The Love Runner. KULTURE Literature

How Far And How Hard Would You Run to Prove Your Self Worthy of Love. . . MGG.

In these Safe times, Lyndon, and Australian Male in his fifties, finally escapes soul suffocating clutches of mediocrity to try show a woman, that he can still become a man that is worthy of Love.

From the ROADHOUSE, series.

"How should love feel?" she asked.

"Like creation. You know what I think? I think the force that drew the first single cell creatures together, the compulsion that started all of this, is love. And it drives us still. Look at us. We're proof. Here we all are being pulled across this empty desert by nothing other than love."

Lyndon

Love Runner

Lyndon checked his mobile. There was no signal. He glanced in his rearview mirror. Behind him, there were no headlights. Behind him, there were no lights at all. He looked back to the road; broken lines and washed-out scrub, all pale and grey except for the endless posts, each a lonely, indifferent sentry, except for those that were missing and those that were broken, and those with a nailed-on cross.

He came back to his phone. Nothing, and now his petrol was running low.

The last roadhouse hadn’t been open. If the next one was closed, then that would be it. As far as he could tell, he had about a hundred kilometers or so to go until he reached the next roadhouse.

He looked at his fuel gauge. The needle was in the red.

Shit!

Jesus, woman! Where the fuck are you? He yelled as gravel cracked under his shoes.

"Hi, this is Jen. I can't answer the phone right now."

He hung up. It was the fourth time he'd dialed, and the only time he hadn't left a message. His phone toned the low battery tone.

SHIT!!!

He pressed redial.

Answer, please!

The ringing stopped. He looked at his phone. It was dead. He pressed the on switch. The screen lit up. It asked for his pin. He punched it in. He watched it as it searched for a signal. It found one. A weak one. The screen went black.

Shit.

He pressed the on switch. The screen lit up. It asked for his pin. He punched it in. He watched the phone search for a signal. It found one. A weak one. The screen went black.

SHIT!

He pressed the on switch. He pressed it and held it. The screen lit up and then it turned black. He pressed the on switch and held it down. Nothing. He pressed the on switch and held it down. Nothing. He pressed the on switch and...

Shit, shit, shit!

Ripping back his arm, he threw the phone, while still swearing, into the scrub bordering the car park. Silently, the phone vanished into the treeless scrub that he couldn't see because it was so dark.

A further moment of silence, and then a distant, plastic crack.

Fark!!!

Lyndon swung back to the roadhouse. It was open, but its restaurant was empty. Lit by neons, it looked like a space station anchored here to soothe the souls of those travelers mad enough to traverse, at night, the Nullarbor. Its empty car park was vast, with great graveled spaces marked off for the road trains and the caravans of the grey nomads. Off-center was a public phone, its warm orange top beset by moths. Near it, a suspended 44-gallon drum surrounded by scraps of paper and soft drink bottles, discarded by the crows who'd been shopping through the rubbish.

Lyndon turned back to the West. The direction he was heading. There was nothing to see but the earth’s darkness and the lesser dark softened by stars. He turned to the location where his mobile lay.

Shit.

Lacking a torch, he switched on his headlights and strode out in search of the phone. Dry tufts of knee-high grass crackled against his shins.

Why didn’t you answer? I told you last time I was going to call, so why didn’t you pick up? If he didn’t get hold of her now, chances were he wouldn’t find another signal until Norseman, and he'd only reach there if the other roadhouses were open. If Norseman didn’t have coverage, it would be Coolgardie.

Broken glass snapped under his shoes, and soft drink cans, sun-bleached, reflected his headlights and called his eyes.

Come on. Just give me the phone. It’s probably broken anyway, so what have you got to lose?

Lyndon did not find the phone.

Come on! This is boring. I’m still going to drive there whether I get to talk to her now or not, so what do you have to gain by not giving it to me? I mean, what is the use? What is the fucking use!

To his right, something moved.

Lyndon stopped.

Silence, listening, and then a dingo, head down, watched him as it sulked its way over the stony ground. It didn’t stop weaving through the grass until its long, thin, hungry silhouette stood between his car’s headlights and him.

