Catherine Jinks TheRoad (31 page)

‘Eh?’ Graham cocked a questioning eye at him.

‘Maybe we shouldn’t leave the road,’ Alec repeated.

‘Why not?’

‘I dunno. It might be the wrong thing. It might be dangerous.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t
know
. Things are
weird
.’

‘Holy shit,’ said Chris. ‘Look at that!’

It was the mailbox. They could see it already: a white-painted metal drum mounted on a white post. ‘Thorndale’ was written in black over a slot that had been cut in the bottom of the drum – a clumsy piece of signage that only became visible as the four-wheel drive pulled up next to it.

Alec was shaking his head in disbelief.

‘I left this behind,’ he protested weakly. ‘Way behind. It wasn’t within walkin distance. If it had been, I wouldna waved you guys down.’

‘ Thorndale.’ Graham read the word aloud. ‘Would that be the family name or the station name?’

‘Did you hear me? Guys? I said I passed this place
way
before I ran outta fuel.’

‘We believe you, Alec,’ said Graham. He surveyed the mailbox, the dirt road that joined the highway, and the three-barred gate that stretched across the dirt road, just a metre or so from the mailbox. ‘Let’s do it,’ he declared, nudging his brother. ‘Come on.’

Alec sighed. He was reluctant to reveal what was on his mind

– memories of at least a dozen movies (including
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
) in which the gormless heroes or heroines had stupidly broken down or got lost in the middle of nowhere and, even more stupidly, had sought help from an isolated cabin, farm house, motel or disintegrating Victorian mansion.

He reminded himself that this was Australia (not America), that it was broad daylight, and that he didn’t have to get out of the car if he didn’t want to. Staying in the car, he reasoned, would be the safest option.

That was why he let Graham open the gate – and close it again – while he himself remained stubbornly perched on the back seat.

‘Right,’ said Graham, after he had returned to his own seat and shut the door. ‘Let’s get moving.’

‘Don’t suppose you know this place,’ Chris remarked, and added, after a pause: ‘Alec?’

‘Eh?’ Alec had been peering out at the unforgiving terrain. Camel country. How many hectares per sheep on a property like this one? His dad might have told him. ‘What’s that?’

‘I said, do you know this place?’

‘Nuh.’

‘It’s marked on the map,’ Graham supplied. ‘Oh no – hang on. That’s a tank. Ow!’

‘Road’s a bit ordinary,’ Chris grumbled.

It was little more than a track, ribbed and fissured under a layer of red dust. Here and there, along the edges, old tyre marks could be seen baked into a surface that had been thick, churned mud during the last rain. Otherwise, there was no evidence of habitation – not even a fence along the road. Alec could see no scraps of discarded metal or plastic. No careless piles of cleared underbrush. No fluttering, faded rags caught on branches. And no stock. Definitely no stock.

Whether the land had been recently grazed or not was a question beyond the range of Alec’s expertise. He was no pastoralist. And his only contact with the wildlife around Broken Hill was when it ended up dead on the road, so he didn’t know what to look for in terms of scats or nests or wallows. As a teenager he’d spent a year or so shooting goats on weekends, trekking out into the Barrier Ranges with Mike and Mike’s best friend Rory, but any tracking skills he might have picked up all those years ago had long since gone the same way as his patchy knowledge of algebra, chemistry and the Franco-Prussian War.