Only If You Have To

Recalling The Blood Marsh

I can't keep up with my breath. The steering wheel weighs a tonne. I drove for two hours, straight down the gully to the ferries. And I've driven for maybe twenty minutes since we left them. But the wheel feels heavy as lead in my hands. And my hands feel made of stone. I keep a slow, monotonous pace up the hill. If I knew that marsh was haunted I wouldn't want to get away faster than I want to now. But I just can't make myself go faster. I feel like I've spun a thousand miles worth of tire rubber in one place.

Something bumps under the wheels. The back-left tire sinks into a pothole then jolts out of it. Ricky doesn't wake up. If he didn't talk in his sleep I'd have sworn he was dead. The truck feels strange in my hands, and I can't hold it for long. We're passing through the last of the scrub, Melbourne's side of the marshland. The coast road awaits with law, order, or something like it anyway.

Everything is just a little too heavy. Like steering with the brakes on. Though we do little more than coast up the hill away from the marsh I feel like the speed is weighing me down. Maybe it's just an echo from other times behind the wheel. But I wouldn't be able to hear it, my head is throbbing too hard.

Another pothole, shallower this time. And the tires don't hum quite so loud. Little things like these my ears always listen for, even when the rest of me is otherwise occupied. Even when I'm miles away from a car. The only time I have ever forced myself to turn off the basic habits of the road has been perched on the edge of a chasm. The little signs that you're heading towards a better stretch of road.

There also are signs that a road is about to get very very bad. The horizon starts to break and ripple. More dead things are piled up. And while some bad roads will sport the husks and shadows of trees, on truly bad roads the earth has no life at all. It's so quiet you might be driving through outer space, save for the sound of a motor burning through the night. Even so the horizon is never flat, always the ground is giving way, falling into stinking marshland. The white salt pans have taken over the red centre. So instead the red has bled inland from the coasts, tonnes and tonnes of sandstone beaten down to dust and carried inland by rising seas. Though those brackish rivers bake in the sun their cargo soaks into the land. That and anything else washed loose by flooding. A little from a coal mine here, a little industrial run off there. And so, the land sunk beneath brackish swamp that stinks of iron, bleach and a little sewerage for good measure. But above all the hateful smell of blood.

To look at one, smell it and take in all the filth that seemed to be just falling into it was like a vision of hell. In all my years I had driven far to avoid these ever more ubiquitous landmarks, when I could. But Melbourne was slowly being besieged by them.

Has been besieged, I should say. A year ago, several of the large areas gone this way started knitting together, forming a sickly red brown moat around the city which had already raised high walls against the sea. Strange to think about, but on the left as the truck crests the hill is a bent and twisted little tree. The poison is already in the ground, soon this hill will go the way of swamp as well. But it doesn't stink yet. And Ricky is still tied up in the back.

I had to tie up Ricky but we got across the marsh. In truth I think I could have blinked and it was over. I don't want to dwell on that sickly place, too much of this job has already felt unhealthy. But Ricky will have to drive now if we continue.

He's held down by a cargo strap running fully around his bunk, arms pinned to his sides, his head inside his helmet under a pile of his clothes. Muffled as it is I can still hear his profane yelling.

“And don't you f*****g lecture me about my f*****g language right now. Kill the engine, I said just get us to the marsh. You'd have barely had to touch the f*****g steering wheel.” Is the first of many things I can make out from him as I duck into the sleeper cab.

“Relax” I say, not bothering to inflect it.

“Relax, we're across the marsh. I thought I'd let you sleep for a while.”

“After you tied me up! f**k you Alan.”

It's tempting to leave his helmet on him. He sounds pre-pubescent in his hysteria, it's almost funny.

“Tied you down” I reply calmly “so you could sleep. You have that strap in here for that exact reason. Rex told me this happens all the time.”

Though still blind with sleep Ricky finds a way to struggle desperately for a second, but he recovers enough to sit up.

“Sorry, last thing again?”

“Rex, at the ferry. She told me they often have to tie you down when they cross the water. I told her you were fast asleep but she said to tie you down anyway.”

