The Low Road (32 page)

Please, he said. Please. We can't stop now. Not now. We can't stay here on this road. We'll die here. We didn't get anywhere yet. And we can't go back to that house. He thought of Wild on his back staring at the sky, snow clogging his eyes and mouth. Perhaps he should have stayed to bury him but he couldn't bear to stay in that place any longer. He wiped tears from his face and patted the horse's sleek neck. Come on. We need to keep going. We need to keep moving.

Lee clambered again onto the squeaking cart. Trying to sound both stern and friendly, he clicked his tongue and slapped the reins. The horse staggered forward with the cart rolling behind, finally establishing a rickety momentum.

Lee laughed with relief. That's it. That's the way. Come on. He hunched against the cold and pinned his jacket collar at his throat with his free hand. But again, the horse only managed to continue for a few minutes before jerking to a halt. One of the cart's wheels had sunk into a pothole disguised by a cover of fresh snow. Shit. Fuck. He looked around. Behind them on the snowy road were the tracks of their meagre progress, two thick lines and a dark scrabble of hooves. This was no good. Still no sign of any town or farmhouse. No sign of anything. At his feet in the cart was a long, black whip. Lee considered it briefly before picking it up. The bound leather grip was smooth in his palm. He tried flicking it gently against the horse's side. Its ears twitched, but otherwise the horse didn't react. Lee did it again, this time harder. The horse tossed its head and stamped a hoof, but little else. Steam shot from its nostrils. The cart didn't move. Bracing himself with his left hand on a side railing, Lee stood up. He was breathing heavily now. A grim anger stalked through him. A dumb horse. A stupid, dumb horse. The final straw.

With a tight face, he regarded the horse for a long minute, then closed his eyes, raised his other hand and brought the whip down hard on the horse's rump with a rich thwack. The horse skittered and angled its rear away from the direction of the blow. Its tail swished and it tried to pull the cart from the pothole. Lee struck it again. And again. Again. He pounded at the horse, which tottered forward, slipped and staggered once more. Glistening streaks of blood appeared on its dark body and it turned its head as far as it was able to clack its teeth loudly back at him. A glimpse of lolling eye, like that of a harpooned whale. He struck again. He breathed through clenched teeth. A snowflake snagged on his cracked lower lip. Move, you fucking cunt, he hissed.
Move
.

The horse folded its head into its chest. Its flanks shuddered as it heaved against the weight of the cart. Lee stayed in a half-crouch with the whip in one raised fist. The horse and cart trembled from the pothole and progressed several feet. The horse staggered. It whinnied. There was a grunt and it slipped and fell onto its front knees with a hollow crack. It snorted and shook and tried to wrestle to its feet. As the cart lurched, Lee was barely able to stop himself from tumbling to the ground.

With the whip still in his hand, he stepped from the cart. The horse ignored him. It wheezed like a machine and shuddered and shook where it was in the snow, unable to stand. Its flanks were smeared with blood. Again the brute turned and snapped its great teeth as Lee neared. Get up. Stand up. Stand up. You think I've come all this way to be held up by you? After all that's happened?

He glared at it and wiped spittle from his lower lip. Warmed by his anger, he felt monumental and wide, like a swollen river. He raised his hand and whipped the horse. It jolted and bucked as much as it was able, hampered as it was by its attachment to the cart. He struck it again. The horse gave a huge, rattling sigh and attempted to stand. Its right front leg was obviously broken; partway along its narrow length was a bloodied smash of hair and bone. He no longer cared. He lashed it. The horse trembled and slid again to the sharp ground. It stretched its elegant neck. Blood flecked the snowy mush. It made unearthly keening sounds that could only be of terror and pain.

And as the snow continued to fall, he bent and thrashed the poor creature again. He wanted suddenly to kill it, to make a puddle of it. It had stopped making much sound, apart from the fierce cackle of its breath. Its body heaved and shook. Its head muzzled into the snow and occasionally its huge, flat tongue flickered out and in. Eventually Lee stood back, shaking. His side ached and his arm was sore. He felt sick and exhausted and allowed the whip to fall to the ground. Flayed skin hung in thick strips from the horse's back and rump. In the air was the murderous stink of hide and shit. With a filthy sleeve, he wiped sweat and blood from his forehead and watched the horse's panting shape. Still on its side, it made a scraping sound somewhere in its throat and scrabbled meekly at the snow. A dying thing, too fucking animal to know when to give up. A stupid dying thing.

Lee tasted warm blood on his lips. Meaty horse blood. He wiped it away and spat. He drew Josef's gun from his pocket, aimed it at the horse's face and pulled the trigger. Nothing. The trigger had jammed, perhaps from the cold. He inspected the weapon, fiddled with the safety catch with unfeeling fingers, then tried again. Steady, aim and shoot. Again nothing. He threw the gun clumsily at the horse. It struck the animal in the neck and clattered to the ground. He tilted his head back and looked skywards at the mass of fog and ice. Snowflakes landed softly on his face. They sizzled upon his eyeballs. He opened his mouth and screamed.

What now? What now? He loosened a wooden fence post from the packed snow at the roadside verge. Although partly rotted, the post was solid, about three feet long, with fine corners. A thick nail poked from one end. Lee slouched over to the horse, which was by now tangled among the various reins and straps securing it to the cart. The creature stared at him with one murky eye. It didn't really look afraid, certainly not as afraid as it should have been.

