‘Reckon we’ll die first.’
I kick sand at the car, at you.
I set up the camp bed, then secure the rug to the top of the car with rocks and drape it over an acacia to make a slanted roof—a sort of tent, some shade. I drag the camp bed underneath, avoiding your legs sticking out from under the car. If wecan’t live inside the house yet, this will have to do. Inside our new shade, I sit beside the fox, who is breathing heavily. I try to force her to swallow water, but it just trickles into her fur. I shouldn’t waste the water if she’s not going to drink.
‘It’s hotter than last time,’ I say. When you don’t respond, I prod your thigh. ‘It’s hotter!’
‘I know!’ Your voice is muffled. ‘It’s summer.’
Bunuru, I think, remembering the light show in Perth,wildfire season.Out here we could burn to death.Season of coming of age.
‘Is it cooler under there?’
I should crawl in with you, or at least put the fox under there. I make a mental inventory of everything we have in the car: six bottles of water, maybe seven; bread; apples; muesli bars; a box of cereal; antiseptic that should go on your head; one of my spare T-shirts; towels; an almost full box of cat biscuits.
I lift the rug to peer across at the sheds, at the padlocks on the doors. Whoever came here obviously didn’t bother going in there, and I’m surprised. Other folk might’ve wanted to burn this whole place down if they’d known it was yours. I remember the name the tabloids gave you—Desert Devil. But there will be supplies in those sheds. You had everything.Enough gear for the rest of our lives.
‘What are the codes for the locks?’ I say. ‘On the sheds?’
You say something I can’t hear, so I lie on my back and wriggle under the car too. The sand is cooler here, and you’re so much closer. The space feels too intimate. When you turn to me, your face is less than a metre away. My breath falters.
‘You remember those numbers.’ Your eyes swivel to meet mine.
I shake my head. ‘You never told me.’
‘Sure you do.’ You look back at the underside of the car, then stick your tongue out as if you’re trying to touch the tangle of metal above you, trying to taste it, before popping it back in your mouth with a snap. ‘The date I took you. Same for any code out here.’
Your high-pitched burst of laughter makes me jump. Maybe it’s your head wound talking, you’ve turned septic and unhinged.
‘The codes are the date you kidnapped me?’
‘You call it kidnapped now…’ You give another burst of laughter.
I remember: your catchphrase from last time.I’m saving you, Gem. Saving, not kidnapping. Remember that.I called it saving too, for a time, back in London, when I would lie awake at night with memories of resting against your warm, tanned chest, tasting the dusty tang of your skin, feeling the brush of your lips in my hair. We’d said I was being saved from my parents, from meaningless city life, from school that only indoctrinated me. You were taking me back to nature, back to what was real and beautiful. You said all that, and more, and I believed you. It took years for me to believe anything else, that it was all a fantasy. Looking at you and this place now, I wonder: has it finally sunk in?
There’s a glint in your eyes. ‘Why don’t you try the numbers and see?’
You’re daring me. I edge away as far as I can without my legs pressing against a hot tyre. We stare at each other. If I only look at your eyes, you could be the Ty in my head. Once I thought I could thaw your cold, blue eyes, warm you up. But it’swarm enough here now under the steaming bowels of the car, and those eyes are still piercing me.
‘You’re worse than before,’ I say. ‘You know that?’
‘You any better?’
Something is stinging behind my ribs, like a wasp has got inside me. I won’t let you see my tears, so I peer at the undercarriage. I’m no better than you; I’ve done the same terrible things.
‘You’re still a little kid,’ you say.
‘You’re a shit.’
Like my mother always told me you were.
After I slither out from the under the car, I almost run to the outbuildings, glad to get away from you. Of course I know the code: the numbers that started everything.
The padlock on the closest shed clicks opens easily. It’s so much cooler inside that I wonder immediately if I should sleep in here instead of beside the car. I leave the door wide behind me for light, then I step in and see it all again, these rows of supplies, the tins and boxes and bottles, all this organisation and control. There is a bad smell, of things old and forgotten, and of something dead too, and there’s dust over everything, thick as fur. I tread softly down the middle of the aisle of shelves. There are cobwebs over some of the tins, and some boxes and containers are open, some eaten, as if they’ve been ravaged by rats or something worse. Tins of chickpeas, lentils, beans, peaches, all out of date. Not for the first time, I wonder how long you expected to keep me here, whether we’d have ever gone back to a town if there’d been no other way to keep me alive. Could we really have lived out here alone forever? Would we still be here now? Perhaps nobody in the outside world, apart from me, was ever enough for you. The smell gets stronger as Igo further in, clogging my nostrils.
When I see the glass enclosures at the back of the shed, I freeze, remembering. Strange to have forgotten something so terrifying. My body goes still with the effort of listening for rustling, scuttling, the noises that used to be here. But now everything is quiet. I walk slowly, glancing behind for the quickest exit back if I need it. It’s so much darker, even with the door open. Inside the tanks it is even blacker. I squint at them, heart pounding. The first thing I make out is a pale snakeskin. Where is its inhabitant? I take another couple of steps, watching and waiting. But, still, nothing moves inside the glass, no flicking, no skittering. As I bend down to the enclosures, I see the skeletons. Snakes curled up, decomposing. Desiccated spiders. All that is left of the scorpions are their tails. It all stinks like death. I know there is no longer anything here that can kill me. Still, I tiptoe backwards, watching for movement.
You kept these creatures for anti-venom, that’s what you told me. You were going to inject me, and you, with their poison, make us immune. But a snake got me first. Thinking now about your plan, it seems insane. Was it only ever about collecting, keeping everything under your control, but saying later that it was for safety?