He stares at the hand I offer him, he looks puzzled. Odd but it's a face I can remember seeing on Jane many times. Whenever she got played by a good twist while reading she'd sit still. She'd try her hardest not to react. But there would still creep across her face this slow tightness towards her eyes. As she got older it started showing as faint lines. Ricky has deep lines pulling in the same direction. It's a face that says, of all things, 'wow, I really should have seen that coming.'

He finds his own feet however, and we slip into the cabin with only a shared nod. Still he is shrunken in his seat, concerned.

“I know you want to keep going but tell me what happened.”

“Your friends got us across the water fast, I only had to touch the wheel a handful of times. A storm is almost on us and you had a nightmare.” I say. My heartbeats slowing as my body forgets its frenetic action down there.

“I'll tell you on the way. Come on.”

Ricky relents at that. Flicks to switches behind the steering wheel, a third on the dash, then pumps the clutch three times. The switches were an easy enough guess, having no other obvious use. But the clutch was clever, must have taken some engineering.

“Alright, but first what happened back there. Alan, this is important, don't miss any details. I want to know what happened and why. Besides, it's still an hour at least to the city. And the road is pretty good now. Only thing to worry about are checkpoints, and nothing to be done there.”

“Where should I start?”

“Start with what happened crossing the marsh.” Ricky says quickly.

As requests go it isn't unreasonable. Queasy as it made me feel it was fresh in my mind. And it's not like Ricky wouldn't just ask Rex if he wanted to know anyway.

“You'd fallen fast asleep as soon as we were finished with the fuel. About a half hour later, just as the sun was starting to properly set, the taste of blood started filtering into the truck. That was when I knew we were almost at the marsh. The sun was still up but the clouds were drawing closer and closer together. It didn't take a genius to see the storm would start during the night.”

“So, you wanted to get across the marsh as fast as possible.”

“Yes, it was the smell more than anything. It's foul down there, like...”

“Like the whole continent's got blood in its stool?”

“Yeah” I say with a dark smile. “Though that's not how Rex put it.”

“No, it isn't. And it isn't what gets me about it either. It's that chemical tang that's underneath everything. It's the worst thing about that mess, it's at least half made of our attempts to clean it up. But go on Alan. Give me the full story.”

As a show of good faith, he starts driving forward in earnest, giving me the floor. The sudden uptick in speed has me choke a little on the faint, but still cloying, taste in my throat. A deep breath is in order, I've thrown up enough for one day.

“It wasn't just the smell, though I'll say again I think that stuff got into every pore. It was the quiet of the place too. I left the engine idling but it barely cut through it all. I'd probably have killed for a forlorn bird cry. Maybe three dozen people in baggy waders were standing around, keeping to the long shadows of half dozen wooden sheds on tall stilts. I couldn't see any ferries or anything like that. It had me worried. Maybe they were all across the river. If it stormed, and it looked likely, then we'd be left on this side for God knows how long. If the place flooded we'd have to go back.”

“You needn't have worried about the last one. Those sheds are for vehicles during storms. Speaking of which, I want to be on solid road when this one hits.” Ricky chimes in, though seemingly only to fill a gap while I draw breath. There words bump into each other out of his mouth, he's trying very hard not to be nervous. But he's gripping the wheel very hard as he accelerates up the hill toward the highway, checkpoints, the city, the seawall, and the gathering storm.

“Rex was surprised to see me driving. Actually, he pulled a gun on me. Thought I'd stolen your truck.”

At this Ricky makes a sound half way between a growl and a chuckle, partly an affirmative grunt, partly a 'hmm', it comes out sounding like he's gargling glass. It's like he can't decide what reaction to make but wants to make one. Wants me to know he's making one too.

“Ricky do you want to hear what happened or not? If you've got something to say, say it. But let me tell the story right.”

I'm allowed to get irritated with him, I've had a long day. Though from the way Ricky jumps at my tone I don't think he agrees. The steel came out again, perhaps it was an overreaction, perhaps. Either way he relents, grips the wheel a little tighter and hunches forward.

