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  I dropped the wet teabag in the sink and gave my drink a stir while Sindy scratched at a sliver of jam that had dripped on her vest.

  ‘You and Minto off out today?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She looked down and continued with her stain removal.

  I splashed some milk in my tea. As I turned to go, I froze. Sindy was standing in the middle of the room, sucking the stain from her vest, the whole thing pulled halfway up her chest. I was treated to nips, belly button; the lot.

  ‘Fuck! What are you doing?’ I reached towards her to cover her, but immediately thought better of it. ‘Christ, Sindy, pull your top down!’

  She stopped sucking and the vest slithered down her ribs. She stared at me like I’d just slapped her.

  ‘Sindy,’ I said more gently, ‘you can’t just –’

  I didn’t get chance to say anymore. She left her toast on the table and ran out of the room, yanking the door shut as she went.

  I reached behind me and perched on the sofa, my legs feeling like they mightn’t hold me up anymore. I sat there blotting her flesh from my mind, trying to unsee the seen. Trouble was, once those glimpses of skin had disappeared, all I was left to contemplate was the look of pain on her face.

  Chapter 5

  ‘So, what drives you from Mt Isa, Alec?’

  I give him a sidelong glance. ‘You mean, why am I going to Alice?’

  He awards himself a private smile. ‘If you like.’

  ‘Just...bumming around,’ I say. ‘Seeing the sights.’

  ‘You got family?’

  ‘What?’ At the very time I need some peace to work out what the hell I’m going to do, my sidekick has transformed from mute to talk-show host.

  ‘Brothers or sisters?’ He pauses, reaching under his seat for a packet of smokes. ‘Or girlfriends?’

  ‘No. Just my folks. In Britain.’ I instantly regret the disclosure: stranger in a strange land – what the hell was I thinking?

  He holds the cigarette packet in my direction.

  ‘Very wise,’ he says, when I shake my head. ‘Silent killers, these little bastards.’ He sticks the filter tip between his lips and uses the lighter from the dashboard.

  I watch his twiglet fingers and briefly consider shoving the hot lighter in his face. But even as I imagine his sizzling flesh, I won’t trust my instincts. I’m overreacting. Right?

  ‘You don’t know Australia well then,’ he says. ‘The terrain. The geography.’

  I shrug. ‘Got a guidebook, haven’t I?’

  He lets out another of those laughs; the ones devoid of humour. ‘You’d need more than some shit travel guide if you got stranded out here,’ he says. ‘In these temperatures, you could be dead within hours.’ He levels his eyes at me.

  ‘Is that right?’ I say.

  Prick.

  I look out of the side window as the air ripples in the blistering heat.

  ‘You did bring water with you, didn’t you, Alec?’

  I keep my eyes on the view. ‘‘Course.’

  I can hardly admit that my survival kit consists of the warm dregs of lemonade and half a packet of chewy mints.

  ‘Always need water,’ he says, almost to himself. ‘It’s the dry heat that gets ‘em, see. People who don’t know this place, they just shrivel up in the sun, like raisins.’

  My palms are wet, and I rub them down the legs of my jeans. His eyes follow the movement and I instantly want to cover my crotch.

  I shift my gaze to the dashboard and scan for snippets of information: a licence number; a logo; anything. But even the windshield is missing its registration sticker. Other trucks, I imagine, have furry dice; pictures of pouting bikini clad models; smart-arse stickers bemoaning everyone else’s driving habits. Not this one though. This one has a box of tissues nestled in a floral, lace trimmed cover, like it’s wearing a frigging nightie or something. And the dashboard stickers demand that I have faith in God and let Him be my guide. Christ!

  ‘You Catholic? Church of England?’ I ask.

  ‘Used to be Catholic,’ he says, blowing smoke from the side of his mouth. He crushes the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray. ‘But my god deserted me, Alec. He left me out in the wilderness. To shrivel up and die.’

  The backs of my thighs spring a leak and I have to readjust my position.

  He glances into my lap again, his eyes lingering longer than is decent. ‘Getting hot, are you, son?’

