Unbidden Read online

  Mick’s shoulders slumped. He rubbed his face with his hands as best he could around the cigarette he was smoking.

  “No, I’m not my best, am I?”

  He stared into the dark.

  “You steady there, Mick?”

  Mick snapped to. He looked beat, very much his age.

  “Yeah, just thinking about last chances. I’ll be alright. Give us a minute to finish this.” He looked sadly at what little was left of his cigarette.

  “Mick, I have to ask. What did you mean by –”

  Footsteps behind them.

  Doug was startled as well, but Mick was angrier about it. He hated having a weak moment before a larger audience. Doug restrained the old man before he could let fly with a fist. Only later did he think how lucky it was for all of them that he had. How was he going to explain the “nephew’s” broken nose back in the house?

  “What are you doing out here?” Doug asked.

  “Wondering where you two went.”

  “Good one, Wally,” Mick said. “Won’t look half suspicious with the three of us huddled out here. Should’ve known not to leave you alone. You didn’t say anything stupid in there, did you?”

  Warlock looked hurt.

  Mick dropped his unfinished cigarette and screwed his heel into it.

  “I’m heading back inside before they’re on the phone to the cops.”

  Doug couldn’t resist getting a small rise out of him, a test of their old selves.

  “How do you know they haven’t called already?”

  “I’ll make a sudden move near them. Pretend I’m swatting a bug. If they flinch, I’ll know.”

  If Mick was joking, he didn’t look it. Warlock, not knowing how to react, almost simpered. Doug trailed the old man.

  “I’m ready to hit the hay,” he said to Warlock. “You coming?”

  “It’s a nice night. Thought I’d enjoy some of it, too.”

  “Well, don’t do it too long. Don’t go poking around. And don’t get lost.”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  That one was too easy. Doug just kept on walking.

  ***

  Warlock waited until Mick and Doug shut the front door behind them, then nearly gave the tips of his fingers friction burns in his rush to unzip the bumbag. Keeping an eye on the house, he extracted some hash from the parcel he had appropriated at their first stop. Using his own paper, he rolled an impressive joint, holding it out to admire. He was of two minds about it. In one way he was pleased to have it all to himself, but in another he was disappointed not to be able to show it off.

  It was strong stuff, too. One puff and he had to reset his feet further apart to keep his balance, looking around for the hard wind that had buffeted him. He was a businessman when it came to pills, but he was a generous sharer of his toke, so it didn’t seem right to keep hanging on to it. Many a time he caught himself offering it to a companion before he remembered he was alone, at night, out in the middle of nowhere.

  The notion eventually began to spook him.

  He willed himself to relax. That was what the toke was supposed to be doing. Feeling jittery was what he’d been trying to escape.

  Another long inhale. Whoa, the deck of the ship pitched under him again.

  He wondered if the weed was one of those new mutant breeds they were growing up north. As the world swooped and parleyed around him he thought maybe this strain wasn’t supposed to just make you mellow. Maybe it served another purpose. The weed looked cut with other herbs, stuff that could produce picture shows in the head. He could infer this from the fact that he was having one, now, on the blank screen of the dark before him.

  He saw Cutter.

  What a thing to be thinking of, if he didn’t want to get paranoid. But Cutter’s actions in the picture show seemed harmless enough. He was being fitted for some fancy suit, like at a professional tailor’s, with the tape measure, pins and stuff. Except the outfitter was also the outfit, if that made any sense. They came as one and the same, the clothes and the bearer of them.

  Next Warlock knew Cutter was dressed in a tux, as if to serve at a social gathering, but instead of looking like the drinks waiter, or another lackey, he was more like a groom, or perhaps the host. If nothing else, he seemed positively eager to get to it; he was dead keen to be in charge of that little party. Before haring off, Cutter spared one last look in the mirror, very pleased with himself and how he was outfitted. He was very distinctive. Barely recognisable. Perhaps he wasn’t at a tailor’s, after all. Perhaps it was a costume shop, because it now looked more like he was set to go to a fancy-dress party. One to celebrate Halloween.

