A few blocks on they came to a T-intersection, with a pub on the corner called the Batsman’s Arms. Hal waited for a car to crawl past. Through a side window he could see a dozen blokes in singlets and shorts absorbed in their smokes and beers and form guides. Then he pedalled across to the park opposite, towards a red phone box, its grey roof streaked with bird shit. Glancing up at the big gum tree leaning over it, Hal saw a dozen sleepy cockatoos, huddled in the branches. They rode up to a neglected playground. A see-saw and swings and a rusted set of monkey bars that must have been put there for kids now as old as his parents.
‘Let’s go on the swings Hal? Ha-al!’
‘Shoosh.’ He caught a glimpse of yellow paddocks through the trees behind the swings. Pedalled up to a big steel gate that closed off the park from a winding track that disappeared into a stand of dying stringybarks. Below he could see paddocks unfolding to the horizon.
He leaned over, slipped the rusty ring off a steel peg, flung the gate open and rode through, stopping to call, ‘Shut the gate’. Evan slid off grumpily and ran back to shut it. He got back on, and they wheeled off.
Down the bumpy track and around the dusty curve, into a paddock of paspalum, the same faded colours as the yellow and brown contraption squatting on the ridge before them, shimmering in the sun. The Highway Palace: the ancient caravan they’d discovered two weeks ago.
The track vanished, the bike squealed to a stop at a rusty barbed-wire fence enclosing the caravan and the tumble-down sheds. A hundred yards below, at the bottom of the ridge, the snaking creek formed a border between the caravan land and the paddocks that rolled all the way back to their house.
‘The Crack in the World,’ Hal whispered to the drooping willows and the muddy creek, like it was a secret name that could invoke ancient gods.
Evan kicked at the ground near the crooked gate. ‘Don’t Hal, someone might live there!’
‘Live there? Look at it.’ Hal pointed inside the gate, where a crumbling cement footpath led through weeds to the caravan’s peeling door. ‘Bet you could see right up to our place from inside that thing.’
He was squinting into the distance, wondering if anyone had ever done that, when they were startled by a sudden thumping noise from the direction of the caravan. They turned to gawk.
‘Could be ghosts,’ Evan whispered.
‘Ghosts? Oooh, creepy.’
‘Go inside then—I dare you!’
Hal’s eyes combed the Highway Palace. Behind the cracked windows the lace curtains beckoned. The peeling yellow door begged to be opened. As his hand touched the rusty gate there was a loud creaking noise. He froze.
‘Whaddya waiting for?’ Evan nudged him.
‘Might be snakes in there.’
‘You’re scared of the ghosts!’
‘Ghosts? You idiot.’
‘Scaredy-cat. I double dare ya. You’re scared!’
‘Put a sock in it, you dill.’ He launched himself at the gate and scraped it open, plunging through knee-high paspalum to the yellow door. Two yards shy of it he stopped again, stared at the rusty latch halfway down. A couple of arm’s lengths away. Or miles away, depending on how you looked at it.
‘You’re scared!’
‘Am I?’ He forced his hand onto the latch. Was about to turn it when there came from inside the caravan a deep wailing moan that prickled the hairs on his neck.
‘Run Hal!’ Evan shrieked. ‘Run!’
He tore through the long grass back to the gate, then, seeing his brother racing up the track, he veered the other way, and hurtled all the way down the slope until he’d reached the sunny open spaces of the Crack in the World.
Crouched on the gravel, panting, Hal gathered his wits. What would Sherlock Holmes think of him? Would he have run like a ninny from the Hound of the Baskervilles just because everyone else did? Ghosts? Huh. He was disgusted with himself—yet he jumped again at another chilling wail from the caravan. Then it ended in a high-pitched cough, and Hal smelled a rat. A very large rat.
Charging back up the ridge, he stopped in front of the caravan and roared, ‘Show yaself! I know you’re there!’
He squinted into the glare. Saw a shadow moving under the caravan.
‘I see you. Come on out!’ Warning grimly: ‘Or me and my brother’ll come and get you.’
‘Oh, jeez,’ cried a high-pitched voice. ‘Now I’m shitting myself!’
Hal was relieved to see the slight figure crawling out from under the caravan’s cabin. Not the nasty teenager, thank God. The ghost stood up, glowering at him. A short, dark splinter of a figure in a floppy hat. Skinny legs sticking out of baggy shorts. Just a kid. Holding a bucket, of all things.
‘Come on, Casper, let’s have a look at you.’
The ghost came charging down the ridge straight for him. Hal stuck a foot out to trip him. The kid swerved deftly, grabbed his shirt and swung him around, and Hal tumbled back. He landed on his backside in the mud beside the creek, somewhat regretting his boldness.
‘Piss off!’ the kid yelled.
Hal was getting tired of being told to piss off. He scrambled to his feet. ‘I’ve got as much right to be here as you have. I was here first.’
‘Bullshit,’ the kid spat. ‘This ain’t your place.’
‘So what? Nobody lives here.’
‘You sure as shit don’t. So bugger off!’ The boy’s voice was not as tough as his words.
Hal saw now that he really was dark-skinned—a tough Aboriginal kid—which made him more uneasy, since this was only the third Aboriginal person he’d ever spoken to. Not that he felt like talking to him.
‘Go to hell,’ he muttered.
The dark kid grabbed his shirt again and tried to pull him into the mud. Hal got him in a headlock. They pushed and pawed at each other until they tumbled to the creek’s edge.
Finding himself on top, Hal leapt astride his opponent, grabbed the kid’s flailing hands and, with little resistance, wrestled him onto his back.
‘That’ll—teach—you!’ he gasped.
Instead of acknowledging defeat, the stranger broke into a fit of high-pitched giggling.
‘What’s so—bloody—funny?’ Hal held the thin wrists down with his knees.
‘Checked your knackers lately?’ The kid howled with glee.
Hal checked, and to his horror saw one pale testicle dangling free of his shorts. He reached down to tuck it away. As he did the ‘ghost’ slid out from under him and crawled to his knees, staring Hal down.
‘You fight like a girl,’ the kid sneered.
Hal could come up with nothing more scathing than, ‘So do you!’
‘Dur, wonder why?’ The kid’s hat had fallen off revealing, under the pudding-bowl haircut, the face of a girl. A girl who was hugely enjoying Hal’s discomfort.
‘God,’ Hal winced. ‘I don’t hit girls.’
‘I do. Boys too, if they gimme the willies.’
Anger spent, she shrugged, reached into her bucket, and pulled out a paper bag.
‘All right. You proved your point.’ Hal, mortified, tucked his shirt in. ‘Your place. We’re going.’
‘Who, you and your little brother? He’s halfway home by now. Pretty tough gang.’ She raised her eyebrows, grinning.