Only If You Have To

Road

Mr Bats doesn't appear to be at home. His warehouse, really just a tin shed, is dark. But just inside the open door are four long steel grey boxes. Like what a guitarist might use on tour. Somebody stacked them neatly here, probably not too long ago. They can't have been left in the open all week. Doyle knew I'd cave. Or maybe he had a plan B.

I don't think I even have a plan A. It's like I tripped and fell into this mess. But I was aiming for the stone I fell on and have to figure it out from here. I put my hands on the first box, they're grey too. Somewhere in time there is an Alan Flag strong enough to lift a box of...whatever this is, by himself. But I'm not that man any more. I can barely find it in myself to strain before giving up. At least I ought to show that I tried. Ricky doesn't notice or pretends not to. But huffs the entire haul outside, opens an innocuous panel beneath the sleeper cab of his truck, and slides the boxes in.

“Not the first time my baby's moved cargo she's not supposed to.” He says, and slides the panel closed. I don't think anyone would see it if they didn't know it was there.

“True, but all other times it was at least cargo you were supposed to move, Mr Ricky. But these boxes are for Mr Al. What's going on.”

Mr Bats, Jeremy Bats to the unfortunates who know him personally, was when I last saw him a monstrously fat old man. Time and heat have made him look very old indeed. But they have also withered him down to a sliver of gristle and grease. Turning finds him seated, legs crossed on a milk crate, bum puffing a hand rolled smoke. Doyle and I disagree on many things but were always united that Jeremy Bats was functionally useless, lazy and petty. But that laziness has always meant he barely leaves his property unless he has to. Not that anyone in town misses him, though it does mean he finds it easy to keep his mouth shut.

“Well well” he says when he deigns to look at me. “Never thought I'd see you here again, I mean the boss wanted you of course. Needed somebody as special as this haul, real top of the range stuff. Still I did not expect to see you here Alan, especially not with him.” He says, jabbing at Ricky with the point of his smoke. Though he does surprise me a little. Something tempers his usually bitter tone. I'd laugh but he sounds disappointed.

“Paid internship” I respond, cutting him off his all I can do lest he drop my old name in his niggles. That would certainly be disappointing. Cutting him off works of course, he likes to take a moment to formulate a response. He can say what he likes while he has Doyle's protection. But I don't have time to listen to it.

“How I do my jobs is my business and the bosses, not yours. Now is there anything else, drop and transfer details?”

I try to keep as much steel in my voice as I can. The sooner this place is behind me the better. Bats is eyeing both Ricky and me hotly. After a moment he growls;

“Come with me a moment Al. Have your intern wait here.”

We pass through his shed, out a door in the back wall. Every step I keep my eyes on that door. Any further to the right and my peripheral vision might see two round holes. If someone were to approach them they would find that they could look perfectly through them. Almost as if they were cut with a pair of human eyes in mind.

I failed. I ran from this place and never looked back. How can the old man stand it? How can I stand it! I can handle this. I can handle this. Just don't look at the shed. Nobody saw me run from it. I couldn't stay to deal with that problem. Running from it is easier.

Bats lights another smoke in the shadow behind his shed. Across his small yard shielded by a tall fence sits a caravan on a bed of dead car batteries. The finest medical facility in town. The entire interior is cleared out to make room for an IV drip and a dozen fans spinning with all their might at a single stretcher. Until Mr Bats turns the light on there could be a skeleton lying on it. Its frame so completely emaciated and worn. But when the light comes on I recognise him. And worse still, he recognises me.

“Al” he says weakly. A brief tightening in his drawn cheeks evidence that he has strength to attempt a smile. But likely little more. Osrik Lee, the only man alive I'd not trust myself to out drive. My student of nearly five years. I remember him as a man barely out of his twenties and bristling with talent. Never failing to ply me with questions and never chickening out when competing for a corner. Before me now he looks starved to death and baked alive. Most carrion birds would probably ignore him.

“Where the hell have you been?” I say. Forgetting both myself and the presence of Jeremy Bats. I rush to Osrik's side. Breath whistles slowly in and out of Osrik's mouth. Then he croaks.

“A long way from you.” Then he does manage a smile. I offer him one in return. Osrik shuts his eyes for a moment, before I can voice any concern he starts talking.

“The shipwreck.” He coughs weakly, then draws a rattling breath. “The shipwreck a month ago. Not an accident. Supplies straight from Russia. Had to take it all across the White Centre. Couldn't do it. Nothing survives out there.”

