Blood Junction Read online

  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 Ts, 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.

  “Your friend’ll be back soon,” Frank Goodman reassured India. “Her car’s here, so she can’t have gone far.”

  While Frank fetched some beers, India slipped onto the verandah, leaned her hands on the railings. The air was full of the sound of insects. It was a moonless night but the sky was scattered with brilliant stars right to the horizon.

  “Here you go,” he said. “Sorry Mum and Dad aren’t here with the red carpet treatment, but they’ve gone to Milparinka. Some barbie going on they didn’t want to miss. They’ll be back tomorrow, about lunchtime or so.”

  India gave a nod, and tipped the cold lager down her throat. Wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, exhaled audibly. “That’s better,” she said.

  Frank smiled. One front tooth was slightly crossed over the other and with his freckled face he appeared ten years younger than he probably was. He opened his mouth to say something, what she never knew, because it was then they heard a gunshot.

  “Bloody hell! That sounded close,” she said.

  “Yeah. Too close.” Frank was frowning. “Bet it’s Billy’s lot. They’re out most nights. For a bit of sport.”

  “’Roo lamping?”

  Frank nodded. They listened some more, but all was silent aside from the hum and chirrup of insects.

  “Look, I know you just got here, but would it be okay if I slipped into town? We’ve a bit of a celebration on. My best mate’s gonna tie the knot.”

  “Sure,” she said. “Just show me where the shower is and I’ll be fine.”

  India slept badly that night, tr
ying to ignore her travel clock by the bed. Each time she looked across, its vivid green digits read only fifteen minutes had passed since she’d last checked. Where the hell was Lauren? It was ten past three, for God’s sake! Lauren couldn’t have gone to town to report her missing because her car was still outside. Perhaps she had met a bloke, had an extramarital tryst.… No. No way. She and Scotto were the happiest couple India knew. There would be a simple explanation. She’d just have to wait.

  India lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Not that she could see the ceiling since it was so dark. Country dark. Bush dark. No lights from neighbors. No streetlights. Just the faintest hint of light from a crack in the curtains.

  Eventually she rolled over and firmly shut her eyes. She could hear the occasional creak from the wooden house as it shifted in the cooler air, and smell the dry-hay scent of the bush at night filtering through her window.

  You just missed me. By a whisker if I may say so.

  Hi, Lauren.

  How come you were so damned late? The Australian didn’t pay you enough? Jesus, Indi, why didn’t you use Hertz instead of Rent-A-Ruffy? Then at least we’d have caught up this arvo …

  India’s body suddenly jerked and she snapped her eyes open, unsure whether she had been dreaming or not. Warm yellow light seeped into her room, and she could hear a horse’s distant whinny. She pushed back the bedclothes and padded into the hall. Checked Lauren’s room. Bed made, unslept in.

  Worried now, India dressed and headed for the kitchen, where Frank Goodman was blinking sleep from his eyes and making sandwiches and tea.

  “Kip okay?” he asked on a yawn.

  “Fine, thanks,” she lied.

  He asked if she’d like some breakfast. She looked at the four doorsteps of sandwiches on the breadboard. “That’s breakfast?”

  He laughed. “Nah. That’s my lunch. I’m off to Flinders Ranges with my mates in a mo’. Bushwalking. I can rustle up eggs and bacon if you’d like.”

  “Just coffee would be fine.”

  He shoved the sandwiches into a cooler and picked up the thermos. “Mum and Dad’ll be back at lunchtime,” he reminded her. “Don’t worry about your friend. If Debs was right and she was meeting someone, they probably gave her a lift into town and she stayed over.”

  India nodded, unconvinced. She followed him outside, watched him pack his car with backpacks, camping equipment, water, freeze-dried packs of food, rolls of mosquito netting. He paused in his bustle, looked across at her. “I’m going through BJ a bit later. After I pick up my mate Craig. D’ya want a lift? See what’s happening with your car? Reg is usually in his workshop around ten, and if we’re early you can always get a coffee at Albert’s.”

  She thought about waiting at the homestead for Lauren, the bush silence all around. No distractions from her worried thoughts. “That would be great,” she said.

  Albert’s cafe, where India found herself at ten past eleven that morning, was halfway along the main street of Cooinda. Frank had been wrong about Reg Douglas. He hadn’t been open at ten at all. He’d been nursing a ferocious hangover and had been very apologetic that he hadn’t collected her car yet, but he would, love, he swore, pick it up early arvo and have it fixed in a shake so she could get on back to Benbullen and her horse-trek, honest.

  Albert was pinning up tinsel behind the counter while she sipped her coffee. He was brown and fat and had a thick black moustache. The tinsel was red and gold and still had last year’s Sellotape clinging to it.

  India was sitting on her stool at the counter, trying not to worry about Lauren, when the door burst open and two men strode inside. She glanced around, recognized the ’roo lampers. Red-cap and Dungarees. They could have been twins. Two walking beer bellies with tattoos.

  “Have much luck?” she asked them. To pass the day. To be polite. Above all, to distract herself.

  Both stopped talking and stared at her.

  “What the …” Red-cap said, and took a step backwards. The color was draining from his face as he took her in, and Dungarees’ eyes were big as soup plates. Their mouths hung open as though in shock.

  “Kangaroos,” she added warily. “You were after ’roos, right?”

