Blank, p.11
Blank, page 11
The woman was staring at him like he was the strangest thing she’d ever seen.
“Yes,” Mel responded, somewhat embarrassed. “Yes, sorry that’s what I meant.”
“Three rooms. They’re 100 dollars each. First day’s payment up front.”
“Of course. That won’t be a problem,” Luckman assured her.
“Good-oh then,” said the woman.
“You’re not full I take it?” he asked.
“It’s not tourist season.”
“I didn’t know Alice had seasons,” said Mel, somewhat facetiously.
“Yeah love, we’ve got bloody hot and bloody cold,” returned their host, breaking into a throaty cackle. “Gotcha credit card on ya?”
Luckman pulled out his wallet. Habit and nostalgia were the only things that had prompted him to bring it. He never dreamt he would actually use it. He pulled out a piece of plastic and handed it over. She flicked it past a pay-wave scanner in autonomous disinterest and seemed utterly unconcerned that nothing happened. She simply handed him back the card with three keys.
“Rooms one, two and three – out the door and turn left.”
He nodded and left. With the transaction complete, he had no interest in further conversation. Mel moved to follow but the woman tapped her on the arm.
“Look, it’s none of my business, but you oughta watch yourself round here with him. You’re gonna ruffle some feathers. Black and white feathers, if you get me. People tend to keep to their own kind around here.”
Mel stared at the woman incredulously, wondering what century they had landed in. She left without bothering to respond. For once, words failed her.
The motel’s eponymous view took in the full majesty of the Todd River ditch, complete with local blackfellas lounging in the well-worn shade of a tree-lined riverbank. Luckman flicked light switches on and off. Sure enough, they all worked.
“Separate rooms? You worried someone will see us together?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I just had a lovely chat with our hostess. She suggested you and I might start a riot or something if we go about holding hands. You up for it?”
“She’s an idiot. Ignore her.”
“Nice trick with the credit card, by the way. How’d you pull that one off?”
He shrugged. “Something weird is going on. You see anything out of place on the drive over here?”
“Alice gets my vote for tidy town,” said Mel.
“Is it possible they escaped the effects of the Sunburst?”
“No, there’s more to it than that.” He handed her a room key. “Look here’s the thing: I won’t be getting any sleep tonight.”
She smiled impishly. “Sounds like an invitation.”
“That’s not what I mean. I don’t want you to think you have to stay up with me. In fact, it might be better if you don’t.”
Undaunted, she followed him into his room. He didn’t object. She bounced on the bed, turned the kettle on and checked the lights like a child with a button fetish. She tested the water in the bathroom.
“It’s hot. I might have a shower.”
It sounded sexy the way she said it.
“You can do that next door.”
“Spoilsport.”
“I need to scope this place out. Stay indoors for the time being will you?”
She was a sweet distraction but he kept trying to remind himself the US was on the brink of nuclear war. If the Americans were skittish they would be curious about his arrival. They might even decide to come after him. If so, it would likely be at night.
His room was at the front of the L-shaped building, the entry door facing an internal parking bay. He escorted Mel to her door then began to casually scout the layout of the rest of the two-storey motel complex, trying to maintain the appearance of a curious tourist, albeit one who was clearly a serving member of the Australian Army. Keeping to the lengthening shadows of the late afternoon, he traversed a ground floor walkway that led to a pool at the rear of the complex.
Behind the pool was a garage and a storage shed. Beside this a path led to a rear street and a delivery car park. From here, he turned back to face the motel. The rooms along this part of the building were configured differently because they had no river view. A row of bathroom windows faced a brick wall that ran along the boundary of the property. He could slip down here easily at night. So could anyone else who wanted access to their rooms. But the entry point would have to be a window. Windows were easy enough to watch.
When he returned to their end of the complex he noticed the door to Mel’s room was ajar, the key still in the lock. She was passed out on the bed. He pulled the door closed, took her key and returned to his room, throwing himself wearily on the bed. It felt remarkably good. They had travelled a long way to a place that made no sense at all. He closed his eyes for a moment.
He found himself in an old tin-roofed shack. He could smell the age in the dusty, paint-peeled timber slat walls. But there was something strange about the place. He sat up on a rattling metal bedstead to find himself staring at a fly screen door. It was pitch black beyond the screen. Something was out there, he could feel it.
He heard a knock and everything went black. He opened his eyes. He was in the motel room again. It was dark outside.
He had fallen asleep.
How could he have been so stupid?
He became certain of someone else’s presence in the room. He plucked his revolver out of his pocket, leapt to his feet and stumbled drunkenly across to the door, fell against the back of it and grabbed the handle to pull it open. It was caught on something – an envelope was folded in half and shoved underneath. It acted like a door wedge. He pulled the door open further and then bent down to pick it up. He could see no-one in the outside corridor. Whoever made the delivery had quickly vanished.
He checked on Mel. She was still blissfully unconscious. Had they been drugged? It didn’t seem possible, unless it was something in the water supply. He stepped into her room, sat on the edge of her bed and ripped open the envelope. Inside was a note scrawled in pencil:
Bar Doppio Café, 9AM tomorrow
No mention of who issued the invite or why they wanted to meet him. He checked his watch – he’d been asleep for more than three hours. Mel moaned as she struggled to break through a funk of semi-consciousness.
