The Gulp: Five Tales of Horror

Out on a Rim

Richard Blake’s day had been deceptively boring. Tall, pale gum trees lined either side of the road, and spread thickly back into shadow. Late afternoon sun occasionally lanced through a rare gap in the canopy that closed over high above. Rich sat quiet in the passenger seat as George Grayson drove the Woolworths big rig along the single lane highway.

“It’s like a tunnel,” Rich said eventually, leaning forward to peer out the windscreen. The road freaked him out. “Kinda claustrophobic.”

George laughed. “You haven’t seen anything yet. It’s like this for nearly twenty minutes from Enden until the Gulpepper turnoff. It’s another twenty minutes from the turnoff on the other side too, until you get to Monkton.”

“Nothing in between?”

“Only bush and Gulpepper. And that’s ten minutes from the turnoff through nothing but more bush until you reach the coast.” He nodded out the other side of the cab. “That way is thick all the way to the freeway that bypasses all of this.”

“It’s the only town there? No other villages or anything along the coast?”

“Not between Enden and Monkton, nah. Just Gulpepper. A kind of big, natural bay with high cliffs either side. It’s quite a big town, but there’s fuck all else for miles around except bush and ocean.” George frowned out the side window towards the lowering sun. “We’re running too late. That traffic jam in Enden fucked up our schedule.”

“Does it matter?” Rich asked the question despite George’s obvious discomfort. What was the problem, other than being a little late home?

George glanced at the young man beside him and sighed. “I don’t want to be in Gulpepper at night. Listen, there’s some stuff you should know. You’re a good kid, you’ll be a good driver. I’m just sorry you’re inheriting this fucken route offa me. I’m glad as hell to be retiring, I tell you that. Pretty much everything about this gig is just fine, except once a week when you hafta come to this freaky fucken town. There’s one road in and out of Gulpepper. I hate driving down it and can’t wait to come back the other way.”

Rich smiled. Old George reminded him of the conspiracy theory nuts who thought mobile phone towers were transmitting mind control. Rich didn’t buy into all that hokum.

“I see you fucken grinnin’,” George said. “Trust me, you get in, make your delivery, and get right back out again. Once I stopped for lunch there. Never again.”

“Why, what happened?”

George frowned, swallowed. “I don’t wanna talk about it. Gulpepper is just… different, that’s all. And only outsiders use that name. Everyone who lives there calls it The Gulp.” He shot a sideways look at Rich again. “The place has a habit of swallowing people.”

Rich laughed. “That what they tell you?” It’s not like Australia wasn’t riddled with remote towns. George was trying to scare him.

“Mark my words, son, make this stop your quickest of the week.”

They fell into silence as the gum trees blurred by on either side and the sun got lower. After the bustle of Enden, especially with the added excitement of the traffic accident, the empty, gloomy road seemed preternaturally quiet. It was ten minutes before another car passed them going the other way, the face behind the wheel a pale moon in the low light, staring dead ahead with intense concentration. Eventually George slowed, leaning forward over the big wheel.

“Junction’s coming up,” he said to Rich’s questioning look. “And nowhere to turn a truck, so if you miss it, you have to go all the way to the outskirts of Monkton to turn around, which adds nearly an hour to your trip by the time you’ve finished fucking around.”

“Seriously?”

“I told you, son, there’s nothing good about this place.”

George pointed ahead. “See the memorial?”

Rich saw a white cross at the side of the road, a faded wreathe of plastic flowers hanging on it. Painted on the crossbar was Wayno. Right behind the cross a large gum tree had a huge scar in its pale bark. His stomach soured. Memories of watching Grant’s last drive were still fresh after all these years. His old school friend had a memorial like this on a road heading out of Sydney. They’d been racing, Grant was winning, until he misjudged the bend. Rich thought he’d never shake off the guilt. The image of Grant’s car disintegrating as Rich stood on his car’s brakes would never fade. “Yeah, I see it.”

“It’s a good one to look out for. The turnoff is only a few hundred metres past.”

Rich nodded. “Okay, good to know.”

“Poor old Wayno. Probably aimed his car at a tree rather than have to go back to The Gulp.” Before Rich could address that particularly dark assessment, George pointed again. “See the sign?”

On the other side of the narrow highway was a small green sign, pointing across the road.

Gulpepper Road

(Gulpepper 11km)

“Is that a skull hanging off it?” Rich asked as George slowed to make the turn.

“Or a shrunken head. Kids, probably, mucking about with Halloween props. But with this town, you never know.”

Rich laughed. The old man was laying it on a bit thick. He realised this was probably like when Rich got his first job out of school, at a factory in Bankstown. First day, the foreman sent him to the office to ask the manager for a long weight. The manager smiled and nodded, said, Sit there, son, and Rich was left for an hour. Eventually the manager came back out and said, Long enough? Off you go then! Rich went back to the factory floor among gales of laughter. But fair enough, he’d play along.

The road into town was indistinguishable from the highway running between Enden and Monkton. One lane each way, thick bush either side. But even gloomier now, the sun behind them about to drop below the tree line.

“We’ve left this much too late,” George muttered, almost to himself.

Rich smiled.

After a while the gum trees began to thin and a few farms appeared on either side. The houses were old, tin roofs and weatherboard walls, a lot of them with peeling paint and rust encroaching from all sides above. Tractors and box-back trucks were parked around, most of them at least twenty years old. Dogs ran up dirt driveways, barking at the large green and white Woolworths 18-wheeler as it bulled past.

Another few minutes and regular houses began to dot the sides. Plenty of bush still around, but lawns with fences, trampolines and cubby houses, family cars. Then the side streets began, more houses with smaller plots of land. They passed a large building, lit up with neon, a big Tooheys New sign glowing out front. Illuminated letters above the double glass doors proclaimed, Gulpepper Bowlo.

“Is there a town anywhere in Australia without a lawn bowls club?” Rich asked with a grin.

“If there is, I haven’t been there,” George said, but his face was set. Normally the man had a good humour about him, crass and rough sometimes, but he was in his late 60s and that was only to be expected. Now though, he seemed entirely dour. Perhaps he really didn’t like this place.

Either that or he was playing his role in this particular hazing with great skill. The road opened out and they came to the main street leading into town. A roundabout at the top of a hill had three other exits, one to the right was signposted to a leisure centre, to the left went towards more housing, and one dead ahead. They went straight across. The road sloped downhill towards the ocean that lay dark and grey across the horizon. From their high vantage point the town lay to either side in undulating waves of steep hills, covered in houses and shops, an industrial looking set of units off to the left. Rich caught a glimpse of the harbour, a small forest of white masts and all manner of fishing and leisure boats, then the road led down and he lost perspective on it. Far to the north and south the land rose steeply to cliffs thickly covered with gum trees and banksia.

“If there was a bush fire, this place would be entirely cut off,” Rich mused.

“It’s happened once or twice apparently. But given how often the rest of the country burns, this place has been pretty lucky.” George nodded ahead as he spoke. “Here we are.”

They came to a large area on the left with a car park, half full of cars, and a big shopping complex behind. The huge Woolworths supermarket took up one end of the complex, and Rich spotted a baker, a reject shop, and a couple of other things on the far side. But George turned into the loading bay before the car park, leading him to the back of the supermarket. There was a big turning space and he nosed the truck in, then backed slowly and expertly along the narrow cement apron to big double roller doors at the supermarket’s rear warehouse. A few young people in Woollies uniforms stood waiting on the raised dock, looking bored.

“Saw us coming,” George said. “Get this stuff inside and we’ll be out of here in under half an hour, we’re lucky.” He killed the engine and jumped down from the cab.

Rich joined him at the back and they opened up the trailer. The teenagers and one grizzled older man began walking manual hand-held pallet jacks back and forth, ferrying all manner of grocery store items from the truck into the big warehouse. George leaned against the wall off to one side, squinting up into the darkening sky. It was indigo out over the water, pale grey and pink to the west over the bushland.

“If this lot pull their collective finger out, we’ll be back towards the highway before the streetlights come on,” George said.

“What happens when the streetlights come on?”

George sneered. “This place is weird enough in daytime. I don’t wanna know what comes out at night.”

