Night Highway

By Allen Coskerie

One Friday afternoon, Steve and Mark Cross head off on an adventurous father and son weekend in the Australian bush. The long drive provides plenty of time to shake off the weekday woes, have a few laughs and soak up the rugged landscape. In the early hours of the morning, as they near their destination in a remote part of the country, through the endless darkness of the ‘night highway’, they notice a dull light on the road up ahead.

As they get closer to the light, it becomes painfully apparent that something is not right. What unfolds from that point will see Steve, Mark and others, encounter a group of locals who subject them to sinister and relentless demands, over and over. If they are to survive, they’ll need to push themselves beyond all physical, mental and emotional boundaries. Either way, life will never be the same.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398497689

Allen Coskerie

Allen Coskerie lives on the Gold Coast in Queensland, Australia, where he loves to get his family out on their little boat and enjoy the sparkling waterways. When he’s not out on the water or doing the hard grind at his day job as a management consultant, he’ll be drawing on his youthful misadventures with his brother and mates to conjure up ideas for his next book.

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About the Author

Allen Coskerie lives on the Gold Coast in Queensland, Australia, where he loves to get his family out on their little boat and enjoy the sparkling waterways. When he’s not out on the water or doing the hard grind at his day job as a management consultant, he’ll be drawing on his youthful misadventures with his brother and mates to conjure up ideas for his next book.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my three beautiful girls: my wife, Candace Mae, and our daughters, Jenna and Madison, and to our precious boy, Benjamin. You all bring love, meaning and happiness to my life every day. And finally, to my parents, Joan and George Coskerie, who, despite not having much, provided a loving home and a magical childhood.

Copyright Information ©

Allen Coskerie 2023

The right of Allen Coskerie to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398496613 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398497672 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781398497689 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Firstly, I’d like to thank my three beautiful girls, Candace, Jenna and Madison, who, since reading the first sketchy draft of the manuscript, have encouraged me, somewhat relentlessly, to realise my dream of bringing this book to life. Thank you, girls.

Thanks also to the professional team at Austin Macauley Publishers, who guided me step by step through the editing, production and publication process. I appreciate your advice, guidance and support.

1

Killing was easy for Pauly, he’d done it many times before. He didn’t enjoy it, not really, but it was what he did. Pauly was a killer. He knew that, and he didn’t really mind. Most of the time it was simple, but sometimes, especially when he had to do kids, Pauly had trouble.

Pauly liked children. He could relate to them well. He didn’t really want to kill them. He liked to talk to them, and to tell them stories he would make up. But he knew that children didn’t like him, didn’t want to hear his stories. Maybe it was his size. Yes, that must be it, he was too big. And children didn’t like playing with big people. Not in the same way as they would play with each other. This frustrated Pauly. He knew he was a child himself, felt like one at least, even though he was forty years old. He didn’t like to be around grown-ups either, so he knew how the children felt about him, and he forgave them for it. But he was still frustrated, and continued to try to make them like him.

Do you know the story about the bunny rabbit and the three chickens? he asked the little girl as he led her through the bush on a hot, dry afternoon.

The girl was scruffy and had a graze on her forehead. She’d told Pauly earlier that she was nine years old. She was sobbing now, and as she shuffled across the dry, dusty ground, her crying became more intense.

If her hands weren’t tied behind her back, Pauly would have made her carry some of the tools. But the doctor had said that it had to be this way, and so Pauly struggled alone with the load. The mattock and shovel, he carried in one hand, and the smaller, sharper tools in the other. The larger tools periodically unbalanced each other and Pauly had to stop a few times on the walk to improve his grip.

A film of sweat had broken out on his brow, and as he dropped the tools to rearrange them again in his hands, he wiped a forearm across his forehead. He preferred to do this at night, when it wasn’t so hot, but the doctor wouldn’t allow it anymore since that time Pauly got lost in the dark.

He looked to the sun. It was high in the sky. The little girl had stopped when he did, and her sobbing had subsided a little as she caught her breath after the long walk. She looked at him now with a dusty, tear streaked face.

Pauly repeated the question. So, have you heard it? Have you heard the story? He stood looking at her, blinking the sweat from his puffy eyes.

Waiting.

The little girl looked at him in silence. Her gaze shifted to the sharp tools on the ground. She looked back at Pauly.

He stared back at her expectantly, slightly cocked his head. Have you heard the story? Have you? Have you heard it?

The little girl’s face wrinkled, then crumpled with fresh wracks of tears. Pauly waited. Blinking.

2

Stephen Cross managed a small woodworking shop in the South Western suburbs of Sydney, which specialised in the making of trophies for local sports clubs. He would be thirty-six years old in a few weeks and had lately been toying with the idea of moving on to a more ‘serious’ job. At Johnson Trophies and Plaques, he supervised a staff of eight, and was ultimately responsible for meeting the fluctuating demand of the trophy trade. He was happy enough with the work. He got to use his hands and found working with wood somewhat therapeutic, but he’d begun to feel that maybe it was time to move on again, do something a bit different.

The owner of the small business was semi-retired, and liked to pop his head in two or three times a week to check on things and make sure the apprentices were getting enough work. Stephen secretly thought that Laurie’s visits were more of an excuse to get away from his domineering wife than anything else, but that was okay, Steve liked Laurie. He was an old and honest builder, quick to chuckle, with a myriad of stories from ‘back in the day’. Since Steve took the position two years ago, there had never been a stern word between them. Then again, Steve’s crew had yet to miss a deadline, a fact that Steve took a small amount of pride in.

How’s the M.P.C.C order coming along? Laurie shouted from the doorway.