“As I was saying. Rex pulled a gun on me so I arrived at the ferries with my hands behind my head. Inside the truck you don't notice how bad it smells outside. My first breath upon leaving the cab had me gagging. The air was salty, rancid. But we were between a rock and a hard deadline so I let them take me over to the shed.

“I told them to go look in the sleeper cab, they'd find you there and could wake you if they tried. I think they did try for about fifteen minutes while I sat in the shed fidgeting. Everyone in there had guns it was like they were showing off. Even the ones who pole the ferries across had bulges under their muddy aprons. And none of them seemed pleased to see me. And then I a kid ran into the shed with a rifle on his back that was almost as tall as he was.”

“That would have been Jason, Rex's boy, and his pride and joy for the last five years. He thinks that if he has a son bearing his name then a part of him will live on. Assuming of course he doesn't outlive the planet.”

Ricky looks sideways at me, smirking.

“He wouldn't outlive it very long mind.”

“That kid's only five years’ old?”

Ricky grunts. I think that butting into the story might just be part of Ricky's nature, especially if it gives him an excuse to spit some more venom at the world. I can't say I blame him for that. But if he can keep the interruptions brief then I can tell him what he wants to know. I continue.

“The whole place stank so badly I thought I might throw up again. When Rex got back she sent everyone else out, asked who I was moving for, and what it was. The usual questions I suppose. Said they'd not even gotten a stir from you, which surprised her. More surprised when I said I couldn't tell her what we were moving, and if she tried opening the boxes then our employer would know. But as soon as I said the words 'Peter Doyle' she seemed to understand. Said that if he was involved then things were best kept 'reasonable'. She also said you were well ahead on your account with them and they could get us across by morning.”

At that I give him an approving smile. Every man has one thing they always get right. For me that's been turning up to meetings. For Ricky, it seems, he's kept the passage to Melbourne open.

“But I told them morning wasn't good enough. Even though you could smell the storm like an open wound, you couldn't taste it yet. It wasn't yet right on top of it. I guessed there was still a few hours and told Rex as much. He told me of some very unsavoury places I could go instead. I offered money.”

“And he wouldn't take it.” Ricky adds in so smoothly we could have rehearsed it.

“No, he wouldn't. I offered a lot of money and he still wouldn't.”

“So” Ricky says, eyeing me, “I'm mighty curious how we got across. Tell me every word you said to him.”

Truthfully this is where the story gets difficult, and I'd have neither Ricky nor anyone else hear any of it if I could. But I know my intern won't relent. The same way I knew in the moment in that boat shed that I could not relent. If I did then the window for delivery would slip. It would ruin me completely. The first thing I did gives me no pride at all, but the second hides in the long shadow of shame.

I had seen the boy, though I didn't know his name I'd guessed from the look that he was Rex's. Though he looked a lot older than five, only he and Rex wore cleft chins. Add in the narrow eyes that might have come out of Asia a century ago, before most of it disappeared under water, and you had a near guarantee.

I had also glimpsed a tattoo on his neck. Three black diamonds and one red, all angled to point at the right shoulder. A strange tattoo, uncommon. It meant that Rex was one who knew the highway passwords, any driver with the protection of a major organisation could quote them on entering someone else's territory and generally pass unopposed. Anyone who tried waylaying knew the consequences. The tattoo has gained some notoriety, and some, I think, wear it for only that reason. But everyone who matters, in the criminal world at least, respects that tattoo. The only mark held more sacred is the mark of the phantom.

The password I had used referred to an old tattoo under my right arm. Only my wife, Aysha, and my employers ever saw it. And by the time I'd gotten old enough to consider having it removed it had become as big a part of my legend as my middle finger.

It took a long silence for me to decide what to do next. But it only takes a breath for me to know what to say to Ricky.

“I told Rex that she would be wise if he ferried us across with all speed, and took the money offered. I told him that would be the 'reasonable' thing to do. Then I added 'especially with a kid around'. For effect you understand.”

