Pulling the Moves (5 page)

‘Sam’s done a runner. Nicked Steve’s van,’ I go.

‘What?’ Bin stares at me. ‘I don’t believe it. Sam would never do something like that!’

‘Yeah. It’s a bit hard to believe.’

‘Not Sam,’ says Cathy. ‘Cooja, maybe. But not Sam. He’s so … tight.’

‘Tight?’ says Mum, and starts bawling again.

‘She means straight,’ I translate over the noise. ‘Bin, Cathy, let’s go to my room. Maybe you guys can give me a clue where he’s gone.’

I sprawl on my bed. Bin spreads herself on the other bed, staring at me anxiously with her bright blue contact-lensed eyes, and Cathy plops her curves onto the beanbag, and hangs her head so that her dark hair falls like a curtain and I can’t see her face. She
knows
something, or else why is she acting weird and sort of defensive?

‘Are you sure he didn’t say anything to you guys?’ I ask. ‘Anything that’d give us a clue?’

‘Nah. He doesn’t tell me his secrets,’ Bin goes. ‘But then, boys never do tell girls secrets.’

‘They just use girls up,’ says Cathy.

Whoa. Something’s going on here.

‘Maybe Sam told Cooja that he was gonna run,’ I go.

‘Cooja? That walking slime bag?’

Cathy bursts into tears. Bin reaches down and pats her hand.

Maybe we have some odd substance in the walls or something that makes people cry? But then I don’t feel like crying, do I?

‘Cooja’s broken up with Cathy,’ says Bin.

I just stop myself from saying ‘Again?’ and hand her the box of tissues.

‘I shouldn’t have done it,’ sobs Cathy.

‘Done what?’ goes Bin.

‘Done … you know …’

‘What?’

‘You know …’

‘You mean sex?’ I go.

Bin looks shocked.

‘Cathy! You didn’t!’

Cathy hangs her head again and mumbles through her hair.

‘I didn’t mean for it to happen. He was just kissing me and we were — you know — just messing round … and then—well … it happened.’

‘Okay, so it happened,’ I say. ‘It’s not the end of the world. Unless — you’re not pregnant are you?’

‘No. He wore a — you know — ’

Ready, willing and able, eh, Cooja? I think, as Cathy sobs and Bin looks grim. Then she gets up, sits on the beanbag and puts her arm round Cathy.

‘So you’re not a virgin. You had to lose it sometime,’ she says, trying to act cool.

Not exactly the most comforting thing to say, I think, but then Bin’s in shock. People say odd things when they’re shocked, and Bin doesn’t know how to handle it.

‘But he
told
,’ wails Cathy. ‘He promised he
wouldn’t. He told Boxie, and he was winking and carrying on, and then he practically told the whole school.’

‘So how come I didn’t know?’ says Bin. ‘I’m supposed to be your best friend. How come you didn’t tell
me
?’

Oh, good one, Bin, lay a guilt call on your best friend! I glare at her and she clams up.

‘He told all his mates. Why did he do that? I thought he loved me but I think he’s dumped me,’ sobs Cathy. ‘He won’t answer my calls and he walks away if I go near him. I feel like mud.’

I sigh. I feel a million years old. Did I used to feel and think like this?

‘Look, Cathy. It’s his word against yours. If anyone says anything, just look scornful and say “Grow a brain” and walk off. And from now on, don’t confuse sex with love, okay? I haven’t got time for a heart-to-heart now, but later on when we find Sam and this wedding thing’s over, we need to have a good talk.’

They go, Bin with her arm round Cathy, heads close together. I hope Cooja doesn’t drop in here or he’ll be wearing his balls round his neck, I swear!

And so will Sam, if I get my hands on him. Where the hell
is
he?

Feels like we’ve been driving for hours. Where’s the cops? Who wants to go to Adelaide? Macca, that’s who. Turns out he’s got a brother there.

‘Like, guess what? I found out this dude’s name’s Sam Studley,’ says Cola suddenly. ‘And he’s fifteen.’

‘Who cares?’ says Zac in a flat voice. ‘We’re dumpin’ him soon as we can.’

‘Hey, Sammy,’ says Cola, swinging round. ‘You got a home or what?’

‘Yeah. Course I’ve got a home. Hasn’t everyone?’

‘Nah. We ain’t,’ goes Macca.

‘So where do you live, then?’