Lyndon squinted. The dingo was watching him. Its stillness sent a chill rushing around, over, and through his soul. Is this what a rabbit felt?

Taking a step back, he looked at the roadhouse. Then he looked back at the dark ground where he knew his mobile lay. Then he looked back at the dingo.

Out West, something moved.

He swung to the sound of crackling grass. Another dingo slipped into the light. This one was as white as the missing moon. It walked slowly and sulked too, as it made its way towards its mate, its head turned and glued on him.

He looked at them both. Then he looked around to see if there were others. If there were, the darkness was holding them.

He looked back to where his phone should be. In this darkness, he could spend hours looking for it. Then he looked at his watch, whose face he couldn’t see.

Shit!

He didn’t know her number. He didn’t have to because her number was stored in his phone. Apart from the first number, 0, he didn’t know a single digit. What if he made it all the way to Perth and found she wasn’t home? What if she was out at some New Year’s Eve party? How would he contact her? How would she know he’d made it? Then he remembered that he didn’t have her address. That too, like her number, was stored on his phone.

Please give it to me. That’s it. That is all I’ll ask of you. Just show me where the phone is, and I won’t ask anything else from you, ever. Nothing. Nothing at all... Please!

As he watched the dingos that were watching him, he waited for a feeling, a sign to show him where the phone lay. That feeling came. With his heart as a guide, he followed this feeling to his right, and after taking several great strides, he stopped and looked down.

The phone wasn’t there.

Taking a moment to reassess, he looked at the dingoes, who were still watching him. Then he followed these feelings again and walked a few more steps to his right. The feeling this time was so deep and so strong it was as though his soul was metal and the phone was a magnet. He looked down. Nothing.

It didn’t make sense. He looked back at the dogs. Because he was so lost, he didn’t see it at first, but then his brain began to decipher what he could see. The white dingo had something in its mouth.

No way!

Bending forward, hand out, he approached this dog.

"Come here, boy! Aye. What you got there, huh?"

The white dingo didn’t move.

"What you got there, huh? Aye, what’s in your mouth?"

He stopped.

Jesus!

"Drop it! Come on, let it go."

Two hands out, he moved closer.

"Come on, you can’t eat it, so just let it go. There’s a good boy..." Glancing down at the ground, he looked for a rock or anything else to throw.

The dingoes took off.

"No, wait!"

He ran after them, but the dingoes were faster. Splitting up, they trotted into the dark.

"Stop, you bastard! Stop!"

He tripped. Falling down onto all fours, he scrambled back up, but it was too late. The dingoes were gone. There was only the dark.

"I don’t believe this!" he said as he rubbed his grazed hands against each other. "I don’t believe it!"

A dingo’s got my phone!

Laughing at the quote, he turned to the roadhouse and was silenced by how far he’d come. There was no wind. There were no cars or trucks or planes. In their place, there was the endless trill of insects he couldn’t see and the hum of the roadhouse generator. In contrast to this was the sound of his breathing as he listened to the dingoes crackling through the grass. Each of them on a separate path and each of them moving further and further, and further away.

Back in his car, he had his laptop on and was scrolling through the log of their conversations. After skimming over the bullshit of the last two weeks, he focused on the previous four months because he thought there was a chance that near the beginning of their interactions, she might have sent her number through.

So many conversations.

As he glanced at each one, he remembered more. There was even the first photo and the video she’d sent him.

The log ran out. Her number wasn’t there. There was only the message where he had sent her his number.

He looked back at the roadhouse. Maybe they’d have a Western Australian phone book. No wait... of course.

Out of the car, he ran to the phone booth. The insane moths didn’t bother him. As they banged into his head and his chest and his arms, he shoved in the coins and dialed.

An automated voice asked him for a name and an address. He supplied it.

There was a pause, then he was told that there was no one by that name registered.

What?

He pushed 1 to speak to an operator.

The guy who answered sounded like all his dreams had died long ago. After another pause, the guy said the same.

He asked the guy to do a search for mobile numbers.

They didn’t offer that service.