The top of Ricky's head nearly hits the roof.

“You threatened Rex's boy! You! You made the threat to his face?”

He takes a second look at me, proper amazement baked into it.

“And your neck is still intact despite it. You've got stones Alan. I'll give you that. But you know 'Rex' isn't the guy's real name, right? He's taken it as a title, figures that once Melbourne is surrounded by marshland there'll be nothing to stop him taking over, first in a long line of marshland pirate kings, or something like that. Jason is his precious crown prince. The last time I saw someone so much as shove that kid Rex made them drink a pint of marsh water.”

Ricky shakes his head.

“If that boy lives long enough to grow up he's going to grow up lacking any ability to cope without daddy. It might even be funny. Still, you threatened him to Rex's face?”

“You're over reacting. I didn't actually threaten the kid. I just happened to allude to Peter Doyle and everyone knows how much that man loves children.”

Down goes the window and I catch a face full of bloody stench as I spit into the wind. It's not even for effect. The thought of what that man did disgusts me, and I allow it to disgust me so that it won't drive me to rage. Even though giving in to it feels so good. Nothing can really be solved by breaking noses.

Ricky doesn't need to know about the long seconds snaking together after Rex had rebuffed my offer of a quarter share for passage tonight. Half of my share, but in the moment, it seemed worth it. In fact, anything seemed worth it, in that moment, to get across the marsh and have nothing between me and the money but a short stretch of road. I decided there was no line I wouldn't cross for this, it was too important. And maybe Ricky was right, God might redeem me later.

He might even have been listening when I asked that he look the other way. He might also burn me in hell. But in that moment, I knew there was only one way to find out, because you never know how much luck you have left until you push it. I gave in to the part of me that even the other parts of me don't like. In short, I was my old self.

“And it worked?”

“Ask Rex yourself when we head back.”

Rex will tell him exactly that too. Because after he had scoffed at my threat, but before he got angry, I rose to my feet and showed him the thin, black ink line under my right arm. The skin has started to sag and I have to stretch it out with my fingers. But the ink reads clear as sunrise.

HH209

“The mark of the phantom.” Rex had breathed in amazement. His anger stopped dead in its tracks. Or it did for the space of that breath anyway. Then he found the laughter from when I first threatened him and deployed it more forcefully.

“You know what it means then?” His voice rasping but clear, still chuckling. He didn't need to add 'if you are who you say you are.'

“Don't stop me.” I said, I will not lie, it felt incredibly satisfying doing it. When I had gotten that tattoo, high on life and a few other things, I'd pictured being able to quote the line in exactly a context like this. Actually, that's not true, I pictured the context being much more glamorous but needs must. And the desired effect was almost instant, Rex actually offered to take me across for free, though I insisted he keep everything business as usual. In fact, it would work better for me if his people thought I'd threatened my way across. The phantom will go throw his last job the way his name implies.

Ricky shrugs.

“I'm thankful enough that it worked. Never seen Rex react to a direct threat with anything other than a shotgun.”

There's something I need to know from Ricky but he is pressing me again before I can open my mouth.

“So, what happened crossing the marsh?”

“Rex got us together a ferry crew. Eight men as motley as they were muddy. All draped up in a few layers of plastic and rubber. With bit clear plastic cones on their heads and cigarettes shoved up their noses. They looked the way people pictured astronauts before there were astronauts if you know what I mean.”

“Not really.” Ricky grumbles “but I've seen Rex's crew before. I can guess.”

“They pulled a raft up to the shore that was only a few feet wider than the truck on each side. Apparently, it used to be for moving tanks through marshes, and the dozen hollow skids on its underside actually made it more buoyant the more weight it carried. I wasn't going to ask how. I just sat in the truck hoping the water stayed well away. It looked like thin tomato soup. Almost appetizing, but even on my empty stomach I wasn't going to eat anything so slimy or alien. If it was tomato soup it was soup that had been digested a few times.”

Ricky laughs at that, though he still looks grumpy. No, not grumpy, nervous. Something about this story still worries him. I'll give him all the details.

