Loreless: A Novel Read online

  Loreless

  P J Whittlesea

  Contents

  Also by P J Whittlesea

  Acknowledgments

  1. The Roadhouse

  The Bus

  Pidgin

  The Interceptor

  2. Port Pirie, 1969

  3. The Community

  The Day After

  The Guitarist

  The General Store

  Doug and the Storm

  4. Emu Field, 1957

  5. Alice Springs

  The Dealer

  The Casino

  Line Dancing

  Doug and Pidgin

  6. Ooldea Railway Siding, 1932

  7. A Change of Plans

  Mens Business

  Breaking the Engagement

  An Invitation

  8. Well 15, Manjanka, 1906

  9. Back to the Community

  Doris

  The Rockhole

  The Church

  10. Kopparramurra, 1891

  11. Serious Business

  The Intervention

  Womens Business

  12. Boggy Hole, 1886

  13. The Law

  The Punishment

  Black and White

  14. Epilogue, 1843

  Bonus Book

  About the Author

  © 2016 P. J. Whittlesea

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Tyet Books, Amsterdam

  P J Whittlesea has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Structural Editing: Nicole Bauritius

  Copy Editing: Philip Newey

  Cover Artwork: Monique Wijbrands

  ISBN: 978-94-92523-01-3

  Also by P J Whittlesea

  Coming Soon

  Complicated Blue: The Extraordinary Adventures of the Good Witch Anaïs Blue

  The dead walk the streets, but they’re not alone.

  Anaïs Blue is trapped in the body of a five-year old. She hates her name and she hates her body.

  She craves change.

  To make matters even worse, she's a witch.

  Find out more about the witch with a twist.

  Get your free copy before it goes to the presses.

  Start reading here.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to the people of the Wallace Rockhole Aboriginal Community for their inspiration and generosity.

  For Robert, Sabine and Mirjam.

  The coming of the white man was in itself a blessing. We were isolated from the world's culture. It is true that my people could not adapt themselves to civilization, but that is because it came too suddenly for us.

  David Uniapon, 1925

  1

  The Roadhouse

  The Bus

  The Greyhound bus jolted to a halt and woke Billy from his alcohol-induced stupor. Through the haze and as if underwater, he could hear indistinct voices. He fought to gain control over his clouded mind. As he did the voices began to recede into the distance. He opened his eyes and forced them into focus.

  In the semi-darkness and about half a metre from his nose was a cotton and plastic wall with a garish pattern. It was the rear of a steeply reclined bus seat. He tried moving but realised he couldn't. Curled up in a tight ball, he was jammed between the aisle armrest and the side of the bus. Totally soaked in sweat, his right cheek was firmly stuck to the vinyl seat. With some difficulty he pried it loose, making a loud, ripping sound in the process. He cringed. Rubbing his cheek, he gripped the headrest of the seat in front and dragged himself into an upright position. He attempted to peer out of the window. It was dripping wet with condensation from the air conditioning. With limited success he wiped it partially dry with the sleeve of his jacket. Looking through the moisture-smeared window he could just make out some fuel bowsers and the facade of a roadhouse. Everything was bathed in a bright, urine-tinged light.

  Billy untangled himself. He stretched out his long, thin legs, clambered out from between the seats and stood up unsteadily in the narrow aisle. The rest of the vehicle was completely deserted. Fixing his sights on the windscreen at the front of the bus he lurched forward down the mild incline. Half jogging and flatfooted, he barely managed to avoid falling headlong down the curved stairs leading to the exit. He saved himself at the last minute by desperately grabbing the door frame. Gingerly he lowered himself down the last high step. He let out a slight sigh as he felt the comfort of terra firma solidly refusing to give way beneath his sneakers.

  Steadying himself on the open bus door he scanned his surroundings. The roadhouse and fuel pumps were well lit by several large floodlights, all of which were attracting a huge variety of insect life and were heavily festooned with spider webs. The bus itself stood on the circumference of the light, about ten metres from the roadhouse. Everything outside the reach of the lights was pitch black. He could make out the interior of the roadhouse and noted a few patrons sitting around tables. The reek of week-old cooking fat swept under his nostrils and he felt the bile rising in his throat. He spied a half-open door on the side of the building. The silhouetted figure of a gentleman in evening dress was placarded above the entrance. Billy held his breath, took careful aim at this newly acquired target and stumbled across uneven concrete to the door.

  Inside, a filthy basin coated in a fine layer of red dust jutted out from the wall. It was starkly illuminated beneath a single, flickering, fluorescent tube. To his left was a cubicle with a seatless toilet bowl. His eyes quickly snapped from one to the other. He chose the latter. He slammed one hand against the wall, leant over the toilet and puked up the contents of his stomach with a grunt. His head started throbbing. Stumbling out of the cubicle, he lunged towards the basin, caught himself and turned on the tap. There was a distant creaking sound, and thick, brown water gushed out before turning somewhat clearer a few moments later. He cupped his hands under the torrent and splashed water onto his face. He repeated this several times before taking a large mouthful. The water had a distinct, metallic taste. His vision, which had been somewhat nebulous up to now, began to sharpen. His head, however, was still thumping like a street percussionist with no sense of rhythm.