“It’s just a harbour town,” Rich said with a laugh. “Tourist town.”

“You see any tourists?”

Rich grinned. Next week George would be retired and this route would be his. He’d have to do his best to make good time and take the opportunity to stick around for an hour or two after the goods were delivered, have a proper look at the place.

At twenty-seven, Rich had started to feel like maybe he needed to broaden his horizons. He’d grown up in Sydney, but hadn’t been out of New South Wales except for one high school camping trip to Queensland. He became estranged from indifferent parents right around the time school finished and figured it was no great loss. He’d largely looked after himself since the start of high school anyway. University didn’t suit him, and after Grant died he decided to go somewhere else, forge his own way. The factory job didn’t last long, still too close to home, so heading south down the coast a few hours seemed like a good idea.

He’d done a few different things over the years, mostly drinking his weekly pay cheque from various blue-collar jobs. He was happy enough for a while. He found a job at meat packing plant and thought it would do for a time until he saw a divorced workmate of only forty-two keel over dead from a heart attack. It was like a flare going off in his mind, seeing himself heading for the cold cement just like that poor bastard. So he decided to shake things up, look to a further horizon. He moved another hour south, studied and passed for his HGV licence, and got the job with Woollies. Better pay than the meat plant and cheaper rent too. Save up enough over the next few years, he’d decided, then leave not only the state, but the entire Australian continent behind, see the world. In the meantime, keep painting. He loved to make his small artworks, weird landscapes in oils on miniature canvases. It calmed him. A workmate in his last job had said he should get an Etsy shop or something, try to make some money from it. Maybe he would.

“Stop daydreaming,” George said, punching Rich lightly on the arm. “Let’s get outta here.”

He slammed the trailer shut, dropped the locking bar in place, then went back around to the cab. They headed away from the loading dock, and George made a sound of disgust.

“This fucken dickhead!”

A large white panel van was parked right in the entrance to the loading bay, blocking half the road. The gap it left was enough for most vehicles to get around, but not a truck the size of theirs. George blasted the horn a couple of times, several pedestrians turning with startled expressions.

Rich leaned forward to peer at the van. “No one in it,” he said.

“Fuck me dead.”

George sat there a moment, knuckles white on the wheel. He blatted the horn again, this time drawing some shaken fists and choice curses from passers-by.

“He surely hasn’t just left it there.”

“Give it a minute,” Rich said. “He’ll probably come back.”

“Fuck this.” George revved up the truck and crept slowly forward.

“You won’t squeeze through there,” Rich said. His training and licence test were all still fresh. Widths and heights, load limits and speed limits, it was all branded on his forebrain.

“Watch me.”

“Nah, George, you’ll hit the van.”

“Fuck him, shouldn’ta parked there.”

“Don’t give yourself an insurance nightmare the week you retire, mate. You want a clean getaway don’t you? Just wait, he surely won’t be long.”

George grunted in annoyance and edged the truck a little to the right. “I’ll get through.”

Before Rich could say anything there was a bump and grinding crunch.

“Fuck it!” George snapped. The cab tilted a little to one side, then bumped back down. “Fucken kerb. I didn’t see that.”

They jumped out and saw the front right wheel had ground into the apex of a shallow cement curve, and the tyre was already half-flat.

“Ah, shit. I done a fucken rim!” George said.

Rich crouched for a better look. Sure enough, the wheel rim had bent up and out where it had pressed into the cement, the entire weight of the cab on top of it. Only a little, but enough for air to hiss from the gap it made.

“There’s no driving on that,” Rich said. “We’ll have to call out for a new wheel.”

“No shit, Richard! You think I was born yesterday?”

Rich frowned at the man’s vehemence, but George was already looking nervously at the sky, then down along the main street. He pulled out his phone and rang a number. At least there was reception here. Rich checked his phone and frowned. He had no service at all. George must be on a better provider.

“Nah, gotta be now. Can’t you send someone in from Monkton or Enden?” George’s voice was angry, but it was higher in pitch too. Scared? “Then what are we supposed to fucken do? Fuck! All right.”

He hung up and the eyes he turned to Rich were haunted. “No one coming until the morning.”

Rich’s eyebrows rose. “Overnight in The Gulp then?” It didn’t bother him, he had no one waiting for him. “Better ring your wife.”

“I’m gonna back it up before all the air is gone.” George got back into the cab and lined the truck up along the left side of the loading bay, as neatly tucked against the supermarket as he could make it, leaving the damaged front right wheel easily accessible. He didn’t get out of the cab.

Rich walked over, looked up as George wound down the window. “Where we gonna stay then? You know anywhere? Motel or something?”

George barked a laugh. “Right here.” He held up an empty plastic two litre Solo bottle. The man chugged the stuff all day long. “I’ll piss in this and sleep where I sit. I suggest you do the same.”

“I’m not sharing a fucking cab with you overnight, much less a bloody piss bottle, mate!” Rich gestured behind himself. “There’s a whole town out there. It’ll have pubs and motels and shit. Let’s have a feed, get pissed. Enjoy ourselves.”

“Nah, no chance. I’m staying right here. You should do the same.”

“You’re taking all this a bit far, George. I get it, I’m the new boy, wind me up. But this? It’s a bit much.”

“You can do whatever you want, son. But I strongly advise you stay in here with me.”

“No way, mate. I’ll find somewhere to stay in town. What time are they sending out a wheel?”

“Said someone would be here by eight.”

Rich nodded. “I’ll be back by eight then.”

“If you’re not here by ten, I’m leaving without you. I’ve put in years and this is my last week. My last run to this place. I’m not being swallowed by The Gulp three days before I quit.”

Rich laughed, twisted his face into something sardonic and said in a bad American accent, “I was three days from retirement, dammit!”

“I am not kidding, Richard. Ten a.m. I leave, with or without you. Then I do my last two days of deliveries and I’m a retired old cunt with nothing but drinkin’ and moanin’ to do for the rest of my life.”

Rich frowned, looking up at George, the sky above him darkening into night. “All right, mate. Whatever you reckon. I’ll be here by eight.”

George nodded once, but his face was resigned, like Rich had suddenly become his biggest disappointment. Then he rolled up the window and was lost behind its dark mirror as a streetlight buzzed on and made a pool of weak yellow glow.

“Crazy old man,” Rich said with a laugh. He turned and headed out of the loading bay, then turned left towards the harbour.

The streets were wide, forty-five-degree angle parking bays along both sides, with deep stone gutters. It was relatively quiet, a handful of pedestrians wandering around, a few cars crawling by in the speed-restricted local traffic zone. Rich passed a Chinese restaurant, empty of customers, and a Leagues club that seemed quite busy, and crossed the road beside another roundabout, a neat circular bed of flowers in the centre. He entered the main street proper, surf shops and pharmacies, a Salvation Army thrift store, kebab shop, banks and a doctor’s surgery, a second-hand bookstore. The place was pretty nice, he decided, the architecture old-fashioned like so many country towns in Australia. There was a heavy air of colonial settlement in the style, the white man’s boot print heavy on the landscape. Again, like so many Australian towns. All of them, if he was honest about it.

He came to a large park on his left, a big war memorial arch standing white and stark against the shadowy green grass. He frowned at a couple of piles of mushrooms, or were they toadstools? Normally you’d find wreathes of flowers placed against a war memorial, but this was the first time he’d seen fungus. And so deliberately placed. He laughed, kept walking. A children’s playground sat far back from the street in the middle of the park. It looked to be in pretty good condition, bright colours in hard plastic, rubberised crash matting underneath. Certainly the most modern thing he’d seen thus far in town. Streetlights beside a community centre next to the playground cast a wan orange glow across the play equipment, and Rich startled when he realised four people were sitting on the large double-sided metal seesaw. They were almost solid silhouettes with the weak light behind them, but they were clearly all watching him go by. He was a good fifty metres away, on the footpath raised a little higher than the park, but they stared up the slope at him with a strange intensity. Grown-ups too, not kids.

Well, Rich told himself, teenagers more likely. There wasn’t much to do in country towns and kids tended to hang out in public places until they were old enough to drink, then they’d hang out in the pub. Rich was well past the hanging out stage of his life and most certainly headed for a pub. There had to be one. And it would hopefully have a bistro too. He was starved.

