buildings.
Was he waiting for me? Coming back was a stupid idea, I should be in the bush, they didn’t have dogs now, they couldn’t track me.
The vehicles. The Dodge truck and the rusty Valiant. Would they leave the keys in them?
I went between the truck and a row of steel drums, stooping, reached up and opened the passenger door. It was heavy and it squeaked. Too hell with caution, I got in, reached across the steering column to feel for keys.
Nothing.
I was withdrawing my arm when I touched a projection.
Key in the dashboard.
I pulled myself into the driver’s seat. The gear lever was on the floor. I put my foot on the clutch, moved the lever. It was heavy. Where was first?
Never mind. Put it into neutral. See if it starts. It probably won’t, it probably hasn’t run in years. I turned the key.
A whine, a whine that died.
Light, a torch switched on. Chokka, fifty metres away.
Another starter whine, another fade-out.
Something hit the windscreen, slapped against it, a short shriek. Bullet glancing off.
Oh, God. Out. Take cover.
The engine fired.
I got it into gear, let in the clutch. Shit, first gear, going forward. I was scrabbling around, pulled the stick towards me and down, clutch in. Yes. Jerking backwards. I couldn’t see anything, right hand down, into a roaring turn, smack on my door, another bullet, find another gear, lurching forward, not first gear, sluggish but moving.
Swinging the huge beast left, I put my foot flat, a long travel, Christ, no lights, looking for the headlights switch, pulling knobs on the dashboard, lights on, off the track, flattening bushes, hitting a rock, bumping back onto the road.
No more shots.
The truck picked up speed, reached the right gear speed. I changed up, flying high as a hawk on adrenalin and relief. The speedo was pre-metric, we were doing forty-five miles an hour and it felt like a hundred, everything vibrating, slack steering, total concentration required to keep the truck on the track. Top speed was close, probably fifty. Road twistier than I remembered, that wasn’t surprising: I’d been cold with dread in the back seat, not paying attention to the road.
They would come after me in the Valiant. They couldn’t let me go, I was supposed to have been killed, bled, stamped, bits put in the acid bath, those were their instructions from someone who would do exactly that to them.
The day was dawning, grey in the sky now, an end to hideous night, there was a sharp drop to the right.
Lights behind me. Close.
There would never be an end to this night.
The back window exploded, I ducked, broken glass hit the back of my head, stung my neck, bounced off the windscreen.
Without thinking, I took my foot off the accelerator, slowed, obeyed an imperative from the cluster of brain cells that handled survival, the survival control centre.
I coasted, slowing, head to the right, foot on the brake, eyes on the mirror.
The Valiant slowed with me. I could make out two shapes in the front.
I stopped, changed gear, I knew the gears now.
The Valiant stopped, well back from me.
I didn’t move. They didn’t move.
Waiting. Did they think I was hit? I had Jimbo’s rifle. They weren’t brave people, they weren’t going to rush me.
Waiting, engine running. I liked the thumping sound of the old Dodge.
No more waiting. Punched, slapped, pissed on, home invaded, handcuffed, kicked, attacked by killer dogs, shot at.
An end to the night.
I let in the clutch and went backwards, foot flat, engine screaming, hit the Valiant with a bang, the impact jerked my head. I braked, got into first, pulled forward ten metres, braked, gear change, back again, foot down, engine howling in pain.
A solid, jarring crunch as I made contact with the car.
I braked, opened the door, took the rifle. It would be an interesting murder trial. I looked forward to it, Drew could defend me, try the battered solicitor defence.
Perhaps not.
The Valiant was twenty or more metres down, in a ravine, upside down. A wisp of red light near the sump, a flame.
The occupants might survive. Or they might not.
I went back to the Dodge, gave it a pat, hoisted myself into the cab, got going. I liked this truck. Perhaps I could buy it from Chokka’s estate, stable it with the Stud. We could grow old together.
The day had dawned by the time I reached the highway, joined the early commuters. At the first traffic lights, a man in a Range Rover looked up at me, looked away quickly, didn’t look again.
What he could see was a vintage truck driven by a man with matted hair and an unshaven face smeared with blood and dirt.
He couldn’t see the handcuffs hanging from one hand, couldn’t see much of the wet, filthy, torn, bloodstained cotton business shirt.
He couldn’t see anything of the grey flannels, now black, ripped at both knees and caked with mud.
He couldn’t see the soaked shoes, ruined, bought in William Street from Mr Conroy, kept in shape with shoetrees, regularly polished.
He probably thought I was just another suburban solicitor on his way to work.
The lights changed, we proceeded. By some miracle, I drove unchallenged all the way home.
42
I didn’t care much about Stedman coming for me, I’d kill him, find a way. I parked the Dodge truck outside the boot factory, got the spare keys from their hiding place under the stairs, went up to my violated home and showered for a long time, examining the tooth wounds in my shoulder, the bruises everywhere. Out, I made plunger coffee, added cognac, the very superior old pale, a lot of cognac.
Hunger. It came upon me suddenly.
Nothing since the banana on the plane.
I ate Norwegian sardines on toast, two tins, four slices of bread, drank two cups of coffee.
When had I last slept? Busselton. When was that?
I drove to George’s corner shop in the Stud and rang Cam. It was a long ring, a woman answered. I said it was Jack for Cam.
‘He’s around here somewhere,’ she said.
A wait.
‘Choppin wood,’ Cam said. ‘Swore I’d never chop wood again.’
‘Small dogs, small women, wood,’ I said. ‘You can change.’
‘I knew I shouldn’t have said that. Find somewhere to sleep?’
‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘Got a boltcutter?’
‘Don’t go anywhere without one.’
He picked me up in the HSV. The boltcutter couldn’t fit between my wrist and the handcuff. With a hard click,
