Chapter 5
the fifth chapter
MARK
JUNDAH, AUSTRALIA - NEARLY ELEVEN YEARS AGO
I've memorised this sign.
Walked past it more times than I can count.
Whispered the words to myself over and over since I was a kid. Longreach. Two hundred and eighteen kilometres.
Route seventy nine. For years, the thought of another town existing has given me hope.
One day, I keep telling myself.
One day I’ll go there.
One day, when I’m old enough to walk two weeks or more in the scorching heat.
One day, when my mother is ready to save us both from the bruises.
One day, when pigs fly.
And after all these years, one day finally means now.
I’ve tried this once before.
Made it all the way to the cattle stop before someone found me.
They frog marched me home.
And I paid for it.
Dad made sure I couldn’t walk properly for several days after that.
This is why I have to make my escape in the dark.
Best not to be seen.
People around here talk.
They know things.
Word spreads quickly in a place like this.
People in the middle of nowhere seem to have nothing better to do.
But that’s where I’ll go.
Longreach is the nearest real town, or so a kid at school once told me.
When I was little, it existed in my mind like a fairytale.
The way some kids might imagine a theme park or a carnival.
A real town with concrete footpaths and more than one phone box.
A real town with a hair salon, a high school, and bus stops.
Somewhere you can walk more than four blocks in each direction.
I wonder what it feels like to talk to someone who doesn't know your name.
And more importantly, someone who doesn’t know your dad's name.
The only people I’ve ever seen like that around here are just passing through.
Strangers safely hidden behind the steering wheel of their truck or campervan.
A retired couple travelling through to Quilpie.
A fisherman, perhaps.
An opal collector.
Or most likely, a council worker.
People who have the freedom to leave.
Lucky bastards.
But the one thing they all stop for?
Fuel.
Which is why I’m waiting here, hiding behind this tree.
◆◆◆
“Sparrows don't fart,” I once said to my dad.
“How the fuck would you know?” he’d snapped.
I knew because as a curious kid I’d been listening carefully.
Leaning close whenever the birds flocked nearby.
Not a peep from those feathery butts.
“Sparrows fart means before sunrise, love,” mum had whispered in my ear.
Before sunrise is the only safe time to sneak out, I’ve decided.
In my experience, drunk men are hardly ever awake at dawn.
So I wait until the clock in the kitchen says quarter past four.
Breath quickening, heart pounding like a rock in a tin can, I roll out of bed.
Wasn’t sleeping anyway.
Too nervous to sleep.
Gotta be careful not to step on the squeaky floorboard next to the rug.
I’ve been planning this for a while.
My escape checklist is spelled backwards in my notebook in case anyone reads it.
Einaeb.
Trihs.
I stole my dad's beanie and flannel shirt from the laundry pile on the couch.
The older I look, the less likely someone will recognise me.
Retaw selttob.
Yesterday I saved two empty milk bottles from the bin.
When Ma wasn’t looking, I filled them under the garden hose as quietly as I could.
One is never enough in this outback heat.
Doof.
That word makes me smile, the way it sounds when I say it out loud.
But I will definitely need to bring “doof.”
I scour the pantry to figure out which food, if any, Mum won’t need later.
There isn’t much in there to begin with.
Oats. Yuck.
An expired can of lentils. She might want those.
Crackers. Peanut butter. Half a jar left.
I pack them both. A spoon, too.
My dad loves peanut butter.
All the more reason to take it.
That wanker can buy some more.
I’m busting to take a leak, but that can wait for now.
Besides, the bathroom has a mirror.
And I don’t want to look at my reflection.
I already know it will be bad, I can feel it.
I’ve seen the blood on my pillow and shirt.
Last night’s fight was worse than usual.
I copped the brunt of it.
Trying to protect her, as always.
Walking down the hallway, I pause for a moment to watch my mother sleep.
I don’t want to make her feel sad.
I know this is going to break her heart.
I’ve begged her to come with me so many times.
But she never does.
And if she’s not gonna save me after sixteen years, I have to save myself.
Either that or turn out just like him.
I blow my mum a kiss in the dark.
An ache brews beneath my ribs, knowing that I will likely never see her again.
I'm sorry, the note says. I promise I'll write. Love you, Ma.
Folding the piece of paper, I hide it inside her favourite coffee mug.
The one with the daffodils.
Then I ease the front door open and shut with both hands.
I control the latch so it won’t click too loudly.
Running along the driveway, I stick close to the edge.
A padded rustle on dry grass is more stealthy than shoes on gravel.