He tore his eyes away from the curious teenagers and skipped sideways as a man with a dog walked right at him. “Scuse me,” Rich said, even though the man had made no effort to avoid a collision.

He wore a heavy woollen coat, down to his knees, despite the late summer warmth. Rich was comfortable in cargo pants and a t-shirt, a light denim jacket clutched in one hand in case it got colder later. The dogwalker had a dark hat, a trilby or something like it, pressed down low on his brow, his face a dark shadow. His dog was a golden retriever, glossy in the streetlight, face split in a guileless grin.

As they were almost side by side, Rich paused. “Actually, mate, sorry to bother you.”

The man stopped and turned, streetlight splashing across his face under the brim of the hat. He had no nose, just two dark, vertical holes beneath his eyes. “What?”

Rich swallowed, determined not to be spun out by the unexpected deformity. But George’s words slid across his hindbrain.

Gulpepper is just… different, that’s all.

“Well?” the man demanded. “I’ve got to be home, can’t be out when… got to be home.”

His dog sniffed wetly at Rich’s hand and Rich absent-mindedly patted his golden head. It was damp, a little sticky feeling. He grimaced, pulled his hand away. “I was wondering if you could tell me where the nearest pub is?”

“The Gulp’s got two. Gulpepper Inn about a hundred metres further along here on the other side, corner of Shellhaven Street. The Victorian Hotel is on the same block, diagonally opposite, corner of Tanning and Kurrajong Street.”

Rich opened his mouth to says thanks, but didn’t get a chance as the man put his head down and walked quickly away. He was stocky and seemed to fill his coat strangely as he ambled off at speed.

Rich walked on. After he passed the park he came to a large sandstone building, an old hall of some kind, now a museum. History of The Gulp was stencilled on the door. He might try to find time to spend in there when it was open, he decided. This place was certainly piquing his interest. And not in entirely good ways, but curiosity was a valuable trait, he’d learned. It tended to allay fears. Knowledge was power and all that.

He looked over when he came to a crossroads, Shellhaven Street heading off up a fairly steep hill and whatever street this was continuing on further towards the harbour. Sure enough, across the road was the Gulpepper Inn, the name carved into the plaster façade of the second storey. Maybe they had rooms too. A sign in gold letters across the doors said Welcome to Clooney’s. Schizophrenic pub? A big sign in another window said Harbour Bistro. He imagined a line of sight right through the large block to the other pub the old man had mentioned and decided not to bother. No point in walking further when there was beer and food right here.

Clooney’s, if that was its name, was a classic seaside town pub. Busy but not packed, a long bar all the way down one side with sets of beer taps at regular intervals. Shelves of spirits covered the wall behind the bar, a huge plastic marlin mounted above. No stools at the bar, but high tables with tall stools around them at the front, plenty of regular tables and chairs scattered around the back half of the long room, again a little more old-fashioned than might be expected in a city pub. All manner of fish and fishing paraphernalia adorned the walls, a huge net hung across the ceiling in the front corner opposite the door, filled with faded plastic fish and crabs. A few photos, some old black and whites, others in colour, showed locals with particularly memorable catches. A few sharks, some big fish Rich would never identify. One showed a young man with a lobster nearly as big as he was, but kind of wide and flat. Surely that was a fake.

People stood around the pub in groups or sat at tables, most of them young to middle-aged, a fair mix of men and women. A few older people here and there, most notably a table of six grey-haired women who must have averaged at least 80 years old. They were raucous, laughing and rocking back and forth in their chairs, wine glasses in hand. A general hubbub filled the place, the murmur of conversation, music coming from somewhere, but Rich couldn’t see a jukebox. Eighties classic “Love is a Battlefield”, he realised after a moment.

Deeper in was a corridor with toilet doors on one side, then a back door leading out to a courtyard and more tables and chairs. Smokers were busy drinking and filling their lungs out there.

Rich went up to the bar, an older man and a younger woman serving behind it. The man ignored him and the young woman came over. She was beautiful, with a killer figure and long dark hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Maybe mid- to late-20s, perhaps a year or so younger than him. Rich threw his best casual, disinterested smile at her. “How ya goin’?”

“What can I get you?” she asked. Cold, clearly not interested in a chat or telling him how she was.

Never mind, he’d play nice and friendly and see if she thawed. Would be great to get laid tonight, an unexpected bonus to the night’s weirdness. “Schooner of Lashes, thanks.”

She poured the pale ale and he handed over ten bucks. When she came back with the change he said, “It’s my first time here and I need a feed. Any recommendations?”

She looked at him for a moment with a strange hardness in her eyes. “I recommend you check the menu and pick something you like.” She smiled then, and there was a hint of genuine humour in it.

He couldn’t help his own smile spreading and opened his mouth to say more but she turned away. Not to serve someone else, she simply turned and moved a couple of metres off and stood looking out over the bar. Well, all right then, Rich thought.

The food service area was at the end of the bar and he went along to look over the menu. All the usual culprits, schnitty and chips, steak, chicken parma, salt and pepper squid.

“Anything but the seafood,” a voice said.

He turned to look and one of the old women from the group up the back was moving past, heading to get a drink. It could only have been her who spoke, but she didn’t even glance back. He decided to take her advice anyway.

The man from behind the bar approached this time. “What’ll you have?”

“Steak, chips and salad, thanks. Sirloin, medium rare.”

“Sauce?”

“Pepper?”

“Yep.”

“Thanks.”

The man rang it up and Rich paid, watching the fluorescent light reflect off the guy’s head through a wisp of thinning hair. He was a big fella, maybe only an inch or two taller than Rich’s six foot, but he was wide and looked fat at first. Closer inspection revealed barely an inch of fat over thick rolling muscle. He reminded Rich of the powerful dudes he’d seen in World’s Strongest Man contests on TV, genetic mutants who seem to naturally grow massive. He probably carried beer kegs around like it was no big thing. He held out a number on a metal stand in one meaty paw and Rich took it. Number 13. He nodded his thanks and turned away.

He pulled out a chair and sat at an unoccupied table towards the back, stood the number in the centre, looked around at the varied clientele. It all seemed pretty normal to him.

“You’re a fucken idiot!” one of four young men at the next table said suddenly, leaning back with laughter. His three friends laughed along, one looking a little chagrined as well. No doubt he was the idiot.

The accuser glanced over and saw Rich looking. Rich nodded.

“How ya goin’?” the man said through his nose.

All four were maybe early- to mid-20s, jeans and work boots, t-shirts, drinking schooners of beer.

“Pretty good, thanks,” Rich said. “You?”

“Nice night for it.”

Rich wasn’t sure what it might be, but he nodded again. “Sure is.”

The guy kept staring, his face entirely neutral. His three friends watched too. After a couple of seconds the weight of their collective expressionless gaze became uncomfortable.

“The steaks any good here?” Rich asked, grasping for anything to say to break the moment.

“Better than the Vic but it’s a harbour town. You should eat the fucken seafood, hey.”

“Didn’t think of it like that.”

“See any fucken cows on your way in?” another of the group said.

“Can’t say I did. Saw a few farms, but not what was, you know, on them.”

“Fucken great ocean out there full of good tucker. No point eating shit that has to be shipped in from elsewhere.” The guy said elsewhere like it was a disease.

“Good point.” Rich smiled. “I’ll try the seafood next time.”

The four of them stared again, clearly happy to peruse without conversation. Rich began to feel like a museum exhibit. “You guys fish?” he asked.

“Course.” The man gestured around the table. “The four of us here are the best rock fishers in town.”

This elicited waves of laughter and guffaws around the table and a few choice comments from other patrons nearby.

“Couldn’t catch a disease if he licked a dead hobo’s arsehole,” one older guy said. He was probably late-50s, iron grey curly hair and corded muscle along his forearms. “Hey? Who’re ya kidding, Troy?”

“Fuck ya, Trev!” Troy said, but he laughed along.

“Couldn’t catch a train at a single-platform station,” one of his mates said.

“Couldn’t catch crabs in a one-woman town,” said another mate.

Laughter ran long and loud, including Troy. He seemed like a good sport.

“Where do you fish?” Rich asked, as the laughter faded.

