Blood Junction (2 page)

India stood and watched the dust settle behind the
BMW

I don’t care where the little sod is from
, she suddenly thought with a spurt of anger,
because if I ever come across that shitty BMW again, I will lob it with Molotov cocktails. Not that I know how to make one,
but I’ll learn.

Then she looked upwards into the dazzling blue-white skies.
Please, God, don’t let every driver do that to me. I don’t want to die out here.

I
T WAS NEARLY SEVEN O’CLOCK WHEN A BATTERED BEIGE
Holden Commodore pulled up behind India’s car. The wind had died to a gentle breeze and the sky had lost its harsh glare.
The wilderness was softening into evening.

The man who approached looked to be in his midtwenties. He was dressed in faded jeans and a rough work shirt. He had a thatch
of fair hair and eyes the color of burnt toffee, and unlike her was fresh and clean while she was caked in dust, her eyes
red and sore, and her hair matted in a thick clump.

“G’day,” he said.

“Hi.”

His eyes ran from her scuffed boots, up five feet eleven inches of jeans and loose cotton shirt to the wide-hooped earrings,
then he gave her one of those grins, impulsive and cheerful, as though he’d just won a prize.

“Name’s Terry,” he said, and stuck out his hand. “But my friends call me Tiger.”

“Mine’s India Kane.” Her voice was hoarse with dust. “My friends call me Indi.”

They shook.

“Cool name,” he said, “like Indiana Jones.” He stood there, still grinning.

“Know much about cars?” she asked.

He looked momentarily nonplussed, then said, “Oh, yeah. Sure.” He shoved his head under her car’s hood. She fetched the liter
of Evian she’d put beneath the car and unscrewed the cap. She raised it to her mouth, took a large mouthful, closed her eyes.
She rolled the heated water around her mouth, swallowed, gave a small groan of intense pleasure.

Heaven, she thought, is a mouthful of hot water.

She carefully sipped the rest of the bottle while she watched Tiger fiddle with the hoses she had fiddled with, wiggle the
same electrical wires, check all the levels. “Could you see if she’ll start now?” he said.

She tried.

Nothing.

Tiger scratched his head, looked at his watch, then at her. “I’ll give you a lift into BJ. We can sort it out from there.”

“Not Cooinda?”

“BJ, Cooinda, same place.”

She gave him a confused look.

“There was a massacre years back,” he said, “at the crossroads in town. Five Abos got wiped out by a bunch of whites armed
with machetes. You’ll find most of us call it BJ, short for Blood Junction.”

Blimey
, thought India as she transferred her backpack to his car.
I hope things have changed since then.

They chatted amicably as he drove. She learned it was his day off and he’d been to Tibooburra to see his parents. She told
him she was going on a riding safari from the Goodmans’ with her best friend. He liked a cooked breakfast to start his day.
She liked coffee and nicotine.

“How come you wanted to holiday out here?” he asked. He was shaking his head slightly, and she could understand his bafflement.
Cooinda wasn’t exactly on the tourist map being in what was known as the Corner Country, so-called because it centered around
the meeting of three borders: New South Wales, Queensland and South Australia. With Sydney about fifteen hundred kilometers
to the east, and Adelaide another eight hundred Ks southwest, Cooinda was pretty much slap bang in the middle of nowhere.

“We were meant to be trekking in Kosciusko,” she replied, “but everything turned pear-shaped at the last minute.”

He turned his head, brows raised.

“My friend was working in Cooinda, and since I was in Broken Hill …” She shrank from disclosing the real reason, then firmed
her resolve. If Lauren was right, she’d better get used to the idea, and start talking about it. She picked up her second
liter of Evian, where it sat between her thighs, and took another long slug of warm water before saying, “My friend … um …
said she’d found a relative of mine up here.”

Tiger didn’t seem to make much of this, so she added, “I don’t have any, you see. They’ve all died or emigrated. My mother’s
family originally came from Cooinda, so when Lauren said she’d found my grandfather … well …”

“Your grandfather? What’s his name?”

“Tremain. Edward Tremain.”

Ahead, a flock of crows blackened the corpse of a kangaroo in the middle of the road. As they approached, three birds lumbered
heavily into the air but the remainder hopped away a short distance to return the instant they had passed.

“Don’t know any Tremains, sorry.”

It didn’t surprise her. She wasn’t certain she believed Lauren anyway, considering both her maternal grandparents had been
dead for thirty years.

The Commodore rattled and jarred as they crossed a bridge. Beneath were reaches of red and yellow sand but no water, not even
a damp puddle. India asked Tiger how often it rained and wasn’t surprised when he told her cheerfully virtually never, and
went on to inform her that Cooinda was the second hottest town in New South Wales, after his home town, Tibooburra.

They were discussing the pros and cons of air-conditioning versus ceiling fans when Cooinda came into view. She could see
rows of iron roofs, television aerials, a handful of satellite dishes, a white tower with a big black clock. Soon they were
driving down streets lined with fibro houses with picket fences. The houses looked fairly new, but the paint had already blistered
from the doors and windowsills. Every other building had a ute parked outside.