  Warlock shook off the wide-awake dream, let it fall into fragments about him. He wished someone had been around so he could bore them with the details. He would have liked pretending to make something out of it, maybe imply it was a vision, tweak it into a scary omen of some kind.

  Something popped from the ground nearby with a cropped hiss – fzzzt! Warlock was so shaken he was airborne for a moment. He would have pissed his pants if he had time, but he couldn’t react fast enough to several more hissing pops going off everywhere in quick succession. Things stood to attention in the grass around him.

  In his spaced-out, bewildered state he thought it some rural beast he’d never heard of – giant poisonous worms that pulled themselves out of the ground like corks, or snakes that lived under the earth popping open sticky trapdoors with their heads.

  They were calling out to him, vying for his sole attention, calling him by a name that wasn’t his. Shirl … Shirl … Shirl … or shurp?

  He wheeled about wildly. They were all around him, shushing him, insisting he not scream, not before they got him.

  Shush-shush-shush-shush-shush, little man. Shush-shush … shurp?

  Something slapped him high in the chest. He shouted around his joint as the cold shock of it sank through his shirt and burned his skin like fire. He spun about, trying to shield himself and his joint from his mystery attackers, as darkly silver streaks flew through the air. They took swings at his head and tried to cut his feet out from under.

  Though he quickly understood it was only a soaking wet shirt he suffered, he behaved like it was life or death. He ducked and weaved his way through the spitting arcs of water. One good blast got by his outstretched hand, pasting the last of the joint into a dirty smear along his chin. Rubbing his face, he raced for the safety of the house, not one part of him escaping a good soaking.

  Once inside he received derisive laughter from Doug and Mick, profuse apologies and dry towels from the Clarksons, and an explanation of how he had run afoul of the automatic lawn sprinklers.

  Chapter Eight

  It was still dark when he woke to hear footsteps creep past the door. The stealthy movements had Doug struggling up from his camp bed in a cold-stone panic. He went rigid as a light clicked on somewhere in the house, the door outlined by its pearl glow.

  He’d left the guest room door open partway before going to bed to show their hosts that he and his mates had nothing to hide. The gap in the door also made it easier to catch any goings-on outside. There were more footsteps of varying weight as dark shapes flitted by, briefly marring the door’s outline. He heard a distant rattle, as of pots and pans busied about, and the deep tong of two of them connecting together.

  A hand fell on Doug’s shoulder, nearly making him scream aloud. Mick whispered in his ear, “I’ll go look.” The door swung open wide and framed the old man’s familiar silhouette, his shirt suitably loose to hide the pistol tucked into his pants.

  Doug got up quietly, went over to Warlock lying on his fold-out cot and shook him. Warlock grunted and mumbled, “I’ll do ’em later,” before turning over and snoring into his pillow.

  ***

  Mick found the entire Clarkson clan dressed for the day. The boy was propped in a chair putting on a pair of socks. The rest of the family were bustling about the kitchen, drinking from steaming cups.

 
“What’s happening?” Mick asked with polite concern. “Anything up?”

  “G’morning,” replied Rob.

  “Chores,” Scott said grumpily, taking a pause from his dressing to blow on the top of a hot Milo drink.

  “Would you like tea or coffee?” Janet offered. She looked behind Mick. “And you, Doug?”

  Doug’s yawn was real, though it commenced as a nervous one. He let his jaw finish stretching its tendons until he saw the family was at ease in his presence.

  Mick took in what the boy had said: “Chores?” He looked out the nearest window. “It’s still dark,” he said.

  “And we’re late. Too much excitement last night.” Rob downed what looked like a searing hot mug of black coffee in one go. “C’mon, you two,” he said to his kids.

  Bearing a chocolate-milk moustache, Scott protested.

  “I haven’t finished my Milo yet!”

  “Bring it with you.”

  “And bring the mug back!” Janet added.

  Rob headed out the back door, Lauren and Scott trailing after him.

  “I’ll join you in a minute,” Janet called. Like the rest of her family, she was fully dressed for the working day. No drawstring, dressing gown or tatty robe in sight.

  Warlock staggered into the kitchen dopily, dodging the walls that jigged into his way, lips pursed, eyes squinted.

