Blood Junction Read online

  “No skivvies,” was all Whitelaw said, and Mikey thought: He really likes her.

  “C’mon, how are my boys to find her without her undies?” Jimmy protested. “Everyone knows they give the best scent.”

  Another man, scrawny as a chicken, stepped forward. “Say, I heard mention of a five thousand reward. This right?”

  “Five grand from the Crime Stoppers Division,” Stan confirmed. “You collar her yourself, Ray, and you’ll get your money. No one gets a fee for tracking, but there’ll be hot coffee and sandwiches in the backup vehicles following.”

  “Is she dangerous?” Ray asked nervously.

  Stan looked into the sky as if debating. Silence fell as they waited for his verdict. Even the dogs had quietened down. Finally Stan said, “Any cornered human being can be dangerous, so keep your eye out.”

  “She’s not armed,” added Whitelaw sharply, his voice carrying easily above the crowd. “Not even a kitchen knife. And she’s only light, maybe one-twenty, one-thirty. So take it easy.”

  Growls and nods from the men and gradually they moved to the back of the house and headed for the low hills in the distance, Stan in front with Jimmy, the dogs straining at their leashes, the twenty-odd thrill-seekers spreading out in a fan. The fed, Mikey noticed, was in the center, positioned for maximum effect. He was looking at the sky as though thinking of nothing but what a nice night it was for a walk.

  India stood, barefooted and sweating, on a square of smooth flat rock, trying to catch her breath. Her hands gripped her waist as she panted, and she stared in dismay at the sprinkle of lights bobbing before her. It hadn’t taken them long to organize a posse; sixty minutes or so, quite impressive for such a hick town.

  She had run all the way from Whitelaw’s to the midst of these hills, following the trail she had walked the previous day in the hope she might be able to double back. Now that it was dark, she was stumbling and awkward and certain she had lost the right track. Her feet and ankles were sore and bleeding, and she wondered if she shouldn’t give herself up.

  Not yet, she thought. When I’m tattered and torn and dead on my feet, maybe, but not before then.

  She rubbed her feet briefly, removed a thorn from her left heel, then turned away and set off at a brisk walk, not following a set course but heading away from the lights. After an hour, she reached the crest of some hills. Tussocks of spinifex hid jagged rocks, and she continually scraped her ankles as she clambered to the top. Cooinda squatted way behind her, shaped like a skittle. The moon was high in the sky and there were no clouds. The lights of the posse blinked and flashed below, but between them and her it was dark, just a smudge of black and gray that was the bush at night.

  She kept moving. Dropping to the other side of the hills, she found a watercourse, powder dry, snaking through the thick scrub, and followed that at a smart jog for a while, but when the scrub ceased she was forced into the open. She made for a buttress of rock that was a deeper shadow on a dark landscape. On reaching it, she sank to her knees behind a tree. Her breath was rasping and she was conscious of her thirst. Where would she find water? Not out here. She’d have to sweep back now, making a big loop, and try to sneak back to Cooinda, hitch a ride away from the area.

  Somewhere close by, a twig snapped.

  Her heart jumped.

  Crouching even lower, she fought to control her breathing, and a minute later heard a soft call.

  “G’day.”

  She stayed quite still.

  “You got no worries from me,” the voice said, very close now.

  India shut her eyes, as if she could will the man away by not seeing him.

  “You in trouble, eh? It’s a good place to get away from trouble. Middle of bloody nowhere.”

  Heart pounding, she opened her eyes to see a pair of dark eyes staring straight back, glistening in the half-light. The Aborigine was very old, and reed thin. He squatted with the ease of having squatted all his life, and surveyed her steadily. “No worries,” he said, nodding, as if this would put her at her ease. He held a long, straight stick in his right hand and the hind legs of a freshly killed rabbit in the other.

  A breeze picked up, flowing from the hills she’d just crossed. A voice, faint as a whisper, called out and India stood up, grunting with pain. Her feet were blazing and throbbing, but she started moving again, heading unsteadily away from the trees.

  “You’re going the wrong way,” said the old man, and she stopped. She saw the outline of him against the sky; he had moved through the scrub and up the buttress without a sound. “C’mon. Follow me.” And he beckoned with his stick.

