It wasn’t too bad as far as budget accommodation went. The modest, U-shaped building was constructed from timber and fibre-board, and each room opened onto a common outdoor walkway. The rooms were small, with thin grey carpet, but they were clean and brightly lit.
Chris flicked on the light as she walked into the room, and Luke followed her inside.
“Don’t move,” said Luke suddenly.
Chris felt a heavy blow across her back, and she spun around to see Luke staring at his hand. His face was devoid of colour.
Luke stared at the spider squashed across his palm, its white clown face staring lifelessly back at him.
It was one of the most traumatic moments of his life.
Chris gently peeled the mangled spider from Luke’s hand, dropping it into a small plastic specimen bag. Luke continued staring at the glistening stain on his palm.
“Thanks,” said Chris, sliding the specimen bag into her backpack.
Luke wasn’t sure if she was referring to saving her from the spider, or supplying her with a new specimen. He lowered his hand mechanically, part of his mind still trapped in the car, surrounded by clusters of Boffo-faced spiders.
Chris glanced at Luke’s glazed, haunted expression, and decided that if he was still standing like that in the morning, she would ship him home immediately. She pulled off her T-shirt and inspected the spider-shaped stain on the back, wondering whether she could get away with spot-washing the smear.
Luke shook himself from his nightmarish thoughts and glanced over at Chris. Rhubarb-coloured bruises ran across her collar bone and underneath her tank top, vividly marking where she had been repeatedly thrown against the steering wheel.
Chris hopped on the spot, sweeping her hands down her clothes.
“I feel like I’m crawling with bugs.”
She ruffled her fingers through her hair, and Luke thought he saw a glint through the strands.
“What?” said Chris.
“Nothing,” said Luke, staring intensely at Chris’s head.
Chris turned around slowly, and saw nothing but a blank wall and an extremely placid print of an orange sitting next to a capsicum.
“Um, could I take a look at your hair for no particular reason?” said Luke.
Chris sat down uneasily on the bed.
“If it’s a parasite, don’t tell me,” said Chris, pressing her eyes shut. “Just flush it down the toilet.”
Luke ran his fingers lightly through Chris’s hair, and he glimpsed a speck of a reflection, like light bouncing from a tiny carapace. He gently parted a windblown tangle and saw it, small and black, stuck fast to her scalp.
“I think I’ve found a bug,” said Luke.
“I said, just flush it,” snapped Chris.
Luke wedged a fingernail underneath the speck, and prised it from her skin. It was about half the size of a pupil, and clearly mechanical—some kind of microchip. Chris grabbed a magnifying glass from her pack and examined the chip carefully in the light.
It didn’t have a logo printed on it, but it was sleekly designed, and probably contained a lot of expensive hardware, which said plenty. Chris walked into the bathroom, and Luke heard a flush. Chris returned to the room, sans microchip.
“And I kept thinking it was a scab I got at the hospital,” said Chris, rubbing her scalp.
“The hospital?” said Luke, a memory stirring.
“I guess this is another reason why I should take personal grooming more seriously,” said Chris to herself.
There was a soft knock, which had the same effect on Chris and Luke as a peal of gunfire. Luke had a brief vision of a giant mother spider, come to take revenge. He gripped the bottle of eucalyptus oil like a talisman.
“Who is it?” called Chris.
“Yuriel, from Stewart Burns,” came a young woman’s voice.
“Who’s your best visitor?” said Chris.
There was a pause.
“You mean the raccoon guy?” said the voice.
Chris opened the door a crack and saw a stout woman of Turkish descent standing outside. She had a pierced eyebrow and dreadlocked hair, and held an envelope in one hand.
“You Chris?” said Yuriel.
“Yeah,” said Chris warily.
“Professor Griffith asked me to give this to you.”
Chris took the envelope tentatively, and there was a pause.
“Thanks,” said Chris, as Yuriel continued to stand there.
“She said I had to watch you eat it.”
There was another pause.
“Okay…” Chris glanced at Luke, who shrugged.
Chris tore open the envelope, and pulled out a slip of paper with neat blue handwriting.
Tony Holloway. Corrawong University
.