  I thread my fingers through the handle of my rucksack. If this guy tries anything, I’ll mash the whole thing in his face. My head bumps against the side window as I pretend to rest my eyes. Like I’m fooling anyone. I need to think; to put my brain into gear and work out a plan of action. Contingencies: isn’t that what Dad used to drum into me? Always have a Plan B, he’d say. Except I don’t even have a Plan A.

  The last place I remember was Camooweal. Had we turned off there? I toy with the idea of getting out my guidebook. Would laughing-boy snatch it from me; toss it out the window? Or could it be the final act of defiance that would send him headlong into violence?

  ‘I need a piss,’ I say.

  ‘Sure you do.’

  I look away. I can’t stand much more of this not-knowing. Is this guy weird, a killer or some sad, seedy fuck?

  Outside, the vegetation clings to the ground in clumps like it’s on its knees and all the while the sun throbs, its silent pulse forming the backbeat to my every thought.

  Keeping my body turned away, I finger the window handle, then the door latch; easing it from the door to test it out.

  There’s a loud click and the lock mechanism shoots down. Everything inside me clenches.

  Chapter 6

  Until Sindy came along, I’d only seen the anything-for-a-mate side to Minto. I’d thought of him as a gentle giant, wrongly smeared for his tatts, his piercings and his confronting looks. But I came to realise I’d misjudged him. He was a nutter: a Class-A psycho. And yes, he would do anything for a mate, as long as that mate had sworn allegiance to his beloved Apaches. His bite was infinitely worse than his bark and had I realised that at the start, I’d never have moved into that house on Oakdale Terrace and I’d never have met Sindy. Things would’ve turned out very differently.

  I blinked in the darkness as the front door woke me. ‘4:52’ my clock-radio informed me. The throaty roar of Minto’s bike revved up outside. It sped off then faded into the distance. Who knew what he got up to at that hour?

  I turned over and pulled up the duvet but just as I got comfy, there was a knock on my bedroom door. A hesitant, uncertain one.

  I stood at the door, buttoning up my jeans. ‘What d’you want, Sindy?’

  Her face buckled and she ground her hands into her eyes, making no attempt to explain.

  ‘Sindy? What is it?’ I tried to stay patient, calm, but I was tired as hell.

  She took a big, wet sniff.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ I said, glancing up the hall.

  She hesitated and kept her eyes down. Her voice shook. ‘I can’t.’

  I followed her gaze. She stood with her legs apart; her knees just covered by the nightie, red liquid trickling down and pooling at the fold of her white ankle socks.

  ‘Shit – what happened?’ I said.

  Minto made no secret of his knife collection; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d used one.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, looking down. ‘It won’t stop.’ She did a little jig as she realised there were spots on the carpet. ‘Oh, no. It’s getting worse.’

  ‘Just come in,’ I said and pulled her through the door. Her skin was cold, clammy and my hand felt oversized around her arm.

  I got down on my haunches to find out where the wound was. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, in tears again. ‘He didn’t do anything. But I woke up and there was all this blood and it had soaked into the sheets. And Minto got angry about it. I don’t know what to do. Is it something really bad, do you think?’


  ‘So, there’s no wound?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You haven’t cut yourself anywhere?’

  She shook her head.

  I looked up at her as she rubbed her eyes. It took a few moments before I could bring myself to ask. ‘Sindy? Are you sure it’s not just... your period?’

  I felt a knob having to ask, but what else could it be?

  ‘I haven’t started having periods yet,’ she said quietly. ‘Minto says I’m probably too scrawny to get them.’

  The rivulets continued to dribble down her legs, a disobedient spot occasionally splodging on the carpet.

  I got to my feet, suddenly feeling like an intruder. ‘Looks like you’ve started,’ I said.

  Her lips trembled and she crossed her arms in front of her, clutching her sleeves as if I’d found her naked. ‘What do I do?’

  ‘What?’

  She broke down again. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Well...I don’t know either.’ I didn’t mean to sound impatient but, frankly, I was embarrassed. I ruffled my hair, stealing a glance at her. She changed position and stood with her legs crossed, bent at the knees, as if she was about to wet herself.

  ‘Don’t you...have anything?’ I asked. ‘Pads, tampons, that sort of thing.’