Cola looks at me and shrugs. ‘With mates. In squats. Wherever.’

‘Cola. Shut up.’

Zac sounds edgy. She swings back and stares out the window.

Street kids. I haven’t seen this lot before, but then when I’ve been jigging school in the mall they’ve probably still been asleep. They don’t usually cruise till late arvo. I wonder what it’s like being a street kid. Sounds cool. But I wouldn’t want to spend my life on the run dodging cops.

‘Better get off the highway,’ says Macca.

We turn off onto a side road. It’s the country, flat paddocks and a few trees. We could end up anywhere. This is dumb. If the cops start searching with infra red in the dark they’ll find us easily.

We skid in the loose gravel, and I think we’re going to lose it. But Steve’s spent big bucks on the best tyres, and the van holds the road.

‘I need to pee,’ says Cola.

Macca slams on the brakes.

‘Go for it,’ says Zac, patting her on the bum as she wriggles across him to get out. So that’s how it is, Cola and Zac.

‘But … it’s dark out there,’ she says nervously.

She’s right. Black. No stars. Nothing. I wouldn’t mind a leak myself but—

‘We’ll come with ya, then. Out!’ goes Zac, leaning over and poking me hard in the chest. ‘Might as well all have a piss, save stopping later.’

Macca opens his door, bails, and comes around to the rear door. I stumble out. Cola disappears behind a bush and we three do our thing. It’s so cold we’re steaming.

‘Let’s leave Sammy here,’ says Zac suddenly, staring at me.

Not a good idea. We’re in the middle of nowhere and it gives me the creeps.

Then he looks at me again.

‘On second thoughts, we’ll keep him. We might need him as a hostage if the jacks get us, eh.’

Hostage? I thought that only happened in Iran and places like that. I’m not hostage material; I want to be home asleep in my nice warm bed.

‘Er …,’ I go.

‘Dunno about a hostage,’ says Macca, ‘but he seems harmless. Don’t ya, Sam?’

‘Yeah,’ I go, ‘I’m harmless.’

Macca suddenly seems more friendly. Maybe it’s because of peeing together. Or maybe he’s mellowing
out from the drugs he’s been on.

‘Come on, Sam. Into the van,’ he says, draping an arm round my shoulders.

‘It’s getting light,’ says Zac. ‘Let’s get back on the highway, grab a burger or somethin’, then go bush again.’

I don’t know how they do it, but they find the highway and we rip down it, fast. No traffic. No cops. It’s like the end of the world’s come and we’re the only ones still in it. Then I see the lights of this truck, coming fast. Human life. I wish I could signal, but what’s the use? It’s going like a bat outa hell, and the van shudders as the rig flashes by, going like stink.

I’m still figuring. What time did this crew nick the van? I look at my watch. It’s now seven on Saturday morning. It’s a three-hour drive to Portland and we’re not there yet. Must be close, but. We had the petrol stop and the piss stop. Still … must be near the border. And there’s a sign. Portland one way, Hamilton the next. And an all-night roadside truckies’ stop. Macca zooms off the highway and screams to a halt.

‘Don’t muck about,’ he says. ‘Burgers, fries, Cokes.’

He hands Cola some notes.

‘What about Sam?’ she goes. ‘Will I get him something?’

Amazingly I’m hungry. I could go a burger and fries. And an icy cold Coke. I look hopeful. Zac swings round and glares at me. Coming off the goey’s not mellowing him at all: he’s tired and mean.

‘Forget it,’ he goes. ‘Hostages don’t get fed.’

Great. I’m supposed to starve before I die?

‘Nah, he’s all right. Get him a burger,’ says Macca.

Cola climbs out over Zac who’s not budging, and swaggers off.

‘Hurry up, hurry up!’ Zac’s drumming his hands on the dashboard. He’s getting edgy and that’s a worry.

‘I’m drivin’,’ he says suddenly.

‘No way, man.’

‘I’m drivin’.’

I think Macca’s going to lose it and punch out Zac’s lights, but then he suddenly slumps against the wheel. The drugs are wearing off and he’s coming down.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he mutters. ‘Whatever …’

It’s time I split. Here I am in the middle of civilisation. I can get help. I shift slightly and Zac’s hand leaves the dash and grabs me by the hair.

‘You ain’t going nowhere.
Sit
!’

Well, it
was
a good idea.

‘Come
on
.’

