February 17th
I see the turn-off for Newman well before any evidence of the town. I want to go and see the place properly this time. We could get a coffee and talk about when I arrived here from your den, after I’d been bitten by the snake. You could look at me over your beer glass and explain that decision, your choice to save me, even when it meant sacrificing yourself, getting arrested, abandoning your well-planned fantasy and leaving your dream place. Do you hate Newman now because this is where it all ended for us? I’m sure the town must have grown and changed since, but we don’t stop to find out: the turn-off to the den can’t be much further, and anyway, I don’t want us to be noticed. Even if the locals don’t know The Story of Gemma and Ty, we’ll look different from them. We’ll stand out.
Your eyes are on the glovebox. I see you’ve moved your backpack closer to you. I should’ve looked inside it when I had the chance, checked whether you packed the same sort of equipment to kidnap that schoolgirl as you did when you kidnapped me.
‘You’re coming with me, remember?’ I say.
When you don’t respond, I feel the urge to slam on the brake and jolt you. You should be excited to be here again: Iam doing what you should be doing, bringing us back. But it’s so obvious that you don’t care. You want the first bus out. You want Perth and that woman in Banksia Drive. And who knows, if you get back soon enough, she won’t even notice you were gone.
You want escape from me.
There’s more traffic now, cars and mine trucks, as well as the road trains. Some of the drivers raise a hand in greeting as we pass. Somewhere, not too far on, is the turn-off to the den. I’ve been counting on the fact that you remember; my ten years of Google Earth scanning and researching won’t be enough.
‘Pull over,’ you say.
‘But we’re not at the turn-off yet.’ I pull the car to the side of the road anyway. ‘This isn’t far enough.’
I peer out the window at a sign on a dirt road:BHP Access Track.A wide, graded road. Staring into the distance, I can see it crosses the rail track. If your turn-off was only this far out of Newman, anyone could have found us last time. From here, a person could walk or hitch back along the highway, a person could get back to Newman before dark. You take the hire-car map from the pouch at the back of the passenger seat, open it for me.
‘This is the place,’ you say. ‘Here, look. My den.’
You stab at the map, at a spot near a mine site on the Fortescue River. Then you gesture to the BHP Access Track again. The fire-red road winds on towards a mountain range, towards the Fortescue River. It’s all wrong. But you’re hardly looking; you don’t care whether I believe you, you just want to get your drugs and go. Do you really think I’m stupid enough to trust you?
I take the map. ‘I thought the den was out here,’ I say, pointing near Karlamilyi National Park, over past Telfer Mine.
You flinch. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s your Tell. I’m onto you.
‘No,’ you say, with that same vague hand gesture to the track on our left. ‘It’s that way.’
I oblige you and peer again out the dusty car window. There’s an old, faded coke can, discarded below the sign. Again, you grab the map and point at a squiggle that could be a creek, or anything, really. ‘The den’s up there.’
You’re lying. This time I’m certain. There was no creek near our den, our water supply came from an underground spring that bubbled up into a rock pool. The den is definitely further along the highway, where I will need to turn off to the right and head towards Karlamilyi.
‘So, give me my stuff,’ you say, menace in your voice. ‘I’ve shown you where it is.’
‘But I don’t believe you.’ I wait, watching.
You lunge for the glove box, but I intercept and push you back between the seats. You should try to overpower me; it would be the sensible option for you. But you tumble out of the car and stagger down the middle of the highway, stumbling and swaying.Stupid!A road train won’t be able to stop in time to avoid you. I start up the car and come after you, sidling along beside you, but you keep your face forward, squinting into the sun as you limp on.
‘Get in.’ I say.
When I lean over and open the passenger door, you turn to me, furious.
‘FUCK OFF!’
I tilt my head at you. I’m not going anywhere.
‘Fuck off! You’re a fucking bitch!’
I jolt the accelerator in anger. I despise the way you’re looking at me. The car clips your hip, and you collapse onto the tarmac, hitting your head again. Did I do that intentionally?
I jump out and grab the rope from the boot. The fox barks at me when I bump her box.
‘Soon,’ I say. ‘I’ll get you better too.’
I move her box back to the front passenger seat. She’ll be safer there, and I’ll be able to keep a better watch. But I need to get you off the road before there’s any traffic, or you’ll become roadkill too. You’ve rolled onto your back and you’re blinking at the sky, stupid. Bending over you, I truss you up as best I can, winding the rope across your shoulders and under your armpits. Then, from the back seat, I lever myself against the middle console and haul you in, my muscles on fire and sweat running down my arms. After you oblige me by pulling your legs in, I slam the door shut. When you start to moan, I clamber back in and gaffer-tape your mouth, throw the rug on top of you, and drive off before another truck comes.
After a last stop for supplies at a welcome petrol station, I drive to Skull Springs Road, where I take a right. Google Earth has shown me that the Telfer Mine access track comes off here. I’ve spent hours on my laptop tracing this track, zooming in until another smaller track intersects, tracing that one in turn, until it peters out into blank space, untracked land marked by crosshatches. No matter how much I zoomed in, my laptop never revealed anything different. This is where your den must be—deep in this unmapped place.