‘We can’t stay here,’ I say.
You reach up and touch your head, then turn and look at the flat dirt behind and the empty road in front. ‘Ow,’ you say. ‘What did you do to me?’
I drive for hours on the Great Northern Highway, the windows down and the air-con blasting too. Soon everything is soft with pink sunrise. It’s not long before the day turns bolder, half-orange, half-blue, and everything splits, half the world land, half sky. I’d forgotten how big a sky can be, how much land there is beneath, how the world is made of opposites.
When I stop for petrol again in Mount Magnet, you are sitting up in the back seat. I hand you more of your adulterated water, hoping it kicks in before you realise it’s what’s making you sleepy. I feel a twinge of guilt, until I remember that you must have given me more drugs than I’ve given you. But I’m still nervous about you being awake while there are people around. Before I get out, I turn in the seat and glare at you.
‘If you try to make a run for it,’ I say, ‘if you do anything, I’ll say you kidnapped me. That you broke parole. The police will believe me. And there’s a station in this town. I’ve checked.’
I haven’t, but you don’t know that. Your eyes narrow, but you stay silent. Me against you? In this, at least, I’ll be the one believed. You know it too.
You look away. Embarrassed? Ashamed? It’s hard to tell, but that hint of admission feels good. You glug down the water and it’s not long before you’re slumped in the seat. I prop your sunglasses over your eyes.
When I return to the car, you’ve been sick down your shirt. You look disgusting, your head lolling, stringy vomit through the loose hair of your ponytail. How is this possible when you haven’t eaten anything but trail mix for, how long has it been now? I’m running on empty too.
Your eyes are slits and your mouth twitches, as if you’re trying to smile, as if you’re happy about what you’ve done.
‘Bastard!’
As if the car didn’t stink enough already!
You look like you’re going to lurch towards me and out of the car. A spewed-up, messed-up Ty could be a giveaway. I push you back across the seat, away from me and out of the sightlines of the shop.
‘Did you do this on purpose?’
You give me the leery smile again. Who am I kidding? I did this to you. My heart thuds as I realise how completely out of it you are. Am I slowly killing you? When the odour of your vomit hits me again, I slam the door on you. Back in the driver’s seat, I wind the window down and try not to gag, try tolook casual as I drive out of Mount Magnet with my face set, sunglasses down. I even manage to open a muesli bar and chuck it at you.
‘Eat it!’
When the stink makes me too lightheaded, I turn off into a dirt road, slowing down immediately so I don’t skid. There is no one around, nothing but a single bird of prey far above. You’re mumbling, off your rocker. As I pull in behind an abandoned farm building, out of sight from the road, I notice the rest of the packet of sleeping pills is now on the centre console. A whole strip is empty.
I twist in my seat to face you. One of your eyes is open, watching me. You are sly and hopeless; you know exactly what you’re doing.
‘I hate you,’ I say slowly. It feels good to put those words into the space between us. Finally. You don’t react.
I get out, open your door, grab your shoulders and drag you onto the hot, gravelly land. I push you, and you fall on your shoulder with a grunt, then face-plant. As you right yourself, I see gravel stuck to the blood on your head, to the vomit on your face. You dab at it, study your finger, then sit in the dirt, watching me, laughing, slow, deep, malicious laughter—your way of telling me you’re winning.
‘You’re filthy,’ I say.
‘And you’re a cunt.’
You laugh and laugh.
I want to return you to the prison.
But it’s too late to go back.
I’m shaking uncontrollably again as I grab one of the litre-bottles of water I bought in the petrol station, open the lidand tip it over you. You gasp and laugh, and I keep tipping. I grab another bottle and tip that too, until you’re soaking and bleeding and laughing, and vomiting in the dirt. When you still don’t shut up, I hit you, an open-palm slap across your face. It sends you spinning; I half-expect teeth to fly out in an arc.
I stand in shock. I did that? I didn’t even think about it before my hand flew out. You stay face-down for a second, then another, until…you laugh again.
‘Just shut up!’ I yell.
You smile through bloodied teeth. ‘Righto, Gem, righto.’ You mime zipping your lips.
I wipe sweat from my eyes. There is saliva and vomit hanging from your lips, sticking to your mousy-blond beard.
‘You need a razor,’ I say. ‘You need to shave all that off.’