The four around the table fell suddenly serious, all the others around quietening down. The man with the grey hair tutted loudly.

“Tryin’ a steal our spots, mate?” Troy said.

Rich had never fished in his life, had no idea what it even involved beyond a rod, a hook, and water. “Nah, nah. Just making conversation.”

The expressionless gazes from before, which had become full of mirth, were now steely and hard, eyes narrowed. Rich swallowed.

“Thirteen?” a voice said beside him.

He jumped and looked up, saw a thin woman in the black and whites of a chef, long dark hair pulled into a greasy ponytail. She held out a plate.

“Yes, thanks!”

He took the plate, grateful for the distraction. The woman snatched up his number and walked away. The group of keen rock fishers were leaning into each other across their table again, talking quietly. The man with the curly grey hair had his back turned.

Jesus, Rich thought.

He kept his eyes down, concentrated on his dinner, which turned out to be really good. Except the dressing on the salad that seemed strangely bitter, with a tang he couldn’t quite place. Not unpleasant, just unusual. He cleaned his plate and felt a lot better for the feed. He drained the last of his beer and went back to the bar.

“Same again?” the girl asked.

“Yeah, thanks. I’m Rich.”

“Are ya? Maybe I should marry ya. Then kill you for the money.”

He laughed, but her face was a little too intense for his liking. “Short for Richard. I’m a truck driver, so my wealth is not extensive, sadly.”

“Your wealth is not extensive?” She laughed. “Fucken hark at ’im and his fancy talk.”

She poured the beer and took his money, but didn’t walk away this time.

“I wasn’t expecting to stay overnight, but turns out I need a bed,” he said.

“It won’t be mine, cowboy.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” He hoped, but it wasn’t what he’d meant. “Can you recommend somewhere? Are there rooms here? Nice harbour town like this must get a lot of tourists, yeah? So I figure there’s plenty of places to stay.”

“Tourists? Nah, not really. Not the sort of place folks pass through and no one comes to The Gulp for fun.”

“They don’t? Why not?”

She smiled a little crookedly. “They just don’t. Some maps don’t even show us being here.”

“Seems a little weird.”

“The Gulp is a weird place. Blackfellas had the right idea.”

“What?”

“They wouldn’t settle here. One of the few places white settlers really did find empty, but for wildlife.”

“Is that right?”

She tipped her head a little to one side. “You walk down the main street to get here?”

“Yeah, I was delivering to Woollies, but the truck… broke down. So I have to stay till morning.”

“So you walked past the museum?”

“Yeah, I saw that. It was closed.”

“You’re so interested in The Gulp, you should go in.”

Rich nodded. “Okay, I’ll do that.”

“Ocean Blue.”

“What?”

“Motel. Up the top end of Tanning Street. We don’t have much call for accommodation, but there are a couple of motels, and a campsite with a caravan park. All of ’em spend most of their time empty. You could take your pick of any, but Ocean Blue is probably best.”

“Right, okay, thanks. Why that one?”

She shrugged. “Just probably best, that’s all.”

“Do you have a number? Should I ring ahead?”

She barked a laugh. “You’ll probably be the only cunt there. Just show up, Donny’ll give you a room. He’s in the office twenty-four seven. He lives there. Just ring the bell by the door.”

“Okay, great. Tanning Street?” He’d heard that before, when the noseless man had told him about the two pubs.

“When you leave here, turn right out the door. Get to the roundabout, big post office on the corner, turn right again, that’s Tanning. Long walk, it’ll take you probably fifteen minutes, but just keep going. You’ll pass the primary school on your left, then Ocean Blue is a bit further along on the same side. If you reach the servo you missed it.”

“Easy as,” Rich said. “So what do you do when you’re not working here.”

“Fuck’s sake,” she said, and for a moment he thought he’d annoyed her, then realised she was looking over his shoulder.

He glanced around as a crash caught everyone’s attention, glasses shattering on the floor as a table went over. Two men, somewhere in their forties with beer bellies and chequered flannies, pushed and shoved at each other. One swung a fist in a haymaker that only skimmed the other man’s head from luck. That one grunted, staggered two steps sideways, then came right back, dukes up like a mockery of Queensbury Rules. The other one had his elbows out to either side, fists clenched in front of his chest, and they circled each other, work boots crunching on the broken glass.

“Barry, Mark, will you two cut it out!” the bar girl yelled. “Or take it outside, at least.”

They ignored her. The one with his dukes up skipped forward and fired two quick right jabs. The first didn’t reach, but the second caught his opponent by surprise. He cried out as scarlet flooded his face from a busted nose. That one swung haymakers again, from both sides. The rest of the pub had all turned to look. People jeered and cheered, elbowing each other and laughing, like they were making bets, all moving back to give the brawlers room.

The bar girl stood with fists on her hips, scowling. “You’re paying for any damage, fuckers!”

The men closed again, each throwing useless punches, then clinched and stumbled around in a clumsy wrestle. They bumped into the table Rich had been sitting at, and the four rock fishers at the next table jumped up, saving their beers, laughing as they sidled around to keep watching.

“Chrissy?” the big barman asked.

The bar girl shook her head, watching, scowling. Rich assumed she was the manager, given the big man’s deference to her opinion.

The fighting men broke apart and the one with a crushed nose swung another huge haymaker. It missed by half a metre and he spun around a full three-sixty from the momentum. He was only saved from going down by his shoulder crashing into a column holding the roof beams up. A roar of laughter exploded. The other man tried to take advantage, skipping in again and raining rabbit blows all over the bleeding man’s head and shoulders.

“Here she comes!” someone near Rich said, and he turned to see one of the old ladies from the group at the back striding across the pub like a woman half her apparent age. She held a wine bottle like a club, knuckles white around its neck.

Just as Rich started thinking, Surely she isn’t– she did.

The old woman brought the wine bottle around in a wide, flat arc and it rang as it clocked off the side of the man’s head. He’d had his back to her and it came out of nowhere. Amazingly the bottle didn’t break. He staggered sideways, almost falling, but somehow keeping to his feet. The man with the bleeding nose looked up to see where his opponent had gone just as that man turned to face his new attacker.

“Maisie, fuck’s sake!” he said, and the woman stepped up to him and brought the wine bottle down in a massive overhand strike, right between his eyes. This time it did break and the big man dropped to his knees, wailing as blood flooded his face.

“Fucking hell!” Rich said aloud.

Cheers and applause exploded, the man with the bleeding nose joining in.

“Greg, get a mop,” Chrissy said, and the big barman nodded once and moved away.

The one on his knees had both hands to his face, blood streaming out around his palms.

“You started this,” Maisie said to the other combatant. “Put him in your ute and take him to Doc Blaney.”

“Aw, Mum!” the man said.

The woman raised the jagged neck of the wine bottle, all that was left of her weapon. “You want this in your balls?”

Mum? Rich thought, stunned.

“Fucken hell.” Barry or Mark, whichever he was, lifted his recently felled foe with an arm around the back and walked him out of the pub. The hurt man didn’t take his hands from his face the whole time.

He could be lacerated under there, Rich thought to himself. So much blood all down his front, all over the floor. Rich realised he was still holding his second beer, barely touched. He upended it, downing it in one.

Greg appeared with a mop and bucket, started picking up tables and chairs. A couple of people helped by collecting the larger pieces of broken glass. All the other patrons had returned to their drinking and talking like nothing had happened.

“Same again?” Chrissy asked him.

Rich managed a weak laugh. “Nah, thanks. I reckon I’m good.” He checked his phone. Still not a skerrick of signal, and the time showed not even eight o’clock yet. He wanted to keep drinking, now more than ever, but he didn’t feel like staying in Clooney’s, despite the beautiful woman behind the bar. “You do off-sales?” he asked.

“Bottle shop around the back, drive through.” Chrissy pointed.

“Okay, thanks.”

“See you again, hey?”

He smiled at her, felt his lips tremble slightly as he did so. Violence wasn’t something he coped with too well. “Sure. See you again.”

