THE TOWN THAT DIED
A short story of 2000 words
© David Lowe, January 1992
The sign on the outskirts of town needed re-painting. 'Welcome to Boxvale. Population-' The rest of the sign was illegible, peppered with shotgun pellet holes.
Once a month Jeremy Butler shot himself down the freeway to Sydney to pick up parts for work. Once a month he raced home again along the straight grey road. One day, he decided to take the old, slower route for a change. It was a nostalgic journey.
The old Valiant seemed to remember the curves in the road. It was pot-holed now, quietly baking in the sun. Once thriving ghost towns glided by sadly, left behind by the highway as if by a flooded river that unpredictably changes course.
Bypass victims.
Boxvale was on a slight hill, surrounded by sheep stations. The column shift groaned as Jeremy changed down to park beneath a shadeless tree. His car grumbled to a stop. The door creaked as he got out to read an historical marker nailed to the tree.
'At this point, in May 1854, Sir Charles Beecham ceremonially opened the final section of the Great South Road. This was to be the main route to the site of the future capital...' One hundred years before I was born, thought Jeremy. So much for history. He got back in the car and turned the key. The engine whirred, made a noise like a firecracker exploding, burst into life and then stopped dead. He tried again. Nothing. Jeremy sighed and looked at his watch, then got out of the car again. He squinted up the road into bright sun. Was that a garage? He started walking.
The shops were mostly boarded up. Some had pathetic little signs propped in the windows amongst cobwebs and dead flies. 'To Let' they declared confidently. Invariably the real estate office numbers were in other towns. Across the street a peeling butcher's sign, 'We Sell Only Country-Killed Meat'. The display window was empty.
There was no-one about. Jeremy trudged past an abandoned church hall towards a yard of car bodies. A sign came into view. 'Gibson's Wreckers. Automotive Repairs.'
At the counter Jeremy rang a bell stained with grease. 'Hello? Anybody there?'
There was no reply. After a minute, Jeremy turned to leave. A tall young man wearing overalls stood in the doorway behind him, rubbing his big hands on a rag. 'Oh. G'day,' said Jeremy.
'G'day,' said the man, holding out his hand. He broke into a toothy grin. 'Des Gibson.'
Jeremy explained the problem. Gibson gave him a lift on a noisy trailbike back to the Valiant.
The mechanic opened the bonnet. 'Looks like you've stuffed your gearbox. Distributor's gone too. Could be tricky.'
'Damn. Have you got a phone?'
'Used to. They repossessed it,' said Des cheerfully. Jeremy looked at his watch again and paced up and down helplessly.
'Is there somewhere I can go to get a coffee?'
A pause.
'Tell you what I'll do,' said the mechanic. 'Me brother's about to go home for a spell. How's about you go home with him, make sure he behaves himself, have a cuppa with me mum, and I'll have this fixed up by the time you get back?'
'Gee, I don't know. Are you sure?'
'Mum'd love a bit of company,' grinned Gibson. Jeremy smiled nervously.
They rode back to the garage on the bike. Gibson's brother stood in the yard, holding a wrench and staring into space.
'Alan. Alan!' The boy slowly turned his head in their direction. 'Look at me when I'm talking to you,' said Gibson over the idling engine as he got off. 'Alan, meet...'
'Jeremy,' said Jeremy. The boy focused somewhere over his left shoulder and smiled wanly.
'Jeremy wants to go and meet mum.'
'No, no really-'
'Now.' growled Gibson to his brother. The boy dropped the spanner and walked over to the bike silently. He wore a Buddy Holly T-shirt.
'Good lad,' said Gibson as the boy swung his leg over the bike. He pushed Jeremy firmly back into the seat and leaned in close with a wink. 'Just watch out for Mandy.'
Jeremy gulped as the bike roared into life and sped off in a cloud of blue smoke. He bounced and clutched on to the framework of the bike. The engine roared deafeningly. Like a demon the boy rode, crouched low, and the town was soon left behind.
'Where are we going?' yelled Jeremy over the engine.
No reply.
Sheep wandered over the road, bleating. The bike scattered them. Gates lay propped against fences, permanently open. They sped towards a collection of buildings.
The house looked like it had grown out of the ground rather than been built. Pigs snuffled at a feedtray leaning on a fibro shack, which in turn leaned against a shed slumped up against the main building - a lop-sided, sway-roofed ruin. Chimneys belched black smoke in the hot sun. Dustily, the bike skidded to a stop. Jeremy got off stiffly. The boy let the machine fall to the ground with a crash and walked into the house without looking back. Jeremy looked around. Dogs yapped somewhere.
The front screen door was hanging half off its hinges, so Jeremy knocked on the wall. A red-faced middle-aged woman in an apron walked up the corridor expectantly. 'Yes?' she said.
Jeremy did his best to explain. The woman seemed very understanding as she led him through the house. 'How awful!' she exclaimed. 'Still, Des'll put you right, don't you worry dear.'
Inside it must have been 40 degrees.
Mrs Gibson sat him down near a window in the kitchen. It was stained glass. Flowers and angels.
'Isn't it a treasure,' said the old woman beaming down at him. 'An absolute treasure.'
Opposite Jeremy was a pile of old newspapers stretching to the ceiling. For the first time he noticed an old man dressed in khaki sitting in the corner of the room. A rug lay across his knees despite the scalding heat. Jeremy started to say hello. The woman suppressed a laugh. 'Don't bother with him dear - he's in a coma.'