He pulled out his mobile – five-bar signal strength – and phoned Bell. “Lock up the plane and get yourself in here. We’re at the Riverview Motel. There’s a cab rank out front. The cabs are still running. Don’t ask.”
Given Pine Gap was a massive telecommunications monitoring station it seemed reasonable to assume someone was listening to their conversation. Leaving the plane unguarded was a risk but he had to assume the normal airport security was in play. That meant no-one could go near the plane without being caught on camera. It also meant he couldn’t remove weapons from the hold without being spotted.
Twenty-Three
Luckman boiled the kettle and made strong coffees, pouring two satchels of International Roast into each of their cups.
“Wow, that really tastes terrible,” Mel complained.
“Drink up,” he insisted.
“It’s dark,” she noticed, rubbing her eyes drowsily and pulling a sour face as she took another mouthful of the nasty instant coffee. “What time is it?”
“About seven o’clock. I only just woke up myself.”
“You too?” she remarked, frowning.
“Yeah. Strange right?”
“I dunno, I’d say siestas are pretty normal around here.”
“This place is so normal it’s freaking me out,” said Luckman. “How come no-one seems the least bit curious about where we’ve come from? No-one has asked us a thing. I mean, here they are, miraculously sheltered from the greatest calamity in human history, and they don’t seem to realise it.”
“Or someone’s kept them in the dark.”
“Has anyone’s inner monologue seemed unusual?” he asked.
She stared at him blankly for a moment, still trying to wake up. Finally she shook her head.
“I got nothing today, although that’s telling in its own way. The cab driver was a blank – I mean she was vacant. Clearly she wasn’t ‘Blank’. There was nothing in her head but the road in front of her. The motel owner was preoccupied with her grandson and his wayward mother – oh, that’s it. The grandson’s half Aboriginal. She thinks her daughter made a huge mistake.”
“She’s probably right,” said Luckman. “That kid won’t know which way to turn in this town.”
“But it’s all completely banal. No-one’s at all concerned about the big picture.”
“They don’t know,” he decided.
It was another half an hour before Bell arrived. Luckman heard the cab pull up and walked out to meet him. The pilot dragged himself wearily from the taxi like he had just run a marathon. Luckman threw more dollars at the driver who nodded curtly and drove off.
“Any problems?” asked Luckman.
Bell shrugged. “I had a nap. Your phone call woke me up.”
Luckman raised an eyebrow.
“What? It was a long flight, I’m entitled.”
Luckman chuckled, throwing him a room key. “It’s fine, mate. Have a shower, freshen up, then we’ll find some dinner.”
Bell looked like he had just won the lottery. “They have running water?”
“Hot and cold.”
Mel and Luckman had reached a stalemate on the subject of food by the time Bell joined them. Luckman warned that they had no way of knowing whether any of the local eateries could be trusted. He thought they’d be better sticking to canned food. Mel was having none of it.
“No-one here looks like they’re starving,” Mel pointed out.
“I could eat the arse out of a low-flying seagull – I’m about ready to try anything,” Bell admitted.
It was a 10-minute walk to the heart of the downtown area. They saw no-one along the way, but the Todd Mall was alive with activity. Cafes were full of people. Music from a nearby pub wafted languidly over them on a cool evening breeze that was like a lover’s caress after the punishing heat of the day. There was chatter, laughter and all the regular noise of human activity in an urban centre.
The burden of their two worlds colliding made Luckman’s head hurt. He collapsed on a bench as he tried to take it all in. This was Alice through the looking glass – none of it was real. Mel sat down beside him, silently patting him on the back in sympathy and solidarity.
Bell, on the other hand, seemed remarkably unaffected. He was more than ready to suspend disbelief.
“Where we gonna eat?” he demanded.
Luckman sighed and rubbed his hand through his hair. “I don’t care mate, I’ll eat anything.”
They opted for Las Mexicanos, a restaurant with its own licensed bar that also issued the vague threat of live music. The place was almost empty. As they entered, Luckman spotted a grey-beard musician who looked a lot like Kenny Rogers setting up in the corner. Bell led them to stools at a high-set bar and snatched a menu like his life depended on it.
“What’s good?” he asked the teenager behind the bar.
“Burritos, nachos. The burgers are all right,” she said without enthusiasm.
They ordered one of each. Once more his credit card was accepted as payment. Mel and Eddie opted for cerveza to wash it down. Luckman demurred. The food arrived quickly and was heartily devoured. Plates empty and conversation dwindling, his companions began daring each other to tackle a jug of Margaritas. Neither needed much convincing.
Luckman found himself preoccupied by the pianist. He was almost certain he recognised the guy but he had to be mistaken. He waved his credit card at the bar child.
“A jug of margaritas, please.” He had no intention of drinking, but figured his companions might as well indulge.
“Your performer – what’s his name?”
“Mike McDonald,” the girl replied. “They tell me he was famous once. Some big band in the ’70s.”
Luckman almost rocked off his stool. “That’d be the Doobie Brothers.”
