light. No.
Geoff lit the cigarette, cracked the window an inch, and then quickly closed it as the rain pelted in. ‘I guess we’re not driving anywhere even if we wanted to.’
I produced the whisky. ‘I’ve got this and you’ve got your tobacco and grass.’
He rooted around in his backpack and came up with a large block of chocolate.
‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Remember that guy who survived in a snow cave in the Himalayas on a Mars Bar. We’re better off than him.’
Geoff took a deep drag and exhaled. The sweet smell filled the car. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Except that his mother wasn’t dying of cancer, his sister wasn’t running around with a murderer and he wasn’t with a guy who didn’t have a fucking clue what he was going to do next.’
24
We spent the night in the car. The rain hardly let up at all and we both got soaked when we ventured outside to piss. I shone the torch and confirmed that we were safer here than anywhere else. There was some protection on the west side; the ground underneath was firm and the trees were strongly rooted. All around us it seemed that this little sliver of Australia was sliding towards the sea. But we were okay.
We both slept in snatches, wet as we were. We shared the chocolate and the whisky, with Geoff having more of the one and me more of the other. It’d been a long while since I’d spent the night in a car and the last time I’d resolved never to do it again. Now I remembered why. I was stiff in every bone and the time dragged. When the first streaks of light appeared in the sky I felt like cheering although there was nothing to cheer about.
We shivered in those peculiarly cold first seconds after dawn, although we were both warmly dressed – me in my leather jacket and Geoff in his plus the parka. Geoff seemed to be dozing so I checked the. 38, but he suddenly spoke.
‘D’you think you’ll need that?’
‘I hope not. Does it bother you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. So it should, but I haven’t shot anyone on my side for years.’
Not much of a joke, but the best I could do with locked joints, a stiff back and a ricked neck. I used the torch to study the map. I wasn’t looking forward to slogging through the rain and mud looking for someone who mightn’t even be there, but I did want to get out of the car. When I felt I could see well enough to keep my footing, I opened the door and stepped out into the wet world.
Geoff got out the other side and turned his back to the wind. The rain was still falling but not as heavily as it had during the night.
‘Bugger it!’ He slammed his mobile shut. ‘Batteries.’
‘Use mine.’
He took it from the glove box and I moved away while he made the call. Water from the trees dripped down my neck but I was so damp it hardly mattered.
The car door slammed. ‘No change.’
‘Let’s get going. I think I’ve got my bearings. The shacks are down here. We can follow the fence and then work our way right.’
Following the fence meant, in fact, hanging onto it. The ground was so slippery and muddy that, even in my hiking boots, I slithered rather than walked. Younger, lighter and fitter, Geoff didn’t have to grab at the fence so often, but he fell once and muddied himself all down one side. The fence turned left and we had to go right. There was an old track that had once had a layer of coal scree over it. Now it was a black, gooey mess we inched along beside rather than on. The water was ankle-deep in spots and where there was no tree shelter the wind whipped us in wet gusts.
I pointed. ‘Down there.’
Three fibro shacks, or rather two and a half, clustered in a clearing in the middle of a steeply sloping sea of mud. Fifty, maybe sixty metres away. Geoff didn’t seem to be paying attention so I pulled at his sleeve, but he was looking back up and to the south. He pointed.
‘What?’
‘By that big rock.’
I peered through the rain.
‘Van,’ Geoff said. ‘Covered with a tarp.’
He was right and I felt my pulse rate go up a notch as I looked at the greenish, humped shape. I nodded and turned my attention back to the shacks. There obviously hadn’t been any intention to re-build them after the initial damage; stumps had collapsed, sending them skewwhiff, and iron was missing from the roofs. On one, a deck had fallen away and hung off the structure like a rickety fire escape. The far one looked to be in the best condition with a more or less intact roof, several intact windows and a couple of long props holding a skillion in place. It had a deck that had once run around three sides. Only two sections remained and one was poised over a gully where the water from higher up roared down at breakneck pace. I could see sizeable rocks rolling in the water along with tree branches and other debris.
I took out my Swiss army knife and handed it to Geoff.
He was too surprised not to take it. ‘What the fuck’s this for?’
‘You’re going up to the van. I want you to disable it anyway you can.’
‘What’re you going to do?’
‘Flush him out.’
‘I want to help.’
‘You will be helping.’
‘No way. I…’
‘You’ll do as I say, Geoff. That was the deal, remember? We’re almost there. Talbot’ll be tired, wet, cold and hungry most likely. And scared. I won’t have any trouble with him.’
‘What about… her?’
‘She’ll be all right.’ I shoved him hard. ‘Get going.’
He moved off up the slope towards the van. When I was sure he’d committed himself, I began to work my way down towards the shacks. There was no substantial cover – just a few scruffy bushes, an almost rusted-away car body and a disintegrating heap of timber and rubble that had once been an outdoor dunny. I made all the use I could of the cover and slowly, wetly – slithering and bent double – reached the back of the shack where a decayed set of wooden steps had been reinforced by several brick-filled milk crates.
I took out the. 38, tested the milk crates for stability, went up them and turned the door handle. It swung in with a loud creak but the rain had got heavier and the pounding on the iron roof would’ve drowned anything but a heavy metal band. For the first time I thanked the rain. The house was a ruin; cracks in the walls, gaps in the floor, sloping door jambs. It smelled of mice, rot and damp. I was in what had been a kitchen, but the equipment had been stripped out and the only piped water came from a hose from the outside running into a pipe where the sink had been. The roof leaked and there was plenty of water on the floor. I checked two uncloseable doors, one on either side of the passage after the kitchen. One room empty, the other full of rubbish.
I heard sounds coming from the front room and paused outside a door more or less fitted in its frame. A radio was playing and a man was raising his voice above the music and the noise of the rain.
‘Turn that fuckin’ thing off. I want to fuckin’ talk to you.’
‘I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear any more of your bullshit.’
I shoved the door in and went into the room with the gun held down by my leg but in clear view. Megan French was lying on a mattress. A portable radio was by her side. She wore black – jeans, boots and a sweater. Talbot was standing over her, awkwardly angled with his back to me. He heard me come in, spun around and had to grab the wall for support.
‘Who the fuck? Jesus, the fuckin’ private eye.’
‘That’s right. This is the end of the run, Talbot. The police’re on their way.’