He left the pub, thankful for the fresh air, tangy with salt and seaweed. He walked around the Shellhaven Street side of the pub and found the drive-through bottle shop. He bought a six-pack of One Fifty Lashes pale ale stubbies and a big bag of salt and vinegar chips, then walked back around the pub heading for the post office and Tanning Street. He was looking forward to the long walk to the Ocean Blue motel.

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.

The bell swung in its mounting and the high brassy ring was strident in the otherwise quiet night. Rich winced, glanced around. Not really anyone to disturb, he supposed. The nearest house was on the other side of the office and the motel seemed unoccupied.

He waited, reluctant to ring again, despite the lack of people. He was also reluctant to try anywhere else. He’d had enough walking and needed a quiet spot. After the weirdness and mayhem of the pub he just wanted to be on his own and drink his beers. He raised a hand to knock when the door behind the desk popped open. He jumped, then gathered himself. A young-ish man came out, maybe mid-30s. He had on striped pyjamas and a black woollen beanie, oversized ugg boots on his feet. His hair hung long and greasy in brown and blond strands around a narrow face with the most hooked nose Rich had ever seen and a strangely prominent Adam’s apple. He smiled and nodded, pointed to his desk. Rich waited. Donny, Chrissy had called the proprietor.

Donny dug in a desk drawer, then came up with a bunch of keys and unlocked the office door.

“How are ya?”

Rich smiled. “Pretty good, thanks. Donny is it? I’m Rich. Chrissy at the pub said you’d be able to fix me up with a room for the night?”

“You’re rich? Maybe I should charge ya double, hey?” Donny hyucked a laugh.

Why was everyone making the same joke, had they never met a Rich before? “It’s Richard, and I only have a card to pay with. No cash.”

“That’s all right, we’re not entirely medieval here.” Donny leaned out the door and looked left and right, sizing up his motel. “Number six, hey?”

Rich shrugged. “Sure, I’m easy.”

Donny gestured inside and went back to his desk. He pulled out a large book and opened it. “Sign-in details here, please.”

The page was otherwise blank, so Rich filled in the top line with his name, address and mobile number. He chose not to include his email address. He pointed at what he’d written. “My phone gets no service here.” He pulled it out to check again and it still had no signal. “Yep, not a thing.”

Donny grinned, pulling the book back across the desk. “Only a couple of providers get any signal in The Gulp. The cliffs either side put the whole town in a kind of bowl. Don’t worry about it, just a formality. I won’t be calling you for a date or anything. What brings you here then? No bags?”

“Unexpected stopover. Truck broke down, waiting for a repair in the morning.”

“Right. Pain in the arse, hey?”

“Yeah, I guess. Still, it’s given me a chance to check out Gulpepper. I’ve never been before.”

Donny looked up from under the rolled over wool of his beanie, eyes narrowed. He licked his lips and nodded once, then turned his attention back to the book. What was he looking at for so long? There were only ten or so words written there. Donny sniffed suddenly and put the book away, then rummaged in the drawer. He pulled out a key on a ridiculously large wooden tag, shaped like a dolphin. It had SIX 6 burned into both sides.

“Eighty-five bucks a night and we put a deposit of another hundred bucks on your card. That’ll get credited back right away assuming there’s no damage when you leave. Just one night?”

“Yes, thanks.”

Rich tapped his card, waited for the beep, then Donny handed him a receipt and his giant key fob.

“No car?”

“No, I walked up here. Truck broke down?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

Donny sat, smiling up at Rich. His two front teeth crossed ever so slightly, making a slight ridge that pushed his top lip forward under his weirdly large nose.

“Okay,” Rich said. “Thanks very much. I’ll, errr…” He gestured back over his shoulder.

“Right-o,” Donny said.

Rich turned away and was halfway out the door when Donny said, “How hot is Chrissy, hey?”

Rich looked back. “She’s really good-looking, yeah.”

“Good-looking? She’s a fucken cracker, that one. I’d love to…” Donny rocked in his chair, like he was trying to thrust his hips while sitting down. The chair creaked.

“Ha. Yeah, I get that. Night then.” Rich hurried out and closed the door before Donny could share any other thoughts of what he’d like to do.

The room smelled of dust and damp when he opened the door, a slightly off, briny smell no doubt from being so close to the sea. But it was clean enough, simply furnished. A double bed, desk and chair, small bar fridge in one corner with a microwave, kettle, tea and coffee stuff on it. A wardrobe with sliding mirror doors in one corner reflected Rich back at himself. He looked into the bathroom at the back. It had a sink, toilet and glassed-in shower cubicle. Simple and clean enough.

“This’ll do fine,” he muttered and went back to close the unit door. He locked it and hung the chain up inside. An immense sense of relief fell over him once he felt enclosed and safe in his own space. George had been right, this was a weird town. But it was only isolated country people, nothing more than that. He went to the big front window and drew the curtains across. A large white van drove slowly up the hill outside, exhaust sputtering dark and smoky behind it.

A small TV was mounted on the wall above the desk. He turned it on and was pleased to see it did get reception, albeit it grainy with a slight hiss to the sound. He tried other channels, but only the one working was ABC2, showing a British cosy mystery.

“Good enough,” he said.

He kicked his shoes off and sat on the bed. He opened the chips and a beer, leaning back against piled pillows that were ever so slightly damp to the touch, and watched the village drama unfold on the small screen.

Five out of six beers and a couple more shows later and Rich was pleasantly drunk and overcome with fatigue. He staggered to use the bathroom, wishing he could brush his teeth. His breath would fell cattle in the morning. He stripped down to his boxer shorts and t-shirt and climbed into the bed. When he turned out the light, the room plunged into pitch darkness, the heavy curtains almost entirely blocking the watery glow of the streetlight and motel sign outside. It was wholly quiet. Alcohol helped sleep overcome him in no time.

He walked along a dark street, gentle rain misting the air. Shadows moved across a green area where a swing set creaked, the seats penduluming with no one on them. A dog barked and a man with no nose leaned in close and whispered something. His breath reeked of fish but his words were unclear.

“What did you say?”

The noseless man spoke again, his voice a stinking hiss, the words still unintelligible.

“I don’t understand!”

A dog barked again, something cold and slippery pressed up into his palm. Why was the dog slimy? He looked down but there was no dog. The noseless man had gone. No one at all shared the street with him, all the buildings along one side were dark, the park on the other side empty. The swings went back and forth, back and forth, creaking. The rain became heavier, it hissed like the noseless man’s voice. A bell rang, repeatedly like a ship rocking on a rough sea, its brass clanging against the mast. He slipped and looked down to see slick seaweed underfoot, black and greasy. It smelled like rotten flesh and stuck to his shoes. The rain became heavier, soaking him, plastering his hair flat. He looked up and saw the ocean roiling, waves tumbling over each other, spray carried on a strong wind that blew the rain into his face. He turned and there was nothing but ocean and beach, littered with rotten weed, and seemingly endless bush behind. Tall gum trees, twisted banksia, thick undergrowth. He tried to move along the beach but slipped and slid on the fetid weed. He went down, landing heavily on his hands and knees. The stink of rotten flesh grew stronger as wetness splashed up into his face. He cried out, staggered to his feet, hands slicked with foul blackness that dripped from his fingertips. The smell made him gag and he turned, saw something huge rise and shift far back in the trees. It seemed to unfurl, arching up above the tree line like a whale’s back in the ocean, then sank away again out of sight. He turned a full circle, nothing but a rocky beach rising into high cliffs at either end, the impenetrable bush behind. “Where am I?” he yelled, but his voice came out like a seal’s bark, whipped away by the wind, lost in the rain and sea spray. Thick black clouds hung low and pendulous over the water, a deep crimson glow across the far distance like a giant wound in the sky. Things with wavering limbs tumbled from clouds, splashing into the waves, from nearby to far away on the horizon.

“Got to be home,” a voice said. The noseless man stood there, looking up at him from under the brim of his trilby hat. His dog ran and jumped in the waves, barking at the falling creatures. “Got to be home!” the man said again, urgency in his voice. “I want to go home!” he suddenly yelled up at the night sky.

Rich jerked awake in the motel bed, heart racing, gasping like he’d sprinted a mile.

“Fuck me dead,” he muttered, trembles setting in throughout his body. He was damp with sweat, the sheets clinging to him. A desperate urge to piss became suddenly evident and he lurched up.