  ‘No.’

  I looked around – though for what, I had no idea.

  ‘Why don’t you go and shower?’ I said. ‘I’ll find you some...underwear. And you can borrow a shirt. I guess you’ll have to manage with a sock or toilet paper till the shops open.’

  She stood, nodding; her lank hair stuck to her cheeks.

  I chucked a towel, a shirt and my oldest pair of undies at her.

  ‘Thanks, Alec,’ she said in that sweet Swansea voice of hers. ‘I’m ever so sorry.’

  While she was gone, I poured hot water from the kettle onto the carpet stains and dabbed at them with a wad of serviettes I’d swiped from the burger bar.

  This whole situation was so messed up: she was younger than my kid sister, Gina would’ve been yet here she was, servicing the bodily needs of our local chief bikie and not even understanding the workings of her own body. If it was Gina, Mum would’ve had her going off to school with every sanitary item the local chemist had on offer; she’d’ve bought books, videos; taken pride in setting her up for womanhood. Sindy was so unprepared; she was so unready, in every sense.

  There was a light knock on my door and Sindy stood there, scrunching the dirty nightie in her hands.

  ‘Put it in here,’ I said, passing her a carrier bag. ‘You can go and put the sheets in there too.’

  ‘I can’t get into his room,’ she said. ‘He locked the door when he left. I’m sort of...stuck out here.’

  She looked away when she saw my expression.

  ‘Well you can’t stay in here,’ I said. ‘Minto would go nuts.’ I looked around for the throw but Sindy hadn’t returned it from the last time. I handed over my duvet, resigning myself to a laundry-run later. ‘You’d better use the couch in the kitchen.’

  ‘It will stop, won’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Will what stop?’

  ‘The blood.’

  I kept a tight hold of my expression. ‘Sindy, didn’t you ever learn about this stuff?’

  ‘A bit,’ she said, looking down. ‘But I didn’t really understand and…I didn’t know who to ask.’

  ‘Your mum, maybe?’

  ‘My mum’s in Australia,’ she said. ‘There’s only me and Dad and he doesn’t like me bothering him with…’

  ‘I think it lasts about a week,’ I told her. ‘Then they come every month.’

  She chewed her bottom lip and nodded, then turned to go.

  ‘Sindy?’ I said, stopping her. ‘How old are you?’

  We looked at each other as the question settled between us.

  ‘I told you all before,’ she said, reciting the usual. ‘I was sixteen last March.’

  ‘Yeah, but really.’

  She blinked back at me, hesitating. ‘Fourteen. But please don’t tell him I told you.’

  She wobbled an apologetic smile and quietly closed the door behind her.

  Chapter 7

  My jaw is clenched so tight my teeth hurt.

  Neither me nor the driver has spoken in a while. The silence is starting to feel as oppressive as the relentless fucking heat.

  Do I put my boot through the windshield? Or wrestle his hands from the wheel? What do I do? What the fuck do I do?

  I sit here like a gimp, is what.

  My pits are soaking as I sit, jammed in indecision. ‘You got a fan in this thing?’

  ‘Nope. No fan, no aircon.’ He looks smug; like suffocation is the next big thing. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s hot.’

  ‘You’re used to the cold, I expect,’ he says. ‘The bleak British weather.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I lived in Wales.’

  He shoots me a look. ‘Wales.’

  A pause stutters between us as I try to figure his expression.

  ‘That’s why I’m not used to the heat,’ I tell him.

  ‘Wales,’ he says again. And it brings the discussion to a close.

  It’s a pungent combination: vinyl, cigarette smoke and aftershave. Always made me car sick when I was a nipper. Mum never left home without barley sugars for me. Sometimes worked, too.

  As the sunshine bleeds through the window, it burns my arm. My salivary glands start working overtime and a wave of heat flushes my face.

  ‘I need to get out,’ I say, swallowing.

  I hear the air escape through his nostrils. ‘We ain’t stopping, Alec,’ he says. ‘If you’re gonna hurl, you’d better use that bag of yours.’

  My cheeks and tongue moisten, and I close my eyes.