“Rex joined us for the trip across. Said he'd be there to make ready for our return trip after the storm. I think he wanted his own hands ready in case the storm came early. But it meant I had to talk with him in the cab for a good hour.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Mostly how great his kid is. You're right mate, poor thing will grow up spoiled rotten. Rex insisted we take him with us, he was sitting behind me in the cab. Never once let go of that rifle.”

It's not a lie. The one time I got the conversation onto safer ground was when I prompted Rex about his son. But there'd been plenty more that Rex and I had talked about.

“So, what happened out on the water?”

We had set out in the last half rays of sunset, the ferry running smoothly into the mud without a care to for the weight of the truck. Treated wooden grates sunk into the mud at the front and back, pushing it aside and making it easy to slide over the marshland. I also noticed that they created permanent ramps down into the water at both ends. Apparently, that is so a vehicle can be driven off in a hurry should the craft become unstable. Not for the vehicle's safety but to ensure the ferry could be stabilised. And no crew lost in the mud. The possibility of being cast out into the mud to slowly drown and decompose alongside your vehicle must just be a hazard Rex's customers learned to tolerate. I wondered how many rusting hulks were out there in the marsh, and if they'd all really been forced out for safety.

Rex tied Ricky down with surprisingly gentle hands and explained that my intern was terrified of the marshes, prone to panic attacks, and preferred to cross this way. I didn't say anything lest I find myself tied down as well. Then he'd sat his boy down next to Ricky and ordered him to keep watch. There was something funny about the way Jason had looked Ricky, he was just a little too happy with his assignment. I had asked upon sitting in the cab why, if the storm made things so dangerous, Rex was bringing his son along with us. I was in no way ready for the response. Rex had a good conversation voice, strong enough to carry any word he wanted to say, but low enough that you never felt like you were being shouted down. But he didn't want a conversation so much as an audience.

“My son never leaves my sight. He is my greatest investment. I might run the ferries through here but he will run everything once law and order retreats inside the cities. It's already happening, even in just the last two years there've been fewer and fewer patrols through the marsh. Soon there'll be none at all. It's the way of the world you see. When the world changes, the people in charge will change too. The cities will still exist, they'll still have the most money and the most guns, to start with at least. But they will not control the territory because the territory has changed.

Now it's my territory, and my son will have all of it. You will see if you live long enough. And I know, I know, you've driven the length of the continent at least once. But you never went to the cities if you could help it. I don't think you understand the way things are now.

Do you like the way the marshes smell? Of course not. But Jason, he doesn't even notice it. Can you believe that? A whole continent is taking a huge blood-stained s**t into these marshes and I imagine Jason's son will grow up actually liking the smell. By the time my great grandchildren rule this marsh they will be the frontrunners of human evolution. We will change with the territory rather than seal ourselves away from it. My great grandchildren's great grandchildren might not even be recognisably human. And that is a very good thing.”

Rex had gone on to quiz me about every rumour he'd ever heard concerning the phantom. Had I really once driven the length of the White Centre in just twenty hours? What about the time I'd helped an outfit in Brisbane rob a bank by driving away with the entire bank, security stand and all? When over a hundred pursuit cars had followed me into the desert while I was transporting stolen documents, had I really evaded them by ditching the car and hitching a ride on home on one of the pursuit cars.

I kept my answers short. The White Centre story was true, the fact that I spent most of it napping with a brick on the gas pedal doesn't change that fact. And yes, I did indeed escape the stickiest situation of my life by hitching a ride in a police car. The police, you see, were looking for a black fella in a speeding car, a black fella destitute by the side of the road is much easier to overlook.

And yes, a mob in Brisbane had robbed a bank by stealing the building it was in. But don't ask me how they did that. At the time I was busy driving across the Nullarbor and avoiding cities like the plague.

But then Rex got to the question he really wanted answered.

“What happened two years ago, why did the phantom go away? And why is he back now?”

While this question was unwanted it certainly wasn't unexpected. And I had an answer ready that didn't involve lying.

