Headhunters

Chapter Thirty-Two

Milton caught four hours’ sleep, but no more. He knew how long the journey should take, and, as dawn broke the next day, he was watching through the open door as Melbourne came into view. Matilda had slept through the night, another eight hours, and, when he gently shook her awake, she mumbled groggily and tried to go back to sleep. Milton persisted, his hand on her shoulder and, eventually, she gave up and allowed herself to be roused.

“Where are we?”

“Just coming into Melbourne.”

The train started to slow when it was several miles from the yard. The wilderness became more and more urbanised, with scattered dwellings and farmsteads and then paved roads and denser concentrations of buildings. Milton had no intention of their being seen at the train’s terminus, and so, as it slowed still further, he told Matilda that they were going to have to jump.

He looked ahead and saw a sharp bend in the track, and waited again as the driver braked and bled more speed away. The track passed through a deep cutting, with a short span of gravel and then a grass slope that was covered with heavy vegetation. Milton pointed to the short ladder that descended from the boxcar and waited as Matilda climbed down. She paused at the foot for a moment and then, eyes closed, jumped clear. She hit the gravel, tried to run, tripped, and fell onto her side. She bounced up quickly and waved that she was okay.

Milton lowered himself to the bottom rung, aware of the huge steel wheels that were turning behind him, and jumped, too. His feet dug into the sharp gravel and he, too, very quickly found that he couldn’t match the train’s speed. His foot caught and he fell, rolling over the sharp stones, his hands and knees scraping against the rough edges.

He came to a halt and checked himself over. Nothing damaged.

Matilda appeared beside him.

“You okay?”

“All good.”

“Not hurt?”

“Just my pride.”

They clambered out of the cutting. They were on the edge of the city, and, after ascertaining the direction they needed to travel, they walked for an hour. They came across an industrial park with a series of warehouses and depots. There was a parking lot that offered a place for the workers to leave their vehicles. Milton assessed it, found a space that was not covered by CCTV cameras, and walked along a line of parked cars until he found an old Nissan that he knew would be easy enough to start. He tried the door. It was locked. He could have been subtle about gaining access, but the lot was remote and unobserved and he was in a hurry. He found a rock that was the same size as his hand in the margin of rough ground at the edge of the lot and used it to punch through the glass. He reached in, unlocked the door and opened it.

Milton swept the fragments of glass from the seat and opened the glovebox. There was a small pouch of tools there, including a flat-head screwdriver. He lined the tip of the screwdriver up with the ignition slot and gave it a firm strike with the palm of his hand. The screwdriver slid home, ruining the ignition cylinder, but, as Milton turned it, the starter engine fired and the car spluttered into life.

“Subtle,” Matilda said.

“You drive.”

She looked at him with mild surprise, but didn’t demur.

Milton went around to the passenger side and slid into the cabin.

“Where to?”

“You know the city?”

“Never been here.”

“I have,” he said, “but it was a while ago.”

He tried to remember the geography.

“Head into town,” he said. “South.”