Roadman Page 3

  Still, if the gorge was where the voices had echoed from, that’d be just fine. Those cliffs were far enough away not to be of any concern to him, at least four or five kilometres as the crow flies, maybe even six. The acoustics of the valley made anyone seem a lot closer than they actually were. Hell, he’d even heard cars driving along the causeway across the top of the dam on certain days, usually when the easterly was blowing down from the hills, which wasn’t often. First time he’d heard the muffled engines of the cars, though, he’d nearly browned his camos. Thought it was water rumbling down the creek from the dam’s overflow. Had been tracking fresh spoor through the rocky bed at the time and thought he was a gonner. Had had horrible visions of being washed out to sea by the flash flood, his bloated body eaten by great whites just offshore where he’d spent the greater part of his miserable fuck’n life.

  Nice irony there, hey? Local fishermen might pull up a severed arm or leg in their nets a few weeks later, but there wouldn’t be much else left of him to bury in St. Peter’s cemetery. Perhaps that was the way to go, hey? Didn’t they say drowning was the least painful way to end your days? But why waste your fuck’n time? If you’re gonna go, just put the barrel under your chin and pull the trigger.

  He scanned the gorge once more through the telescopic lens, then, happy he hadn’t missed anything, lowered the barrel and hitched the Remington over his left shoulder. The cockatoos were now coming to roost in one of the eucalypts three-quarters up the western hill face, wings flapping, beaks clawing for a purchase, many of them hanging upside down and squawking their displeasure at the others for not allowing them any space to gain a perch. The sheer weight of numbers had completely covered the tree in a blur of white and bent several branches arching toward the ground. He waited another few seconds listening for any more signs of unwanted visitors. Satisfied that he could hear nothing more than the occasional squawk of an irritated cockatoo, he picked up the roo by the base of its tail and jigged it into a comfortable position over his right shoulder, then started back up the hill.

  Nearing the crest of the hill, he stepped over the flattened barbed wire fence out of government land and into the derelict Johnson farmstead, safe in the knowledge that he could orientate himself back to the clearing from here in the middle of the night with a blindfold wrapped around his head and his hands tied behind his back. But it wasn’t until twenty minutes later, when Venus began dancing in the pale pink sky, that he heard the voices again, causing his heart to skip a beat.

  They were coming from the humpy.

  The thought flashed across his mind that she had found his secret hiding place behind the Johnson farm. Then he realised how bloody ridiculous that was. For a start, his ex-wife (no, not ex-wife yet, his soon-to-be-ex-wife, the scourge of his fuck’n life) would never be seen outside a shopping mall or beautician’s salon. Secondly, she might have instructed her fuck’n lawyers to skin him alive like one of his own roos, but even she wouldn’t dare have him followed all the way out here by some private investigator to find out what meagre possessions he might be stashing away from her greedy, prying eyes. Even that was beyond the depths of her considerable depravity, but not by fuck’n much.

  Thirdly, this woman sitting on the granite rock in front of the campfire was at least ten years Sarah’s junior. Prettier too, but holy-fuck’n-moly it was like looking back to New Year’s Eve 1997, when he’d first seen those sparkling blues flash their come-fuck-me look across the crowded bar at the Grenfell Tavern. Should’ve known straight away she was danger with a big fuck’n “D”. But women do that to ya, don’t they? Make you doubt your natural instincts and convince you they’re all fuck’n sweetness and sugarplum pudding, while in reality they’re noth’n of the sort, more like meat pies made with rotting flesh and makeup pastry smothered with a thick stench of perfume sauce. Still, he might have dropped out of high school two years earlier than most, but he wasn’t that stupid to need a second lesson on the dangers of the opposite sex. Like kangaroos, they were best kept at a nice safe distance—preferably through the lens of a gun.

  Luckily, the bitch sitting on the granite rock hadn’t seen him yet. Neither had the dark-haired guy in the white T and fancy-pants jeans. For some reason they were both examining her left foot, he kneeling and holding her outstretched leg with her hiking boot resting on his thigh, she with both hands on the smooth surface of the granite rock either side of her hips to balance herself. She winced when he tried to manipulate her foot to get a better look at it.