But it’s an emergency!

An insincere apology, and the guy was gone.

Next to the phone booth was a picnic table. He sat on one of the bench seats and looked at the ground.

Something was wrong. Her not answering was explainable, but why hadn’t she left a message on her voicemail, just for him? Or sent a text? Had she been in an accident? Was she getting cold feet? Why wouldn’t she? What do you know about this guy? You’ve never even met him. You’ve only heard his voice.

He had to talk to her. He had to talk to her now! He needed her number.

But why wasn’t she in the book? Did she have a silent number? Maybe she had to get one to protect herself from some creep in her past. If that was the case, how would he find her details from here?

Turning around, he looked at the phone. As he watched the moths go crazy, he knew there was another way.

Lyndon?

"Hi Mum, look, I need you to do me a fav..."

"It’s him! Dad, it’s him!"

Lyndon?

"Yes."

"Oh thank God! Ask him where he is. Ask him, go on!"

"I'm at the Nullarbor roadhouse, and I’m fine. Now listen, Mum, I need you to do something for me..."

"He's at the Nullarbor roadhouse!"

"The Nullarbor roadhouse! You're kidding? What the hell is he doing there? Is he okay? Ask him. Ask him!"

"Yes, Mum, I'm fine. I just told you that. But listen, I need you to..."

"Gaylene’s been on the phone. She’s been ringing like crazy."

"Yeah, okay, look, I'll talk to her next... But Mum, I need you to..."

"What about his work? Ask him what he’s going to do about his job."

"Dad! Look, Mum, tell him to forget about work. It was just a fucking job. When I'm resettled, I’ll get another one..."

"Lyndon, stop swearing."

"I’m not swearing. I just need you to..."

"And Gaylene needs you to call her."

"Fine, I will, but first I just need you to..."

"You should call her, Lyndon. You really should."

"JESUS MUM, WILL YOU JUST SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ME! Mum... Mum!... MUM!!"

Lyndon?

"Shit."

Lyndon, how about you calm down a bit.

"Dad, I am fucking calm. I just needed her to listen to..."

The roadhouse was empty. Lyndon had pulled in about half an hour ago, and since then, not a single vehicle had passed. But there was a vehicle approaching now. It was coming from the East. Its high beams a tiny dome of light on an otherwise dark horizon. A dome of light that looked like a miniature sunrise.

Lyndon... Lyndon, are you there? Lyndon?... David’s been on the phone. He’s devastated. He wants you to call him as soon as you can. Did you hear me, Lyndon... Lyndon?

Receiver in hand, but away from his ear, Lyndon was looking at the telephone’s keypad. As he listened to his name being called and recalled, he began hammering the receiver against the body of the phone. The moths flew out of the way.

Lyndon’s car was running, but he hadn’t moved. In the driver’s seat, he was watching the roadhouse via his rearview mirror. He could just see the counter from here. It was empty. He looked all around. There was no one to be seen anywhere. How could they have not heard him? Had they gone for help? Gone where? As far as he could see, there were only two transportable homes behind the roadhouse. One was for the staff, and the other was for motel rooms. He hadn’t seen anyone entering or leaving them. Maybe they were calling the police? But how long would the police take to get here, and from which direction would they come? Were there any police stationed out here?

He should just go. He should... But he needed his phone. So he waited. He waited and watched the darkness, and the roadhouse via his mirror, as in the distance, the small sunrise separated into headlights.

The car stopped at the bowsers. It was a hatchback. Its roof rack was bloated with too much gear and wrapped in a blue tarpaulin. Its bonnet was a different color from the rest of the car, and its bumper was lopsided. Watching it via his rearview mirror, Lyndon saw all its doors open at once. The first out were the kids; two, one from each of the back doors. Despite the cold, the kids were wearing shorts and T-shirts, and they raced each other into the roadhouse. The man was next. Once out from the driver’s side, he placed two hands against the crux of his back and stretched. A woman got out and, after looking over at Lyndon's car, reached into the back seat and eventually pulled out a baby. Baby in her arms, she said something to the man across the bonnet. The man nodded. She then followed the children into the roadhouse.

