The Turning

9

9

Brett's driving was slow and overcautious at times and precarious at others, and Kyle figured that it was a good thing that Wilton was not a busy place. In the three minutes it took them to go from Brett's house to Kyle's, they passed one other car on Giles Street, a black ute with a bumper sticker which, in Brett's headlights read: Kid’s that hunt and fish don’t steal and deal.

He parked his ute in the driveway and allowed the engine to idle. He had the windows down to allow a cool breeze to fill the car, the sound of the eucalyptus trees from the bushland nearby rustling and filling the world. For a moment, Brett merely sat, peering out the windscreen and into the common where once, some nights ago, he had watched the town’s people gawking up into the night while white radiating light poured down on them. Or so he had thought, Kyle reckoned. Now that he was home safe he was beginning to think that maybe old Brett really had imagined it, or had made it up or was indeed crazy. Being in the safety of his driveway not only seemed to suggest it but confirm it.

But the old man’s eyes were long and watchful as they sat in the ute with the engine idling, scanning the forest like a couple of cops on a stakeout. Whatever had happened, he supposed that he believed it and that it had kept him up some nights when the bottles hadn’t even been able to dispel the strongest demons.

“Thanks, Mr Stephens,” Kyle said. The old man’s head snapped around, startled from his thoughts and he slowly began to nod.

“Yeah, no worries.”

He turned back towards the common, the moonlight appearing to drain the color out of the land and add the effect of a black and white photograph.

“Tell me, you reckon I was talking out of my arse? That I was just trying to scare ya?” Kyle shook his head despite what his brain was saying as it turned over the story in his

mind, searching for flaws. The question was, how could he believe it?

“Maybe if you see anything strange you should come and tell me about it, ya know. Let

me know if you see something that scares ya.”

“Yeah I will,” Kyle said in a small voice, opening the door. He had no intention of following him up on that.

“Matt’s seen it, don’t forget.” Kyle turned.

“What?”

“Matt’s seen the lights at night too,” Brett said. Kyle nodded after a moment and forced a grin. The door closed with a clank. He waved, telling himself that the old bloke was trying to pull the wool over his eyes. He had to be.

In his ute, Brett lingered a moment. Just before Kyle reached the screen door, he glanced over his shoulder and saw the old man sitting bolt upright in the warm glow of the ute’s interior panel, staring up at the sky, fixated and ridged with awe. He decided to wait for the old man to pull out. At first, he thought the old bloke would sit there all night. And then he shook his head as though snapping himself out of a trance. The ute rumbled to life. Headlights retreated from gravel driveway, washing over the house and the trees before rumbling off up the road with its prehistoric motor. Soon he had disappeared out of sight and Kyle felt as though he could breathe again.

Kyle stared at the common with its endless powerlines and fence posts veering into oblivion. Then his mother’s voice drifted out from inside, nervous and apprehensive: “Kyle? You there?”

He opened the door and wandered in, pushing the old man’s story aside and readying himself to face the music.