Cutters End by Margaret Hickey

Author:Margaret Hickey [Hickey, Margaret]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781761044168
Publisher: Penguin Random House Australia

CHAPTER 23

On the way to Foobie’s, Mark rested his head on the window in the back seat. Jagdeep was driving, Darryl in the passenger seat. There was no need for him to come along with the others, besides a curiosity about Foobie and his photos. The Denby case required attention, though in what direction he was unsure. Remembering his earlier suggestion, Mark made a phone call to the Port York Advertiser, asked them to publish a ‘Can you help us?’ on the identity of the man who gave Ingrid a lift on the day Denby went missing. The journo wrote the details down, said he’d see what he could do. ‘Going to find any weapons of mass destruction here, am I?’ he asked. ‘Got this degree from ANU in political journalism I want to put to use.’

‘You never know, mate, could find Elvis.’ Mark hung up, leant his head on the window again, and listened to Jagdeep and Darryl bicker – no malice in it, just a way to pass the time.

As a kid he’d leant like this on the long drive to Queensland for holidays, sleeping and half-listening to the cricket on the radio. Always he seemed to be getting a lift somewhere, being driven along to destinations not of his choosing. His older sister would sometimes whine about going somewhere else for holidays, to Bali or to New Zealand, but he was always content just to go wherever, rest his head and be carried along.

In later years, when he moved to Adelaide, he’d make the drive up to Booralama every Saturday to play footy for the local team. A long drive, three hours – same as the one from Cutters to the roadhouse. On those drives as a young bloke, leaving the city behind and heading home, he’d felt content to watch the land rush by. He was a country kid at heart, with all the loyalties and conflicts that come with it. And every Saturday, there’d be the catch-ups with friends he went to primary school with, boys he’d fought with and against and on account of, mates like Stitcher and Spadger and Leisurely Les. He wondered now what they were all up to. He vaguely remembered that Stitcher’s brother had died in a four-wheeler accident on his farm, the vehicle having crashed and trapped him underneath. He was found by his wife five hours later, crows already lurching, his dog wrapped up beside him, tongue hanging out for thirst. Stitcher. Mark couldn’t remember his real name. Felt he should know it and vowed to ask his mother next time they spoke. Nicknames are mostly affectionate, he thought, but never used on tombstones. You enter this world and leave it with your real name, and that must count for something.

Darryl calling his own name made him sit up straight. Had he been dreaming for a second? It felt like it. At Foobie’s house, they parked in a neat carport and walked up a gravel path lined in hedges of rosemary.

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