Catherine Jinks TheRoad (91 page)

The wife had been simple too. A few sharp thrusts with his knife, and the job was done. Then the rock again, just to make sure. But he’d been in a hurry, glancing over his shoulder, watching for any signs of disturbance in the bog. Maybe, for that reason, he hadn’t been as thorough as he should have been. Maybe he hadn’t done it right.

That was unlikely, though. It was more likely that those twittering, windborn voices hadn’t belonged to the here and now. Perhaps Grace was trying to get inside his head again. She was certainly closing in. Had she thought him defenceless? He had left his gun behind, but not his knife. The knife was strapped to his calf, even now. He wasn’t stupid. He had been careful – always careful. It was the only way. She had tried to panic him, down in that bog, but she hadn’t succeeded. Not to the point where he’d lost his powers of reason.

He had even thought about dragging the bodies into the mud afterwards. The car had almost disappeared. Why not two bodies? The trouble was, he had wanted to get away. And the yuppie and the slag – what if they had escaped in the meantime? It had been vital to catch up with them. To get rid of them.

Besides, no one would ever find the bodies. That bitch on wheels had nailed it down. She had sussed it somehow; she had articulated his feelings almost before they’d taken shape.
What if we can’t ever get out?
That was what she had said.
What if we can’t ever get out? What are we going to do, live like Aborigines?

The words had hit him like a blinding flash, hurting his eyes. God, he had seen it all! The days unfolding, the food supply dwindling, the fruitless lighting of signal fires, the search for water, the failed attempts at catching and cooking a red kangaroo. And the kids would get first pick of everything, and a search party would be sent out full of able-bodied men – like himself – and meanwhile Grace would search him out, pin him down, torture and torment him and finally starve him to death. Unless he ate them all, one by one? But that wouldn’t work. They would-n’t keep. Unless the meat was dried, and he didn’t know how to do that.

Still, he was on top of the situation. He understood that he had to move before anyone else did. If he took advantage of their bewilderment and disbelief
now
, before they woke up to themselves, he’d have the advantage.

He would also have the gun, the food, the water – even the sleeping bag. And his chances of survival would improve immeasurably as a result.

That was why he had killed the Harwoods. And the yuppie too, and the slag. He had been wanting to kill the slag since he had first laid eyes on her, so
that
had been no problem. He’d walked right up to her and given her a belt across the nose, the way he often had with Grace. He’d been able to take his time, because she was barefoot, and shocked, and didn’t know what day it was, the stupid cunt. The yuppie too, though the yuppie had been hard work. Stronger than you’d have thought – even after his throat was cut. Blood gushing out, all over everything. And no water to clean up with afterwards.

So how to get rid of the rest?

It would be hard. There were so many of them, and they had a gun. They also had a dog; he could hear it barking as he lay in the dirt, with ants crawling up into his collar and flies sampling his sweat. The dog made him think of Mullet, and his breathing quickened. He closed his eyes, for an instant. Fucking Mullet. Fucking
dog
. He would take great delight in throttling that noisy dog up ahead, and it would have to be done first. First the dog, because dogs pay attention. They were easier to inhabit too. (Grace had a grip on every dog ever born.) Then whoever had the gun. If he could get hold of the gun, it would be easy. He could polish off the rest in a few minutes, provided he had the ammunition to do it. And if he
didn’
t
have the ammunition . . . well, there was always the knife. His knife. He was itching to get his hands on that mad old cunt who owned the gun. As for the rest, they were dead already. They would never survive; he would be doing them a favour. Especially if they were the only ones left in this world.

It looked as if they might all be in Grace’s world now.

He winced because of the pain in his head. He was so tired – he hadn’t slept in two nights. Last night he had driven and driven, without getting anywhere. The night before had been even worse. No sleep, and Grace was still alive then. He had skulked about in the dark, dragging dead dogs around. Dogs. It always came down to dogs.

