Read Online Pulling the Moves by Margaret Clark - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Clark
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Must be close, but. We had the petrol stop and the piss stop. Still … must be near the border. And there’s a sign. Portland one way, Hamilton the next. And an all-night roadside truckies’ stop. Macca zooms off the highway and screams to a halt.
‘Don’t muck about,’ he says. ‘Burgers, fries, Cokes.’
He hands Cola some notes.
‘What about Sam?’ she goes. ‘Will I get him something?’
Amazingly I’m hungry. I could go a burger and fries. And an icy cold Coke. I look hopeful. Zac swings round and glares at me. Coming off the goey’s not mellowing him at all: he’s tired and mean.
‘Forget it,’ he goes. ‘Hostages don’t get fed.’
Great. I’m supposed to starve before I die?
‘Nah, he’s all right. Get him a burger,’ says Macca.
Cola climbs out over Zac who’s not budging, and swaggers off.
‘Hurry up, hurry up!’ Zac’s drumming his hands on the dashboard. He’s getting edgy and that’s a worry.
‘I’m drivin’,’ he says suddenly.
‘No way, man.’
‘I’m drivin’.’
I think Macca’s going to lose it and punch out Zac’s lights, but then he suddenly slumps against the wheel. The drugs are wearing off and he’s coming down.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he mutters. ‘Whatever …’
It’s time I split. Here I am in the middle of civilisation. I can get help. I shift slightly and Zac’s hand leaves the dash and grabs me by the hair.
‘You ain’t going nowhere. Sit !’
Well, it was a good idea.
‘Come on .’
Zac glares in the direction of the roadside cafe. ‘What the hell’s she doin’?’
‘Here she comes,’ says Macca, raising his head.
Cola saunters out, taking her time, balancing a heap of food and cans.
‘Had to wait for them to heat it up,’ she says.
I get a good look at her. Thin thighs in dirty white jeans. Torn T-shirt. Her clothes look like they need a good wash. But she’s sort of cute in a weird way. Clean clothes, hair brushed … yeah …
She passes me a burger. And a Coke. We eat. Then Macca slides across as Zac gets out and comes round to the driver’s side. He guns the unit and we’re off again down the highway. His driving’s not so crazy. It’s a miracle we’re still alive after Macca’s maniac driving. Steve’s probably got a million stabilisers built into the chassis. If this van hadn’t been so stable I reckon we’d all be dead by now.
‘Portland,’ goes Cola, pointing at a sign.
‘Roadblock,’ goes Zac.
He slams on the brakes and my burger flies across the van as I lose my balance and hit the far wall witha crunch. I land on the burger and squash it flat, but who’s fussy? I crouch and peer over the back seat. There’re cops galore, and three cop cars. It’s just like The Blues Brothers , only we’re not in a shit-box Dodge but a shit-box Holden.
‘Not a roadblock. It’s a random breath-testing unit, a booze bus to cop the nightclubbers,’ I say, but they’re not listening.
‘Hold on,’ says Zac, and belts the accelerator down hard as he twists the wheel.
The Holden gives a surge and we bore straight through a fence and across a paddock, going like a space missile.
‘Watch out,’ I bellow.
We’re heading straight for a tree. I shut my eyes and brace myself for the crash. The van lurches wildly. Miraculously we miss the tree and keep going.
‘Way to go, man,’ says Macca, gripping the dashboard.
There’re burgers, papers and Coke cans flying through the air. We rip through a paddock, scaring a bunch of cows outa their brains, and skid through some trees, and crash through another fence. A cop car’s given chase, trying to catch us but the cops valuetheir lives: they’re not going to drive like it’s the last day on earth and kill themselves, are they? They fall behind. We zoom across another paddock, through another fence, and we’re back on the highway. We’re roaring through the City of Portland at 120 k, forget the 60 zone. I blink. Goodbye, Portland. That was the quickest visit in
‘Don’t muck about,’ he says. ‘Burgers, fries, Cokes.’
He hands Cola some notes.
‘What about Sam?’ she goes. ‘Will I get him something?’
Amazingly I’m hungry. I could go a burger and fries. And an icy cold Coke. I look hopeful. Zac swings round and glares at me. Coming off the goey’s not mellowing him at all: he’s tired and mean.
‘Forget it,’ he goes. ‘Hostages don’t get fed.’
Great. I’m supposed to starve before I die?
‘Nah, he’s all right. Get him a burger,’ says Macca.
Cola climbs out over Zac who’s not budging, and swaggers off.
‘Hurry up, hurry up!’ Zac’s drumming his hands on the dashboard. He’s getting edgy and that’s a worry.
‘I’m drivin’,’ he says suddenly.
‘No way, man.’
‘I’m drivin’.’
I think Macca’s going to lose it and punch out Zac’s lights, but then he suddenly slumps against the wheel. The drugs are wearing off and he’s coming down.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he mutters. ‘Whatever …’
It’s time I split. Here I am in the middle of civilisation. I can get help. I shift slightly and Zac’s hand leaves the dash and grabs me by the hair.
‘You ain’t going nowhere. Sit !’
Well, it was a good idea.
‘Come on .’
Zac glares in the direction of the roadside cafe. ‘What the hell’s she doin’?’
‘Here she comes,’ says Macca, raising his head.
Cola saunters out, taking her time, balancing a heap of food and cans.
‘Had to wait for them to heat it up,’ she says.
I get a good look at her. Thin thighs in dirty white jeans. Torn T-shirt. Her clothes look like they need a good wash. But she’s sort of cute in a weird way. Clean clothes, hair brushed … yeah …
She passes me a burger. And a Coke. We eat. Then Macca slides across as Zac gets out and comes round to the driver’s side. He guns the unit and we’re off again down the highway. His driving’s not so crazy. It’s a miracle we’re still alive after Macca’s maniac driving. Steve’s probably got a million stabilisers built into the chassis. If this van hadn’t been so stable I reckon we’d all be dead by now.
‘Portland,’ goes Cola, pointing at a sign.
‘Roadblock,’ goes Zac.
He slams on the brakes and my burger flies across the van as I lose my balance and hit the far wall witha crunch. I land on the burger and squash it flat, but who’s fussy? I crouch and peer over the back seat. There’re cops galore, and three cop cars. It’s just like The Blues Brothers , only we’re not in a shit-box Dodge but a shit-box Holden.
‘Not a roadblock. It’s a random breath-testing unit, a booze bus to cop the nightclubbers,’ I say, but they’re not listening.
‘Hold on,’ says Zac, and belts the accelerator down hard as he twists the wheel.
The Holden gives a surge and we bore straight through a fence and across a paddock, going like a space missile.
‘Watch out,’ I bellow.
We’re heading straight for a tree. I shut my eyes and brace myself for the crash. The van lurches wildly. Miraculously we miss the tree and keep going.
‘Way to go, man,’ says Macca, gripping the dashboard.
There’re burgers, papers and Coke cans flying through the air. We rip through a paddock, scaring a bunch of cows outa their brains, and skid through some trees, and crash through another fence. A cop car’s given chase, trying to catch us but the cops valuetheir lives: they’re not going to drive like it’s the last day on earth and kill themselves, are they? They fall behind. We zoom across another paddock, through another fence, and we’re back on the highway. We’re roaring through the City of Portland at 120 k, forget the 60 zone. I blink. Goodbye, Portland. That was the quickest visit in
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