  She hesitated.

  He jumped down, nimble as an eighteen-year-old. “Look, if you just go off like a frightened rabbit those blokes will get you. I know this place. I can find you somewhere to hide ’til they’re gone.”

  He was close to her now, and she could smell a musty smell, like dried mushrooms, rising from his skin. “Your clothes’ll have to come off. They’re like wearing a bloody torch.”

  She shook her head.

  “We could use them to divert the scent. Jimmy’s dogs aren’t great, but they can still sniff a sweaty shirt a mile off. Besides …” he gave a light chuckle “… travelling naked feels good. You should try it.”

  India paused, then muttered, “What the hell?” and hastily stripped.

  “Everything,” he insisted, and she looked into his eyes. They were enormous, but even in the darkness she could see they were smiling. “I’m an old feller. I couldn’t even if I wanted.”

  He rolled up her clothes and put them under his arm. “I’ll drop these off later …” He didn’t finish, for a string of lights bobbed into view at the top of the ridge. The old man immediately turned and broke into a jog. India followed. They ran like that for several minutes, passing the buttress and heading for a region of steep undulations, covered by sand and mulga bushes. It felt peculiar running naked, her breasts and bottom bounced more than she’d thought they would, but the sensation of soft night air on her bare skin was a strange relief against the pain of her feet.

  When they reached a rise, the old man stopped and turned to study the pursuers. Two vehicles had skirted the main ridge and were bounding towards them; they could hear the engines roaring. “Can’t outrun ’em,” he murmured, and loped away through the dark, effortlessly avoiding bushes and clusters of ankle-tearing rock with the ease of a dingo. Occasionally they stopped, to check on the pursuit, or to feel their way up a narrow gully. They were climbing, following a wild animal track up the side of a steep hill, when the old man paused and dived behind a dense clump of bush.

  She kept moving, then stopped, peering around, but the old man had gone. A bubble of panic popped in her chest. “Where are you?” she hissed. A grunt sent her moving to the bushes where a hand was beckoning furiously. She forced some scrub aside to find he was squatting in a shallow cave, barely five foot high but quite deep. An aroma of woodsmoke and cooked meat drifted over her. India slipped inside on her haunches then sat up, brushing grit from her skin.

  It was pitch dark, and the only thing she could see was the faint glimmer of the old man’s eyes when they looked her way. She put her hand out to find the perimeter of the cave but it brushed something rough and prickly and she gave a muffled yelp.

  “Put it on, why don’t you? You’ll be cold later.”

  India pulled the heavy woollen blanket towards her, draped it over her shoulders. Like the old man, it smelled of wild mushrooms; porcini and shiitake with a hint of dried sweat. He was busy with something, she couldn’t tell what, but she could hear soft brushing and cracking noises, and smell ash and the scent of bloody meat.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’ll bugger Jimmy’s dogs up real good. They’ll find your clothes scattered over a mile square, but no trace of you, just me.” He chuckled, a dry, hollow sound that she found comforting. “You stay here. I’ll be back come dawn.”

  “What if they come
to this cave?”

  A thick silence settled all around.

  “Hello?” she said, her voice small.

  There was no reply. The old man had vanished without a sound.

  India peered out of the cave, parted the brush. The moon was high in the sky and only a few stars could be seen in the bright light. She could see a creek far below, sand shining like silver, and the glossy white trunks of ghost gum trees.

  No sign of her pursuers, or the old man.

  She lay there, watching and listening for another few minutes. The breeze had died, and she started to shiver. The old man had been right. It was still quite warm, but now that her sweat had cooled she felt cold. India wrapped the rough blanket closer and slithered back into the cave. Curled up like an animal on the sandy bed, she rested her head on her arm, and gazed into the darkness. She thought she could see the old man in the corner, his arms above his head, but it wasn’t him, it was Lauren, rubbing her hands over her short-cropped hair, smiling.

  So how do you like our good Australian bush?

  I’d rather I wasn’t here.

  Sure you wouldn’t, but you’ll be glad later, I swear.

  Lauren, I’ve never been so scared before.