Alone, the man put two hands against the roof of the car and, lowering his head into the valley of his arms, pushed against the car as though he was trying to push it over.

"Something wrong?" Lyndon asked.

The man was waiting for him. He’d glanced over after hearing Lyndon closing his car door.

"I think it’s the starter motor," the man said.

"Can you fix it?"

"Not out here."

"What are you going to do?"

The man smiled, shrugged, and then he said, "She should be alright, and if worse comes to worst, we’ll just have to push start her."

Lyndon nodded and looked at the car. Inside, gear was crammed in where it could fit while leaving just enough space for the kids. A mosquito buzzed around Lyndon’s ears.

"Would you have a torch I could borrow?"

"No, sorry. We did have, but one of the kids broke it."

Lyndon nodded, then looked back to the darkness beyond his car.

"What do you do?" the man asked.

Opposite the man, the kids were scoffing down their second plate of chips.

"I’m a marriage counselor," Lyndon said.

"Really?" the man said. "What’s that like? Is it a good job?"

"It’s busy," Lyndon said. "We’re always busy."

"At least you have a job," the woman said. The man turned to the kids and smiled the smile a man smiles when smiling is the last thing he wants to do.

The couple were similar in their mannerisms and looks. The woman could have been the man’s sister, but where his eyes were full of long and stubborn worries, hers were dead tired, and they only awoke briefly when she looked down at her baby, who was sleeping in her arms.

"So where are you heading?" Lyndon asked.

"Kalgoorlie," the man said. "Her auntie’s got me some work in a self-storage facility... Where’ve you come from?"

"Melbourne."

The man nodded, then he looked at his kids as they ate the chips.

"Why didn’t you fly?" the woman asked.

"Too easy," Lyndon said. "I wanted to show her I was serious. And you can’t get more serious than driving 3600 kilometers, alone."

Lyndon looked at the man, and although the man didn’t look at him, he did smile and nod as he looked at his kids. Lyndon looked at the woman. She was looking at him.

"So you met her online?" the woman said.

"Yeah. She sent me a kiss. Not a real kiss, of course. It's just a text which expresses an expression of interest. When I contacted her, she told me that she’d read my profile and felt impelled to contact me. After that, we just started talking... for hours."

"About what?" the woman asked.

"Everything," Lyndon said. "I know it sounds odd, because I can hear it sounds odd as I’m saying it, but I think it’s the talking first, or typing, because it was all typed, that makes internet courting so extraordinary. You see, if your first point of contact with a suitable mate is visual, then you judge that person instantly by their looks alone, and that judgment that you make in just a few seconds can often not be altered, no matter how much talking you do after that. Whereas if you talk first, or type, then instead of arduously peeling off each other's shields, if you ever do, it’s like you're not wearing shields at all. You don’t need shields. For they can’t hurt you in any way. If it goes awry, you just disconnect. I mean, at the start, you don’t even know who they are. They could be God for all you know. And so there you are, typing and talking about everything, and I mean everything. For without the usual social constraints filtering your conversations, you shrug off the small talk, like comments about the weather and sport, and plunge into what truly matters, into the guts of who you are and what both motivates you and impedes your development as a fully rounded human being. And as you're doing this, you suddenly realize, as you sit there waiting for their reply, that within a few hours this stranger has come to know you better than anyone has ever known you. It’s like you’re finally naked. Free. In fact, you feel so free that you suddenly realize that this could be it. This could be true love. For I promise you, it definitely feels how love should feel."

"How should love feel?" she asked.

"Like creation. You know what I think? I think the force that drew the first single cell creatures together, the compulsion that started all of this, is love. And it drives us still. Look at us. We're proof. Here we all are being pulled across this empty desert by nothing other than love."

"It destroys as well," the man said.

"I know," Lyndon said. "I’ve seen it. Since I became a counselor, all I’ve done is watch as it ripped people apart and smashed them against each other. And yet, for all that I’ve seen, that’s all I have done, watched. I was like a theater critic who’s never acted, or a coach that’s never gotten out there and kicked a ball. Well, I’ve kicked it now. No one can say I haven’t kicked it now."