That gets my attention. The huge salt pan that formed in its once red central desert as Australia baked alive has always been inhospitable. Only the best and the most determined make it across at all. To make it across solo you have to add in suicidal. Once it was my go to shortcut, and Osrik has made it across before. Indeed, he once made it across with me in pursuit. But this time it has laid him to waste.

I don't know what to say. Just how bad is it out there? Osrik is murmuring something.

“My pocket.” he says with a strain. “My jacket.”

I'm standing on his tattered sun jacket. It's light to pick up, but sturdy in the sun. And there is a thin slip of paper in the breast pocket. A string of numbers have been pencilled there by a failing, quailing hand. I look down at Osrik.

“My pay” he coughs “buried it at the edge of the white. I got family in Sydney. If I don't make it...”

He coughs again. I place a gentle hand on his skeletal shoulder. Osrik is laying a huge piece of trust on me. No, not on me, on the man he remembers. But the man I am now can still do this for him. I nod once, give his shoulder a gentle squeeze, and pocket the paper before Mr Bats, who I can sense now standing behind me, can read it.

As soon as the paper disappears inside my clothes I can feel Bats’ interest wane and he goes to find somewhere to sit down. Despite my concern for Osrik I feel a little satisfaction.

“Osrik” I say seriously. “I will finish the run for you. Then I will come back and we'll both go and get your pay. You're going to make it mate.”

“Be careful” he whispers “the roads are bad. Everyone wants what you're carrying.”

I lean in close enough to smell him. Sweat, dust and that sick smell of decay that speaks to a body on death's door. I can see the bandages under his baggy clothes. Osrik has been shot.

“What am I carrying, they won't tell me.” I whisper so softly I can barely hear myself. But Osrik hears me. And he raises his lips to my ear with a groan that seems to come from his entire body. He's shaking a little, weak voice stammering, but he gets out a single word.

“Michal-phadramine.”

I straighten in alarm. Everyone knows about Michal-phadramine. The new drug that boosts a human's immunity so much that the only thing likely to kill them is the sun. It's the rarest and most valuable thing on the planet. And somebody has stolen five boxes of it and chartered my old friend to get it across the country. Now I have to finish the job.

Osrik starts trying to speak again, then his voice fails. He lies still as death for just a moment, then takes a deep rattling breath. It sounds like he's saying 'nowhere'. But no, it takes several long moments but I recognise the words. I came up with them.

“Know where to hide. Know where to run...”

He leaves the sentence hanging. It feels a lifetime since I've heard those words. They seem childish to my ears now, but Osrik speaks them with all the reverence of a priest. It's the first password, the one every driver knows. He's looking for a sign that I am the man he remembers, a sign that his trust is not wasted.

I am not the man he remembers. But he can trust me. I intone to him softly;

“Live free or die. Die while we're young.”

The slogan finished Osrik shuts his eyes and rests his head back just a little. He's exerted all the energy he has to give me a piece of paper. A faint whistle escapes his nose, weak but study, in and out. He's gone back to sleep.

“Crazy g**k came in a week ago” Mr Bats cuts in. He's seated himself in the corner, atop an idle space heater, and lit another smoke.

“Showed up bleeding, raving mad. Said he'd been had and half the outback was on his tail. Been here a week now. Insisted on seeing you when he heard you were taking over.”

When Mr Bats stands up his body doesn't so much seem to bend as, well, squelch into the shape of a stooped, but standing old man. He doesn't bother approaching me, doesn't even meet my eye. He just jerks his head towards the shed and follows me outside. Through the shed we go, I keep my eyes rigidly forward.

“It's a dangerous road you're about to drive.” Mr Bats says, slowly. “Real dangerous, particularly near Melbourne. Sure you don't want to leave that piece of paper with me? Safe keeping you know.”

We're almost back at the truck. Ricky is leaning out the driver's window, he looks harried, one step away from hanging on the horn. I'm not even going to dignify Mr Bats and his ridiculous question. His keeping is about as safe as the mouth of a hungry crocodile. He knows that this is exactly what I'm thinking, so when we reach the truck he simply drops another piece of paper on the ground.

“A man provides for his family somehow I suppose. The boss left you that.” He grumbles, flicking his smoke at the paper on the ground. “Good luck with the internship Ricky” he adds by way of parting “hope your new boss is as spry as he used to be.”

Lord save my soul but he might just have found a way to cause trouble. But he's handed me a way to distract from it at least;

South side of the dunes under the seawall

Drive into the dunes. We will find you.

Ask for Selina

No trouble

No asking for trouble

No looking for trouble

No questions

Do not try to open a box or we'll know you did.

Memorise and Burn.

A friend of a friend.