  Rubbish, ’course you have. This ain’t no different, just a little more taxing on the physical side of things. Good thing you haven’t run to fat or you’d be in big trouble.

  I am in big trouble.

  You’ll come good as you always do, don’t fuss so.

  I’m cold, Lauren.

  Tuck up tight in that blanket, hon. Think about that summer of eighty-two, the one we spent at Byron Bay. What a scorcher that was.

  Lauren was laughing, her head flung back, joyous and carefree, and in her dream, India was sure she could feel the heat of that summer of eighty-two emanating from her smile.

  When she awoke, dawn was close. The sky was flushed with lavender and the black shadows had melted into a deep blue. Nothing moved outside the cave, not even a bird. All was hushed as if in expectation of something magnificent.

  India gazed from her aerie, wondering if this was how it felt to be an eagle. The air was clear, the sun a peeping yellow curve on the horizon, and if her feet hadn’t been so sore, she would have revelled in the view. Her fingers traced the jagged lacerations around her ankles and down to the inner edges of her soles. She ached all over, from running half the night and having slept on sand and rocks. She was hungry and thirsty. She wriggled backwards into the cave and looked around her.

  Light trickled through a shaft in the rock above the cold fire. Pale figures danced on the cave’s walls, some throwing boomerangs after kangaroos, others catching fish. Several gourds were ranked neatly side-by-side in one corner, and India found fresh water in one, fresh rabbit meat—or was it kangaroo?—in the next, and dried leaves that smelled like thyme in the third. She took three small sips of water, wanting to drink the whole bowl, but wary of depriving the old man when he returned.

  “G’day.” The voice was soft.

  The old man squatted by the entrance of the cave as if he’d never left, a long wooden stick by his broad dirty feet, a satchel at his side.

  Did my thinking of him bring him here? she wondered, rather enchanted by the idea.

  “No,” the old man said. “I told you I’d be back at dawn.”

  She forgot all about her thirst, her throbbing feet, and stared at him. “Did I speak without realizing it, or did you just read my mind?”

  “You white fellers,” he said with a sigh, “too uptight for your own good.” He gestured at the gourd, and told her to drink her fill.

  “Are you sure?” she checked.

  “I came by Easter Spring on my way here. Go for it.”

  India tipped the gourd back and drank until her thirst vanished. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she sat on her haunches and watched him open the satchel. He carefully withdrew something she couldn’t make out. “Betcha hungry, hey?”

  India’s stomach rumbled loudly in response. “No. Not particularly,” she lied. She had no intention of eating raw rabbit meat or witchetty grubs—large white maggots extracted from trees—or any other traditional Aboriginal food he might offer.

  He looked disappointed. “I went a long ways for this,” he said.

  I don’t care how far you went, she thought. I am not eating anything you offer me, and that’s that.

  “Not even cross-ant?”

  “Cross-ant?”

  The old man shuffled forward, hand outstretched.

  To her amazement, in his blackened, grimy palm, sat a large half-moon pastry: a croissant.

  India thought of the dry landscape surrounding them, nothing but folded ribbons of brown and yellow stretching for miles and the odd white splash of a salt lake.

  “Where on earth did you get this?” she asked disbelievingly.

  “Eight ’til late,” he said, his tone slightly waspish as if to say: Where else?

  “Eight ’til late?” she repeated dumbly.

  He rolled his eyes. “The BP shop. Open from eight ’til ten ’til they decided to stay open twenty-four hours.”

  “You’ve been to Cooinda?”

  “Nowhere else around, but.” Pushing the croissant towards her, he said with some anxiety, “Go on. I knew you wouldn’t want bush tucker for brekka, no white fellers do.”

  Dutifully India ate, watched by the old man like a hawk would its young. “Delicious,” she said, and licked her dirty fingers, one by one.

  He leaned over and pinched her cheek, quite hard. “You’re too skinny,” he said disapprovingly. “But I’ve more grub if you want.”

  Expecting another croissant, she said, “Yes, please.”

  With a flourish, the old man whipped out two squares of yellow sponge topped with chocolate icing.