  The guests fully assembled, Janet clapped her hands. “Well, gentlemen. You know where the kettle is. Everything else is on the table.”

  The men looked over the breakfast table in front of them. A fat brown loaf on a breadboard, a new block of butter on a plate, cereal, sugar, fruit, honey, homemade jam, and a jug of orange juice with a lace cover over it.

  “There’ll be a cooked breakfast around eight. None of you are vegos, I hope. We had one stay here once, and I ran out of ideas fairly quickly. Is there anything else I can get you?”

  There was a chorus of befuddled “noes” and Janet left them to it with a nod before she went out the back in pursuit of her family.

  Doug and Mick, currently two of the most wanted men in the country, simply looked at each other. Warlock went straight for the overflowing table.

  “Jesus, Mick. They left us alone in their house.”

  Mick picked up a jar of plum jam and looked for a butter knife before Warlock got his dirty mitts into everything.

  “Why don’t we just ask them for the keys to the Land Cruiser when they get back?”

  ***

  Mick was stationed at the kitchen window keeping watch for the family’s return, ready to deliver them a hearty “hello” that would be heard through the house in case Doug hadn’t finished. The old man also had a plate positioned at his elbow. A loud crash would be both warning and distraction to buy Doug more time.

  Doug was casing the house. He had glimpsed the study the night before on a trip to the bathroom. The Clarksons’ had two computer set-ups in there. Plastic toy figures were Blu-Tacked to the top of the newest monitor. A two-way radio was similarly adorned – ornamentation to make long-distance schooling more bearable, no doubt.

  The parents had an older, unembellished computer and desk of their own set away in a windowless corner. The small filing cabinet beneath it didn’t allow for much leg room. It didn’t seem a comfortable place overall, definitely not a place to linger. A quick trawl through the drawers revealed bills sorted in bunches and ragged folders filled with debits, credits and tax forms.

  Of more concern was the gun cabinet. Doug was surprised by the scarcity of guns. Only two. One large rifle and another that was adolescent-sized, both unloaded. He wasn’t sure what he was specifically looking for. Things that could be used against them, he supposed.

  Lauren’s room had the customary stuffed animals, a floral wallpaper that was probably more to her mother’s taste than her own, some small Inca pyramids built from CD and DVD cases, and pictures of pretty-boy punk bands cut from magazines stuck to the walls. Doug remembered punks acting the way their names sounded when he was a teenager: Johnny Rotten, Sid Vicious. He couldn’t help wondering what kind of mischief punks named Trent and Gerard and Wesley got up to.

  In comparison, Scott’s room was surprisingly void of possessions. Some photos of the boy and his old man on a fishing trip holding monster barramundi were the only standouts. Apart from a large rusted ship’s compass (a fairly exotic object to a boy living in the middle of the bush), Doug found an old army knife of evil size hidden at the top of a wardrobe; there, surely, at the mother’s forbearance. All in all, it was the room of a boy who suffered crashing there for the night, not much else.

  Doug almost wished to find something singular or shocking in the marital bedroom, but there was only the venerated, hardwood furniture handed down from past generations, the posed family photos, and a few bits of modest jewellery. The underwear, functional. He found the ordinariness of it unsettling. If husband or wife were to catch him here, he would be the one who should act outraged: barely five in the morning and their bed was already made.

  ***

  Rob tapped his boots together on the back step and entered the kitchen to find Doug and Mick tucking into the hot breakfast Janet had promised: poached eggs, fried bacon and tomato, peas stirred in mince, onion gravy, and slabs of bubble and squeak made up of the leftovers from the night before.

  “You’ve done well for yourselves,” Rob remarked.

  “Living like kings,” Mick agreed.

  Janet was snacking while standing up at the counter. The two men had insisted she stop serving them and sit down, but she declined cheerfully, assuring them she was used to eating on her feet.

  “Danny’s not back yet,” Rob told his wife. “The Cruiser’s not at the cottage.”

  At the table, the visitors’ handling of knives and forks slowed imperceptibly before getting up to speed again.

  “That’s unlike him,” Janet said, with a slight note of concern.