He had brought bait for this dog, all wrapped up in the yuppie’s jacket. The flies had found it, of course; they were making so much noise that he was almost afraid the dog would hear them. One good thing, though; the flies were so busy with his bait that they weren’t too fussed about him. He wasn’t the main target, for once, so that was another bonus. He was pleased with himself, really – pleased with his own forethought. Despite everything, he could still think. Still plan. His muzzy brain was still working, albeit in fits and starts. It was his defence against the dark realm, although he didn’t quite know what he was going to do next. Except wait until dark, of course. Darkness would shield him. Unless she was holding back the night as well.

He could smell smoke, and something else. Food. The spicy aroma brought tears to his eyes. They were fucking
eating
, the bastards! Eating cooked food! While he lay in the dirt like a fucking goanna, being devoured by insects! It was so wrong. So
wrong
. It was like they
wanted
to torment him, the way Grace had. She must have spent all day thinking up ways of torturing him: his boss, his haemorrhoids, even his headaches. For all he knew, she had fed him those headaches. Every night, lovingly, as she served him up his mashed potato. (His teeth too. His dodgy teeth.) He would be
sweating
when he walked through the door of an evening,
knowing
that she would be there, armed and ready

– ready to push his buttons. She did it every time. It had got to the point where she only had to open her mouth and it was like a hot wire in his guts.

She’d hated him, and tried to destroy him. That was what no one could possibly understand. Everything good about his life, she had taken away. Every trip to the pub – ruined. Every Sunday night movie – ruined. She had ruined everything, deliberately, with malice. (An age-old hatred?) He’d had to get rid of his dogs, because of her kid. All of them except Mullet, who’d been a waste of fucking space in the end. And when he’d tried to fight back, the witch-doctor stuff had started. She had bent the whole world to her will.

Then the appalling truth hit him. He had released her.
He had freed her power
. Only now, unfettered by flesh, could she command the forces of nature. She had
made
him do it, deliberately. She had called down the hatchet, the bullet, the knife upon herself. It had been her plan all along.

He found himself biting the dust as he thought about it. Biting down hard, and leaving tooth marks in the cracked soil. His mouth was full of dirt. He spat, and his nose ran. Tears spurted from his eyes.

She’s not going to win, he thought. Whatever this is that she’s cooked up, she and her fucking ancestor spirits (he remembered them; they had haunted her dreams, or so she said) well, he wasn’t going to buckle. She expected him to be weak, but he wasn’t weak. He would fight. He would win. He would not be held hostage by the weakness of others – if it really was weakness. Those others might just be lures. Baits. She might be trying to get under his skin, with little girls in pretty dresses.

She thought she had him, but she didn’t. He could be just as tough as she was. He didn’t have a choice.

Somehow, he would smash her. Beat her. Shake her loose.

The question was, How?

They were eating tinned Irish stew, tinned peas, and the last of the water biscuits. There wasn’t a lot to go around. As dusk settled and the stars came out, they stuffed the meal down their throats uneasily, some sitting huddled in the car, some squatting by the fire.

Though briefly distracted by the smell of savoury beef – and an offer of dog biscuits – Mongrel had begun to bark again. It wasn’t a frantic or continuous sound. It was the sound of a dog not entirely happy about something, who was spasmodically voicing his qualms. Peter found himself paying close attention to Mongrel. In fact everyone sat very quietly, monitoring the dog’s tone and pitch. Should his yaps become shorter, sharper and higher, it would be an indication of approaching peril.

That, at least, was the unspoken agreement.

Peter was sitting in the back seat of the station wagon. He had been ordered to stay there since the incident of the leaping flames; he and his sisters had all been confined to the car. They would be sleeping in the car too, squashed together in the back, while their parents bedded down on the seats. If anyone had to go to the toilet, he or she would be doing it within sight of the car.

Del wasn’t taking any chances.

‘Maybe we’re all mad,’ she’d said. ‘Maybe we’re havin hallucinations. But as far as I’m concerned, we’re better off safe than sorry.’

