food, the warmth, the weary bones drained to their marrow … I slid into unconsciousness. The delicious luxury of it: like sliding into a warm bath on a rainy day … it was too hard to fight.