"You’re married," the woman said.

Lyndon looked at the phone booth's keypad. The handset, despite being cracked, was still working. It must have been designed to endure those who had had enough.

He had to talk to her. It wasn’t a want but a desperate need as necessary to his heart as his car would need fuel before it could set off again. The darkness before him was just too dark.

He looked at the coins he’d fished out of his pockets as they lay in his hand. It was freezing. Without a single cloud to seal in the day’s heat, all the heat had escaped into the stars. Even the coins were cold.

He looked at his car. Then he looked at the family who were still eating in the roadhouse. Then he looked at the dark where the dingoes had been.

"What are you doing?" Lyndon didn’t reply.

"Are you still there?"

"How are the kids?"

"How do you think they’d be?"

He looked at the phone. Things were scratched into its metal: initials. An erect cock and several hearts. One of the hearts was large and disjointed.

"Why are you calling me, Lyndon?"

Placing the tip of his right index finger on the right, top arch of the scratched heart, he dragged his finger slowly along and down its dodgy line.

"I said, why are you calling?"

The metal was cold, and the line was all broken as though it had been scratched by the edge of a coin.

Lyndon?

"I know that we're over."

He let go of the heart and rested his back against the booth’s wall and found that the opposite glass was covered in a dozen or more badly scratched hearts which were occupied with resting moths, as a constellation of moths and other insects he had no names for whirled through the air between him and the glass.

"Are we?"

"Aren’t we?"

"I don’t know. I suppose so. I haven’t had any time to think about it because... well, it’s all such a mess. The mortgage is due. Did you leave me any money for that?"

Lyndon didn’t reply.

"What am I going to do? Huh? Are you there? What am I going to do?"

"I need one last favor."

"Excuse me?"

"Could you see if you could find one of my mobile phone bills?"

"What? Why?"

"Please."

"But why?"

"I just need a number."

"Her number?"

Lyndon glared at the hearts.

"Did you think I didn’t know?"

"Can I have it... please."

"Where’s our money?"

"I know you want to hurt me. That’s natural. And there is nothing wrong with that. In fact, it’s a good sign. Anger is the second stage of grief..."

"Fuck you! Don’t you dare start counseling me. Now where is our money? You gave it to her, didn’t you! You gave her our money! That was our money, Lyndon! That was our money!"

"What are you talking about? I didn’t give her anything. This has got nothing to do with money."

"Then where is it? Huh? Where is it?"

"Gaylene, I know that you’re angry. But accusing me of stealing is pointless. All it will do is make this mess messier."

"Lyndon, where is our fucking money?"

"Okay, that’s enough. Now you're just being silly."

"Silly! Lyndon, our joint bank account is empty. All there is is this one big transaction that occurred yesterday. One massive transfer that transferred everything, and that’s not all..."

"Okay, that’s enough. I want you to stop. I’ve seen this before. In wanting to hurt me, you’re going to accuse me of stealing. But it won’t work..."

"Let me finish, you fat fuck. We have five new credit cards in our name, and they all have been maxed out."

"What? Well that’s ridiculous. What are you doing over there? Oh look, do whatever you want. In fact, just get me one of my mobile phone bills, and I will leave you alone."

"And you know what the real joke is? The great big fat joke? She doesn’t exist. Did you hear me? The woman you’ve left us for doesn’t even exist!"

Lyndon rested his head back against the glass. "Okay, look, I think maybe you need to get some help, because..."

"Lyndon! Listen! She doesn’t exist. If you don’t believe me, talk to David. Maybe he can get you to listen."

A short silence followed.

"Dad?"

"Hi David. Look, I’m very sorry about all this. If I get some time soon, which I will, I’ll call you back and talk to you properly. Man to man, okay?"

"Uh huh. Okay, sure... Look, are you still at the roadhouse you called Nan and Pop from?"

"Yeah... Why?"

"Okay, good. That’s good. Look, according to Google, they have accommodation there. I was going to book you a room online, but their site didn’t have that feature, so do you think perhaps you could just book yourself a room? Do you have money on you? Cash money?"