Would they know if I took a peek in a box? Doyle knows I'd like to know my cargo. And God knows, Michal-phadramine. I feel better knowing I'm not carrying weapons, or a bomb into Melbourne. But there's no safe way to smuggle the elixir of life. Jane's lighter clicks open in my hand, the note flares up briefly. Just have to sink my teeth a little further into the magic lead.

“Oi Bats!” Ricky shouts belligerently to the stooped, disappearing back. “Get back here and tell us what it is we're moving.”

Ricky half opens the door. Bats slows down enough to give us a both an evil look over his shoulder.

“Run along now boys. No questions.”

My new paid intern looks about ready to charge into the night, where some workplace violence will likely ensue. Jeremy Bats’ soul is one of the few I don't hope to see in heaven, but this isn't worth it.

“He's an old man Ricky, let him go.”

The steel is still in my voice. But it's gone by the time I've stepped up close to Ricky's half open door.

“It's Michal-phadramine.” I whisper. And watch his face fall as I shut him inside the cab. He's cussing loudly while I walk to the passenger side. An unfamiliar side for me. Hopefully Ricky's done freaking out by the time I open the door.

With no trailer hooked to it my new intern's truck looks like a space ship. Maybe a less tired brain would come up with a better analogy but that's what I've got. It appears to have crashed as much as parked in the dirt. The cabin, motor and sleeper cab are all cradled within reflective solar panels. They glow faintly in the grey light. Each corner juts at a sharp angle. Four obtuse pyramids made of chromed steel, with the shortest side jutting over the ground. Though littered with splotches of rust they look quite intimidating. Walking around to the passenger side my perspective shifts. Set in front of the cabin is thick, tinted glass, a single piece wrapping around the front and sides. Like a central alien eye in a half-seen structure.

Ricky's face is set on the road in front of him when I open the door.

“No quitting now.” He says grimly. I think I make an acknowledgement but my eyes are closing even as the engine fires.

I read somewhere that the only sleep worth having goes to someone who isn't tired. Because someone who isn't tired isn't worried, and a worried man can't dream.

Whoever wrote that was almost certainly full of something. I think I slept through a third of a journey to Melbourne. The entire world could have flooded and I don't think I'd have noticed. And it's certain that I dreamed of something. A thick lather of sweat clings to my arms as I awake with a start. Half shouting in warning to half shapes of dread. It's all washed away by a stunning realisation.

It's cold.

Sunlight is stabbing faintly at my face; the whole night's been slept away. Indeed, the sun is so high that I should be baking alive, I should be blind looking directly at it. But the light is faint and I'm shivering. Soft music is playing. A low voice is crooning.

Went drifting down past old tires and rusty cans of beer

The angel of the lake whispered in my ear

Before you choose your wish son you'd better think first

With every wish there comes a curse.

Have I heard it before? I can't say. Sleep oozes from my eyes and the music cuts off before the second verse. Something about falling in love.

“If you didn't talk in your sleep mate I'd have sworn you were dead.”

Ricky is sitting back, smiling, one hand on the wheel, sun glasses perch and his white jacket hangs open. I'm riding shotgun on the way to Melbourne but I need to blink several times and draw a deep breath. Just to be sure that I'm not still dreaming. We're on the way to do a simple job that's going to solve all our problems.

“I talk in my sleep?” It's something to say.

“Not very clearly but you were lecturing something in your dreams. 'Blind corners' you kept saying, it seemed important to you. I put on music and you seemed to calm down. What was it all about?”

“Don't know.” I'm rubbing my eyes furiously. “Am I having a stroke or is it cold in here?”

Ricky raps the fingers of his free hand on the boxy centre console. It takes a moment to recognise it, an after-market A/C unit.

“Could be driving across Mercury right now and you'd never notice in here.” He says. I think of the huge solar panels adorning his truck like folded wings. But give a relieved sigh in lieu of continuing the conversation.

Life is full of questions you can't answer, like what was God's point in turning Lot's wife into a pillar of salt. Even Gina never has an answer for that. I've spent a lot of my life on long drives and the question I can never answer is this; how do you keep a conversation going on a long drive once you're past small talk and realise you barely know who you're riding with? Do you start probing questions? Do you ask about their hopes and dreams? Or is that too personal?

I used to drive at least once a month, long sprints all across the country. Back when you could rely on roads to go where they said they would. Few of those are left, just the highways between the cities, and a few bi-ways known by people who use them. People like Ricky who eke out a living on them. And I suppose there are still people like me. The criminal support class, the professional getaway driver. It's a good job if you like money but not violence. There's usually at least the skin of a car between you and the nefarious deed. All you have to do is get the doer of said deed somewhere quiet. Sometimes this means driving a long way. Sometimes you just have the nefariously taken cargo, sometimes it's human cargo. Those are the worst.

