Scrublands(18)

He hits the brakes; the car takes forever to slow. He makes a U-turn, speeds back to the woman. She races across to him as he stops, lowers his window. It’s Fran Landers, the woman from the general store. ‘Help me,’ she gasps. ‘Help them. They’ve crashed. Over there.’

Martin is out of the car, quickly taking in the situation. It’s the ute. It’s failed the bend, coming off the outside. It’s a hundred metres away across the field. Martin runs through the gap it’s ploughed through the roadside fence.

There is something crumpled on the ground up ahead. A person. Not moving. A young man, pants still around his knees, thrown clear when the ute rolled. The angle of his neck tells the story. Dead. Martin hears the gasp of Fran Landers behind him.

‘C’mon,’ he says.

They sprint the remaining distance to the ute. It’s standing right way up on its wheels, facing back towards the highway, but the windscreen is missing and the roof is partially caved in. In the driver’s seat, unconscious, with blood seeping from a gash across his scalp, a young man is slumped forward onto a deflated airbag. His face is white and his lips are blue.

‘Jamie!’ gasps Fran. ‘My God. It’s Jamie. It’s my son.’

Martin reaches through the missing window, feeling for a pulse, finding one.

‘Don’t touch him,’ Fran shrieks. ‘His spine. Don’t move him. For God’s sake, don’t move him! You’ll cripple him.’

Martin ignores her. She screams as he reaches in, places one hand under the boy’s chin, another supporting the back of his head, and gently tilts the head back against the headrest, allows the mouth to fall open. He puts his fingers into the open mouth, wishing the woman would stop screaming, and pulls the tongue forward from where it has lodged. It comes loose, with a wet pop, like a cork from a bottle, followed by an awful rattling gasp as the youth resumes breathing. Martin leans back from the window and stands up. Some muscle in his back is in spasm and he stretches. The woman is silent, no longer frantic, no longer moving. A single tear escapes her right eye, runs down her cheek and drips onto the parched earth. She’s staring at Martin.

‘Your son,’ he says.

She looks away from him then, towards her son. The colour is coming back into his face, the blue lips growing pink again. She regards her boy, reaches in, dabs at his bleeding brow.

‘Will he be okay?’ she asks.

‘I’d say so. He’ll live. But we need to get help. I’ll drive back to Riversend. They can call Bellington. You stay here. Look after your son. If he comes round, and he can move, then he can get out and lie down. Give him water, but nothing to eat. If he’s still unconscious, place a wet towel over his head. Keep him in the shade if you can.’

Martin walks back, checks the other boy to make sure, but the young man remains resolutely dead. There’s a bad smell and the flies are gathering. Back at the highway, Martin checks inside the red car. On the back seat there is a reflective windshield protector, glistening foil decorated with Disney characters. He pulls it out, walks back, and drapes Mickey and Goofy over the body. Even the dead deserve shade. He uses his phone to take a picture of the scene.



The services club is almost, but not quite empty. There’s a barman, not Errol, a different bloke; Martin, sitting at the bar drinking a schooner of light beer; and a couple sitting at a table sharing a carafe of house white while they put away a feed of Asian. Martin notes absent-mindedly that they’re eating with knives and forks. Is there some invisible border, a latter-day Goyder’s Line, beyond which chopsticks are prohibited and knives and forks mandated?

Robbie Haus-Jones walks in, still in uniform. The two men shake hands.

‘How you doing?’ asks the constable.

‘Been better. Any news on the boy?’

‘Yeah, he’ll be fine. In hospital in Bellington for observation. Bruising from the seatbelt, mild concussion and a couple of cracked ribs, but nothing permanent.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Quick thinking by you. Fran Landers told me all about it. How did you know what to do?’

‘Hostile environment training. Did it before I went to the Middle East. It’s one of the few things I remember from the training, people asphyxiating in accidents. Can I get you a drink?’

‘Yeah, thanks, I could do with one. I’ll have a Carlton.’

Martin orders the beer.

‘I’ll need to get a formal statement from you in the next day or two. No hurry. Fran’s statement pretty much covers it all.’

‘No problem. Who was the dead kid?’

‘Allen Newkirk. Local lad.’

‘Newkirk? Not related to Alf and Thom?’

‘Alf’s son. He was at St James with his dad and the others on the day. He was sitting in the car next to Gerry Torlini. Saw it all. Got covered in gore. Fucked him up completely. Never got over it. I’ve been out at the farm, breaking the news to his mum.’

‘Jesus. How did she take it?’

‘How do you reckon? She’s coming apart. Her husband dies at St James and Allen survives, then ends up dead in a mindless car accident. How fucked is that? Still, it would have been worse if you weren’t there.’

‘Then how come I feel so lousy?’

The cop has no answer to that and the two men sit quietly for a few minutes, drinking their beers. It’s the young officer who breaks the silence. ‘I read some of the reports about what happened to you in the Middle East. It sounds awful.’