  She heard Dungarees hiss, “Shit.” Then they turned and were racing each other to be first through the door.

  “What the hell was that all about?”

  “You scared them,” said Albert.

  “Sure I did,” she said.

  “No, honest.” He peered at her earnestly. A strand of gold tinsel clung determinedly to the dark stubble beneath his left cheekbone. “You’re too good-looking for them. Intimidates them, right? A woman smarter than them.” He gave her a quick smile. “You remind me of my missus. Tough as old boots but soft as a peach inside. And just as pretty.”

  India laughed, went back to her coffee, gazed outside. A Ken-worth road-train rumbled past, stirring up clouds of red-brown dust.

  “Please, Albert.” The voice behind her was a whine, with the faintest of wobbles, as though the speaker might burst into tears.

  India glanced around. An incredibly skinny, filthy Aboriginal girl stood at the end of the counter, holding a dirt-encrusted foot behind her with one hand. Her face was pleading.

  Albert didn’t even look at her. “No.”

  “But, please.”

  “If I gave you a feed every time you asked, I’d be broke. Bugger off, Polly.”

  The girl’s lips trembled visibly, India recognizing her struggle not to cry. “Sorry.” It came out as a pathetic whimper.

  India sighed. “Make it my shout,” she said, and pushed a ten-dollar note onto the counter. Albert gave her a startled look. “You sure?”

  India nodded and turned to the girl. “What would you like?”

  The girl’s eyes were huge, dwarfing her narrow face. “Eggs?” she said doubtfully.

  “How many?”

  Her face lit up. “Two,” she said. “With fried bread and sausage and bacon and beans.” Then she smiled, a broad smile that showed two rows of small white teeth, a gap where the top left molar should have been. Unwillingly, India found herself smiling back.

  “You sound funny,” Polly said, then she looked anxious. “Nice funny though.”

  “I’m from London,” India told her, wondering if she knew where it was. Polly nodded sagely.

  Albert dropped the tinsel. “Gotta go get your eggs, Poll. Believe it or not I haven’t had time to scratch myself. They’re still out back under the chooks.”

  While he went to fetch Polly’s eggs, India swung her legs around on her stool to face the window. Expecting to see trucks, perhaps a couple of shoppers loading their utes with groceries, for a second she couldn’t believe her eyes. Dungarees and Red-cap were standing at the window. Crowding alongside them was a mob of spectators, staring at her. She could see the hostility burning in their eyes.

  To her disbelief, she heard Red-cap yell, “She’s still here!” Within seconds the mob was in the room.

  India slid off her stool, took two paces back. Her heart was hammering like a road drill. “Look, I don’t know what this is about, but I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Well, bitch, you’ve got it, whether you like it or not.” Red-cap stood slightly ahead of the mob, obviously the leader. Pale brown eyes the color of stale mustard ran from her feet to her head, then back down to settle on her breasts. He smiled without showing his teeth. “We’re going to carve you up and love every minute.”

  Dungarees came forward and gripped Red-cap’s arm. “Ken, we said we’d wait for Stan.”

  Red-cap shrugged him off. “Yeah, well, Stan’s not going to cry over a bit of spilt milk, is he?” He bunched his fists at his sides.

  Albert appeared, carrying an egg in each hand. “Holy moly,” he said, and stopped in his tracks. “What’re you lot doing here?”

  “We came to take this bitch away.”

  “What for?”

  “She killed Tiger.”

  India’s kn
ees suddenly felt very unsteady and she put a hand out and gripped the counter.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” asked Albert.

  “We saw her last night. She was with him.” Red-cap’s tone turned vicious. “Murdering bitch!”

  “Tiger?” India repeated faintly. “Tiger’s dead?”

  Red-cap didn’t appear to have heard her. He spat on the floor and said, “You killed him. You killed our mate.”

  The mob started to rumble, like a gathering storm, and India could feel its menace.

  “Where’s Stan then?” Albert said. He looked at each of the men in turn. “He wouldn’t like you taking the law into your own hands.”

  Red-cap sneered at the cafe owner. “Get back to your stove, fat Albert, this ain’t none of your business.”

  “The hell it isn’t,” Albert said, his face flushed. “This is my place, and I’ll have no lynching in here.” Without moving his gaze from Red-cap’s he opened his hands and let the eggs drop to splatter softly on the floor. Slowly, he tracked for the counter and picked up a stool. Holding it high over his head, he took three paces towards the mob. “Someone go and get Stan then. Before one of you gets hurt.”

  Red-cap retreated, as did the mob behind him. “You can’t be serious, Albert. I mean, we know you’re effing Greek and all, bloody soft in the head for Abos and such … But you’re protecting a murderer. It’ll land you in jail.”

  India slithered past Polly, who was staring openmouthed at the mob, and took up position behind Albert. Her mouth was dry, and she felt ice cold although she was sweating. “Back door’s open,” hissed Albert.

  India turned and fled.

  THREE

  INDIA TORE THROUGH A STOREROOM FILLED WITH CARtons and crates, stacks of loo rolls, bleach and cooking oil, then down a corridor for the fly screen at the far end. She opened the screen and slammed it shut, hard as she could in front of her. Then she crept back up the corridor and through the storeroom. She stood by the door behind the counter and listened. Silence. Opening the door a crack, she saw Albert leaning weakly against the counter. Polly was holding his hand, looking anxious.