Blood & Dust. Jason Nahrung
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for them to realise who he was and go quiet so they could listen, he'd heard enough.
How was Diana Matheson going to cope? Where were they going to buy their fuel now? It was an hour to the nearest garage at 'Nancy' and the fella there was a half-arsed mechanic, not like Tommy Matheson; even his son was pretty bloody handy by comparison, and not even twenty. It was a bastard shame, so few young folk staying around as it was.
They tried to ask him, the copper from the big smoke, but he pleaded exhaustion and retreated to his room for a drink, a room-service steak and a good lie down. Might as well make the most of it. And with Mira coming out this far west of the ranges, it could mean only that things were going to get worse.
At least the newborn had gone up in smoke. That was some consolation. Kevin Matheson was one loose end they didn't need to tie up.
FOUR
Kevin awoke to darkness and to silence. The world stank of diesel, ash, dirt. He was starving and aching, his mouth dry and his eyes itching. A suffocating weight pinned him down. He felt the grit under him, on top of him; dug into it with his panicked fingers. Gasped it in as he realised he'd been buried alive!
Choking, he flailed upward. Soil cascaded from him, leaving his skin - his entire body - feeling as if he'd been sand-blasted. Blazing heat and brightness scorched his naked body as he dragged himself like a newborn calf into the nearest shade: the rusted shell of the Ford truck. All around, the grass was burnt and littered with wreckage. The service station was a tumbled ruin, blackened timbers thrusting toward the sky amid sheets of buckled iron and tangles of wire. A listless line of yellow plastic tape hanging from short iron pegs bordered the devastation.
Across the singed fence, he saw his home, sagging wearily on its posts. Meg's little Suzuki soft top was parked out the front near his father's work ute. His Commodore and his mother's sedan were vague shapes hidden by the slats that walled in the ground floor.
He clambered over the fence. Fire had sneaked through the palings and scored the lawn; a few scorched patches showed where embers had landed but failed to spread. He crawled more than walked, sheltering in the shade of the sparse, threadbare fruit trees and two towering gums, their bark hanging shredded and curled as though from torture. Sheets hung limp on the Hill's Hoist. He barely noticed the ash spotting them before he yanked one down and wrapped it around himself, grateful for any defence against the sunshine that baked his skin.
The dogs didn't come out to greet him; there was no sign of either of them.
He grabbed the rail of the rear stairs like an old man clutching a walking frame and hauled himself up, one painful, lead-heavy step at a time, until he reached the shade of the verandah. He went to open the back door but his legs gave out and he lurched into it; the door fell open under his weight and he sprawled on the lino near the dining table.
Voices came from the living room; footsteps; gasps. Hands rolled him over, and tears soaked his mother's cheeks as she looked down on him in shock and wonder.
'My God, Kevin, they said… The police said they looked everywhere. Where have you been?' She hugged him, her body painfully hot, and he clung to her, shivering.
Meg stood nearby, hands to her face, eyes wide. She was in jeans, T-shirt and cardigan, her hazel curls bouncing loose around her face.
'Let's get him into the bedroom.' His mother's voice faded in and out like a radio off-station.
They helped him to his room at the far end of the house. Meg drew the curtains, blocking out the cracked and shattered windows, the view of the devastated service station.
'Meg, go call for an ambulance,' his mother said.
'That's two hours. Maybe we should drive him ourselves?'
'Just go call triple-0.'
Meg left and his mother told him, lullaby-style, to lie still; to tell her if this hurt; or this, or this. His mother's hands probed and lifted. 'I think you're all right, under all that dirt and muck.' She sounded surprised through the sniffles. 'Let's get you cleaned up.'
'Mum?' he mumbled, reaching tiredly. 'Megs?'
'Relax, Kevin, you're safe now. Safe. I'll be back in a jiffy.'
She brought a bowl and some towels. When she'd washed him down and pulled the blanket up, she sat by his side, holding his hand and feeding him sips of water. It didn't bring much relief. Maybe it was the smoke or maybe the dirt he'd swallowed, but the thirst just wouldn't go away. His throat was so raw and tight; the water hurt like pebbles going down.
'You're cold, Kevin,' his mother said. 'You want more blankets?'
'Hot.' He took another sip of water, choked it down.
'You're okay,' she told him, sniffling, her eyes red and puffy. 'Dehydration, sunburn. Shock.'
'Where's Dad?'
His mother dabbed at her eyes with a bunched tissue. 'He's gone, son.'
'Gone?'
'Found him in the servo, after they'd put the fire out. So they think. Took him to Charleville, to be sure.'
She sniffed and pulled herself straight. 'Thought you were in there, too. The policeman, he said you were both… He said he'd seen you both, before he dragged his partner out, before it burnt down. Thank God he was wrong.'
'I don't understand.'
'They even killed Bill and Ben.'
Kevin closed his eyes against the memories, the scarlet-tinged playback of his world falling apart: his father and the biker talking, gunshots, the sound of Molotovs exploding, the rush of heat and smoke. Boots, pointing to the ceiling, over by the door; scuffed and stained, a split in the side - his father's most comfortable pair, 'still a few miles left in them'. That cheeky grin.
'A gang, the police said. The Night Riders.' His mother pronounced their name as though it was a foreign language; something curious. 'They wanted to get their leader back. Bad luck, the policeman said. Just bad luck.'
'The leader, he was-' More memories: dark skin and white eyes and even whiter teeth. Kevin kneaded his temples as though he could massage the thoughts into some kind of sense.
Meg came back and sat by his side, her brow creased, those honey-brown eyebrows almost meeting. 'I rang Smithy. He's on his way.'
Kevin heaved himself into a sitting position. 'Did he say anything about that city cop, Hunter?' The more he thought about Hunter and his partner Dave, the more he thought that maybe calling the cops wasn't the best idea.
'No, Kev, just that he'd be straight out,' Meg said.
'What about Hunter? He tell you about that bikie? About what happened to Dad and me?'
'Just what I told you already,' his mother said, plucking at the fallen sheet. 'But I don't think Hunter was his name.'
'And I'm okay?' He examined his stomach, his chest, his throat. 'I haven't been, like, shot or cut or nothing?'
'No, nothing.' Her brows wrinkled with concern as she touched his forehead, her hand like a branding iron against his skin. 'A touch of fever, maybe.' She dabbed him with a wet cloth. He was so thirsty! He could suck that towel dry. He reached for it, but his mother had moved away.
'Take it easy.' Meg patted his arm. 'It's okay.'
He caught her hand and pulled her in, her scent wrapping around him, but she extricated herself from his desperate pawing and stood up.
'Rest now, Kev. When you're better, you can tell me what happened with your clothes, eh?'
A kiss on his forehead and she was gone, they were both gone, leaving him alone in the dark, a vague hunger gnawing at his insides, fevered exhaustion smothering him.
As the weariness claimed him, the loneliness swept in; swept him up and threw him, litter in a willy-willy, and dropped him on a different bed, in another house, in another time.
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