Reaching the mailbox, I turn to check the windows one last time.
I brace myself, half expecting to see a bearded face looming above me.
But I’m alone.
Alone in every sense of the word.
For better or worse.
Lungs burning in the damp night air, I focus on the sound of my breath.
The crickets along the fence line.
The thud of my sneakers pounding against the road.
Heavy backpack thumping against my spine.
I can feel the tight bloom of pain along my ribs if I take a full breath.
It’s like something has been cinched around my chest.
The cut on my lip is crusted and tender.
A wound that opens if I stretch my mouth too wide.
There’s a ringing in my ear that comes and goes in waves.
One bloodshot eye is already bruising thick and heavy with colour.
But none of this is new to me.
The only thing that’s different this time, is my decision to stay gone.
To actually do it this time.
To walk all the way if I have to.
◆◆◆
The first time I attempted it, my six year old legs gave out in the heat.
The locals laughed at me for trying.
It was almost a decade ago.
I’m stronger now, in more ways than one.
Let them laugh. Soon I'll be too far away to hear it.
If I can hitch a ride, that is.
My cuts and bruises will scare away the nice camping folk by the river.
The only other vehicles heading north are usually out of town contractors.
Maybe I’ll get lucky if one of them stops to fill their tank.
Gonna wait near the town fuel pump for thirty minutes or so.
After that, I’ll need to start walking before it gets too hot.
A thirteen or fourteen day walk to Longreach, I’ve calculated.
If I allow time to sleep during the day in whatever bush or shed I can find.
Hopefully a shed with a water tap.
I’ll walk at night, mostly.
The only torch I could find at home had a cracked lens and a jammed switch.
Too heavy to carry anyway.
There’s a waning gibbous moon tonight.
Not as bright as a full moon but it will do.
And the stars will keep me company, as they always do.
Best case scenario, someone kind will open their passenger door.
Hopefully by day three before blisters and dehydration get the better of me.
No matter what happens, I will not turn around.
I will never go back.
Because he meant it this time.
He’s going to kill me.
To walk back through that door would be a death sentence.
◆◆◆
I sneak behind a bush to pee.
Not that anyone can see me out here.
I don’t want to draw any unnecessary attention.
Best to take a bathroom break before hitching with God knows who.
I miss my mum already.
What have I done? Will it backfire on her?
I already know the answer.
Even now I can imagine my father waking up, seeing my empty bed.
His voice, bellowing through the house.
Boots on the driveway.
Doors slamming.
He'll kick up a stink, no doubt.
Not because he’s worried for my safety.
But because he’s no longer in control.
One less person to shit on.
One less punching bag.
And because it will make him look bad.
Not that he needs any help with that.
I glance nervously at the tiny police station across the road.
Probably nobody there at this hour.
Just to be sure, I stay hidden behind the tree trunk.
The roadhouse is closed too, Jundah's one and only store.
Dark and still, the only light comes from a glass doored refrigerator inside.
Even if I had money to spare, they don’t open for another hour.
I don’t want the locals to see me dressed like this anyway.
Fuck, this shirt stinks.
Even after being washed, the ciggies and sweat smell awful.
Should’ve taken one of mum’s instead.
At least then it wouldn’t feel like he’s following me.
That diesel pump outside the store is the only thing I care about right now.
Its tiny screen glows faintly in the night, an eye full of zeros that refuse to sleep.
Beyond that, the town lies silent.
So quiet that even the slightest sound feels dangerous.
The scrape of my shoe.
The crackle of my backpack when I rummage inside it.
Even my breath sounds too loud.
I sit on the grass, pulling my knees closer to my chest.
I’m trying not to shake.
I meant to wait another day or two.
The plan had been September third.
One more birthday with mum, and then goodbye.
Sixteen.
Old enough to work.
Old enough to ditch my old man for good.
Two more days and it will be official.
But two more days is too long.
The tender split on my lip?
The bruised ribs hidden by my clothes?
I know it will only get worse now that I’m old enough to fight back.
Not just a belt buckle or a jug cord these days.
Glass bottles when I have my back turned.
That's his latest weapon of choice.
Fists too. Or cigarette burns while I’m asleep.
The nurse at the clinic knows mum and I well.
But the cop at the station has been mates with Dad since they were knee high.
So nothing ever comes of it.
And most people just turn a blind eye.
Intimidation is my dad's specialty.
He threatens anyone who threatens him.
Everyone knows to steer well clear of him.
Especially when he smells like a brewery.
Which is most of the time.