George lay across the front seats of the truck cab, doing his best to ignore a stabbing pain in his hip and lower back. He thought it likely he wouldn’t be getting much sleep. In some ways he was glad young Rich had wandered off into town. It meant he could lay down, rather than try to sleep sitting up. That also meant he could stay hidden from view by the high dashboard and side doors. It made him feel safer. He just hoped he saw the new driver again in the morning.
He pushed up onto an elbow and looked out across the dark car park. From his vantage point he could see maybe half the neatly marked parking spaces, and the footpath going along the side. Across the road was a coffee shop and a hairdresser’s, closed up and dark. The supermarket closed at 8pm and the last shoppers were straggling out, pushing trolleys or carrying bags. By a quarter past eight, the car park was empty.
The arsehole’s van still sat parked at the entrance to the loading bay, though. George lay back down on his side, knees up and crammed against the gearshift because the cab wasn’t wide enough for him to stretch out straight. He shifted onto his back, knees up, but that was hell on his neck. He needed a pillow. There was a first aid kit in a padded case under the passenger seat. He sat up and shifted around to get to it. Movement outside caught his eye.
Someone approached the van parked at the loading bay entrance. A tall, gangly fellow, with strangely long arms and fingers, that rippled like white seaweed as he walked. George had never seen such a pale person in his life, the guy was white like marble. Like chalk. He had a long face too, with dark eyes and a mouth that hung half open. He wore overalls, a tatty jumper underneath with voluminous sleeves that didn’t reach his thin wrists, and heavy black boots. He slid open the side door of the van then loped away again. George lost sight of him past the bushes and scraggly trees at the kerb where he’d busted his wheel rim.
There was a temptation to hop out and look in the van, but George trembled at the thought of it. Nothing would get him out of this truck cab before dawn lit the sky. Not in this town.
The tall, pale man came back into view, walking backwards. He carried something bulky, a large canvas bag. Another man held the other end. He was entirely normal looking compared to the first guy. This one had dark hair, jeans and jacket, running shoes. His face was twisted in something like disgust and he wouldn’t meet the pale man’s eye. They turned sideways and hefted the large bag into the van. As they did, it twitched and rippled, like something, or several somethings, were squirming around inside. It flexed and pulsed, then disappeared into the shadowed interior.
The man in the running shoes nodded once, hurried away. The pale man slid the side door of the van closed, then turned and looked directly at George.
George gasped and slumped out of sight behind the dashboard, knees cramped into the steering column. His heart hammered, his palms were cold and sweat-slicked. He licked suddenly dry lips and stayed still, waiting to hear the van start up. It didn’t. After several minutes, his lower back began to burn. Nothing for it. He had to move. Surely the guy had gone, maybe locked the van and wandered off again.
George sat up and the pale man was right there, still staring. He hadn’t moved a muscle. His half-open mouth gave him the impression of being simple-minded, but his dark eyes were sharp and focussed. That mouth fell open a little wider. Is that a grin? George wondered, mesmerised. The man had no teeth.
George nodded once, raised a shaking hand in a weak greeting. The pale man’s mouth opened even wider, a black chasm in his white face. Then he turned abruptly to the side and climbed into the cab of the van. George watched as it coughed and rattled twice before firing into life and the pale man backed away from the kerb and drove off.
“This fucken town,” George said aloud, and scrunched back onto his side across the seats, pulled his jacket over himself. He squeezed his eyes shut, but sleep seemed a lifetime away.
Rich walked along Tanning Street, the plastic bag with his beers and chips bumping against his thigh. The road was long and straight, rising and falling, heading due south along the coast. The post office had been pretty cool, with a clock tower and everything. Large sandstone blocks and interesting architecture. He lamented they didn’t make buildings like that any more. On the other side as he’d turned the corner was the harbour, glittering in the moonlight. A large curve of stony coast with the cement berths and breakwaters further east as he turned south. He saw a lighthouse on the end of the furthest promontory of rock, its light circling, spearing through the night.
He passed a couple of restaurants and takeaways, most with hardly any patrons. The Victorian pub on the diagonally opposite corner from Clooney’s had seemed warm and welcoming. More old-fashioned country pub, less weirdo sea shack. He’d paused briefly, looking in, part of him wishing he’d gone there instead of Clooney’s. Still, all country pubs were fundamentally the same under the veneer of their décor. He had his own beer now, and thought it wise to find somewhere quiet.
He passed a doctor’s surgery on the right and another park and playground on the left, this one butting right up to a small beach and the ocean beyond. Low white caps of surf reflected light from the half moon. A surf lifesaving club building stood at the south end of the park, but it looked dilapidated, a couple of the windows boarded up.
Tanning Street undulated lazily, rising twice to a roundabout crossroads, descending again in between. Left off the roundabouts were small headlands with houses, like the bigger headland that made the south side of the harbour. It seemed The Gulp had numerous small beaches and coves along its coast before the high cliffs to the north and south. The shops and services quickly gave way to houses after the small beach and park. He passed a big primary school on the left, Saint Augustine’s.
Most of the houses were single storey, from at least the 70s if not older. A lot of weatherboard, a lot of metal roofs, some tiled. Low garden walls and neat lawns in front. As he approached one he heard a kind of low whistling sound, and lots of scuffling. He frowned, then saw the garden was full of cages. As he leaned closer, he realised the cages were full of whiffling guinea pigs. Dozens of them, at least ten to a cage, crawling over each other in a mess of straw and vegetable scraps. It couldn’t be right, keeping them so overcrowded like that. He grimaced and walked on.
He passed a large funeral director’s on the right, a low building with a neat drive and well-tended shrubs. Let Us Care For Your Dead the sign said and Rich frowned. Hell of a way to phrase it.
A little further on he saw the sign for the Ocean Blue Motel, a large white square lit up inside with fluorescent tubes that flickered slightly. A U-shaped drive had a single story of motel units all around it, twelve in all, with an office at the end. A car park space was painted on the bitumen outside each unit, but none of the spaces were taken and the only lights on were in the office. Reception, it said on the door. Rich walked up and peered in through the grimy glass. A rack of postcards and flyers stood just inside to the left, two old vinyl chairs on the other side, and a desk with computer on it against the back wall. A door led away behind the desk but that was closed.
Ring the bell, Chrissy had told him. He looked for a button, then saw a weathered rope hanging down. The rope led up to a small brass bell that made him think of fishing boats. He let out a short laugh. “An actual fucking bell,” he muttered, and pulled the rope.