As he came back from the bathroom, the dream fading, he saw a weak orange light behind the microwave. He frowned. That hadn’t been there when he went to bed, he remembered noticing how dark it was. His head was thick with the beer, that halfway state between still drunk and the possibility of a hangover. He went back to the bathroom and downed a tumbler of water. Then another. He came back and the light was still there, a soft glow. He moved nearer, leaned over the microwave to see, wondering if perhaps some light had activated on the back of the thing. Maybe he could unplug it.

The light came through a small hole in the wall, a centimetre or so in diameter. Did that mean there was something in the wall or someone in the room next door? Rich stared for a moment, then curiosity overcame him. He pulled the plug out and lifted the microwave aside as quietly as he could, placed it gently on the floor. Then he crouched to peek through. There was a corner of white linen obscuring about a third of the hole. He realised that was a pillow on the bed next door. A similar bar fridge with a microwave on it sat against the far wall, the entire room an exact replica of his. He assumed all the rooms were largely identical. A man walked past the end of the bed and Rich startled backwards, then slowly looked again. The man headed to bathroom, a tap ran, the clink of a glass, sounds of drinking. The walls were thin, sound carried clearly. The man returned and sat heavily on the end of the bed. He was not especially tall, but he was broad, a blue King Gee work shirt stretched taut across his back and rounded shoulders. He sat there, elbows on his knees, unmoving. Was he waiting for something?

Rich crept back to his bedside table and checked his phone. 2.10 a.m. Maybe the man had just got off a long shift and was doing that thing where the mind flatlines and you have to sit motionless, too tired to even go to bed. He wished the man well and started to climb back into bed when car tyres scrunched on the gravel of the drive outside and a bead of light briefly lit the edge of his curtains, then winked out. Car doors opened and slammed, several footsteps sounded, then the door to the next room opened and shut. Muffled voices came through the thin walls, talking low and somehow menacing. Then one cut through, louder, panicked.

“I wouldn’t, Mr Carter! You know I wouldn’t!”

There was a sharp slap and Rich immediately saw an open palm meeting a cheek in his mind’s eye. That sound couldn’t be anything else.

Go to bed, Rich, he told himself. Leave the light off, get into bed, ignore everything.

“Mr Carter, please!” Another slap, this one meatier followed by a rush of exhalation. Gasping sobs, more menacing voices, too muffled by the walls to make out clearly.

Despite himself, Rich crept forward on hands and knees, then straightened enough to lean against the fridge and look through the small hole.

“Get a chair for Daniel, please, Stephen.”

The broad man in the King Gee dragged out the chair from under the desk and a young man, surely not older than 20, was sat heavily into it. He had shoulder-length dark hair and wild eyes, his cheeks wet with tears. He looked up in terror at someone Rich couldn’t see.

“Mr Carter, please!”

“Please what, Daniel?”

The man moved into view. He was probably somewhere in his late-forties, maybe fifty, heavyset, but not bulky, black hair slicked back like a 50s rocker. He wore jeans and a black shirt with mother-of-pearl press stud buttons and metal tips on the collar. His face was hard, icy blue eyes over a lantern jaw. He held an old, stained Akubra in one hand. He leaned down to stare hard at Daniel.

“Please what?” he asked again.

“Please don’t hurt me, Mr Carter, I done nothing wrong, I promise.”

“That so? Then why were you seen drinking with the Stinson brothers?”

Stephen pulled the young man’s arms back and used zip ties around his wrists, securing them behind the chair. Are they going to rough him up? Rich wondered. I shouldn’t watch. Go to bed. But he kept looking.

“Not drinking with them, Mr Carter. Same pub is all. I don’t usually go in the Vic, but Sal wanted a steak and says Clooney’s steaks are shithouse and insisted on the Vic and I thought it meant no harm so said yeah. We had dinner there and the Stinsons was in there, yeah, sure, they were, and I said hello, of course I did. Just courtesy. But I wasn’t with them, not drinking with them.”

“But you stayed after your steak, didn’t you? You and Sal.”

“Yeah, a little while, had a couple more beers, usual thing, you know same as Clooney’s only Sal insisted on the Vic this time.”

“You’re beginning to repeat yourself, mate.”

Daniel dragged in a ragged breath, staring up at Mr Carter, seemingly lost for words. Carter stared back. Stephen moved around the other side of Daniel’s chair and Rich saw his face. Eyes too wide apart, broken nose, flattened like a career boxer’s, dark stubble up almost under his eyes. He lifted the King Gee work shirt and unbuckled his belt. Daniel became suddenly aware of his presence and turned to look as the big man slid his belt from the loops on his waistband.

Carter grabbed Daniel’s chin, twisted his face back, his fingertips making white circles, he was gripping so hard. “Never mind Stephen, son.”

Rich grimaced, swallowing hard. What was Stephen going to do? Rich leaned back, started to turn away, but couldn’t tear his eyes from the scene. He slowly drifted close again as Carter said, “Those Stinson cunts have cost me dear, more than once. You know that.”

“I do, Mr Carter, of course–”

“Shut the fuck up. The thing is, I have reason not to trust you. I haven’t forgotten New Year’s before last. No, I said shut the fuck up, we’re not talking about that now, I’m simply illustrating a point. I wanted to trust you, Daniel, I really did. You seemed to be doing so well. Then you’re drinking with the fucking Stinsons in the Vic like you’re a wet-behind-the-ears fucking teenager. You should know better.”

“I wasn’t drinking with them, Mr. Carter, just in the same pub. I told Sal we shouldn’t but she kept on about the Clooney’s steaks being crap.”

“I suggest you stop bad-mouthing Clooney’s, Daniel.”

The steak was pretty good, Rich thought absently. Maybe this Sal wanted to get Daniel into trouble. He half-smiled. This was better than the British cosy mystery he’d watched earlier. Was that big fella, Stephen, going to whip Daniel with his belt?

Carter put his hat on the desk and pulled out a knife. Daniel stiffened. All good humour drained from Rich in an icy torrent. Stephen stepped behind the chair and his belt went over Daniel’s forehead. He pulled it taut above Daniel’s eyebrows and hauled back, the young man’s head pressed into Stephen’s large but incredibly solid-looking belly.

“I suggest you hold very still,” Carter said, leaning forward.

“No, no, no, please, Mr Carter!”

The knife had a 10cm or so blade, sharpened on one side, and a bright green plastic handle.

“I said hold still!”

Carter put his free hand to Daniel’s throat and squeezed. Daniel gasped and gagged, eyes bugging. Carter put the point of the knife to Daniel’s left eye, just below the brow, and drove it in. Bile shot up into Rich’s throat, sour, as he watched. Daniel screamed, high and shrill. Carter dug with the knife, his expression one of concentration as blood sluiced down Daniel’s cheek. He thrashed and writhed in the chair, heels drumming against the tiled floor, as Carter drew the knife around, the young man’s head the only still part of him, locked into place as it was, his arms secured to the back of the chair.

Carter popped Daniel’s eye out onto the palm of his hand, released the young man’s throat, and stood up, smiling. Stephen stepped back, began threading his belt back into his waistband. Daniel wailed, whipping his head left and right as blood poured from his ruined eye socket.

“Let’s have a look then,” Carter said.

With Daniel’s eyeball resting on one palm, he handed the knife to Stephen and then stuck the thumb of his free hand into Daniel’s empty, gore-soaked socket. As Daniel screamed, Carter tossed the young man’s eye into his mouth. He tipped his head back, chewing, swilling the contents around his mouth like a sommelier experiencing a particularly decent vintage. Daniel howled, Stephen held his head steady with one meaty palm, Carter’s thumb buried to the second knuckle. Rich shook all over, his skin wet and cold with sweat, bile burning his throat, threatening to burst forth.

“I see,” Carter said, slurred slightly by his mouthful. Jelly leaked over his bottom lip. His head was still tipped back, eyes closed, thumb shifting about in Daniel’s face. “You went out into the courtyard for a cigarette and that’s where you had your conversation. A shame there’s no sound with this show, eh? But I see it all. I see you taking the money from Craig Stinson.” He shifted the chewed eye in his mouth, sucking it back and forth across his front teeth. “I see the younger Stinson cunt, William. What’s he giving you there, eh? Wrapped up pretty well, isn’t it. Looks interesting, Daniel. Very interesting.”

