As Far as You Can Go (30 page)

She opens the pantry door. Steps inside, the door swings towards her, creak of hinges, she sticks her foot out to stop it closing. Her heart hammers in her ears. Familiar smell of flour and damp and flypapers. She reaches her hand up, locates the shelf. It’s greasy, dusty, things on it, she can’t see what, feel like dead things, something like a mouse falls down. She yelps, presses the back of her hand against her mouth.
Pull yourself together
.

Eventually her fingers meet the keys and she can breathe. Now just get back out. She feels her way, carefully, mustn’t trip now, make a noise. She goes though the door, quietly, quietly with the flyscreen and out. Seems bright out there. Graham silhouetted against the stars.

‘Here we go,’ she says, holding up the keys.

‘I’ll drive till we get to the road,’ he says. ‘Remember the way from yesterday.’

They both hesitate a moment, looking at each other’s shadowy outlines over the car’s roof, and get in, gently shutting the doors. A very long time since she’s been in a vehicle. The pine nip of air-freshener. They sit there a moment.

‘Go
on
then,’ she says.

‘You realise, if it doesn’t start first time we’re totally fucked?’

‘I know.’ She stretches open her mouth, jaw aching with tension. ‘
Go on.’

He looks sideways at her as he turns the key. The engine surges, he moves the gear-lever to
Drive
and the car slides off. Cassie breathes out. Not too noisy. Though surely noisy enough. With no lights, Graham steers unsteadily out across the land towards the track, cricking, cracking sounds of things driven over, the scrabbling of bushes, a harsher crack as he hits a stump. But is is OK. Behind them, the kitchen light comes on, the door opens, a figure appears. But they are
off
. Cassie feels a sudden thrill.

‘You may as well put the lights on,’ she says.
‘We’re off!’

Graham puts on the lights and yellow floods the grey-looking pocked land, the dark bushes ahead.

*

At least it’s an automatic, easy to drive. Hasn’t driven for ages – never did pass his test but when he was younger he didn’t let that bit of red tape stop him. He frowns at the land in front, not the track, a patch of scrubby bushes; go much further like this
and they’ll blow a tyre. The scrub tugs and hisses against the underside of the chassis. Surely it wasn’t this far to the track?
Must
get this right. But there are no pointers, no landmarks – though there are the ghosty gums glowing palely to his right as they should be, must be nearly on the track. Won’t breathe properly till they are on that track. Talk about
responsibility
.

Cassie shrieks, ‘Look out!’ as a kangaroo leaps from nowhere through the lights, white haunches a sudden shock.

Graham squints ahead. A stand of bigger trees. Does he recognise them? Everything different in the dark. He negotiates some looming things, rocks, knows where he is then, just about, and then at last, the car lurches up over a lip on to the track. He stops the car a minute, wipes the cold sweat from his forehead.

‘Good,’ he says. ‘We should be OK now.’

‘I never do stuff like this!’ Cassie says and grins at him. He sighs and rubs his stiff neck before driving off, easier now, down the track and on to the dirt road. Remembers Fred turned right here, so does the same.

‘An hour or so and we’ll hit the highway I reckon,’ he says. His heart sinks as he notices the petrol gauge. Empty it says, but they are going along, aren’t they? It could be shot. If there’s just enough to get them to the road then they can stick their thumbs out.

They drive in silence for a while. He searches his memory for details of the drive. Why didn’t he pay more attention? But he does remember before the turning on to the road a wind-pump surrounded by trees. Won’t be visible till they reach it, not in the dark but when he sees that looming shape he’ll know they’re right. Longs for that sensation of smooth metalled road beneath the tyres – then even if something went wrong they’d be OK. Got thumbs, can hitch. His eyes scour the dark, the splay of scrub lit by the headlights, for clues.

‘What
did
you do?’ Cassie says.

He frowns at her.

‘When you went off.’

He tells her about Ziggy, the bus, the lake. She laughs when he describes Ziggy’s dress sense. ‘I really
wanted
to get back, Cass,’ he says. ‘I had no control.’