"No, no, I’m not going to do that. I can understand that you’re worried, and I am truly touched by your advice, but..."

"She doesn’t exist, Dad."

"Oh, don’t tell me she’s convinced you too. Look, she’s just very hurt."

"No, she didn’t convince me. I convinced her."

"What? Oh well that’s probably not the best thing you could have done. This is going to be hard enough with..."

"Dad, she doesn’t exist. It’s a scam. You’ve been conned."

Lyndon laughed. "I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. I’m just... well. It just never ceases to amaze me what people will do when they are under stress... Look, if you could just get me..."

"Dad, once we realized all the money was gone, I checked your emails. That's how I found the link to your dating sites. You even left the email with your username and passwords in your box. You shouldn’t do that, Dad. We’ve read everything. The police have too. They’re aware of this scam. Apparently, they target... They target middle-aged men. The phone number you want has a redirect in it. The redirection sends it to somewhere in Russia. That video she sent you, the one where she’s doing things to herself, had a Trojan horse attached, with a keylogger in its script. That’s how they got your bank account details."

"The stupid fuck!" Lyndon heard Gaylene yelling in the background. "That stupid fat dumb fuck!"

"Keylogger? What's a keylogger?"

"It enables a hacker to see what you’re typing. All of it. That’s how they got your bank details. They haven’t done this just to you; they’ve done it to loads of men. Thousands."

Lyndon didn’t speak for a while. He was having trouble forming sentences. "Bullshit" was the first thing to come out of his mouth. "Bullshit" was also the second. "You’re saying this because you’re hurt too. I was only talking to her yesterday... or the day before yesterday... She said... she said she’d..."

"Does she talk with an accent?"

"Well, yes, but that’s because she’s new to Australia..."

"A Russian accent."

"Well, yes, because that’s where..."

"Dad. Please book a room there. Uncle Drew is trying to book a flight to Ceduna. Once he’s done that, he’s going to try to reach you, okay? So if you could just book a room... Dad... Dad, are you there?... Dad?... DAD?"

"I’m not asking, I’m demanding. And don’t tell me you don’t have it. I know you have it, and I’ll pay. I will!"

Behind the counter, the young girl had moved back nearer the entrance to the kitchen.

At the counter, Lyndon was finger-prodding the laminate that lay right next to his laptop.

At their table, the whole family was watching him, and the man and the woman were each mentally preparing what to do if things got worse.

In the kitchen, a man came to the serving window.

"How about you calm down, mate?" the man said.

"Just let me access the net. Just for ten minutes, and I will."

"Julie, get in here," the man said to the girl.

"Oh come on, it’s not like I’m trying to rob the joint. I’ll pay, look." Lyndon had his wallet out. He emptied it onto the counter. "How much do you want? Take it all. Here, look, here’s fifty bucks."

"Mate, there are kids in the restaurant. So I want you to calm down, right now, or I’ll..."

"I’ll what? Make me a hamburger. Fuck it, where’s the connection?" Lyndon asked as he went to climb over the counter.

The man produced a shotgun.

"Get down, or I’ll blow you down." The man said this calmly and firmly, and he sounded sincere. Gasping, the girl ran to the rear of the kitchen.

One knee on the counter, Lyndon looked at the open barrel and then at the man.

"I said, get down."

Lyndon didn’t. "Just let me log on. Ten minutes, that’s all I need, and then I’ll go."

"You’re going nowhere, mate. The cops are already on their way here. They’re about two hours away. I saw what you did to the phone. You’re going nowhere until you’ve paid for that."

"Cops, out here? I don’t think so," said Lyndon.

"They’ll be here in two hours," said the girl from the rear of the kitchen. "Three tops."

Back in the restaurant, the parents had herded their two children behind them. Wide-eyed, the children were staring around from behind their parents, at the fat man who had not yet taken his knee off the counter.

"Fine," said Lyndon. "Let them come. I don’t care. All I want is ten minutes. So if you’re going to shoot me, shoot me, but I am going to log on." With that, he slowly began climbing over the counter. His knee knocked a container of straws onto the floor, and straws of all different colors rolled free.