Carter smacked his lips and swallowed, opened his eyes to look down at the bloody-faced youth. He pulled his thumb free with a wet slurp. “What was in the parcel, Daniel?”

Daniel shuddered and tipped sideways, taking the chair over with him.

“Out cold,” Carter said. “Not to worry, we’ll bring him to the farm anyway. I’ll put him in the car.” He turned and pointed straight at Rich. “You go and get that one.”

Rich stumbled back from the hole with a gasp, heart hammering. He turned to one side and vomited, but was already up and moving, the puke catching along his arm and left foot. He grabbed his cargo pants off the back of the chair. An identical chair to the one he’d just watched Daniel tortured in. Surely that fucking guy couldn’t see what Daniel had seen, what the fuck? Doesn’t matter, pants on, grab the phone and fucking run!

He got both legs into his pants and snatched his phone off the bedside table. He jammed it into his pocket as his unit door crashed inwards, splitting right through the middle and breaking in half. The top half swung hectically from a bent hinge.

“Fuck!” Rich yelled.

The big silhouette of Stephen filled the doorway. He was a similar height to Rich, but twice as wide. Rich turned, ran to the back of the room, but it was just a wall. He pushed into the bathroom. There was a tiny window with sliding panes of frosted glass. He wasn’t sure he could fit through, but he was going to try. He stood up on the toilet and hauled back a fist to punch the window out, heedless of any cuts he might get, but Stephen was already there. One thick arm went around Rich’s waist and pulled him back.

Rich slammed left and right with his elbows and fists, fighting like a man possessed. Every glancing blow he got to Stephen’s blocky head was like hitting a rock. Stephen planted him on his feet, spun him around, and slapped him hard across the face. Blackness whined in from the edges of Rich’s vision, stars sparkled all around. The world tilted sideways as Stephen picked him up. He tried to struggle, but his body was loose, unresponsive. His head throbbed. He smelled oil and dirt a moment before something hard slammed into him and he realised he’d been thrown into the boot of a car. The lid slammed down, plunging him into darkness.

George twisted around in the front seat of the truck cab, trying to align his dick with the neck of the two-litre plastic bottle. Why did something so simple in principle prove to be so difficult in practice? He’d put it off as long as possible, but the need was too great to ignore any longer. He finally managed to get things lined up, using the wrist of the hand holding his dick to press his gut out of the way so he could see the bottle he held in the other hand. It took a few seconds to relax enough for the flow to start and his knob immediately skipped in his hand as it did so, the firehose stream of piss shooting right over the neck of the bottle and soaking hand, his pants leg, the floor of the cab.

“Fucken shit and fucken!”

He clamped tight inside, wincing as he held back the flow. With an incoherent curse, he unlocked and opened the door and half fell out to the cement below, damp trousers around his ankles. Regardless of spying eyes, he turned his back to the road and pissed with abandon, head tipped back, sighing as he painted the road of the loading dock.

When he finished, relief a warm glow through his abdomen, he pulled his pants back up. They were wet, but not as soaked as he’d feared, mainly one patch the size of his palm. He looked into the truck and the puddle on the vinyl matting was already spreading out and he decided to ignore that. He held up his wet hand and looked at it. There should be a service tap somewhere around, but he couldn’t see one. And he wasn’t about to go searching around in the dark. He already felt vulnerable, simply being out of the cab. He had some baby wipes in the glove box and he climbed back in, found them, wiped his hands, had a half-arsed go at the floor, then threw the handful of wipes out the window.

Once everything was closed and locked up again, he felt secure once more. His watch said two-forty a.m. and he was fairly sure he was yet to sleep a wink. Fatigue hung off him like weights, though, and perhaps if he lay down again… At least he wasn’t busting for a piss any more.

He had a bad feeling about the kid, imagined Rich somewhere out there in The Gulp. Where was he? What was he doing? George didn’t hold much truck with psychics or any of that malarkey, but he felt deep in his gut that something was wrong.

He curled on his side across the seats and dragged the coat back over himself, praying for unconsciousness until dawn.

Rich blinked as the boot was opened, a porch light of some kind directly above him. His head swam. Stephen reached in, grabbed his upper arm in an iron grip and hauled him out. The man’s strength was insane, made Rich feel like a child.

The drive had been only about ten minutes or so, smooth at first with a few turns Rich had quickly lost track of, then boneshakingly rough, an unsealed road that seemed to travel up quite steeply, switching back on itself a couple of times. As Stephen planted Rich on his feet he saw back down the long dirt road, white-fenced paddocks on either side, the town of Gulpepper a blanket of undulating lights down below. The view from so high was wild, over the paddocks and thick bushland the ocean glittered in the light of the half-moon. A naturally level area of land, it had the look of somewhere that had been farmed for generations. The bush rose steeply behind against the night sky thick with stars.

Stephen turned him and pushed, made him stagger past the car which he’d parked in a car port next to a large federation-style farmhouse. White painted weatherboard, russet-painted metal roof, stained glass panels in the old-fashioned windows. A deck ran all around the building. Beyond it were a variety of sheds and barns, tractors and threshers and other equipment scattered about. A Toyota Hilux crew cab ute was parked just beside the car port. Carter climbed out, then opened the back door and dragged Daniel off the seat. The young man hit the dirt with a grunt and rolled up onto his hands and knees. Blood dripped heavily from his face.

“I won’t tell anyone anything,” Rich said, appalled at the slur in his voice. The after-effects of the beers combined with the mighty slap from Stephen had left him thick-headed.

“Course you won’t,” Carter said. “Bring him.” He dragged Daniel up with a hand under one arm and pushed him ahead as he walked past the Toyota.

Stephen’s hand on Rich’s right shoulder was a painful clamp the big man used to guide him. Wearing nothing but cargo pants and t-shirt, the cool night air made his skin stipple with gooseflesh. He needed to find a way out of this, any way, it didn’t matter. Just get out. He’d make a bolt for the bush if the chance arose, take his shot there. The reassuring pressure of the phone in his pocket gave him some hope. With any luck they wouldn’t notice he had it, and maybe up here he’d catch a signal when he got the opportunity to try. Comply in the meantime, he told himself. Be compliant, let them concentrate on Daniel, the poor bastard.

They walked past a double garage filled with a mystifying array of tools and an old ute up on blocks, then between two open-front hay sheds into a wide field with fencing in the distance. This seemed to be a pretty big property, the bush cleared for several acres in every direction. Cattle, black and white Fresians and a few Jerseys, stood around in the paddock off to the right and Rich thought he saw the silhouettes of horses far to the left. The field they walked across was empty, sloping gently upwards, with thick bush on the far side that rose steeply to a ridge line, black against the sky.

The moonlight held back the darkness enough, Rich’s eyes adjusting to see where he walked. The stars were a thick blanket, not an artificial light source for kilometres around to dim them, just the speckles of light down in the town below.

Then he saw the large hole in the dirt.

Ice chilled his veins. The hole was about two metres long and one wide, a perfect black rectangle in the grass. A pile of dirt stood in a mound beside it with a shovel stuck in the top. A large wooden board lay beside the dirt.

“Mr Carter, don’t, please,” Daniel said, voice half lost in sobs. He’d been quietly stumbling along until that moment, but now he became animated, struggled against Carter’s grip. “What do you want, Mr Carter? Hey? Anything you want, Mr Carter, I’ll do it. Anything!”

“What I want, Daniel, is a more peaceful life. What I want is people I can rely on. What I want¸ you fucking cunt, is people who don’t blab and deal with the fucking Stinsons!”

“Mr Carter, please, I–”

Daniel’s sentence was lost in a cry of alarm as Carter shoved him forward and he staggered and fell into the hole. Stephen held Rich firmly, a few feet back. The hole wasn’t as deep as Rich had thought, Daniel finding his feet and standing up, the edge of the hole at his chest. He put both palms on the damp grass and made to push himself up, but Carter swung a booted foot and clipped him under the chin. Daniel yelped and went back down. He moaned weakly, out of sight.