  Max could tell two things immediately. They were weekend hikers (or even amateur climbers; he was no fuck’n expert on telling the difference) that had fucked up somewhere in the valley and got themselves in trouble. Now they had somehow stumbled upon his humpy and wanted help. He knew this was going to happen someday. Knew someone would discover its whereabouts at some point ever since he’d hammered the roof onto the three corrugated walls back in the summer of ’96-97. Had even made special precautions should such a thing happen. But even still, the sight of these two punks had taken him well and truly off guard.

  The other thing he noticed, which was plain fuck’n obvious even from where he stood, was private school. No matriculation certificate or fashion degree needed there. The stigma of daddy’s money was stamped across their fuck’n foreheads: SILVER FUCKING SPOONIES. Probably hadn’t done a hard day’s work in all their life. Could tell by the attention to perfect fuck’n detail, as if they had nothing better to do than sit in front of the mirror all bloody day, especially the Sarah-bitch clone: the perfectly applied eyeliner and lipstick; the perfectly manicured fingernails; the perfect blonde hair falling perfectly down to her perfect shoulders (and not a perfect fuck’n strand out of place, even though she was obviously in a considerable amount of pain); the silver pendant slipping between her perfect cleavage; the perfect North Face sleeveless jacket and hiking pants that said, “Hi, I’m perfectly casual,” but were a little too perfectly fuck’n casual for his liking, like a four-wheel drive that had never been out of the city and off the fuck’n bitumen.

  Her fella was the same. Fuck’n metrosexual nancy boy trying to look rugged in his two-hundred buck pair of Lees and sneakers. His T-shirt probably cost more than his weekly rent, if he actually paid any fuck’n rent. Plain fuck’n ridiculous, the pair of them, but no matter how he felt he wasn’t going to let his day turn to ruin. He snapped himself back. He’d been standing gaping at them like a fuck’n idiot for nearly fifteen seconds, but they hadn’t noticed him yet, thank fuck. So, with the Remington and roo still slung over his shoulder, he cautiously edged sideways behind the bough of the closest eucalypt, keeping the good-for-noth’n brats trained in his sight. For a moment he even considered edging even further away down the slope while they were preoccupied with her foot, biding his time until they gave up waiting for whoever — him — to return to the campsite and moved on.

  But what if they went snooping around the humpy? Looked like ol’ fancy-pants had already put his beaky nose where it wasn’t fuck’n welcome. A long eucalypt branch the size of a walking stick, Max noticed, was sticking straight into the air near the roo skins on the drying rack, which was nothing more than an old fence line he’d salvaged from the farmhouse and erected to the other side of the humpy, the side that seemed to get most of the midday sun. The branch itself was no problem. The fact that it was gripped in the teeth of the mantrap he’d set was. They’d been snooping all right, and set off the trap in the process. That alone meant he couldn’t back away and let them go just yet, not until he found out who the fuck they were and what they found. Pretty unlikely they were coppers staking him out and pretending to have hit a spot of bother; they were both too good looking to be cops, but you could never be too sure, could ya? No fuck’n way.

  He watched the bitch take out a mobile phone from her pocket, dial a number, wait for several seconds, then shake her head in disgust when it didn’t connect.

  “You sure it’s broken?” the guy said, now looking up from h
er foot to her face. “It just looks like a bad sprain.”

  Shoving the mobile back into her pocket, she bit her bottom lip and momentarily closed her eyes, sighing, just like fuck’n Sarah. “Yeah, I’m sure,” she said, pouting her perfect lips. “I think I know the difference between twisting my ankle and breaking it, don’t you?”

  Max couldn’t help but hate the withering look she flashed at the guy in front of her. How many times had he seen that fuck’n look before? The guy was only trying to help. Was every bitch on this planet so bloody ungrateful?

  “Well, what do you want me to do about it?” said the guy.

  She pushed his hand away from her ankle and took her outstretched leg off of his thigh, placing her foot on the ground with care and testing its strength. She tried to stand, then gave up almost immediately, plonking her perfect arse back down onto the granite rock.