“On that you'll have to trust me. The reason I can't talk about this job is the same reason I've been off the map for two years.”

It did enough to satisfy Rex. I caught a faint smirk in the half light. But then his eyes were drawn to the sky and he rolled down the passenger window. The taste of blood was thick on the air. Out towards the coast I could see solid shadows whirling in the sky. Storm was almost upon us. And that, I think, is what Ricky mostly wants to know about. Because I could see the bolts of lightning flickering and blazing on that storm wall like giant fireflies.

“You want to know what happened when you woke up?”

“Every detail.” Ricky says again, not looking away from the road.

“Three things happened at the same time. The first clap of thunder rolled over us from the storm, you woke up screaming, and something knocked against the underside of the ferry.”

“Something?”

“I had no idea what but it scared the hell out of Rex. Me too. The man had just finished telling me about the crocodiles in the marsh.”

“Crocodiles?” Ricky's eyebrows are almost at his hairline. He looks like he's waiting for the punchline but all I can do is push ahead with what Rex told me.

“He told me crossing the marshes, even during a storm, is really the safest thing you can do, or would be if not for the crocodiles. Big ones, bleached white by the ocean then died pink by sediment. Impossible to see, but they find it difficult to see too. If, however you so much as make some noise in a hundred miles of them and they'll be churning water all around you. See they can't survive as ambush predators living on other local animals. They're an apex predator in an empty food chain. But why waste time on small prey when large prey paddles merrily through your territory every other night. So now they hunt people, and they hunt in packs.”

The longer I talk the tighter Ricky's face grows. Until, unable to control himself, he bursts out laughing.

“The albino crocodiles story, Rex really sold you on that? Alan the marsh crocodiles have been an urban legend since the marshes first showed up. The whole country is full of stories like that. Carrion birds grown so large they can take down light aircraft, snakes that can swallow you whole, water so polluted you go blind just by looking at it, and giant, pack hunting albino crocodiles!”

At the last he breaks into shuddering laughter again. I've nothing to do but laugh along with him for several minutes. Though I'm not sure what I'm laughing at. Eventually a slight bump and a quietening of the tires gets Ricky's attention and he can string words together again.

“There must be a dozen rumours like those ones flying around. Half of them were started by me! Rex pays good money for anyone making additions to the rumour mill. Keeps people scared and his ferries undisturbed.”

Ricky breaths in deep and favours me with a smile.

“You really don't get out much, do you Alan?”

He's still smiling, letting twitches of joviality in at the edges. But his voice makes the question somehow too pointed. I should have something funny or clever ready but all Ricky gets is a dumb silence.

“Well, I know I wasn't woken up by a swarm of hungry crocs. For my money if Rex got spooked it means a rival outfit was making a play. Using the storm as cover, brave move.”

He sounds worryingly certain of this.

“It wasn't the authorities? That's what was worrying me.”

Actually, from the moment the ferry started tilting I'd been thinking about albino crocodiles. But I can add that to the list of things Ricky doesn't need to know.

“Quick way to tell if it was the authorities.” Ricky says thoughtfully “did you hear any gunfire?”

“No, just the thunder.”

Ricky swallows in response but nods along with himself. He's on edge but trying to hide it. It explains why he was so keen to laugh when he got the opportunity. I don't blame him for being on edge, the marshes are a horrible place.

“No gunfire means whoever else was out there didn't want to be noticed by the authorities. They don't patrol the marshes like they used to but shoot off a gun in there and they'll come running. Someone saw an opportunity when you talked Rex into making such a late crossing. Now, come on. Every detail.”

“Once the thunder clap had passed we could both hear you shouting.”

“What was I saying?”

“Ricky! Will you let me get two sentences out? All I heard you saying was 'no no no, no don't look at me' and a whole lot more that neither me nor Rex could make out. We weren't really paying attention. Happy?”

No no no, no don't look at me. I know those words well. They belong to a man who looked at an evil face and faced the knowledge he had made it. It could have been a mirror. But the old man didn't hear me say anything damaging. I can handle this.