The man pressed forward, shotgun to his shoulder, aiming it at Lyndon’s head. "Stay over there."

"Now," said Lyndon, looking at the man, "do you have cable or wireless?"

"Paul, don’t! Don’t, Paul!" said Julie.

The family said nothing.

All Lyndon could hear was the man’s fast and shallow breathing. Or was it his own?

In a flashed vision, Lyndon saw his exploded head painting the bain-marie.

"Well?" said Lyndon.

A moth fizzling in the insect-o-cuter burst into flame, filling one long and quiet moment with smoke.

Paul's eyes glanced at the fire, then they came back to Lyndon. Lyndon had not moved.

"Turn it around," said Paul. "I’ll need to put in the password."

Lyndon checked the bank accounts. They were empty. Five credit cards had been added to the joint account, and they were all maxed.

With the intense focus of a descending parachutist who had just discovered he didn’t have a parachute, Lyndon went to the dating site. Her account was canceled, but her picture was still there; her soft eyes framing her gentle, yet lonely smile.

He clicked on their log. All the entries now made sense. It was as though he was a horse in the city whose blinkers had just been removed. He clicked back to her picture. There she was.

"That’s enough," said Paul.

Lyndon looked at him. Then he looked at the barrel of the gun.

But who had he been speaking to? He thought. When he'd called, it was a woman he’d finally gotten hold of, spoken to. So who was that? Who?

"Do you have a torch?" asked Lyndon.

"Get out of the fucking restaurant and go wait in your car."

Via his rearview mirror, Lyndon watched the family pile into their car. His car was low down now because someone had let the air out of his tires. Perhaps it had been the girl behind the counter, or another staff member he hadn't seen.

Paul was guarding the family as they crowded into their car. The father glanced over at Lyndon's car just before he got in, and the wife, who got in last, looked at him even longer. Then, before she got in, she lifted her hand in a motionless wave.

In reply, Lyndon lifted his. Then their car started, on its third try, and then they drove out and became the only light in the dark other than the roadhouse, and the only one that was moving. For a long time, Lyndon could see their taillights moving away, and as he watched them, his head was filled with nothing at all. It was like all this space, this flat, treeless, endless plain had entered his mental faculties, his heart. He felt calm, and he felt detached. He felt like every bind had been cut. As the night pressed against his car, it leached all his warmth up to the stars. Lyndon began to shiver. And then the family’s taillights were gone.

Lyndon looked back to the East. There were no lights there. Due to the public holiday, the highway was devoid of trucks, and all the other travelers, bar this family, must have found someone to pull over and rest. He looked back at the roadhouse. Shotgun by his side, Paul was at the front windows watching him. Despite the gun, Lyndon felt no fear. It was like he'd driven into a movie, and so nothing he could see was real. And then he laughed, not a full-body laugh but a snigger. And it was while laughing that he turned back to the dark where the dingoes had been.

In the distance, there was a light. Tiny and white, it was stationary. More a glow or the radiance from a tiny light source.

Lyndon didn’t get out of the car; he burst out with so much energy that in the restaurant, Paul jumped, yelled "Shit," then lifted the shotgun as Lyndon ran off into the dark.

"Get back in your car!" Paul yelled, once he was in the car park, his shotgun raised to the darkness in which he could no longer see Lyndon.

"Did you hear me? I said get back in your car!"

Lyndon reached the spot where the light had been. Panting and sweating despite the cold, he scorned the ground that he could barely see.

He stood and looked back at the roadhouse. Paul and Julie were looking for him, then he looked back to the ringing light.

And then he ran. He ran into the dark like a single cell creature tearing through the emptiness towards the only other single cell that he could see. And as he did, the other single cell creature moved away and took the light with it.

"Get back in your car!" Paul yelled, but his voice was smaller now.

And still the phone rang as its light moved away. Effortlessly remaining out of his reach as Lyndon, with the face of an angry bull, ran and ran and continued to run into all of this waiting dark.

MGG