“Yeah, that’s them.”
A stab of nervous adrenaline locked his legs in place as he realised he was just metres away from one of his childhood idols. The Doobie Brothers had played the soundtrack to his early adolescence. He clearly remembered a week in 1976 glued to the radio as 4IP rolled track by track through Takin’ It To The Streets, the music’s power on him alloyed by the weight of popular acclaim. It was a time in his life that predated the distrust of populism that came later with adolescence and since then the Doobies had somehow maintained mythic status among the disparate eclecticism of his musical tastes. A part of him would forever remain that little boy at the transistor, marvelling at their triumphal fusion of funk and jazz.
He had to say hello. Trying to avoid the indignity of over-eagerness he approached McDonald tentatively in the darkened recess beside the bar’s tiny stage platform.
“Michael?”
“Yeah?”
McDonald was dressed plainly in a white shirt and brown jacket. If the clothes were expensive, they didn’t look it. Up close there was no mistaking the distinctive shock of white hair and neatly trimmed goatee beard – all that remained of the ’70s-era chin forest.
“I just had to come over and say hello.”
“Hello there, how you doing?”
McDonald had his hands full but offered an amiable smile. It was, perhaps, a world weary response tempered by years of seeing grown men and women turn to stammering fools in his presence.
“I’m fine, just fine,” Luckman returned. “I used to love you guys. Still do. But I’ve gotta say, this is the last place I expected to find you. Are the rest of the band here?”
“The Doobies? No man, we don’t hang out together too much these days.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.”
“They do their thing and I do mine, it’s all good.”
Luckman grinned. “I can’t believe this. You know, you started my love affair with jazz.”
“That’s a fine compliment, thank you very much.”
Luckman pointed at the musician’s set-up. “So this is...”
“Bare bones? There are times when I like to go back to basics, y’know?”
“I’m just happy I’m here to see it.”
“Like the song says – ‘the closest thing to heaven is to rock ‘n’ roll’.”
Luckman didn’t know that song – not that it mattered. McDonald put one foot on the stage.
“Buy me a bourbon after my first set,” McDonald offered.
Luckman smiled and nodded. The musician grew so much taller as he stepped onstage. A red spotlight captured him perfectly in cameo as he pushed two buttons on his drum synthesiser and launched pitch-perfect into the Doobie Brothers’ biggest hit.
“He came from somewhere back in her long ago. Sentimental fool don’t see, trying hard to recreate what had yet to be created...”
Twenty-Four
Above all other vices, Luckman had grown to abhor ill-discipline. He had been surrounded by it all his life and had collected more than a few vices over the years. But he had learned to temper his foibles – drinking without doubt the worst of them – with an unwavering ability to go cold turkey when necessary. He had been determined to remain sober on this night. In the circumstances, however, it had seemed rude not to share a drink with Michael McDonald. There are times a man needs to buy another man a drink.
When the other two finally dragged him from the restaurant he was surprised to learn it was only a bit after 10 o’clock. It felt much later. They began to stroll in the direction of their motel.
“What was the deal with you and that terrible piano player?” Mel demanded.
Luckman kicked the pavement and stumbled as he turned around to face her in shock and consternation. “What are you talking about? That man is a legend.”
“Don’t know what you were listening to. All I heard was bad ’90s pop filtered through a tone-deaf ponytail wannabe.”
Ponytail?
“That was the best live performance I’ve seen in years,” Luckman countered.
Mel laughed, unable to take him seriously. “You’re off your nut,” she said affectionately.
Luckman turned to Bell for moral support. The pilot simply shrugged.
“Sounded bloody suburban to me mate.”
Luckman’s stomach began tying itself in a knot. He turned away from them and kept walking.
“Stone?”
He heard the tone of concern in her voice and turned briefly, trying to muster a smile.
“Each to their own, eh?” he offered.
She wouldn’t be put off so easily, but he didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to confide or try to explain. He didn’t want to admit to himself that some metaphysical hacker had somehow crawled inside his head, downloaded his childhood and used it against him.
She grabbed him by the shoulder. “You do realise you can’t hide from me?”
He stopped walking and she slowly pulled him around to face her.
“Do you really want to do this now?” he asked her. His eyes flickered in Bell’s direction.
“Do what now?” Bell asked distractedly.
“Nothing,” Mel replied, leaving Luckman to walk on alone.
They continued in silence for the rest of the way until the red neon glow of the Riverview Motel appeared in front of them. Luckman halted their advance underneath the buzzing white of a street lamp. He put his finger to his lips. Bell giggled, like it was a game. Mel stared at him with the maudlin sorrow of someone who hadn’t wanted to upset him. Luckman ignored her and kept walking toward the motel. He opened the doors to their rooms in turn to check no-one was waiting for them inside.
“Stay in your rooms. Sleep,” he told them firmly.
His room was likewise devoid of any sign of visitation. He turned on the kettle and pulled open the curtains. The window was a few metres above street level. It offered a clear view of the road and the riverbank beyond. Moving slowly and allowing his eyes to adjust, he found a chair and set it at the window just behind an oblong tilt of streetlight illuminating the carpet.