I miss radio. I mean miss proper, country spanning radio with music at all hours, not just close in to towns. And they mostly just talk on those anyway. I imagine that before humans learned to talk to each other we got very good at talking to ourselves. But sometimes talking to other people is maddeningly difficult. Time was I could keep my mouth shut and let the radio do the talking, no matter where the job had taken me. But it's different when you're in the passenger seat. It's been ages since I even sat in one. Is it rude to suggest we don't talk and listen to music? What about when the person you're asking is doing you the biggest favour of both your lives, and is being almost supernaturally calm about it?

Does Ricky even like music? Were the tunes he put on purely for my benefit? Does he in fact enjoy the silence?

I once had to drive two men and a woman from a mine on the west coast all the way to Adelaide, before it disappeared into the sea. We sat in dead silence for two days straight. All of us probably mulling the same questions. All of us wanting answers but afraid that disturbing the silence would disturb somebody else's peace. It wasn't until we were over the South Australian border that the woman cracked a 'knock knock' joke. And that was it.

In truth the best jobs were the ones I got to do alone. Moving contraband on wheels and wits. I could keep the silence back with all the music I wanted. Back then silence was the one thing I couldn't stand, especially while driving and sober. It left me with nothing to do except mull what I was doing. When you're shipping contraband medicine it's easy, you can at least pretend it's going to people who need it.

One time I had to ship a box of body parts. Someone had killed a politician and wanted it buried on the other side of the continent. That one wasn't so easy, in truth the entire month following it is a black haze to me.

Every job has the same feeling. It starts with a lightness in my limbs. As if the slightest need could see them fly in any direction. A kind of ringing tension takes over, you don't just feel ready to launch at the slightest provocation you're practically begging for it. Then comes the first sharp turn, the first hard acceleration and you sink into a pool of readiness. It's a lot like the tension that comes from working the chasm, but easier, more graceful, like a whip coiling towards a target.

None of that feeling accompanies this job. Maybe it's because I'm not driving.

“Hey Alan, you ever seen snow?”

I almost laugh, this happened often. Someone stops mid-way through their own internal monologue and decides that conversation needs to be made, and so vocalise whatever next step exists in their train of thought.

“I once watched an old movie called 'Die Hard', that had snow in it. One Christmas no less.”

That's enough of a prompt I think, Ricky smiles.

“I've seen it too; did you know it had nine sequels before the main star died. Then they tried a reboot; Die Hard X. It was awful. But every Christmas I get a few old DVDs from family and I always try and find ones with snow in them. I can't even imagine what it would be like to see it, to feel it. Everything cool and soft and no sun trying to kill you. It's just magical.”

He might well have a point. I nod.

“Point is.” He says after a breath, then takes another one. Like he can't truly believe he's saying these words out loud. “Point is this. Once this is over I'm going to find somewhere that still has snow. I hear Canada's nice. I'm going to learn to ski and maybe raise snow dogs, always liked dogs. You never have to guess what they're thinking, they either want to eat or they want to play. What do you think Alan, dogs and snow? Never have to worry about roasting to death again.”

I smile back. “You're not suggesting we run away together are you?”

It's the right move I think. Ricky's smile turns cheeky.

“And come between you and Gina, wouldn't dream of it. Remember that time you punched me in the face?”

“Odd change of subject, but I do.”

“No no, let me talk for a second. After you did that a lot of things started straightening out, I was still angry though. Angry at everything and I guess I fixated that on you for a while. Then one of the geezers in the group told me about when you first showed up. You told everyone you were there because your wife refused to have s*x with you until you gave up drinking. That true?”

It is, well mostly anyway. Gina flat out refused to see me until I stopped stinking of scotch. But I have no doubt that the way that abusing the bottle cripples your bed room performance certainly had something to do with it. I nod again, it's good to see Ricky talking freely.

“Anyway, I found out that after a few weeks you caved to the entire group, told them all it wasn't really about the s*x. You just couldn't stand feeling like you'd wronged her. You'd do anything for her.”

Our eyes meet, he nods his head forward a little. Universal code among men for 'listen up mate I'm serious.'

“I started blubbering like a schoolgirl on her first breakup when I heard that story. I think it's crazy having something you'd do anything for. Crazy but beautiful. She's the reason you're doing this aren't you?”

“She is. Her and Jane.”

“Pardon me for saying Alan, but this is not a small thing for you is it?”

“It's a huge thing for both of us.”