  ‘Put that guidebook in your lap,’ the driver tells me. ‘‘Bout the only thing it’s good for.’

  I suck in a lungful of stale air and it makes me retch.

  There’s a click and a whirr from somewhere to my right. The driver’s side window opens a fraction. It offers no relief, though. Hot air blows in, like bellows on a furnace.

  All I can think about is Mum and her barley sugars.

  Then just Mum.

  The cab is locked; we’re off the highway; the guy won’t stop. There’s no escaping the facts.

  As he looks across at me, I see the sharp edge of his Adam’s apple rise in his throat. A thin gold chain glistens against his skin and all I want to do is yank it so hard that his skinny neck snaps in two.

  ‘Look, mate,’ I say. ‘I feel like shit. When are we getting back on the road?’

  ‘When I say so.’

  He won’t look at me; just keeps on staring ahead, keeping his body midline as the truck rocks side to side on the ruts. I could overpower him, easy. He’s thin, scrawny; got muscles like sparrows’ legs.

  He takes his eyes from the track and turns to me, like he can read my freaking mind.

  What if he’s got a gun?

  ‘Can you let me out?’ I say. ‘I’d really prefer to get on my way now.’

  ‘No, Alec; no can do.’

  ‘Why can’t you?’ My fingers grip the handle of my bag again; so tight that my nails almost pop my palms. ‘What’s your fucking game?’

  The question lingers and seems to suck the air from the cab. I’ve placed all my cards on the table. But his are still face down.

  He narrows his eyes and as his lips part, I smell the tobacco on his breath.

  ‘Game?’ he says.

  ‘I just want to go to Alice.’ I feel my face flush as the words come out fast; weak; pleading. ‘I don’t want any funny business. Or any detours. I just wanna get there, okay? I just want to get there.’

  Something unpleasant shoots through his eyes. He presses his foot on the gas pedal and the truck starts bumping and bouncing like a goddamn space hopper.

  ‘Please,’ I say.

  ‘You think you can call the shots?’ he says, his knuckles white against the ste
ering wheel. ‘You think you can overpower me? This is my truck, Mr Sureshot. Mr Alexander David Johnston. This is my story, y’hear?’

  My nails dig further into my palms. ‘What? How do you know me?’ My throat is so tight I can hardly swallow.

  The driver shakes his head and I have to strain to hear him. ‘This day’s been a long time coming.’

  I shoot forward as his foot hits the brake and my palms slap against the dashboard. Branches buckle and snap in our path and the truck tips and tilts, drumming up orange dust in its wake, like a magician’s final flourish.

  We come to a halt and the engine hisses, clicks and sighs.

  Outside, the magpies sing their madcap tune and it seems to underpin the silence in the cab.

  I don’t dare glance in his direction, but I can feel his eyes on me. Is he checking me out again?

  ‘What the fuck is this about?’ I say. My voice trembles so much, the words only dribble out. I’m almost pissing my pants by the time he speaks.

  ‘I think you know what it’s about,’ he says.

  He undoes his seatbelt and every fibre of my being contracts.

  Then he draws his face so close to mine I can taste his sour breath.

  I press myself into the seat, willing it to swallow me whole. ‘I don’t,’ I say. ‘I haven’t got a fucking clue.’

  His pale eyes rest on me; weighing me up, examining me. I hold my breath and stare back at him.

  I see him for the first time. I mean, really see him.

  And I finally get it.

  It’s like a slow, drawn-out punch in the guts. Those eyes of his: their shape, their colour, even their sadness. I’ve never seen them before, yet I know them.

  I can’t speak.

  He seems to decode my expression and his reedy lips curl into a smile. ‘That’s right, Alec,’ he says, with a slow nod. ‘You know what this is about, don’t you? It’s all about Sindy.’

  Chapter 8

  Friday night was meant to have been a quiet night: just me and Stobes enjoying a bevvie down the local. I didn’t socialise much with the bunch at the flat, but Stobes was all right. He was from London originally, but he seemed to know the entire population of Swansea. Normally that was a bonus for me, but not that night: he bumped into an old girlfriend called Carys and I quickly found myself surplus to requirements.