I throw open the passenger door and pull the cardboard box out and into the shade by the side of the car. Her eyes are closed, but she’s panting hard. Too hard. I find a bottle of un-drugged water and pour some into her cardboard coffee cup, but she doesn’t drink. I tempt her with the cat biscuits I bought on one of the fuel stops, but she doesn’t react to those either. You watch, shaking your head, eyebrows raised.
‘She was hurt,’ I say.
‘You hit it, you mean.’
So, you do remember. You weren’t that out of it after all. You turn back towards the den.
‘Do you think she’ll be okay?’ I ask, then feel stupid for giving you any sort of power in knowing an answer.
You shrug. ‘Fucking stupid to bring that here.’
‘I couldn’t leave her.’
‘Bitch is better off dead. Reckon we all are.’
You stay slumped in the shade of the car, and I leave the fox with you. She isn’t going anywhere either, and I don’t think you’ll hurt her.
‘I’m going to have a look,’ I say. ‘Sure you don’t want to come?’
Your head lolls back, eyes closed against the sun, your suit shirt open. I toss you one of your baggies of weed in case you think about leaving, and walk across the sand. This isn’t how I imagined our return to the den.
The wooden slats on the veranda feel rickety under my feet, as if I could fall right through. I tremble as I think about the dark space I’d land in—the snakes, spiders and God knows what else. The front door opens easily, but the contrast with the glare from outside means I can’t see for a moment as I step in. The heat inside is heavier, older somehow. Dust hangs in the shafts of light as if waiting, expectant.
In the kitchen, the cupboards are open, messy, empty of food, though I find a few bowls and plates, some cutlery. There are shards of wood where the kitchen table used to be. Beyond, in the living room, the couch is still there, but it’s been ripped open, the guts spilling out. The floor is littered with leaves, sand piled in the corners of the room. Part of the roof is hanging down, corrugated-iron roof panels leaning against the far wall. In one corner of the living room, blackened floorboards suggest someone has tried to make a fire. Either that or the sun has burnt them. It is so much hotter here than I remember; sweat is running down the insides of my thighs. I can’t hear anything scuttling, rustling, but it’s daytime: sleep-time in the desert. My chest is tight as I breathe the dry air, watching, waiting. What is left in a place where something bad has happened? Do particles of it remain?
I enter the room you called my bedroom, where you tied me to the bedposts. I should do the same to you, see how you like it. There’s still a mattress on the bed, still sheets; the room isn’t as ruined as the rest, despite the cobwebs on the pillows, and the sand across the floor. Fear of finding a nest, or worse, stops me from opening the chest of drawers to see if my clothes are still there.
Whoever found this house couldn’t have known it was yours, could they? But then I remember the words scrawled on the front.
Devil house.
What would they do if they found you here now? Found me? The bathroom is like the living room, half-falling in, sand everywhere. We can’t sleep in this house. Not yet, anyway.
There’s only one room left for me to inspect.
The camp bed is still there, in your room. Like the other bed, it looks to be in decent condition. I grab one metal end and drag it across the floor. Nothing scuttles out from underneath it. I manage to fold it up and brush off a few cobwebs, checking first for spiders.
I’m about to back out with it when I spot a brown shadow in the far corner. Perhaps it’s just my dry, tired eyes, or a trick of the light through the torn curtains, but it also feels like something is watching. I stay there, checking to see whether it moves. The extreme heat is making me uneasy. Too anxious. I try to close the door when I leave, but the wood is warped and I can’t shut it properly. I manoeuvre the half-folded camp bed back through the corridor, avoiding looking into any more corners.
I push the ripped flyscreen and step onto the veranda, gasping, the air cool compared to the stifling den. You are still slumped against the car, the sun directly above now. Your face stays impassive as I haul out the camp bed. When I get up close, I see your eyes are half-closed. You’ve got into the weed.
‘You don’t have to smoke all of it,’ I say, dumping the bed beside you. ‘Anyway, aren’t you getting burnt?’
I squint at the sun, shielding my eyes. I’ve only been out of the house a minute and I feel as if I’m turning red raw. Flies buzz around my ears and settle on my sweaty neck. You don’t bother shooing them off your face.
‘I said, aren’t you—’
‘I heard.’
You slide down the car and sprawl in the dirt, shuffling backwards, until your head is underneath the car.
‘Happy now?’ you call back.
‘Don’t get bitten.’
I’m still thinking of the spiders in your den, the possibility of a creature in your bedroom. I glance back. The house now looks the way people probably imagined it during the court case—a house out of a horror film. I guess nobody, apart from you, will ever know it the way I did. Already the old images are getting replaced, ruined, by what’s here now.
‘Think we can fix it up?’ I say.