Ricky nods firmly.

“The back-left corner of the ferry was underwater, I could see the crew running about on the deck trying to rebalance it. Jason shot into the cabin and told us 'the crazy man's awake'. Rex looked at him, looked at me. Then he looked around. There was a little red light coming in from the west, but you couldn't see more than ten feet in any direction. Not far enough to tell what was going on. But the ferry kept tilting and Rex informed me that the truck had to go. It was about eight hundred metres of soft mud to the shoreline. We made it, I don't know if Rex did. I just kept going.”

Whatever Ricky was expecting to hear it's abundantly clear he hasn't heard it. He pulls the truck over, leaves the engine idle. Something like amazement is creeping across his face, warring with haggard concern.

“You drove my truck through the blood marsh itself?” Amazement doesn't cut it, he's downright incredulous.

“Yes, I did, is that a problem?”

“It'll be a problem if I don't clean it soon but that's not the point. I know the stretch you drove through. It's all soft mud, softer than quicksand and lethal to touch. Get stuck in that mud and in a day your vehicle rusts from under you. You drove through that and got out? I don't believe you. This was the first time you've driven my truck, and you've never driven one before.”

He slaps a hard hand against the dashboard. Then turns to me with a violent gesture, like someone who's already explained simple arithmetic two dozen times to a smart mouth toddler.

“There's no way in hell that I could pull that off and nobody knows my truck the way I do. I couldn't do it, f**k me but I doubt even the phantom could do it. How did you manage it?”

When the ferry started going down Rex had the door open in a heartbeat, scanning the darkness but seeing nothing. He looked towards the far shore, then to me, then to his son sitting in the back. His face was grim but his voice carried firm.

“Less than a kilometre to solid ground. Mud is two feet deep.”

When I hesitated, he socked me once in the shoulder, and then his voice lost any trace of composure.

“Get my son out of here! I know you can do it. Drive!”

When he yelled that last word, I felt things inside me break. I felt spasms of nervous energy run through, breaking into the places where I'd hidden old reflexes. I felt 'Alan' break apart. Two years of meticulous and painful work to become a man different to the one I had been. A dam against a flood of instinct that I'd built within myself shattered like thin glass in a bonfire. 'Al' was waiting underneath, he never left, he had just been resting for a while. And as the first spike of adrenaline flooded my brain I felt more alive than ever in either of my lives. I didn't know if there were gangsters, cops or crocodiles hiding out in the marsh but no matter what they were I was getting out of here. And even if this adventure brought home nothing, if all the dirty money in the world still failed to bring my daughter back, I could save somebody's kid. Maybe that would be enough.

The engine, which had been idling all this time, roared to life under my right foot. Tires smoked on the wooden ferry. We were doing twenty by the time we hit water and the truck started gasping for air. But even my inexperienced hands could tell that I held beneath me a well-built beast. At some point in his life Ricky was clearly flush enough to buy a top of the line rig. It might have been out of date but it could handle a little water. Crimson mud blasted up to either side of the cab and we started sliding, I backed off the gas, accelerating in bursts and keeping the wheel as still as I could.

Do I tell Ricky any of this? Does he deserve to know that yes, the phantom could pull off what I just did. Maybe, but not yet. After all this is over. I can tell him how I did it without telling him why.

“I once heard a saying that while wheels spin there's hope, if you're a good enough or lucky enough to catch it. I don't know about my driving skills but we definitely got lucky back there. Nothing tried to stop us. I drove into the mud as fast as I could but when we hit the mud I only accelerated when it felt like the tires had grip. The last thing I wanted was to spin the wheels. And we kept sliding for the eight hundred metres or so. I fed the engine more power when I had to or thought I could get away with it. And by God's grace I kept the wheel straight.”

I shrug.

“Then I drove up the shoreline, let Rex's boy out, and kept going. I figure people must do it all the time. There's a permanent ramp built into the front of the ferry and everything.”