Peter wondered if he
had
been hallucinating. No one else had seen the roots move. No one else had been
looking
, of course, but the fact is that when his mother ran up – drawn by Peter’s screams – the roots had reverted to their normal appearance. White roots poking through red soil. Not bones. Not serpents. Roots.

Could he have seen something that wasn’t really there?

It didn’t seem likely. People suffering from exposure, from hunger and thirst and exhaustion, often hallucinated. He knew that. But so far, he wasn’t all that hungry or thirsty, and he hadn’t been forced to endure any extreme temperatures. He hadn’t even been particularly scared, before he saw those roots twisting and wriggling, because things seemed to have become normal again. He had been anxious, yes – not scared.

He was scared now, though. Very, very scared. He found it hard to chew and swallow because his jaw muscles were stiff and his mouth was dry. Even Rosie was uncharacteristically quiet, sensing the tension around her. Grim-faced, Linda and Noel cleaned the dishes with Linda’s Wet Wipes, because they didn’t want to waste water. Col kept shovelling wood and bark onto the fire, which behaved erratically, sometimes flaring up for no apparent reason. Alec was cradling Del’s little hatchet, Del having demanded custody of her gun. He looked somehow incomplete without the rifle, and extremely nervous. He kept standing up and sitting down again.

‘What’ll we do with these empty tins?’ Linda inquired, speaking softly. ‘Will we need them? Shall I clean them, or chuck them?’

‘Hang on to ’em,’ Del murmured. ‘Just in case it rains.’

‘Same with this bottle, I s’pose?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Wait.’ Alec was on his feet, hatchet dangling from his fist. ‘Is it a glass bottle?’

‘No,’ Linda replied. ‘It’s plastic. A water bottle. Why?’

Alec surveyed the surrounding bush, which was becoming lost in shadow as night fell. Then, lowering his head and his voice, he addressed Del.

‘Molotov cocktails,’ he rasped.

‘Eh?’

‘Molotov cocktails. You know. We could use the kerosene. Petrol, maybe.’

‘Ya reckon?’ said Del, looking doubtful, and Col asked sceptically if Alec had ever made one of ‘them things’.

‘Well no, but –’

‘You don’t mess around with petrol and lighted rags,’ Col hissed. ‘Not unless you know what you’re doing.’

‘Still,’ Del said thoughtfully, ‘maybe a coupla cans of kerosene within reach wouldn’t hurt . . .’

Then Mongrel barked, three times. Everyone fell silent. There was a long pause.

Peter wondered if kerosene – or even bullets – would have any effect on whatever it was that threatened them. If it was John, well, maybe. (Unless he was a sorcerer, able to repel bullets?) If it was something else, something spawned by the Nether World, their only hope was the kind of power invested in amulets, crystals, sacred objects ...crosses, maybe? It occurred to him that Del might be wearing a cross, but he couldn’t bring himself to raise the subject.

He simply couldn’t push the words out of his mouth.

He watched his mother walk over to the camp-stove, pick up the bottle of kerosene, and start pouring its contents into one of her empty tins. Noel joined her, and they struck up a conversation that was pitched far too low for anyone else to hear. They seemed to be arguing.

Alec and Del were also arguing, muttering together about siphoning petrol for petrol bombs. Alec wanted to do it. Del didn’t – she pointed out that the few drops left in the tank might transport them a short distance if the need arose. (‘And it might, you know,’ she growled. ‘It bloody might.’) Alec was trying to explain his strategy, and Del was overriding him by pointing out that it was
her
car,
her
petrol, when Mongrel began to bark again.

This time the dog sprang to his feet. His volley of yelps was urgent, and full of alarm; he padded forward, his eyes apparently fixed on a distant spot in the darkness. Peter could only see the back of him – a tail and hindquarters in the flickering firelight – but noticed even from a distance that his hackles had risen.