‘Hmmm,’ she says and then goes so quiet he wonders if she’s fallen asleep. He glances at her, pale hair, smooth cheek, in the darkness. Will not ask about Larry, not now, he grits his teeth, his jaw aches with it. Will not ask now, maybe not ever. He forces his mind away from that. Tries to calculate how many days, if all goes well, till they’ll be home. Maybe three? And what will he do then? The painting he started, that idea. It comes to him that it is crap. Couldn’t show that to Jas or to anyone. Come all this bleeding way for nothing then. Pissing away his talent, Jas would say. Knob. And even Cassie – maybe he’s not up to it. Up to the responsibility. That
word
. Maybe he would always let her down. Let everyone down. He thinks with a pang of his mum and dad. That old aunt, whatever her name was, she’ll be dead by now, for sure. The car slides – loose surface.

Cassie leans over and squints at the clock on the dashboard. He keeps his eyes away, doesn’t want to know – but surely they should have hit the junction on to the road by now? Time does play tricks though. He concentrates on driving slowly and as smoothly as possible on the rutted track.

‘When we get to the road, how long?’ Cassie asks.

‘Told you, a couple of hours.’

‘We’ll be there by five. Hope they’re open.’

‘Yeah.’

‘There’s
no way
he could catch up with us, is there?’ Cassie says. ‘I mean, he hasn’t got a car now and even if he
has
got a radio they wouldn’t get us before we got to the roadhouse and even if they did they couldn’t force us to go back.’

‘No.’ Another kangaroo appears in the headlights, this time trailed by a joey. Graham decelerates almost to a stop, watching their fantastic elastic bounce.

‘Don’t you feel like we’re in a film or something?’ Cassie says. ‘You were right. About leaving.’ She puts her hand lightly on his thigh. ‘Wait till we tell everyone –’

‘Wait,’ Graham says, feeling she might jinx them with this premature crowing, ‘wait till we’re at the roadhouse. Till we hit civilisation.’

‘Civilisation!
I’m going to have bacon, eggs, hash browns and iced coffee.’

‘Yeah.’

‘What’s the first thing you’ll do when we get home?’

‘Go down the pub and have a pint.’

‘You’ll go
out
?’

‘Why, what will you do?’

‘Go round the house I think, just
touching
everything. Then I’ll get my hair cut.’

They drive on in silence for a while. No stand of trees, no wind-pump, no junction. Feels like he’s driving down a tunnel, just can’t
see
. It just goes on and on.

‘Do you really know how to hotwire a car?’ she asks.

‘Reckon so.’

She gives him a look that’s almost admiring: ‘England’s going to feel so small and safe, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’ They go quiet. Thinking. The track is going downhill. He doesn’t remember any downhill. Wonders whether to switch off the engine to save fuel. But surely there was no downhill? There was more a sense of
rising
he remembers. And it’s looping to the right, is that it? Doesn’t remember any looping to the right. A patch of ghost gums floats above the ground, strange lit-up hieroglyphic shapes. The bush getting denser. Must be a watercourse somewhere near. And the track is deteriorating. Two deep channels and looser sand. It’s hard not to get bogged, the loose sand slewing the steering. Hard graft just keeping it straight. A tight ache starts between his shoulders.

‘Or maybe a milkshake,’ Cassie says, suddenly. ‘Want me to drive for a bit?’

Graham shakes his head. If they can just get past this difficult bit. This track must lead somewhere. Will probably meet the road a bit further along, that’s all. They’re going in the right direction, he’s almost sure. Probably driving parallel to the highway.

He yawns and lets in a wave of weariness. Should have got a bit of shut-eye but he’d lain there, feeling Cassie fidgeting beside him. If he’d allowed himself to sleep he might not have woken up and they’d have been stuck there another day and he could not trust himself near Larry another minute. Past the trees now and the track’s smoothed out. No more trees, low ground. At least there’s a chance he will be able to see. Maybe the lights of a road train will show them where the highway is. He thinks of the cosy cab of Frank’s truck. That hammock.

‘Oi!’ Cassie prods him.

He starts. ‘What?’

‘You were falling asleep.’

‘No,’ he says, blinking at the bleached track unravelling in the light.

*

But he
was
half-asleep. They should stop but she doesn’t want to stop. Not till they’re safe. She glances at his profile, hunched forward over the steering wheel, fingers gripping. If he’d only let her drive. She wants to say
relax
but thinks that might bug him. Not as if she’s relaxed, anyway. And she’s seen the petrol gauge, the red ‘empty’ sign lit up. He must have seen it too. Her stomach is a solid, aching ball. She shuts her eyes against the dizzying grey on grey on grey, the speckled ground that seems to have gone black now. They should be on the road. It’s way past an hour.

