Blood Junction Read Free Page A

boot on the footrail and
     lit a cigarette, thought about buying a drink, a gin and tonic perhaps. She wondered if by some miracle they had Bombay Sapphire
     and checked the optic dispensers. No, just plain old Gordon’s. But they did have a telephone directory, which she asked to
     borrow.
    India flipped straight to the
T
s, ran a finger down the middle column. Tredennick. Tregelles. Treloar. Tremain, R.G., 22 Stonelea Close, Cooinda.
    She stared at the telephone number. Her skin suddenly felt clammy. Maybe Lauren had been right. Maybe she did have a grandfather
     after all. She pulled her notebook and pencil out of her back pocket and wrote down the number.
    She jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
    “Only me,” said Tiger. His grin was in place.
    She pushed aside the directory and grinned back. He really was very cute. About five years younger than her, but yes, cute
     as hell.
    “Your friend not here, huh?”
    She shook her head.
    He touched her shoulder again. “Let’s hit the road.”
    In the mirror opposite, grimed with dust and nicotine, she could see the drinkers at the bar staring after them as they left.

    Stars danced on the horizon. India saw a huge sandy depression to the southwest with black shadows spreading across it like
     spilled ink. A brand-new red Nissan ute roared past them. The driver honked twice. Tiger honked back. Two men were standing
     on the back behind a rack of halogen spotlights. They turned and when they saw India, started whistling and making catcalls.
     She took a slow drag on her cigarette in a gesture of indifference. Tiger made exasperated shooing motions with his right
     hand. The men laughed. One wore dungarees, the other a red baseball cap. Red-cap put a hand over his crotch and pumped his
     hips in a rude gesture.
    “Sorry,” muttered Tiger.
    India shrugged and flicked her stub out of the window. She noted three rifles snicked into leather straps behind the Nissan’s
     cab. ’Roo lampers, out for a bit of sport. They quickly vanished into the distance.
    A few minutes later, a small white 4 × 4, headlights blazing, turned right across the road ahead of them.
    “Shit,” said Tiger, under his breath.
    “What is it?”
    “Who I’m meeting.” He raised his wrist to shine some light onto his watch. “Shit.”
    India looked across at him. The grin had gone. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth tense.
    “You want to drop me back in town?”
    He glanced in his rearview mirror, swung left and onto the track where the white 4x4 had gone. She saw a sign pockmarked with
     bullet holes. NINDATHANA BILLABONG. PICNIC SITE.
    “Nah. The Goodmans are just around the corner.”
    He didn’t say any more. India decided to keep quiet; she could tell his mind was on his meeting. She wondered who he was seeing,
     whether it was a woman or a man. Romance or business. She was inclined to think business from the way he’d tensed.
    A neatly painted sign next to a rusting mailbox announced Bed and Breakfast for forty dollars, and Tiger pulled off the track
     and down a smooth sandy road to a traditional low-slung homestead with a tin roof. He kept the engine running as he jumped
     out and opened her door.
    “Sorry about this,” he said. “You must think …”
    “You’re wonderful,” she said, sincerely.
    He popped open the trunk and hefted her backpack to the front steps. He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze, then with a wave
     and a spurt of gravel, he was gone.

    “Your friend’ll be back soon,” Frank Goodman reassured India. “Her car’s here, so she can’t have gone far.”
    While Frank fetched some beers, India slipped onto the verandah, leaned her hands on the railings. The air was full of the
     sound of insects. It was a moonless night but the sky was scattered with brilliant stars right to the horizon.
    “Here you go,” he said. “Sorry Mum and Dad aren’t here with the red carpet treatment, but they’ve gone to Milparinka. Some
     barbie going on they didn’t