With both hands, Lee raised the post over his head and slammed it down across the horse's face with a dull grunt. There was the woody crack of bone. The horse roared and thrashed, each part of its body seemingly trying to escape in a different direction. Its upward-turned eye filled with blood. The momentum of the blow almost caused Lee to topple forward, and he was barely able to maintain his balance on the icy road. When he had recovered, he did it again. This time he made sure to strike the beast with one of the sharp corners of the post and was rewarded with the certainty that he'd managed to split its massive skull. Then he did it again. Blood pulsed from the wound in the horse's head, along with something flecked and creamy, the entire mess soaking into the surrounding snow. Although it had ceased struggling, the horse was still alive. It gazed straight ahead at whatever it could see from its vantage point on the ground—the mud, snow, a blackening sky—probably saying its horsey prayers.

Lee stood and watched until the horse died. It took a long time, but its back legs finally stiffened as if stretching after a lengthy sleep, before it shuddered and relaxed. He kneeled beside it in the crimson slush. His cheeks were spattered with blood. It was warm on his face. He could taste it on his lips.

He wouldn't know how long he stayed kneeling beside the horse, feeling its warmth drain into the earth. It might have been ten minutes or more. A year. Perhaps three seconds. Long enough for snow to gather about him and sprinkle down his neck. Long enough for him to have difficulty standing when he finally did so. Long enough for him to wonder what the hell had happened. He looked around and was amazed to see that nothing had altered. It was barren. Everything was as it had always been. He felt better. He felt worse. He had no idea where he was or what he was doing. This was just some blank, white place without obvious end. There was nothing and there was nowhere to go.

He had the urge to piss and fumbled at his trousers before abandoning the idea; he would never be able to undo his trousers with such frozen fingers. Perhaps he should piss his pants? Might at least warm him? He stood there debating with himself for a minute before shrugging and grabbing the suitcase of money from the cart that now yawed like a shipwreck in the snow and mud. He could barely feel his feet and his hands flailed at his sides like stumps. His ears stung and his eyeballs ached. He tottered away, the suitcase banging against his leg with every step. After a short distance, he halted. The snowflakes were heavier and larger than ever. Like pale coins, they fell to earth. He put the suitcase down to hug himself for warmth. He trembled. His THe Low Road 251 teeth clattered uncontrollably. He sat on the suitcase and lit a cigarette, jamming his free hand into a coat pocket. Barely able to lift his head. The downy drifts of snow looked almost comfortable. He was so tired. Perhaps he could lie down for a few minutes to get his strength back before going on? A little sleep, a little childish sleep.

There was something small in his pocket and he lifted it out. It was the crumpled fragment of bullet Wild had removed from him. Lee held it in a shivering hand and stared at it for a long time. A pebble of metal. He remembered a woman with a gun. Her slow and deliberate blink. Was that where this had all begun, or was it even longer ago? By now his entire body was shaking. His cigarette fell from his fingers to the ground. Inexplicably he placed the bullet fragment upon his tongue and worked it around in his mouth, almost the only part of his body he could still feel. Like a stray tooth, the bullet clackered around in his chattering mouth. If it had a flavour, he was unable to detect it. He swallowed it. It rattled against his oesophagus and was gone.

He tried to move. He slapped at his face but could feel nothing. He slapped harder. Only with effort could he even waggle his sullen toes. He stamped his feet. Still perched on the suitcase, he folded himself against the cold until his face rested upon his knees. His nose ran with watery snot. One thing, at least. One thing was. Was one thing. At least the pain in his side was finally gone. That was one good. Thing.

At least. Something. Little thing.

By now it was nearly dark. While he'd been otherwise occupied, the horizon had crept closer until it now crowded around him. It muttered and sang. A wind flew across the plains, sank into a crouch and rent the air with a sound like the sharpening of knives. It keened through him. His heart drew breath and he raised his head to look about. Somewhere through the swirling snow was a dim and flickering light embedded into a thick, dark shape. In the distance. A boat. It was the shape of a boat. A thin smile softened his lips. He would be saved. A boat. A liner, churning through the foam. Any second now he would hear the lowing of its horn. He would be saved.

At last. Saved he would be saved he would.

Be saved.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This novel would never have seen the light of day were it not for everyone at Scribe Publications—especially Aviva Tuffield, for making it happen in the first place; and Ian See, for his eagle-eyed editing. I would also like to thank the staff and students of RMIT's professional writing and editing course—particularly Olga Lorenzo, Steve Wide, Caroline Lee, Melissa Cranenburgh and Toni Jordan—who provided reserves of patience, respect, criticism and faith. Thanks also to the beautiful Roslyn Oades, who endured many questions along the lines of: ‘Can you read this and tell me if it makes sense?'

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chris Womersley's fiction and reviews have appeared in
Granta
;
The Best Australian Stories
2006, 2010, and 2011;
Griffith REVIEW
;
Meanjin
; and
The Age
. His debut novel,
The Low Road
, won the Ned Kelly Award for Best First Fiction. His second novel,
Bereft
, won the Australian Book Industry Award for Literary Fiction and the Indie Award for Fiction, and was shortlisted for the Miles Franklin Literary Award,
The Age
fiction prize, and the Australian Literature Society Gold Medal. Visit his website at
www.chriswomersley.com
.