  “Maybe you should do something useful for a change and go get some help,” she said.

  Got him all twisted around your perfect li’l finger, haven’t you? Max thought. But you’re a bit too clever for your own fuck’n good, aren’t ya? Girl like you gotta be careful. Might find a guy who don’t appreciate being talked down to like that.

  The guy stood up, shaking his head. He was tall and slim, a good half-foot taller than himself, Max guessed, probably a couple of inches over six foot. From his angle behind the eucalypt and slightly downhill, the top of the guy’s head wasn’t much lower than the roof of the humpy. Max wasn’t fazed. He’d had his run-ins with a lot of guys taller than himself over the years and come out on top most of the time. This guy was no different. The taller they are, the harder they fall.

  Fancy pants was eyeing the Cherokee over his woman’s shoulder, and Max wondered if he knew the keys were dangling in the ignition. Would solve all their problems, wouldn’t it? Nice and simple. Would just have to follow the wheel tracks through the high grass back around the crop of eucalypts to the burnt out farmhouse, then follow the driveway out of the farmyard through the rusty gate and onto the A131. Then it was as easy as taking the main road all the way back to Adelaide through Myponga and the South Eastern Expressway. They didn’t know how close they were to safety. Part of him wished they would just go ahead and do it and leave him the fuck alone. They’d probably return the vehicle tomorrow and give their polite, private school apologies, maybe even offer him some money for his troubles, but part of him also knew that that coming back here would be the biggest mistake they ever fuck’n made.

  “That could take hours,” the guy said, returning his gaze from the Cherokee back to her. “I’m not leaving you. Besides, it’s gonna be dark soon. We’re better off waiting here until whoever built this thing comes back,” and his arm shot out, pointing at the humpy to his right, then dropped back to his side. “He can’t be too far. You heard the shots. We can ask him to drive us back to Adelaide, or even the nearest hospital.”

  Unconsciously rubbing her left ankle, the bitch rolled her eyes again. “What makes you think he’ll help? Guys who live out here don’t want to be around people. That’s the whole bloody idea.”

  You got it kid, Max thought. No people. No troubles, and no bitches to ruin your day.

  Fancy pants dropped his shoulders. “Sal, what d’you want me to do?”

  Be a fuck’n man and grow some balls! Show her who wears the fuck’n pants you pathetic son-of-a-bitch!

  Sal, still tenderly rubbing her left ankle, flicked her head over her shoulder in the direction of the Cherokee. “Go see if you can find the keys to the car,” she said. “They must be somewhere.”

  “What if he’s carrying them in his pocket or something?”

  “Just like you?” Sal blurted, then bit her bottom lip.

  All men are the same, that gesture said. All stupid, and all fuck’n useless. Then the control was back.

  Lost it there for a second, Max reckoned, but now she was taking several deep breaths to suffocate her annoyance before she said something else she’d probably regret. Not that her dickless boyfriend would do anything about it if she did.

  “Jade, just do me a favour and… Have… A… Look…”

  Somewhere in one of the eucalypts nearby a kookaburra began laughing, as if it could sense the humour in the moment. It kept taunting the humans below with its stupid laugh for a few moments until it decided it was bored with the entertainment on the ground and flew away to mock someone else it could find.

  Jade, though, didn’t seem to even notice the kookaburra and was now scanning the contents of the humpy through the open side. Max could see his mind working overtime, trying to work out where the fuck the keys would be put for safekeeping, if they were put there at all. At a quick glance, Max could see that nothing had been moved or taken. The steel traps, saws, axes, spades, and hunting knives were still where they should be, hanging on the inside walls. The swag was unrolled on the ground in the far corner, untouched since he’d risen with the galahs and cockatoos this morning. Both his makeshift first-aid kit and toolbox sat closed on top of the army trunk abutting the closest wall, its padlock locked and dangling in its latch. Everything pretty much accounted for, he reckoned, even the spare petrol cans. Only thing missing was the canvas waterbag that had been hanging outside on the branch to which the rear of the humpy was tethered for extra stability.

