The door swung open with a tinny grind and James quickly got in. If anyone came out to challenge him, he’d say he was just checking something for his dad. Cops were usually easy to fob off if you showed even a hint of confidence.

But as he closed the door quietly, no one emerged from the back of the police station. He inserted the key and turned it halfway. Various lights glinted back at him through the dust on the dashboard, so James pushed himself back into the lumpy seat, covered by a musty sheepskin car-seat cover. The windscreen was filthy, but he’d deal with that once he was on the way to Wishaw.

When he turned the engine over, it coughed, but he pumped the accelerator and reached for the unfamiliar stick shift. It took two goes to put it into reverse, then a case of beginner’s luck saw James achieve his exit from the paddock quickly, quietly and efficiently before disappearing along the lane.

As he checked for anyone following, James spotted the slab of beer in the back.

Booze purchase throws suicide verdict into doubt.

Eighteen 1985

EIGHTEEN
1985

James woke from interrupted sleep, head and shoulders squashed against one end of a hard seat. It was dark and rain was wetting his legs, which made his whereabouts confusing for a few seconds; but the light showing from the one streetlamp back along the lonely road reminded him where he was.

The rain suddenly started getting heavier, but there didn’t seem to be any leaks in the tin roof of the bus shelter. He pulled his arms inside his jumper, hugged himself in the timeless dark and waited for the feeling to come, the victory that he’d won over all of them.

But it didn’t.

On their way over the ranges, James had lied to the truckie about returning to an imaginary Gold Coast family after running away a week earlier. Davo seemed to buy the story in its entirety, then they’d sung along to a country music station on the radio, eaten chips and downed fizzy drinks, just like they’d all done with Dad when he was still a farmer and they were all together.

But then the rough-looking man had sworn at the news, particularly the bit about the government and ‘what they’re doing to farmers across this great country!’

James had gone quiet after that. They pulled over in a bushy place with nothing more than a dunny and a bin spewing its contents across a scar of red soil.

‘You’d better take a leak now, because I’m not stopping anymore,’ Davo had said.