I had, in fact, been convinced that Jason was about to kill me when I told him to get out. He kept staring daggers at me for a few seconds then whipping his head around to stare at the marsh. Eventually he made whatever decision he was making and disappeared into the night. I felt something in me lunge to go with him, make sure he was safe. But I had another kid to worry about. And I'd promised Rex I'd get his son to shore. After that I had no more say in the matter.

At least that's what I've been telling myself since last I saw the boy.

“Alan, I hate to break it to you, but that ramp isn't there for dramatic dashes to the shore. It's there because if a ferry starts tipping the only sure way to right it is to ditch the cargo. If they won't drive off of their own accord then they get pushed off. Down the ramp and into the mud.”

His voice turns venomous.

“How long did it take to get to solid ground?”

“Maybe five minutes.”

“God gave you more luck in those five minutes than he's given me my entire life.”

I didn't get out of there by being lucky. I didn't even take time to pray. I just drove. Ricky's truck was unused to my handling it, and when the rear wheels hit the water it started to bite and slide. I let it slide the first time, rear wheels veered left and right as the truck fought against my control. But I found what I needed, a crucial half second where tires, body and wheel were all pointed forwards. In that half a second, I could feather the throttle and keep up our momentum. The truck did not like me trying to do this but would let me control it if I could keep it up. Every twitch, buck and twist of the wheel was whispering to me through my hands.

'Make just one mistake. I kill.' It said. And I listened closely.

Driving through bog is, in principle, the same as life. You only lose hope if you stop moving. And you only ever really lose control of a vehicle if you stop respecting it. I cradled the wheel to Ricky's truck in my fingers like it was made of gold. I timed each touch of the accelerator with the focus that only comes when all else is gone from your mind. I had no thought for my family, for the job, for God or for Ricky as he lay screaming in the back.

I had only the wheel in my hands and the ground left to cover. Seconds grew into minutes that felt like days but I didn't lose that focus until I felt solid ground beneath my wheels. In short, I got through by being the Phantom, down to the last cold inch. But Ricky doesn't need to know that.

He's still sitting there, waiting for a response.

“God gives all of us what we need, when we need it.” I say with a smile, it's something the preacher often says.

“God gave you the luck to get involved in this job despite Doyle denying you. And he gave me the luck to get through the marsh. You never know, between the two of us there might still be some left.”

The laugh I hope to get from Ricky with that doesn't come. But he does sit up a little straighter. Something occurs to me, he swore twice just now and I failed to admonish him for either. But I doubt it would help his mood to be preached to. That little sermon just there is probably all that he can handle.

“Your truck is an incredible machine.”

“A hell of a machine.” He says pointedly, fingers walking idly along the wheel.

“I had to go through the nose when I got her. But she hasn't let me down in five years. She didn't let you down either.”

He looks down at the wheel. I can't make out his thoughts on his face. Still there is something I feel compelled to ask him.

“Ricky before this happened, while I was securing passage across the marsh, Rex said something odd. He said you never left Melbourne straight away, after I told him we'd be right back. Said I'd have as much luck turning back the tide as turning you away from your...” I clear my throat “post marsh bender. Since I'm the closest thing you have to an AA sponsor, is there something I should know?”

When he doesn't answer I decide to prod him a little more.

“You're also technically my intern remember”

“Shut the f**k up for just a second Alan!”

I meant to get a smile out of him and maybe some candour. A response like that is not ok. But before I can say so Ricky kills the engine.

“Ok I'll answer the question but I've got a question too that I think you want to answer about as much as I do. So, here's the deal. If you can start my truck I'll tell you whatever you want to know. But if you can't, you've got to answer me as well.”

He pushes his seat back and spreads his hands over the wheel. He's got kill switches built in, I guarantee it. It's why I never fully killed the engine at the marsh. They could be anything, there could be any number of them and they could require any order to start the motor. There are two buttons on the back of the steering wheel that don't seem to have any purpose, I'll be they're the first step. But no other obvious suspects. Slowly I lean across him to try the ignition, of course it doesn't turn over. I think I've played dumb long enough to satisfy him. And in his defence, he wouldn't be able to start my car either.