  So that’s all they were fuck’n after, he thought, now eyeing the waterbag propped against the granite rock at the bitch’s feet. Ol’ fancy pants had obscured it from his sight while he’d been examining her foot. He felt a damn sight better about that. They hadn’t been snooping around after all, but had set off the mantrap with their makeshift walking stick to get around the drying rack and grab the waterbag, which Sal was now reaching for.

  At the moment she unscrewed the cap and brought the waterbag to her lips, Jade finally figured out the fuck’n obvious and turned his sights upon the Cherokee once again, making a step toward it.

  Now, Max figured, was the moment to introduce himself to these good-for-noth’n brats.

  “Thirsty work out here, I reckon,” he said, stepping out from behind the eucalypt.

  Jade started with fright and spun around. The waterbag stuck to her lips, Sal’s eyes blinked as wide as a busted whore blowing her client. The fear on their faces was comical, and for that moment alone it had been worth seeing. She was the first to recover, however, but said nothing, just screwed the cap back on the waterbag and laid it at her feet, staring at him with those cold, fuck-me blues.

  “Sorry, man,” said Jade. He jerked his prominent chin toward Sal. “She’s broken her ankle. We saw the smoke from your campfire and… we need your help, man.”

  Max glanced at the hearth. They had rekindled the flames from the dying coals of his morning fire with dead twigs and branches they’d gathered from around the area. Smoke twirled up toward the darkening sky before dissipating above the level of the treetops. How fuck’n stupid could he have been? Smoke could probably be seen for kilometres, maybe even all the way to billabong. His only saving grace, he figured, was that most people who saw it would assume it was coming from a farmhouse chimney and think nothing more of it. Out-of-towners who didn’t know the Johnson farmyard had been derelict since the Korean War that was. Nevertheless, he made a mental note to make fuck’n sure he doused the fire completely before setting off next time. Maybe these brats were a blessing in disguise after all.

  “Well, let’s see what we can do then,” he said, dumping the roo next to the drying rack and making his way to Sal. He unslung the Remington and leant it against the granite rock next to her, then dropped to one knee to assess her foot. To his amusement, Sal and Jade shared uneasy glances at the rifle. Jade twitched his shoulders, as if to say, “What else can we do?”

  Max held out his hand. She hesitated in giving him her foot, still saying nothing. He could sense the rising doubt in her sparkling blues as she continued to weigh him up, figuring whether or not she could trust a man that enjoyed slaughtering wild animals,
a man who had also tried his hardest to keep his hideaway a secret from the rest of society for as long as he possibly could. Reading the thoughts whizzing across her mind was like peering into her bedroom at night through the crack between the curtains. He could tell she was wondering whether a man like him would feel violated at having his private life being openly revealed. How would he react? What the fuck was he going to do with them?

  He continued to wait with his hand held out while she made up her mind, suppressing the urge to smirk. Got you all worked out, haven’t I, you little bitch? Think you’re cleverer than a guy like me, huh? Think ‘coz you went to fuck’n private school you’re better than everyone else? Prob’ly got yourself a degree at university too, haven’t ya? Maybe someth’n fancy pantsy like psychology or English fuck’n literature, maybe even law. But I can see straight through your bullshit. Can’t stand someone else being in control, can ya? Daddy’s little angel has to be the one pushing all the buttons, pulling all the strings. No wonder you chose a pathetic limp dick like Jade. He’s no fuck’n threat to your cosy fuck’n world is he?

  Then, just as he was about to give up and stand, he sensed something give. A flicker of reluctance in her eyes, then an upward twitch of her perfect eyebrow that said he’d won the battle but not the war; she was retreating, not surrendering.

  “How’d it happen?” he asked as she raised her foot and tentatively put it in his hand. The lower ends of her trousers were rolled up over the tops of her boots like the cuffs of a shirt that was too big. The ankle, he saw, was swollen and bruised. A sprain could look like that if it were bad enough, but a sprain wouldn’t make the foot angulate awkwardly toward the other foot like mallet with a broken handle. For her sake, it was a good job she was still wearing her boot. It had probably minimised the swelling and pain, even prevented the ankle from twisting more than it had upon impact.