Zac glares in the direction of the roadside cafe. ‘What the hell’s she doin’?’

‘Here she comes,’ says Macca, raising his head.

Cola saunters out, taking her time, balancing a heap of food and cans.

‘Had to wait for them to heat it up,’ she says.

I get a good look at her. Thin thighs in dirty white jeans. Torn T-shirt. Her clothes look like they need a good wash. But she’s sort of cute in a weird way. Clean clothes, hair brushed … yeah …

She passes me a burger. And a Coke. We eat. Then Macca slides across as Zac gets out and comes round to the driver’s side. He guns the unit and we’re off again down the highway. His driving’s not so crazy. It’s a miracle we’re still alive after Macca’s maniac driving. Steve’s probably got a million stabilisers built into the chassis. If this van hadn’t been so stable I reckon we’d all be dead by now.

‘Portland,’ goes Cola, pointing at a sign.

‘Roadblock,’ goes Zac.

He slams on the brakes and my burger flies across the van as I lose my balance and hit the far wall with
a crunch. I land on the burger and squash it flat, but who’s fussy? I crouch and peer over the back seat. There’re cops galore, and three cop cars. It’s just like
The Blues Brothers
, only we’re not in a shit-box Dodge but a shit-box Holden.

‘Not a roadblock. It’s a random breath-testing unit, a booze bus to cop the nightclubbers,’ I say, but they’re not listening.

‘Hold on,’ says Zac, and belts the accelerator down hard as he twists the wheel.

The Holden gives a surge and we bore straight through a fence and across a paddock, going like a space missile.

‘Watch out,’ I bellow.

We’re heading straight for a tree. I shut my eyes and brace myself for the crash. The van lurches wildly. Miraculously we miss the tree and keep going.

‘Way to go, man,’ says Macca, gripping the dashboard.

There’re burgers, papers and Coke cans flying through the air. We rip through a paddock, scaring a bunch of cows outa their brains, and skid through some trees, and crash through another fence. A cop car’s given chase, trying to catch us but the cops value
their lives: they’re not going to drive like it’s the last day on earth and kill themselves, are they? They fall behind. We zoom across another paddock, through another fence, and we’re back on the highway. We’re roaring through the City of Portland at 120 k, forget the 60 zone. I blink. Goodbye, Portland. That was the quickest visit in history!

We’re flying down the road. It’s only a matter of time before we run outa juice again.

‘Turn on the radio,’ goes Macca. ‘We might be on the news.’

Cola switches on the radio.

‘And Southern Victoria will be experiencing gale force winds east of Wilson’s Promontory,’ drones the weather man. ‘Showers, hail, a top of 12 degrees.’

‘Nothin’ about
us
,’ says Macca, after turning the dial to different stations.

All he gets is static. He bangs the radio with his fist and skins his knuckles. He’s got this freaky look.

‘We gotta calm him down. Get him some Rohies or Serries,’ says Cola.

‘You’ll have to go back to Portland,’ I say.

‘I’m sick of all this. Let’s go back,’ says Cola. ‘I didn’t want to go with you guys in the first place.’

She looks scared.

But Zac jerks at the wheel to turn the unit round.

‘Hey. Man. Steady on!’

The van swerves all over the road. Cola screams. Macca tries to seize the wheel. I reach over, grab Zac’s long red hair and try banging some sense into him by jerking his head hard. Zac fights to control the van, dodging two oncoming cars. Macca slumps back as Zac gets control.

‘He’s been speeding for two days,’ Cola says to me.

‘Driving like this for two days? No wonder he’s freaking,’ I go.

‘
Speeding. Using. Shooting up
,’ she snaps. ‘He’s coming down. He’s not usually so—tripped out.’

‘Hey. What ya tellin’
him
for?’ snaps Zac. ‘None of his business, is it?’

Then I hear them. Sirens. The cops again.

‘You may as well pull over,’ I go. ‘They’re going to get you in the end.’

Zac grunts. ‘I guess it’s cross country again, eh.’

He plants the foot, swings the wheel, and we plough up an embankment, through a fence, and across a paddock. This is getting boring! These kids have been watching too many American movies! I feel like I’ve been crashing through fences and roaring across paddocks and barrelling down
highways at 140 k all my life. Was there a life before joyriding? And who the hell ever called it joyriding? Hell riding, more like.