  “Oh,” India said, momentarily disconcerted. “Oh, Lamingtons, my favorite!” She took one and bit into it with a relish she could never have believed she’d muster.

  The old man nodded approvingly as she ate. “Can’t fight those buggers on an empty stomach,” he said.

  India felt like hugging him. Not only had he rescued her but he’d traipsed for miles to get her food he thought she might like, that she did like.

  “I heard in town that your name is Indi,” he said.

  “India,” she replied. “What’s yours?”

  “I am Milangga.”

  “Milangga, you’re a good man,” she said through a mouthful of sticky Lamington.

  “And you’re a good-lookin’ woman,” he replied, his huge black eyes on hers. “Why ain’t there a bloke to help you out in this?”

  At once she was aware of her nakedness. It was the words “good-looking” that had triggered it, and she was dropping the cake, scrabbling for the blanket, pulling it across her breasts and her groin.

  Milangga shook his head in sorrow. “Why d’you hide? You liked your skin last night, why not now?”

  India had wriggled into a defensive ball. Then, remembering her naked flight, she paused. He was right, she realized. While under pursuit, her lack of clothing had barely touched her consciousness. As she recalled the sensation of soft night air against her bare skin she smiled. She dropped the blanket, shrugged, and continued to eat. Milangga merely gave her a nod, casual, uncaring, and stirred the dead embers of the fire with the end of his long stick. “You should stay here a few days,” he said. “After that, things’ll settle down and you’ll be able to move around.”

  India merely looked at him and thought: I’m in your hands, old man. You’re my guide out here and I’m in your hands.

  The look he returned was filled with pleasure. “You like witchetties?”

  “No,” she said, in her most definite tone.

  “They’re real good.” He looked at the remaining Lamington with puzzlement. “Much nicer than that stuff. You might like ’em.”

  India didn’t, as it happened, like witchetties. The flavor was okay, a bit like pureed chicken and sweet
corn, but it was the thought of eating a giant maggot—crunching through its outer coat into the soft juices below—that made her throat jam and her stomach rebel.

  “Sorry,” she said as Milangga carefully extracted yet another from the torn root of an acacia bush. “I’ll stick to croissant, thanks.”

  He laughed at her, his teeth yellow and long as a horse’s as they bit through the witchetty’s skin. “Very good,” he said, slurping noisily. “Protein, very good.”

  India ingested her protein through rabbit and kangaroo, both of which the old man seemed to catch without trouble. He told her he used a boomerang to hunt them, but on the second day she confronted him as a liar.

  “I found a trap,” she said indignantly.

  “Anything in it?”

  She looked away. “A rabbit.”

  Unabashed, he grinned at her. “I’m too bloody old to go chasing after them animals with nothing but a bloody boomerang. Didn’tcha think of that?”

  That evening she asked him how old he was. His skin was like oiled leather in the firelight, his gray hair a woolly skullcap. To her he looked as ageless as the countryside around them. He shrugged. “My mother told me I was born on your fool’s day, but I don’t know what year. I could be sixty. Maybe seventy. What does it matter?”

  She looked down at her own body, smooth and supple, and then at his creased skin. Out here all that mattered was your fitness, and your ability to hunt and gather food.

  “It doesn’t,” she said.

  SIXTEEN

  MIKEY SAT ON THE HARD EARTH AND WAITED. THE MOON was behind a bank of clouds and the air was still. The Rosses’ house had an abandoned look that gave him confidence, but still he waited, just in case. He wondered where India was, and whether she was awake too. He wondered at her courage. Her skill in avoiding Stan’s manhunt. Anyone else would have stayed put rather than face the unknown dangers of the outback. But not India.

  He checked his watch, and pressed through the greenery. A soft thudding told him he had startled a couple of kangaroos. They were obviously hanging around in the hope that the Rosses would return. He walked to the back door and broke the police tape, brought out a small leather pouch of tools he’d requisitioned from a burglar he’d caught five years ago and picked the lock easily. He slipped inside, took a penlight from his windbreaker and shone it around. The place was a mess. Cupboards and drawers were open, their contents strewn on the floor. He moved quickly from room to room. It had already been thoroughly searched, but what the hell. They might have missed something.