The driver’s door was open but the passenger door, closest to Jack, was closed. The darkness in the cab was like the darkness in the hut. Just walk on, Jack! his nerves screamed.

He got his fingers under the handle and lifted it. The door was downhill, and a weight pushed from inside. The truck creaked.

I could have wished for him to be alive, thought Jack. The door pulled free from his hand. His uncle must have been leaning against it for, bloodied and staring as if he’d had a far, far worse fright than Jack had, Davy Spicer’s body fell limply sideways.

Jack ran.

Chapter 4: Ever On

CHAPTER FOUR

EVER ON

“Oh, piss off!” said Trish.

“Look in the glovebox,” said Gary.

Trish stared at him then, leaning across me, jerked the glovebox open. Wire cutters, tins and maps fell onto my sandals, leaving a black mark on the white straps. Trish rummaged and at last brought out a small bottle, milky with age. She pulled a face and shook the bottle. Below the thunder of the wheels, we heard a faint drumming. I felt queasy. Gary looked innocent.

“Knock it off, Damson!” said Trish. Gary’s fingers stopped their movement, fanned above the steering wheel. Lines sprang from the corners of his eyes. He was laughing.

“Idiot,” said Trish, and feinted at him. I shut my eyes.

Night and crumpled metal, bleeding petrol and the hiss of the breeze in broken wire, fading headlights as my father wades with the only torch into the night, forever.

“Ill-gotten wishes are the only reason you have friends,” said Trish. “God, you’re superstitious.”

“You’re the one who jumped!”

I opened my eyes. The dream, or memory, evaporated. We were still on the road, rattling across a timber bridge. A feeling of greenery below the sand. ONE EYE MAN CREEK, said the sign.

Trish squinted at the translucent glass. The tattooed wolf—attenuated, unreal—stretched and shifted with her shoulder.

“Some of these things are worth a lot,” she said. “We should find that sawmill. I’ve seen them in antique stores: old phones, bottles. You’d be surprised what people have in their sheds.”

Gary glanced sideways at me. Once as if he had asked a question I hadn’t heard, the second time as if he was worried.

“Are you okay?” he said.

“A headache,” I said faintly, although that wasn’t true. I wasn’t sure what hurt, or even if it was pain. But headaches were ladylike lies. I closed my eyes and rested my head on the shabby headrest, keeping my hands clasped and elbows in, away from Trish, who sprawled beside me. I wanted to think but wasn’t sure how.

Trish snorted. “Was there a point to that story, Gary?”