I’m scared and thrilled by how much I want to keep hurting you. I could hit you until you finally apologise. I could damage you, ruin what ruined me.
‘You took those pills,’ I say. ‘Didn’t you?’
Your head lolls, somewhere between a nod and a shake, then you smile again. You probably know about the adulterated water, too. You lean onto your elbow, grin up at me, before turning your face to the dirt and vomiting again, convulsing into racking coughs, your shoulders shaking. But I don’t feel sorry for you. You don’t care about me. There really is nothing left of the Ty you made me believe in: the wild boy who saved me from the city and showed me the land. Even so, I can’t forget those promises you made all those years ago about us being together again. Your naked body in the pool. The art you made. The way you looked at me as if I was a new, special creature, yours. I have to bite hard into the inside of my cheekto stop the memories overwhelming me.
‘Would you rather I left you here?’ I say, as I help you lean against the side of the hot car.
Maybe it’s what you want. But if I leave you here in the dust, you will have won again. And killing you now would be like killing a half-dead dog; it would be more like mercy.
‘We’re going to the den,’ I say.
Half your face is smiling as you shake your head.The fuck we are,your eyes say.
I kick your legs. ‘You’ll help me find it.’
The smile creeps to the other half of your face as you peer at me, your head tilted back.
‘Believe it,’ I growl.
I reach into the car and throw the opportunity-shop suit pants and new shirt at you. ‘You may as well put these on now.’
The fox’s eyes are open but glazed. It’s too hot for healing. I give her more water in the same coffee cup, then run my fingers down her leg. It doesn’t seem broken, just a little swollen around the ankle joint. She stinks, like you do. I shouldn’t have taken her, but if I’d left her on the side of the road, she would have died for certain, picked off by another animal or human. And I was the one who hurt her, after all; she’s my responsibility.
I make her a bed inside the cardboard box that contained the ceramic bowl and leave her to it. I’ll find more food for us all in the next town. I’ll start making things better.
I give you back one of your bags of weed and watch you fossick in your backpack for rolling papers to make a joint. If you’ve got drugs, you’ll keep doing what I say. You smoke out the window.
If you’re scared of me, you’re not saying it.
If you feel regret, you’re not saying it either.
If you’re going to apologise…
As I drive, I gaze out at the flat, brown land, the trees spindly and brittle—as if they’d snap from the slightest breath.
‘Why didn’t you ever tell anyone about the den?’ I say. All these years you said nothing?’
I watch you in the mirror, running your tongue over your teeth, taking another toke.
‘’Cos it’s mine,’ you say. ‘Why should I?’ When you look back, your eyes are hard. ‘Only thing that ever fucking was.’
I press my foot down more firmly on the accelerator. Here’s a bit of the old Ty, though not the nice Ty. The sudden fear inside me is a bit of the old Gemma too. I’ve forgotten key parts of how you were; I’ve landscaped you into a view I like better. You stare at me, unblinking in the rear-view mirror.
‘Everyone left me. Everything. Then you fucked off and all,’ you say. ‘Back to London.’
Meekatharra is orange: the dust, the heat, the men in mining vests, the sun on the melting tarmac. Burning hot light has oozed into everything: the town is slow and shimmering.
I don’t remember any of the places from the first time we made this trip, and Meekatharra is no exception, but I suspect little has changed in these dust-bowl towns. This one has a church, several general stores and three pubs, one with an adjoining motel. A metropolis. There is even a small park with yellow grass, a slide and swing set, and a statue of a soldier.
In the pub we choose, a couple of miners are playing pool. Orange fish and orange chips are the daily special. I ask theserver—the first woman I’ve seen all day—to wrap them and we eat in the car like wolves, teeth bared, sunglasses down. In the rear-view mirror, I watch you lick the grease from your fingers, lips smacking, until it looks like the sun has oozed out over your shiny, hot face too.
‘Better food than prison?’ I say.
‘Why should I tell you anything?’
But this time, you can’t keep my gaze. I reckon you must know by now that you owe me everything—everything and anything I ask you for.
When you pass out again, I check my emails. Nothing urgent from work, nothing panicky from Mum. I check the news sites. Nothing. Nobody cares about us. You and I are not such a big thing after all. I email Mum and tell her I’m going on another trip to another island. Then I email Charli to say I have the flu and need time off from work. As I scroll down, I see an email from Rose. I stare at the subject line:Are you okay?