  Billy assessed his own features in the rusty mirror above the basin. He was in his mid twenties, of medium build, his skin having a slight brown hue, although his recent exertion had lent it a definite red tinge. His prominent nose was flat and spread broadly across his face. His hair was jet black with loose curls, which many a woman would have relished. It was difficult to determine his ancestry and at first glance you might presume he was of Indian or Pakistani descent. Billy gazed into his bloodshot eyes. Under healthier circumstances his right eye would have been a deep brown. His left eye was an odd mix of blue and green. He surveyed his creased shirt and, pleased that he hadn't soiled it, made a futile attempt to smooth it flat.

  Billy's eyes dropped to the gold chain around his neck, and a number of events over the past twenty-four hours began to drift into his consciousness. Not all of them were clear but one thing was: he had no idea where he was right now. Not wearing a watch, he also had no idea what time it was, or even which day. He knew that the chain signified his recent engagement to his girlfriend and that they had plans to marry soon. He feared that he would miss, or had already missed, that most importan
t of appointments. The ceremony was scheduled for the day after his buck’s party. The party itself had begun in the early afternoon, and he had spent it in the beer garden of his local pub with his friends, a group of ex-university students. They were all prone to consuming vast amounts of alcohol and also adept at planning boyish pranks. After spending several hours in the sun, combined with the alcohol, he had begun to feel decidedly unwell. Eventually, all ability to maintain clear vision deserted him. In the early evening his friends had offered to arrange to get him safely to bed and convinced him that he could sleep it off on the trip. He vaguely remembered them putting him in what he thought was the back seat of a taxi; now it was obvious the vehicle was quite a bit larger, and that there was more than one back seat. He had then drifted off into a comatose state, and that was the last thing he could recall.

  How his mates had managed to sneak him onto a bus was beyond him, but he knew they were capable of all sorts of miracles. In his university days he had once woken to find himself with his hands taped together, his body bound with rope to his mattress and in the centre of somebody's dorm room where a wild party was in full swing. He had vivid memories of a very drunken woman attempting to release him with a pair of scissors. Much to his distress, and being incapable of defending himself, he recalled the mortal fear he felt that she would sever more than just the rope. Later that night his friends had transported him, mattress and all, back to his own room. They had generously stopped on the way to tilt the mattress to one side and stick his head in a bucket, enabling him to perform what was commonly known, in college terms, as a technicolour yawn. It was clear that yet again he had been the victim of his own inability to curb his alcohol intake. It also slowly dawning on him that, unfortunately, this time a rescue party would not miraculously arrive to steer him back to the safety of his own bed.

  Billy shook his head violently and splashed more water in his face. It was time for decisive action. Clenching the basin firmly with both hands he stared intensely once more at his own visage, before doing a deft about-turn and stepping out into the darkness. He heard the driver gunning the bus’s engine. In panic he sprinted towards the road. Before he had reached it all that remained of the bus were its taillights dimming in the distance.

  'Shit!'

  He turned back to face the roadhouse and noticed that all the interior lights were doused. Another vehicle drove off somewhere behind the building, and then only the buzz of the floodlights competed with the noise of the myriad of insects encircling them.

  This was clearly not good.

  Pidgin

  Billy swayed silently on the steep shoulder of the highway.

  What now?

  Sullenly he turned and walked back down the road and into the relative security of the floodlights. On the side of the highway was a battered road sign peppered with bullet holes. It read:

  Welcome to the Middle of Nowhere.

  Population:

  Sheep: 22,500

  Flies: 2,000,000 (approx.)

  Humans: 6

  So where were the humans? Not to mention the sheep. As far as he could ascertain he was the only living thing in the immediate vicinity, except for the insects. He took a deep breath, turned his back on the roadhouse and, facing the blackness beyond, tilted his head toward the sky. His eyes slowly became accustomed to the dark.

  It was a hot, moonless night. Still. Deathly still. A cool wisp of breeze blew on his face. It made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. The buzz of the lights and bugs in the background sounded like a distant piece of industrial machinery running at high speed. He tuned it out and let the hushed darkness neutralise the noise. Silence closed in around him.

  The stars. Billy had never seen anything like them. He had spent his entire life in the city and rarely ventured out into the country. Except for the fireworks on New Year's Eve, he had never seen so many points of light in the sky. He was astounded. There were millions of them. A thick band stretched from one side of the heavens to the other. It was as if someone had taken a wet paintbrush and flicked white droplets in a wide sweep. He felt tiny, dwarfed under the celestial canopy, no bigger than the insects circling the floodlights behind him. He also felt incredibly alone. He was used to the clamour and noise of the city. There was always someone around. You were never completely isolated. Even when it was quiet at night you could still hear the hum of distant traffic. This much silence was abnormal. It was almost tangible. He felt it pressing down on him. All he could hear now was the self-inflicted banging in his head, and his blood rushing past his eardrums. It was very unsettling.