This paddock’s got humps and bumps like you wouldn’t believe. The chassis’s in major agony and we’re going to do the shockers any minute for sure. I’ve never felt so battered and bruised in my life as I’m flung about like laundry in a spin dryer. We do this huge donut then another as Zac loses control again. Cola screams.

‘Where the shit are we?’ says Macca.

‘How do I know? In the middle of
somewhere
.’

‘Which way’s Adelaide?’

‘How do I know?’

Things are getting tense. We crash through another fence, plummet down an embankment and rip through a creek, spraying up a wall of water around us bigger than Niagara Falls. One thing about this mother, she keeps on going! Up the bank, around more trees, and onto a road.

‘Which way?’

‘Dunno, do I?’

‘That way,’ I go.

‘How do you know?’

‘That’s west,’ I lie. ‘And Adelaide’s west.’

‘Nearly outa juice.’

Great, I think, that’s all I need, to be stranded in the middle of nowhere with this lot.

‘Look out!’

We take the bend too quickly. The old Holden’s had enough. She skids out of control and we wallop sideways into a gum tree with a sickening crunch. I feel the panel work buckle in on my side as I’m hurled backwards against the door.

‘Steve’s not going to like this one bit,’ I say. Then I pass out.

I come round to the sound of someone groaning. I open my eyes. Is everyone alive or dead? Zac groans loudly and rubs his head. He must have hit it on the wheel.

‘Aw, shit,’ he says.

Cola groans. ‘My shoulder hurts,’ she whimpers.

‘You okay, Zac?’

‘Yeah, man.’

‘No sense, no feeling,’ I blurt before I can stop myself.

‘Shut up, you.’

‘My shoulder hurts.’ That’s Cola again.

‘Stop moanin’, will ya?’

The ding hasn’t improved their tempers. I look out.
We’re hard up against the gum. There’re paddocks as far as the eye can see. I look at my watch. Nearly nine. I should be home in bed.

Then we hear this rumbling noise. Some sort of vehicle’s coming and it sure doesn’t sound like the cops. It pulls up alongside. I peer out through the mud-spattered rear window.

‘Hey. You lot all right?’

It’s this farmer, driving an old red ute. He gets out and walks over to us. Big mistake.

Macca grabs the steering lock off Cola and leaps out. He’s spotted the petrol drum in the back of the ute. The heeler riding shotgun snarls at him, but heelers are bright. This one knows when to back off or it’ll end up splattered crow fodder.

‘Get that drum out,’ he says to the farmer. ‘Now.’

‘Eh? But—’

‘Do it, Grandpa.’

The farmer shambles back to the ute, drops the tray, and rolls out the drum. He’s an old dude, brown overalls over a checked flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, no coat, battered hat, the kind who usually drives at 40 k down the highway in the middle of the road. Probably fought in World War I. Tough as nails, but not tough enough for this crew. He’s out
numbered. I feel kinda sorry for him, meeting up with us. He sets the drum down and the dog growls but stays in the truck.

‘Young larrikins,’ says the farmer. ‘Good-for-nothings, I should …’

Macca gives the steering lock to Cola.

‘No,’ she goes. ‘I’m not hitting an old man.’

‘Cola. DO IT.’

She’s out of the van, legs braced, a scared look on her face.

‘Here. You. Sam. Make yourself useful. Pour it in.’

I roll over the front seat and out the passenger door. Zac’s still holding the wheel, looking dazed. That’s all I need, a feral driver with concussion. Macca and I lift the drum. The petrol gurgles into the van, some spilling onto the ground as we heave the drum higher. The last drops run into the tank. Macca tosses the drum on the ground.

‘Right. Now let’s see if this shit box’ll go.’

The engine’s stalled of course. Zac fiddles about and the engine coughs into life. He gives the accelerator a couple of pumps and revs the engine a few times as I climb back in, with Cola and Macca following.

‘Watch out, he’s got a gun,’ yells Zac.

The old guy’s got a .22 pointing at us. I was going to split out the rear door, but when I see him taking aim I change my mind. Who wants their kneecaps shot to bits? Or their head ventilated? He’s going to shoot first and ask questions later. I’ll be dead while I’m halfway through explaining that I’m a hostage. Forget it.

We bounce backwards off the tree and belt in reverse down the road.

A bullet screams through the rear window, just missing Zac’s head. Glass shatters all over us like hailstones. Cola screams. I shut my eyes then open them again. I’ve got little cuts all over my hands from the glass.