Carter walked around the hole and picked up the large piece of wood. Several planks fixed together with crossbars, Rich noticed. A lid. A coffin lid.

“You disappoint me greatly, Daniel,” Carter said and dropped the lid down into the hole. He took the spade and began shovelling dirt in. It thumped onto the wood, the sound more muffled each time. Then a banging started, Daniel yelling, calling out Carter’s name over and over again, begging please, please, please. But the dirt kept going in, the sounds more muted by the minute.

Rich stood stock still, aware his mouth hung open in a gape, his knees weak. But he didn’t dare make a sound. Stephen’s vice-like grip never left his shoulder. It took about ten minutes for Carter to refill the hole completely, then he walked back and forth over the dirt, pressing it down, sweat sparkling on his brow. Daniel’s muffled cries still came faintly from below, punctuated by weak blows against the wood.

Carter finally looked at Rich, for the first time. He smiled warmly, gestured back towards the farmhouse. “Shall we?”

Stephen turned him and they walked back, Rich’s legs rubbery.

“Did you enjoy what you saw at the motel?” Carter asked as they walked.

“No, Sir, I did not.”

“Why’s that?”

Rich licked dry lips, lost for words. He shook his head. “I won’t tell a soul,” he said eventually. “I promise.”

“You had so many choices,” Carter said. “So many chances. You could have ignored the light. You could have gone to bed. So many times you could have turned away, but you didn’t.”

How did he know?

“Why didn’t you turn your back, hmm?”

“I… I didn’t know,” Rich said weakly. “I couldn’t believe it.”

Carter sucked his teeth, let out a sigh. “Such is life, hey? So many don’t believe. Too many people have lost touch with the old ways. Everything so modern.” He turned and pinned Rich with his icy blue gaze. “No respect for the numinous any more.”

Carter couldn’t have seen what Daniel saw. Someone in the pub saw, told him about it. He tortured Daniel to scare him. But why? He brought Daniel to the farm and obviously planned to let him die anyway.

Carter led Rich back between the hay sheds as another car pulled up along the dirt road. A small hatchback. It parked, the engine went off and the headlights with it. A woman got out.

“Hello, darling,” Carter said.

Chrissy walked into the light of the car port, came to meet them. She wore the same clothes she’d had on in the pub, but her hair wasn’t tied back any more. It hung over her shoulders in a wave that shone with reflected light. “Worked out all right then?” she said.

Carter laughed. “Yep. Donny put him in room six like you told him to, and the poor lad couldn’t help himself. Curious as the proverbial cat.”

Chrissy smiled, wide and filled with teeth. “I thought it too good an opportunity to pass up.” She moved to Carter and they embraced, kissed long and deep. The man had to be at least twice her age, Rich thought numbly. He tried to swallow, but his throat was thick with fear.

“Daniel?” Chrissy asked, once their sensuous kiss finally ended.

“Dealt with,” Carter said. He turned his attention back to Rich. “You’re new here.” Statement, not a question or guess. “But why did you come, hmm? No one passes through The Gulp. You came here.”

“I’m a truck driver. I deliver to Woollies. The truck broke down–”

“It didn’t break down, your friend fucked it.”

How did he know that?

“But that’s not what I meant. Why did you come here, hmm? At this time? Wheels and machinations, son. There are reasons.”

“It’s a new job, that’s all. I’m in training, to take over George’s routes. The last couple of weeks he’s been showing me the…” Rich’s voice petered out under Carter’s witheringly disdainful gaze.

“You won’t let it in, will you.” Statement again.

“Let what in?”

“You dreamed of it. The before time. Everyone who sleeps in The Gulp dreams of when they fell at least once.” Carter moved to put an arm across Rich’s shoulders. Stephen let go at last, the skin burning where the pressure was finally released. Carter turned Rich to face out over the view of the town below. “You have to embrace The Gulp. You do what it wants or it swallows you. What’s your name?”

“Rich. Richard Blake.”

“You can call me Mr Carter. You’ve already met Chrissy.”

“Let me go, please! I won’t tell anyone anything.”

“You will though, won’t you?”

“No! I won’t–”

“Oh, you might not tell any authorities. But you’ll tell the story. People always tell stories.”

“Fuck you, man! Let me go!”

“Let’s not be unpleasant to each other. You’re with me now.”

“What do you mean I’m with you? I’m not with you! You have to let me go!”

Carter tipped his head to one side. “Do I though?”

“Please!” Rich said, hating the plaintive tone in his voice.

“There’s some better manners already.” Carter took out a cigar, lit it from a brass Zippo, then slipped the lighter away into his shirt pocket as he puffed acrid smoke into the air. “Now then, let me give you your choices. For one, I can dig another hole next to Daniel. He’ll go quiet soon. So that’s one choice. The other is that you work for me. You do as I say, and make yourself useful. Accept the fact you’re in The Gulp now. We could develop a wonderful working relationship together, you and I. There is great potential in you, I see it. You came here for a reason. And I am, as you know, in need of a new employee.”

“I don’t want to!” Rich internally cursed the tears rolling over his cheeks, but he couldn’t stop them. “I want to go home. I’ll never come here again, I won’t tell a soul anything. I’ll quit the job, never drive another truck for the rest of my life! Please, just let me go.”

Carter sighed, shook his head. “I gave you your choices.” He puffed on the cigar, then smiled again. “Your personal life, family situation, it’s suited to The Gulp finding you, no?”

Rich swallowed, mind adrift, desperate for purchase. “What?” he managed.

“You have your choices. I’ll give you some time to think about it.” Carter smiled. “Welcome to The Gulp, Richard Blake.”

Rich flinched as something sharp scratched his neck. He looked to the side to see Chrissy step away, a syringe in one hand. She wiggled the fingers of her other hand in a wave as Rich’s vision closed in from all sides. His tongue felt suddenly swollen, then everything went black.

George’s head pounded from lack of sleep. He’d maybe caught an hour or two of fitful dozing here and there, but it amounted to nothing really. He was too damn old to stay up all night any more. He remembered the long benders of his youth, all that drinking, carousing, womanising. He didn’t miss those days, if he was honest. They had been where he’d found his wife. He couldn’t wait to see her again.

The day was bright, harsh against his gritty eyes as he sipped the coffee and ate a croissant from the bakers. The Woollies precinct opened at eight, allowing him a leisurely piss into an actual urinal, rather than the debacle of the night before. His body ached in every place he put his mind to, but the night had passed. That was the main thing. Still no sign of Rich though. Until ten, he’d told the kid. He intended to stick to his promise. He would wait, but he’d leave without Rich if necessary. A big tow truck pulled into the loading bay, gleaming chrome and bright decals. The driver gave George a wave.

It took over an hour, disengaging the trailer, jacking up the cab, changing the wheel, putting it all back together again. But it was finally done by 9.15. George went inside for another coffee and then sat in the cab drinking it. The minutes ticked slowly by.

“Come on, kid,” he muttered aloud.

It was ten minutes past ten when he finally called it time to keep his promise. He rang in the problem, told the office the new driver had gone out on the town and not come back. They told him to try ringing the kid, which he had about nine o’clock, then again at nine-thirty, but it went straight to voicemail.

“He said he had no signal in this arse-end-a-nowhere town,” George told his supervisor.

“Can you wait for him?”

“Already did. I told him last night I’d wait until ten, he said he’d be here by eight. Still no sign, though.”

“Give it a bit longer?”

“And then what?”

There was a pause, muffled conversation, then the supervisor came back on. “Look, we’ll try to raise him too, see if he catches some reception. Can you wait a little longer? If he’s not there by eleven, head out and the fool will have to hitch out to Monkton or Enden or something when he wakes up.”

George looked at his watch. Forty-five minutes more in The Gulp. He sighed. “Okay, I’ll give it until eleven, then I’m out.”

He stayed in the cab until a few minutes past eleven, then started up the truck. Still no sign of Rich. George shook his head, easing the big rig out of the loading bay and turning right to head for the main road back to Enden.

“What the hell did you get up to, kid?” he said as he went around the roundabout by the leisure centre. “Or what the hell got to you, eh?”

He didn’t look in the rear view mirror once until he turned right onto the highway, thankful to be leaving The Gulp for the last time.