She sways her body slightly as if this will keep them going.
Can’t wait to talk to another person, another ordinary person, can’t wait to see something – a traffic jam or Boots the Chemist or a postbox – normal.
Focus on home
. If,
when
, they’ll ring from the roadhouse, yes, talk to Patsy and maybe Mum, buy something for Katie at the airport – a cuddly koala.

‘Do you realise, we haven’t seen a single koala bear,’ she says. ‘Ooooh,’ as they jolt over a bump. ‘Need to pee. Sorry.’

‘OK.’ Graham stops, bows his head forward and leans his forehead on the steering wheel.

‘You OK?’

‘Just knackered.’

‘I’ll drive.’

He shakes his head.

She gets out and takes a few steps into the dark. Cold. A charry smell. The ground black, must have been a bush fire. Things give under her feet, tiny snappings, bits of twig or bone or God knows. It’s cold and clear, faint moonlight on the stubbly charcoal. She pulls down her jeans and squats. She can hear echoes, of what, she doesn’t know, a throb of something, like a heartbeat almost. Like the heartbeat of the earth.
Only the blood in your own ears, idiot
.

She stands and pulls up her jeans, damp now. She tilts her head back and looks up into the ache of space above her. The sky is a bright whirl, curdled by the Milky Way and underneath it all she feels dizzied. Minute, insignificant to the point of vanishing. She gets back into the car quick.

*

Cassie takes a few steps away and bobs down, white cardigan disappearing from view. He bites the skin beside his thumbnail. He has to face it: he’s cocked up. Been going far, far too long and the terrain’s all wrong. Gas can’t hold out much longer. Should have turned back when he first suspected. Stupid, stupid. Can’t be far wrong though. He turned right, didn’t
Fred turn right? And there haven’t been any other choices. Any other junctions. Have there? He hasn’t seen any other junctions but then he can see nothing really, just the lit-up bit in front of the car. Maybe there was a choice and without even knowing he chose wrong.

‘Brrrr.’ Cassie slams the door and rubs her hands up and down her arms.

‘OK?’

‘Yup.’

They drive on. The track ruttier, stuff strewn about, burnt stuff. Graham stops and peers forward. The skeleton of a burnt tree right in front of them. They are no longer on a track at all. He turns the key and everything goes quiet.

‘What’s up?’

‘Is there a torch?’ He gestures at the glove compartment. Cassie opens it and rifles through.

‘All sorts in here – peppermints and, yes, a torch. She clicks it. “Doesn’t work though.” She shakes it and a dull gleam appears though it doesn’t extend much further than the tiny bulb. He takes the torch and gets out.

‘Gray?’

He walks about waving the useless smudge of light ahead of him. Why didn’t he think to bring a torch? A loud flap makes him jump and yell, some big bird startled: a kookaburra, mad cackle of loony-toons laughter. That cry had made them laugh when they first arrived but no one’s laughing now. He grits his teeth. He’s only lost the track, hasn’t he? Walks round behind the car. Can see nothing much beyond the red glow of the rear lights but from what he can see he surmises that they’ve been off the track for a while. How did he manage that? Can’t believe it. They will have to go back. No point in panicking. It’s quite simple. Just turn the car round and drive back the opposite way.

He gets back in.

‘We’re lost, aren’t we?’ Cassie says.

‘Just gone off the track a bit.’

‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure. OK?’

‘We don’t want to go getting lost.’

He bangs his hand on the steering wheel. ‘Fuck’s sake, Cassie. Just feel free to state the bleeding obvious, why don’t you? Right,’ he says, making his voice level. ‘We just want to go back the way we’ve come. Just a short way.’ He reverses and moves the car round. That was a full 360 degrees, wasn’t it? They approached the burnt tree from that way so – but. How to know which way? He stops.

Cassie keeps her mouth shut this time, he can hear the effort it takes her. He gets out again, slamming the door, smacking the torch against his hand to try and make more light. He crouches down and shines it at the ground. If he could just see the tyre tracks he’d know which direction they’d come from and follow back. Should have made some marker.
Wanker
. It’s tiredness, that’s what it is, he is so knackered he can’t think straight. The monotony of driving, the adrenaline that had kept him going is trickling away now, he can feel it running out through the soles of his feet. The scorched smell is sickening. And then he does see what looks like the track, definitely a rut, a flaky charcoal tyre-print. He lifts his head.
Thank you, mate
, he mutters at the sky.