“I guess, but degrees mate. I've never been averse to the odd smuggling job but you. The churchiest man in town, this is a much bigger deal for you isn't it?”

Ricky's trying to get at something. Something he certainly thinks is important. I wonder, does he view this as just another 'smuggling job'. I suppose he would. There's no way he'd know that Doyle wanted me to do it specifically, or why. He's still talking.

“Everyone in town knows what Doyle has to offer, but you didn't take his money when Jane left. I don't blame you for that. But now you're jumping at this chance. Something has changed with Gina hasn't it?”

The words “she's dying” pass my lips even as the thought forms in my mind. I've never said them out loud before but it's true. She won't last much longer. Something has to change, even if it involves doing something she would hate. Something I hate too. I've been saying that over and over in the back of my mind since I first started this venture. But saying it all would be plaintive, I'd feel weak in front of Ricky. One thing I remember clearly from the old days, nobody helps you if they think you depend on them. Let them feel magnanimous for doing you a favour and leave it at that.

I'm distracting myself. Good God but I need a drink.

“I brought home a carton of water one day. Left for work the next morning without drinking any. When I got home I found the whole thing tipped out on the kitchen floor. Swirling around a puddle of sick. The chemicals they use to treat it hadn't been filtered properly, and a big dose of it ended up in my wife's system. That was, I don't even remember how long ago. It's like she's always been sick now. We thought that it would pass right through her, she'd vomit the poisons out and we'd keep on surviving. But she's getting worse, I don't think she's even left the house in months. I have to do something.”

“You're doing something incredible Alan. Something crazy sure, but the best things in life are the ones we're willing to go crazy for.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I'm the sanest man alive.” He said, his smile turning wry. “And I probably will be until I die. Just keep on surviving, and if we pull this off go somewhere with snow. That's about all there is to it.”

“Might be too cold though.”

Ricky lifts an open palm, a gesture like a half shrug.

“So, I'll have to wear a lot of heavy clothes. It's nothing new.” He says, flicking the open hand towards his open sun-suit. “I don't mind carrying extra weight. But what about you? I can understand a righteous man doing something crazy for love. But how are you handling it?”

“Fine.”

It's true in its own way. I haven't really thought through the ramifications of what I'm doing beside the fact that I might fix things this way. Ricky can't know how many times I've done this. I guess it's easy to slip from a desperate scenario to a familiar one.

“Of course your fine. You're not dead. But do you think God has an opinion on this?”

There's no way of knowing what God thinks of all this. Surprisingly, not knowing what I'm moving almost makes it easier. True I could be shipping a bomb, but I could also be shipping badly needed medicine. With Doyle it's usually some nasty strain of drugs. But maybe God, who knows everything including this trip's cargo and my reasons for taking it, can look the other way on this. Or maybe he can't and I'm damning myself in return for Gina's life, but maybe Jane's as well.

“Maybe he's completely on my side. Maybe I'm entirely alone.” I say “I could give in to the sense that I'm doing wrong right now. Jump out of the cab and leave you to it. But nothing would change.”

I find an easy way to tell is how many questions they let you ask. One job I knew stank when they wouldn't let me get a word in. Nothing would have changed, just a different driver. And I needed the job. I needed it bad. But I'd trade every scrap I earned to undo that job. I'm paying for it right now as I drive.

He meets my eyes and speaks quietly, almost respectfully. The way spoke after hitting eighteen months sober.

“We'll handle this Alan. If you can do that you can handle God.”

And he smiles. In Ricky's mind I'm probably swept with the jitters of a first time criminal. They are easy to handle it's true. You just keep on saying 'I can handle it' until you either believe it or can't ignore your inability to handle it anymore. That's where people die or quit, I'm well past it. I don't where I am.

“I can handle it” I say and Ricky smiles a little wider.

“Shut your eyes for a little longer. I know the best place for lunch.”

I shut my eyes for his sake, but behind the lids is a brain that won't stop spinning. When there's nothing to block the knowledge that you can't handle this anymore, but you're past the point of backing out. The only thing you can do is keep looking to the front, ignore everything else until the job is over. Anything close enough to be worth checking your blind spots for deserves to catch you, keep charging forward.

Even so I badly want to look over my shoulder. The scars on my back are prickling like I'm being watched. And though it's now far from sight behind us my mind keeps tracking towards the shed we picked the cargo from. Something about it set Ricky on edge, I'm not surprised. Doyle does a lot of dirty work in that shed. I think of those eye holes cat in the wall and wince. I cannot let them drag me back. If I’ve learned nothing else in the last two years it’s that if you pretend something long enough you start becoming it. And so, I feign sleep long enough for actual sleep to find me.