Luke flicked out a silver lighter—he was hoping one day it would save him from a bullet, along with his pocket Bible. Chris held the paper over the flame, and watched as the words turned to ash. She dropped the smouldering remains onto the concrete and ground them into pulp underfoot.
“Tell Professor Griffith ‘Thank you,’” said Chris.
* * *
He stood in the desert, under clear, cold skies. Out here, you could see why people had worshipped the night sky and seen power in the movements of constellations across the heavens. A million points of light, still shining through the universe after the stars had long burned out.
The desert stretched around him in rocky folds and dusty dunes, like an endless expanse of crinkled brown paper. He stood there, in a spot which looked no different from every other spot within five hundred miles. But this spot was different.
He remembered the place
.
He stood there for a long while, the chill night growing colder, his breath misting in the still air. It was deathly silent here. The middle of nowhere.
His earpiece buzzed, and he tapped it with a finger.
“Docker?” came a voice crisply over the channel.
“Report,” said the man.
“They found the bug,” said the voice. “I think they flushed it down the toilet.”
“Destination.”
“I don’t know. Something knocked the tracking unit from their car,” said the voice, slightly petulant.
Docker’s voice was patronisingly calm.
“Then do things the old-fashioned way,” he said. “Over.”
He tapped the earpiece, and the desert returned to silence. He hauled the scanning equipment back into the Jeep, pulling the tarpaulin over it. Life was full of choices, and regrets happened when you didn’t know what you wanted. When you did the wrong thing for the wrong reason. You could bury a mistake, but you couldn’t forget it.
If you knew what you wanted, uncoloured by other people’s wants and hopes and pain, then your choices were clear.
No regrets.
9
They splurged on the car this time. It was a tough little hatchback with only a couple of dents, and it smelled of pine and car shampoo. The engine grunted a little, but nothing rattled or came loose in your hand. It did, however, become quickly encrusted with bugs.
“Wow, when they said they were having a problem with locusts, they weren’t kidding,” said Chris.
Luke wound up the window tightly.
It’s not a sign
, Luke told himself. Apparently, Corrawong often had plagues of locusts and Bogong moths, blown off-course by strong inland winds sweeping across the Australian outback.
Chris and Luke had flown in across the desert, over shadeless, stony hardpan and parched dirt plains. On approach, the tiny airport terminal looked like a demountable classroom that had landed in the middle of the desert. Luke wasn’t unfamiliar with isolated townships, but the sheer scale of space around Corrawong was staggering.
As soon as they pulled onto the highway, it was vivid red dust and wide-open skies from horizon to horizon. The land was weathered flat, like an expanse of cloth pulled taut by time. It wasn’t hard to imagine this place in the heart of prehistoric Gondwanaland. Spinifex and the odd desert oak dotted the landscape, and the open road stretched into a scorching haze.
Chris felt her spirits lifting as they sailed along the road beneath a broad, clear sky. The air smelled clean and crisp, and she wondered if it had smelled like this when the world was new, after the volcanic sulphur fumes had settled down. This place would have been unrecognisable then, but even now, transformed to arid desert, life thrived. Plants were patient—they were used to thinking on a geological time scale, and they could wait until the world changed again.
Being out here seemed to have a positive effect on Luke, as well. He had seemed quite shaken by the spider incident, but driving through the empty plains, red dust kicking up in a smoky trail behind them, he seemed almost relaxed. Chris was used to bugs and assorted creepy crawlies—it came with the territory. Wherever you had plants, you had bugs. Mostly, it was in the context of battling it out with hungry caterpillars and hordes of aphids, but occasionally, you came across combative mantids, aerodynamically challenged bees, and things with more segments than really necessary.
Luke, however, sometimes seemed so absorbed with what was going on inside his own head that he didn’t seem to notice what was going on around him until it was squashed on his hand. But then, sometimes, he would have moments of insight and intuition that just came out of nowhere. It was hard to tell what was going on in there sometimes.
“Why were you carrying a bottle of eucalyptus oil?” asked Luke.
“It’s a good disinfectant,” said Chris. “And, you know, for werewolves.”
“Werewolves…”
Luke wasn’t sure where this was going, but he had experienced a similar feeling when accosted by the campus fairy-card reader. Allegedly, Luke’s animal spirit guide was a budgie who had died angry.