  For a moment he stared with a mixture of awe and bewilderment at the view above him. Then he lowered his gaze and a shiver ran down his spine. Standing in the glow of the roadhouse lights and on the opposite side of the highway was a figure. Billy sucked in his breath and held it. The figure appeared human at first. An Aboriginal man of indiscernible age. Its face was almost completely obscured by a long white beard, and it was slightly hunched over what appeared to be a metre-long club. Both its hands and its chin rested on the knobbled end of the club. However, the figure was, as far as Billy could make out, perfectly scaled down to about half the size of an average adult. It wore a long, dark cloak, draped loosely over its shoulders and stretching down to just below its knees. The cloak glowed strangely iridescent, reflecting the dim light from the roadhouse and appearing to subtly change colour as it flowed gently in the soft breeze. It was constructed entirely of feathers.

  Two other features stood out. First, its unshod feet weren't feet at all; they were the talons of some kind of bird. Fascinated and transfixed by them, Billy watched as one of them flexed and grasped at the loose stones at the edge of the highway. The talon buried itself a little in the soft sand. The other feature that caught his attention was its eyes. In the shadows it was as if they produced their own source of light. Their piercing, bluish-green intensity cut through him.

  Billy spluttered. He had forgotten to breathe. He took a few short gasps of air and attempted to compose himself. His head was swimming; the pounding in his temples had all but subsided to a dull thud.

  He heard his own voice enquire in his head, Who are you?

  To his surprise an answer came. 'You can call me Pidgin.'

  Billy was unsure if the voice had come from within his own head or from across the road. The sound of blood rushing in his head increased in volume. It completely enveloped him. His eyes locked onto those of Pidgin and he was drawn into them. Billy felt inexplicably pulled towards the strange bird-man and took one cautious step forward. He placed one foot on the edge of the asphalt. The road was warm beneath his feet. It still harboured the heat from a day of baking in the sun. Pidgin raised one hand, motioning Billy to stop. He held his ground.

  Suddenly the deafening sound of a klaxon and a blinding light came from Billy's left. An enormous road train roared between the two figures. The associated wind lifted Billy into the air and sent him flying backwards. He crashed down heavily in the dust. The vehicle rumbled off into the distance. Billy lay spread-eagled on his back in the dirt, his heart pounding furiously. He waited for his heartbeat to slow before propping himself up onto his elbows. He peered through the dissipating bulldust towards the other side of the road. There was nothing. Pidgin had vanished.

  The Interceptor

  Billy climbed painfully to his feet. Rubbing his hip and checking left and right for any other vehicles, he strode uncertainly to the centre of the highway. A single, rust-coloured feather floated down and came to rest on one of the dividing lines on the road. Billy stooped down and carefully picked it up. He closely scrutinised it, but there was nothing unusual about it. It was a perfectly ordinary feather. He slipped it into the back pocket of his stonewash jeans.

  He turned back to face the roadhouse and was shocked to see that, just like Pidgin, it had also disappeared. A surge of panic rose up within him. He swung around frantically and tried to get his bearings. In the bright starlight and with h
is eyes accustomed to the dark, he could clearly make out the curve of a road. He couldn't tell if it was the same stretch of road on which he had previously been standing or a new one. Apart from the highway there were a few lone trees and some low, bush scrub, and that was about it. Now more than ever he truly was in the middle of nowhere.

  What the hell is going on?

  He began to wonder if this was the real world. Perhaps at any moment he would wake from a dream. He pinched himself hard on his forearm. The pain was genuine and restarted the throbbing in his head.

  'Nope, that feels pretty real,' he said aloud, trying to reassure himself; but in doing so he startled himself with his own voice.

  In the distance he heard a vehicle approaching.

  'Better not be another truck,' he muttered.

  It sounded like something significantly smaller. He waited in the centre of the road and watched as the headlights approached. As the car neared he waved wildly, but it didn't seem to be slowing down. He yelled loudly, squinting at the piercing headlights. The driver saw him at the last minute and swerved. Billy remained anchored to the ground, petrified. The vehicle missed him by a couple of metres. One set of wheels left the hard tarmac and buried themselves in the soft shoulder, causing the vehicle to careen sideways. With tyres screeching in protest, it slid to a stop facing the opposite direction, amid a cloud of dust and the smoke of burning rubber. The engine died with a splutter.

  Billy was shaking violently but relieved that he was no longer alone. He shielded his eyes from the headlights and, after composing himself, walked slowly towards the vehicle.