Dorran had washed after killing Marnie so that Clare wouldn’t see her aunt’s blood. But he’d missed a spot. On the back of his shirt’s collar, tucked almost out of view, was a little drop of red.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Fields passed her window. They gradually transformed into bare, bleak hills, and the ground was taken over by shrubs and struggling trees as their car moved into the valley. In another hour, the ground would start rising again, leading into the mountains that separated Marnie’s house from Beth’s.
Clare huddled in the car’s corner, forehead pressed against the window. Every time she thought about Marnie, her insides ached. It felt like being punched repeatedly. The bruises had no chance to heal before they took another hit.
Dorran didn’t try to disturb her, except for once, a few minutes after leaving the farm. He stopped the car to get the blanket out of the back seat and drape it across Clare and refilled the mug with water. The drink sat in the cupholder, ignored, but Clare held on to the blanket. She felt cold again. The car’s dampness continued to soak into her. The air conditioner didn’t work, and she thought the outside might be cooling as the clouds thickened.
The clock on the dashboard slowly clicked onwards. Past four, approaching five. The later it grew, the less the thought of Marnie hurt. The memories weren’t becoming less painful, but Clare thought she was losing her ability to feel. She was glad for that. Feelings had no place in this new world. She simply had to do what was required to survive.
The road began to snake as it led towards the river. Long before they could see the water, Clare heard it. Rushing, almost screaming. Dorran turned to her, seemingly about to say something, but changed his mind and remained silent. He slowed the car, though, as they navigated through a copse of birch to approach the stone bridge. What should have been a bridge, at least. Their passage was gone.
No, Clare corrected herself. Not gone. It’s still there, just underwater.
She shuffled up in her chair. He back muscles burned, but she barely felt them. She barely felt anything. She stared at the scene, understanding what it meant but not caring.
The path sloped downwards. In the space between them and the opposite bank rushed a torrent of water. The snow that had blanketed the region was flooding towards lower ground, and a large part of it had taken the Burbank River as its path of choice.
The water turned white as it surged over things that would normally be clear. Rocks. Signposts. The bridge. Even the Flood Water sign had disappeared. The river’s edge lapped over the road ahead of their car, as though beckoning them in.
“This is unpassable,” Dorran said. “Are there any other ways across the river? Other roads, other bridges?”
She struggled to unfold the map between them. The lines moved in a surreal pattern, and as she stared at them, she could have sworn they were wriggling. She blinked, waiting for them to straighten, but they wouldn’t.
Dorran watched her for a second then leaned closer to read the map himself. “It looks as though there is another bridge upriver. Over here. We might have better luck with it. What do you think?”
“Yes,” she said. The word was a croak without any conviction behind it. She rested back against the window.
Dorran folded the map and placed it back on the dashboard. Then he adjusted the blanket around Clare’s shoulders before reversing up the road.
The sun danced closer to the horizon. Hazy golds spread across the sky, painting the thickening clouds. It was too early for a sunset, Clare thought. Night wouldn’t claim them for another hour and a half. And yet, there it was, gradually tinting the world.
She closed her eyes and visualised the area. They were barely any closer to Beth’s, but a few hundred kilometres away from their original path. They were moving perpendicular, not forward. There was no chance of reaching her sister before nightfall.
Tyres crunching over loose flecks of asphalt. The car developed an odd, steady rocking rhythm as it bumped over the potholes. The radio remained muffled but ever present. The sounds and sensations seemed to go on forever. Dorran grew restless. He shifted, sometimes rolling his shoulders, sometimes tilting his neck to loosen tight muscles or letting go of the wheel to stretch his fingers. The red spot on his collar was darkening into brown as it dried.
The sky darkened into dusk. Dorran tried turning on the headlights. One flickered to life, which, after the damage, was a small miracle. The second light must have failed after being used as a bumper to move cars on the freeway.
That scene felt like it had occurred weeks ago. It was hard to believe it was still the same day.
They drove along the edge of a camping site. The stillness had passed through during the off season, and the area was near empty. Eight caravans were spaced along the field, their silhouettes standing out of the ground like bleak rocks.
Imagine that. You spend the entire year saving up and planning for a holiday, and when you finally escape the city and all of the stress that comes with your job, the world ends.
Their single light shimmered over the road. The ground was low enough that trickles of water flowed over the asphalt and gathered in its dips, leaving it glittering and damp. As the last of daylight slipped away, a sign emerged from the gloom, pointing towards Jenola Bridge. The car slowed as they bumped over the uneven dirt trail. Within a minute, they came to a halt, facing a floor of rushing water extending as far as the headlight could show.
Dorran released a held breath. He pulled the map over and unfolded it, then he ran his hand over his face. “Do you know any of these routes? Is there a bridge that will be high enough to cross?”
Clare didn’t want to stir from her seat in the car’s corner, but she made herself sit up, letting the blanket drop into her lap, and stared at the paper. The lines of red and brown and blocks of green were still incomprehensible.
Thirty hours since we last heard from Beth. A full day of radio silence. And we’re no closer to reaching her.
“Let’s go home,” she said.
Dorran held the map halfway between them. His face was unreadable. For a moment, the only sounds Clare could hear were the buzzing radio and the dull, angry water.
Then he said, “Is that what you want? Is it what you truly want?”
“Does it matter? This was pointless. She’s dead.”
He slowly refolded the map, taking his time to line up the creases. When he was done, he rested it in his lap and stared ahead, through the windshield. His voice was soft. “I think you’re suffering from shock and grief. I don’t believe you are thinking clearly.”
“I am.” She pulled the blanket up around her chin again. “We’re not going to reach Beth today. Probably not tomorrow, either. And even if we did, there would be nothing left to save. Let’s go home. We never should have left.”
He faced the river. The headlights caught the fine mist floating up from where the water thrashed. His eyes were red-rimmed, she noticed for the first time. He looked gaunter than he had that morning, as though the day had drained years off his life.
He never wanted to come. You were the one who pushed him to fight for a cause he didn’t believe in. And in the end, we get nothing. Selfish, selfish, selfish.
“I saw caravans a few minutes back,” Dorran said. “If they are empty, we can sleep in one of them. It will be more comfortable than this car, and I cannot drive much farther today. It is too dark to be safe on the road. Tomorrow, we can look at the map again and find a way over the river.”