“Didn’t you bring holy water and stakes, just in case?” asked Chris.
“It hadn’t actually occurred to me. And isn’t it silver bullets that kill werewolves?”
“Apparently, it’s to create decoy scent trails. Aren’t you guys supposed to know about fighting demons and stuff?”
“You can’t take everything literally,” said Luke with exasperation.
As they drove onward, stands of mulgas began to patch the landscape, their silver-grey foliage flung skyward like umbrellas turned inside out. In the distance, a mob of red kangaroos loped across the desert, flying across the ground in graceful, suspended bounds. Further ahead, where the highway turned back into road, the town of Corrawong rose from the dust. It was a collection of squat brick buildings, serviced by a series of badly cracked roads. The largest building was a long, two-storey facility resembling a public high school.
As Chris pulled over to the kerb, they could read the blistered sign at the front:
Corrawong University
. Several locals on the porch of a nearby pub watched as Chris and Luke got out of the car, and one pointed to his eyes before stabbing a finger towards Luke, who adjusted his clerical collar uncomfortably.
Chris and Luke headed towards the front doors, the red gravel crunching beneath their feet. The short walk felt much longer in the baking heat, and their clothes stuck damply to their skin. The building wasn’t much cooler inside, although the students strolling the corridors seemed unbothered by the heat. Noticeboards hung with limp papers, advertising local events and items for sale. Dusty glass cabinets displayed trophies, student engineering projects, and unusual biological specimens.
Chris’s gaze searched the homogenous grey doorways, stopping at one designated “Front Office.” Inside, a tall, sunburnt young man bustled steadily behind a reception desk, casually ignoring a knot of lost-looking first-year students waving forms. Chris tried politely to get the young man’s attention, but his gaze swept over her lazily with the distinct message that, short of her spontaneously catching on fire, he had better things to do.
“I thought small universities were supposed to be friendlier,” said Chris.
“Shane’s a lot friendlier when he’s not doing the work of three people,” came a voice from behind them.
Chris and Luke turned to see a woman in her mid-forties, wearing a colourfully printed blouse and neat slacks. She had smooth, dark-brown skin, and her frizzy black hair was pulled back in a loose bun. She carried a folder with the name “Professor Fuller” taped neatly across the top corner, and she had eyes like an academic who made sure she got her damned funding.
“You’re new in town,” said Professor Fuller.
“We didn’t mean to be rude,” said Luke. “We’re looking for Professor Holloway.”
“Is there some kind of trouble?” said Professor Fuller, glancing at Luke’s collar. “Heresy, perhaps?”
Chris stepped forward, looking archly at the professor.
“My mother was a former colleague of his,” said Chris. “If you’ll excuse us.”
Chris steered Luke out of the crowded office, and footsteps followed them.
“I’m sorry,” said Professor Fuller. “That was rude.”
Chris and Luke slowed as the professor fell into step beside them.
“It’s okay,” said Luke. “I’m used to it.”
The professor sighed, glancing through a window to the campus grounds.
“We’ve just had a funding audit, and everyone’s a bit on edge. We’re being told we’re teaching too much theoretical science and not enough hospitality. We’re spending too much on lecturers and not enough on business placements. I had an auditor sit through a week of lectures to tell me I don’t make enough eye contact when I say ‘You.’”
“I think excessive eye contact can be a bit confronting,” said Luke.
The thing Luke had liked best about taking confessions was not having to look at people. However, there had been an awful lot he hadn’t liked about taking confessions.
“Exactly,” said Professor Fuller. “But that’s beside the point. We’re a small university, and we can’t offer as varied a range of electives as a larger campus, but we turn out a significant number of high-quality researchers and practitioners every year who end up in places like the CSIRO and the World Health Organisation.”
Chris and Luke followed Professor Fuller as she ascended a concrete stairwell onto the second floor. Windows lined the outer wall, and hot sunlight splashed through the halls.
“You can’t buy genuine talent, enthusiasm, and innovation,” continued Professor Fuller. “You might think you can, but the real innovators follow their own road, and you have to provide a means to support that. Holloway’s an excellent example of that.”