All was still for a few minutes. The four-wheel drive, the two utes by the back door of the roadhouse, the van closer to the road, and Tony’s Ford may as well have been just empty vehicles containing nothing but fuel.

The movement through the trees was so sudden it drew James’s attention. A guy had emerged from the four-wheel drive. James followed the glowing pin of his cigarette through the shadows, then the light above the toilets showed his white shirt on a body that looked good, before he passed into the darkened door.

James cleaned his greasy fingers on the seat cover, watching as another guy emerged from the van and strode to the toilets.

He would just go in for a piss. He needed one, after all. If they were doing anything, they’d stop and give that guilty look at the urinal, that pretend stance, eyes on the wall or the ceiling.

Stepping quickly out of the car to prevent too much light falling on him, James had only taken a few steps towards the toilets when the guy in the white shirt returned to his car. Trapped, James turned and walked back towards the Ford.

‘Hey,’ the guy said, low but direct.

James kept walking, but as he turned past the bonnet the white shirt quickly closed in. The interior light revealed everything for a moment, then James was inside again, before the knocking started on the passenger window.

‘Hey!’ the guy repeated. He looked like a politician, or a bank manager. ‘You know me, remember?’ he added, pointing to his angular face.

James reached to press the door lock down, but realised too late the guy was already half in.

‘Haven’t seen you for a while, mate,’ he said, and turned to look at James, while one broad hand reached across James’s thigh.

‘I’m not him...’ James said.

‘What?’ the guy said.

‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Come on,’ the guy said, as James slid the key into the ignition and turned it, intending to drive away regardless.

‘Get out,’ James said.

A river of disappointed expletives flowed out of the suddenly ugly mouth, making James wince as though he’d been splashed by vomit.

The guy got out of Tony’s car, slammed the door and strode to his vehicle. He attacked his own door and ignition until the four-wheel drive — its child carrier visible in silhouette in the back seat — was gone.

A lonely figure watched from the doorway of the toilets in the distance.

James reversed and swung the Ford back onto the road. The lights at the roundabout filled him with a temporary sense of safety, until he passed underneath the railway bridge and accelerated into the darkness.

After another kilometre, he turned off the highway at the sign to Dangar and the coast, then started looking for somewhere to pull over and empty his bladder.

I’m not him.

Twenty-Two 1985

TWENTY-TWO
1985