'Oh. I'm sorry.'
The man didn't blink.
'Fairy bread love?' The woman shoved a plate of white bread topped with hundreds and thousands under his nose, smiling sweetly.
'Er, thanks.' Jeremy took a slice. The woman disappeared. A moment later she was back, tugging a large teenage girl behind her.
'Well go on Mandy,' prompted the woman. 'Say hello to the nice man.'
'Hello.' A soft voice.
'Jeremy? Meet Mandy,' said the woman.
'Hi.'
'Why don't you show Jeremy around?'
Jeremy stood up and followed Mandy out of the room. Glancing back, he saw her mother smiling after them. The girl wore a yellow and brown striped jumper dress. She looked like an enormous bee.
First she showed him the laundry. The floor was flooded with water, and a rare-looking cockatoo hopped anxiously between sinks and machinery.
'My brother found him on the road,' she explained.
'Oh.'
'Do you like pussy cats?' asked the girl, picking up a hessian bag from the floor. It was half-soaked, and a feeble miaowing came from inside. 'That's okay, if you don't want him we'll drown him.' She closed the door.
Outside, the girl made Jeremy shut his eyes as she opened the doors of a big shed.
'You can open them now.'
The shed was full of cars. Not ordinary cars. Shiny cars. Cars with fins and glinting hub-caps. Old Valiants. One had the bonnet open.
'Don't to-ouch,' said the girl in a singsong voice. 'They're Desmond's.'
Jeremy noticed there was no engine inside the open bonnet. Everything was spotlessly clean.
From the front of the house, the sounds of a big car pulling up. A slamming door.
'My brother's home,' said the girl, playing with her plaits.
'Des, you mean?' asked Jeremy hopefully.
'Oh no. Not Desmond. He's got a job. He's never home this early.'
Jeremy walked back into the house. The girl skipped behind him, singing. In the hall stood a huge man in a tattered leather jacket. Stubble covered his chin. He glared at Jeremy as Mrs Gibson rushed out of the kitchen carrying a photo album.
'Oh you've met Jeremy then, Joe,' she bubbled.
'What's he doing here?' asked the man menacingly.
'Just visiting,' said his mother. 'Mandy's been showing him around.'
'Is that right?' The man softened. 'What do you think of our young Mandy then?'
'I-' Jeremy began.
'They're getting on just fine.'
The woman clutched Jeremy with her hand and steered him back towards the kitchen.
'Look, I'm sorry but I really have to go.'
'Nonsense dear, you've only just arrived. Now sit down and look what I've got for you.'
Mrs Gibson sat Jeremy down and unfolded the photo album in his lap. It was full of photos of her daughter. There were pictures of Mandy as a baby, as a young girl, wearing a school uniform. Jeremy flipped through the pages.
'Look at you sitting there,' said Mrs Gibson clasping her hands together happily. 'Just like one of the family.'
Jeremy closed the book, his hands shaking slightly. 'Thanks very much for your hospitality. It's getting late. Please take me back to town.'
He stood up. Joe blocked the way.
'What do you do for a crust Jeremy? - if you don't mind me asking,' said the big man quietly.
'I work for the Government. Public Service.' Jeremy averted his stare.
'How nice for you. Not tax I hope,' Joe smiled.
'No not tax.'
The family looked at him expectantly. 'Transport Department, actually.'
The big man leapt on Jeremy with a roar, knocking him to the ground. He struggled for breath, winded. Joe picked him up and pinned him to the wall. The big man's breath smelled of smoke. 'You bloody little bastard,' he sneered, eyeball to eyeball. 'So you're one of them.'
'One of who?' spluttered Jeremy.
'Bloody bypassing bureaucrats, that's who.'
'I only fix the computers-' The man grabbed his throat. Jeremy gargled for air.
'Shut up you fucker. It's little bastards like you that killed this town.'
'Put him down Joe.' The woman's voice.
He obeyed. Mandy was peering around the door with saucer eyes. Mrs Gibson continued, coldly, 'It has to be done properly.'
With packing tape Joe gagged Jeremy and tied his hands, before picking him up and dumping him in the back of a 4WD ute parked outside. Jeremy passed out.
When he came to, he was bumping around in the back of the ute as they travelled down a rutted dirt road. After what seemed like hours the ute stopped. Big hands undid the back and bundled him outside. Joe punched him in the stomach as his mother looked on. Jeremy tried not to retch into the gag.
The big man carried him over to a tree and began tying him to the trunk. Blearily, he looked up and down the lonely fire trail. Nothing but bush. Miles of it. Cicadas hummed.
Half-unconscious, Jeremy felt something cool hit his face as Joe spat on him. Bull ants crawled up his legs. The woman began walking back to the car as the big man urinated on him.
'See how you like it off the highway, computer man.'
Car doors slammed. The ute drove off as Jeremy's head flopped.
Aches. Thirst. Night fell. His tongue felt like a piece of wood. Hours or days later, the sound of a diesel engine. Voices.
The foresty workers cut Jeremy down and tried to revive him. He mumbled incoherently. They gave him water, and turned their vehicle back down the bumpy track.
'Smells like he wet himself,' said one to the other.
'Wouldn't you?' said the second man.
Back into town they drove. Back past the shot-up sign. Back to Boxvale.
There wasn't much traffic.© David Lowe, January 1992