  “He mightn’t be far. I’ll have a look for him on my rounds.”

  Mick twisted about in his seat with a sympathetic smile. “Trouble?”

  “Looks like you won’t be getting that tow just yet,” Rob said.

  Mick gestured magnanimously at the spread on the table.

  “Well, you won’t hear me complaining.”

  “Shouldn’t be too long,” Rob said.

  Like his wife, Rob wasn’t one to have a sit-down morning feed either. Well-versed in his habits, Janet handed him an egg-and-bacon sandwich, a clutch of homemade biscuits in wrapped tinfoil, a thermos of hot black coffee and a water bottle. All of it was slotted into an old carpenter’s belt that Rob hitched over his shoulder. He gave her a peck on the cheek, then leaned over the breakfast table and helped himself to a mandarin from the fruit bowl. He stood there for a moment, doing an absent-minded trick of peeling the mandarin one-handed by pushing his callused thumb into the fruit’s button and curling the skin up before his blunt nail, all the while watching Doug and Mick with a consideration that made them uncomfortable.

  “I’m taking the whirlybird up for a spin,” he finally said. “Unless you’ve already had enough excitement, I was wondering if one of you blokes cared to come along?”

  Doug and Mick struggled to keep smiles from forming. They’d earlier decided it prudent to keep an eye on the family for the remainder of their time on the station. Rob’s suggestion went a long way to solving their problem for them.

  Doug turned to Mick, remembering the old man’s oath never to go up in the air again. “Mick, you know I’m a nervous flyer. Why don’t you go?”

  Mick stared at him hard for a moment, obviously with a few choice words he’d like to express, but couldn’t. “Sure, Doug. Sure. But what if our lift comes back early? You wouldn’t leave me behind, would you?” he said, his smile not quite friendly.

  Doug returned the smile, except he made sure Mick saw the devilish twinkle in his eye that accompanied it. “Wouldn’t dream of it, mate. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  **
*

  The wide metal doors of the machinery shed opened with popping stutters to reveal a mammoth warren of tools and machine parts, an Aladdin’s cave of them. For the first time in months, Mick felt the first bright pangs of enthusiasm for something other than what was locked up in the back of the jeep.

  He had set up his own share of tool sheds in his time, but he could only dream of owning some of the equipment Rob Clarkson had in his possession. And the room! He loved the idea of a workspace the size of an aircraft hangar.

  The walls were lined from foot to ceiling with benches and the pegboards, racks and shelving necessary to hold all the gear. Not one nook or cranny failed to capture his interest. Though he would have to ask Rob what the deal was with all the knots.

  Unfazed, just following his normal day-to-day routine, Rob had taken a few more steps inside the shed before he saw the knots.

  The sight stopped him in his tracks.

  What he saw was repeated again and again wherever he looked. He was surrounded by knots, him and Mick both. The deed itself didn’t confound Rob, but the senselessness of it did, plus the sheer number …

  Strings of knots, everywhere they looked.

  It had been done to the many and varied chains draped over a rafter. The cords of every power tool in sight had been fiddled with in a likewise fashion. So, too, the stock whips and irrigation hoses hanging from their pegs. Even a frayed strand of light cord hanging down over a workbench did not escape the mania.

  Planting his hands on his hips, turning about slowly, Rob took it in with near wonder. “I’m going to flay the legs off that boy,” he said in helpless awe. “What the hell’s gotten into him?”

  Mick knew better than to comment on other people’s offspring, especially when they’d done something wrong. Besides, he was struck by an even more astonishing sight: an ancient EH Holden ute sitting up on blocks along one edge of the shed. The heap was painted a mottled grey-on-grey from countless panel repairs.

  “Lovely,” said Mick, his specs magnifying the shine in his eyes. “Still got all the parts?”

  “Oh, yes,” Rob replied, turning as grave and respectful as Mick. “It was my old man’s. I’ve been working on it with any spare time I get, which isn’t much. I was thinking of giving it to the boy when he’s old enough,” – mentioning his son made him frown, thinking on the knots – “but it’s coming along so nicely I just might keep it for myself. Know much about cars?”