With that Mitch walked off, leaving Chandler as the designated – and reluctant – post box.

26

2002

Sixteen days in and the police involvement had been scaled back once again. From six, now Chandler and Mitch were left with a base support of two, Sylvia and Arthur tearing strips off them and the force in general for giving up on their son, that they paid their taxes for this miserable effort.

By now the distance covered every day had decreased and it wasn’t just the fault of the rough terrain. The disease of false leads had struck, hope spotted in every disturbed rock or patch of soil, any fragment of civilization treated as evidence that Martin passed by recently.

Though he understood the desire to find their son, Chandler didn’t really comprehend the desperation, how it clawed at the family and gouged out any remaining logic from Arthur, an intelligent man who had spent his life perched behind a desk but was now thrown into the outback in the middle of summer, on what was turning into a fruitless hunt for his child. Though Chandler had grown close to the old man, he tried to distance himself emotionally, which was easier said than done with the kid hanging around, needing constant supervision, wandering off without care and only returning to the fold when barked at. This remained an adventure for him, better than school could ever be. His enthusiasm should have been infectious but those days were long gone. Logic dictated that the boy be left behind in town where it was safe, but logic was in short supply.

‘He’s doing nothing other than get in the way,’ Chandler admitted to Mitch.

‘What do you suggest then? Tie him to a tree and pick him up later?’

Chandler shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe. Shit, I am turning into you!’

‘I’m proud you’ve seen sense,’ said Mitch.

‘But not quite you.’

‘Not quite. I’d have shot the little bastard in the leg so we’d have left him behind already.’

Mitch followed this with a piercing laugh, just unbalanced enough to make it difficult to tell if he were joking or not. Chandler decided he didn’t want to know.

They came across a creek that wound through the dusty rocks, raising its silvery tail occasionally to make a brief appearance on earth before slithering back to cooler depths.

The small group crowded around it, staring at it in wonder. It was the first hint of running water they had seen in three days. They’d lost another three volunteers when they had returned to town last time, people who had lives and work to return to. Life carried on, Chandler reflected, with or without Martin.

‘Should we fill up the bottles?’ asked Arthur.

‘I’d be wary of drinking it,’ said Chandler.

‘Why?’ asked the boy, waving the toe of his dusty trainer over the surface of the water.