They reached the main street, called appropriately Main Street. Although the street was flat and very wide—you could have
turned a road-train in one sweep—its bitumen was unkempt and dotted with potholes that were full of grit and gravel. They
passed a supermarket, a post office, a cafe and milk bar, a hardware and sporting store, a hairdressing salon and a dress
shop. The dress shop had two headless dummies in its window, both sporting identical floral sleeveless cotton dresses, one
in red and blue, the other yellow and green.

Bond Street, eat your heart out,
she thought.
At least my credit card will be safe here. I shall look forward to my New Year’s statement when I’ll owe Visa zero.

Tiger slowed as he approached the crossroads, then he pulled up outside the Royal Hotel, switched off the ignition. “See if
your friend’s still there. I’ll call Reg Douglas. Get your car towed in tonight.”

She tried to open the door, but it was stuck. Tiger leaped out and strode around to release it for her. “Sorry,” he said.
“Look, if your friend’s not there, I’ll drive you on to the Goodmans’. I’ve got to go pretty much past their doorway anyway.”

India thanked him and raced for the hotel. Excitement fizzed through her at the thought of Lauren being there. God, it was
twelve months since they’d last seen each other. Twelve months too long. As she burst through the swing doors, the noise level
instantly dropped ten decibels. She paused, gazed around. The Royal was a typical Australian pub with its horseshoe bar, pool
table, poker machines, wide-screen TV bracketed to the wall and unashamedly curious stares reserved for strangers.

India ignored the stares as she scanned the room, felt her smile slip. She told herself to stop being stupid. Would she have
waited half the day here for Lauren? Yes, she would. So India checked the restrooms and asked the bar staff if they’d seen
a five foot four, slim strawberry blonde.

The barmaid straightened up from emptying the dishwasher and turned around. India surveyed a massive spread of wobbling flesh.
The woman resembled a giant roll of uncooked sausage meat, and great dark patches of sweat stained her clothes.

“You India Kane?” she said.

“Yes.”

“I’m Debs.”

The woman put her pudgy hand out. They shook. Debs’s hand was slippery with sweat and India restrained herself from wiping
her palm on her jeans afterwards.

“Your friend had to meet some bloke out of town. Said she’d see you at the ranch.”

India thanked her. She stood there for a minute, wondering who the bloke could be. She rested her boot on the footrail and
lit a cigarette, thought about buying a drink, a gin and tonic perhaps. She wondered if by some miracle they had Bombay Sapphire
and checked the optic dispensers. No, just plain old Gordon’s. But they did have a telephone directory, which she asked to
borrow.

India flipped straight to the
T
s, ran a finger down the middle column. Tredennick. Tregelles. Treloar. Tremain, R.G., 22 Stonelea Close, Cooinda.

She stared at the telephone number. Her skin suddenly felt clammy. Maybe Lauren had been right. Maybe she did have a grandfather
after all. She pulled her notebook and pencil out of her back pocket and wrote down the number.

She jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Only me,” said Tiger. His grin was in place.

She pushed aside the directory and grinned back. He really was very cute. About five years younger than her, but yes, cute
as hell.

“Your friend not here, huh?”

She shook her head.

He touched her shoulder again. “Let’s hit the road.”

In the mirror opposite, grimed with dust and nicotine, she could see the drinkers at the bar staring after them as they left.

Stars danced on the horizon. India saw a huge sandy depression to the southwest with black shadows spreading across it like
spilled ink. A brand-new red Nissan ute roared past them. The driver honked twice. Tiger honked back. Two men were standing
on the back behind a rack of halogen spotlights. They turned and when they saw India, started whistling and making catcalls.
She took a slow drag on her cigarette in a gesture of indifference. Tiger made exasperated shooing motions with his right
hand. The men laughed. One wore dungarees, the other a red baseball cap. Red-cap put a hand over his crotch and pumped his
hips in a rude gesture.

“Sorry,” muttered Tiger.

India shrugged and flicked her stub out of the window. She noted three rifles snicked into leather straps behind the Nissan’s
cab. ’Roo lampers, out for a bit of sport. They quickly vanished into the distance.

A few minutes later, a small white 4 × 4, headlights blazing, turned right across the road ahead of them.

“Shit,” said Tiger, under his breath.

“What is it?”

“Who I’m meeting.” He raised his wrist to shine some light onto his watch. “Shit.”

India looked across at him. The grin had gone. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth tense.

“You want to drop me back in town?”

He glanced in his rearview mirror, swung left and onto the track where the white 4x4 had gone. She saw a sign pockmarked with
bullet holes.
NINDATHANA BILLABONG. PICNIC SITE.

“Nah. The Goodmans are just around the corner.”

He didn’t say any more. India decided to keep quiet; she could tell his mind was on his meeting. She wondered who he was seeing,
whether it was a woman or a man. Romance or business. She was inclined to think business from the way he’d tensed.

A neatly painted sign next to a rusting mailbox announced Bed and Breakfast for forty dollars, and Tiger pulled off the track
and down a smooth sandy road to a traditional low-slung homestead with a tin roof. He kept the engine running as he jumped
out and opened her door.

“Sorry about this,” he said. “You must think …”

“You’re wonderful,” she said, sincerely.

He popped open the trunk and hefted her backpack to the front steps. He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze, then with a wave
and a spurt of gravel, he was gone.