Steve had been leaning over an apprentice seated at a workbench, ensuring that the gluing process would be centred. Much of the work was still done by hand, and it was important to ensure that all units were square before gluing, screwing and lining up for the spray booth. He looked to the door, acknowledged Laurie, and turned down the volume on the battered stereo. John Cougar had been belting out a song about two American kids, and his voice dropped to a whisper.

Steve walked towards Laurie and met him half way across the factory floor, where the two turned together and headed to the spray booth.

M.P.C.C? Steve asked. Which one, the table tennis or the football?

Table tennis, Laurie replied, then changed his mind, Actually, both.

Table tennis will be packed and ready to go by three this arvo, and the football will be okay for Tuesday. I’ve spoken to Bob and that’s fine, footy presentation is not until next Saturday.

Goodo. Have you got anyone coming in tomorrow?

Nar, Steve said, everything’s cruising. We’ll do some O.T. next week if we need to, but at this stage, we don’t need to work Saturdays.

Okay, good stuff. Have a good weekend then hey?

Yeah mate, you too.

Laurie turned back towards the door, his ‘visit’ now complete. He stopped and turned before going three steps. Oh, by the way, I’ll be down at the local tonight. If you want to drop in, I’ll shout you a beer.

Thanks anyway, Steve said, but I’m going away this weekend.

Going bush again?

Yeah, Steve said, keeps the cobwebs clear.

Bloody weekend Tarzan, Laurie said chuckling as his snowy head disappeared through the door.

Steve laughed and shook his head. Tarzan died with the sixties.

Who? asked a young apprentice, who thought Steve was talking to him.

Huh? Oh, nothing, Steve said, and went to check on the belt sander.

3

The little girl was scared of the fat man. He was very strong. She could tell there was something wrong with him as well, and thought he might be some sort of ‘simpleton’, as the kids at school might say.

She didn’t want the man to touch her. He was always breathing very hard, and he smelled real bad. Bad B.O. The way her dad sometimes smelled after working in the yard all day. Only worse. Much, much worse. Like he never had a bath at all.

Her dad had always had a bath, or a shower. But not anymore. Her dad was dead. She’d seen the man kill him with a shovel, and drag his body away. She’d seen the big dent in Daddy’s head, the way his hair dipped in like a finger bowl. She knew he was dead then. There was lots of blood.

She felt very hazy now. Like none of this had really happened, like she wasn’t really there. How could she be in the middle of the bush alone with a horrible man, when she should be at Granma’s by now? But she knew deep down that it was real. It was real alright, but still she couldn’t really believe it. Her dad’s head was round, not shaped like a finger bowl. Her dad was very strong. A very big, strong man. Dad wouldn’t be killed by this smelly man, or by a shovel hit on the head. He had to stay alive to look after her and her Mum, and to take her to netball on Saturdays. Everybody knew that.

Again, she hoped with all her hope that she was dreaming, having a horrible nightmare. Soon she would wake up. Her Mum would be calling her for breakfast. She’d run down the hall and her dad would be sitting at the table drinking coffee. He would ruffle her hair and say ‘Good morning sweetheart’, and she would say ‘Good morning Daddy’, and slide onto the chair and eat her crunchy nut Corn Flakes.

The only problem was, she didn’t know how to wake up from the nightmare. And this all sure felt real. Not like a dream at all. She’d hit her head somehow, and the spot where she’d hit it was sore. And she really was here in the bush. She could feel the heat, hear the loud buzzing of the cicadas in the trees. And the fat man was standing right in front of her, looking at her and asking her something. He was scaring her a lot.

Well, he said, puffing, have you heard the story or not?

She didn’t know what story he was talking about, and he was getting very angry.

I asked you a very simple question. He rummaged on the ground to pick up some tools, then yelled at her with a red face. Have you heard the story about the bunny rabbit and the three chickens?

She saw the tools in his hands and they were very shiny and looked sharp. They made a clanging noise when their blades knocked together. Her hands were tied behind her back and the rope was hurting her wrists. It was very tight and her hands were starting to go numb. She felt something warm trickle down into the palm of her hand.

HAVE YOU? he yelled into her face, and when his awful, fat, red face swiped across hers, it felt hot and slippery. Then she knew for sure she wasn’t dreaming.

She knew her daddy was really dead and that his head was the wrong shape. She knew that the fat man was very angry, and when he stamped his feet in the dirt and bashed his hands against his legs, she knew he was going to hurt her.

She knew he would hurt her a lot. And then he picked up a shiny tool.

She screamed and screamed and screamed.

And when he jumped on her, she fell onto her back and heard a snap sound in her arm. And then the pain came.

4

Steve walked into his apartment, dropped his bag at the door and pulled his tee-shirt over his head. In the kitchen, he dropped the factory keys into the second drawer and grabbed a Pepsi from the fridge. He popped it open, took a long swallow and let out an audible Ahhh.

He placed it on the counter and threw his shirt in the direction of his bag at the door. He ran his hand through his short cropped sandy hair, and checked the time: 4:35pm. Right, he thought, four thirty-five. I can be showered and packed, and over at Sandy’s by five-thirty. Provided Mark’s ready, we can be on the road by five forty-five.

Sandy was Steve’s wife, or ex-wife, he had to keep reminding himself. Mark was their son, fifteen years old now, and quite a character. The divorce hadn’t seemed to have affected him too much, or so they hoped. He was certainly still doing well in school, and seemed fairly well balanced for a teenager.

Despite this, Steve would always carry the guilt. He and Sandy had been married for eleven years, ten of which he’d spent as a detective in the New South Wales police force. Steve had no doubt it was the job that caused the marriage to break down. Steve had been heavily involved in a string of ‘extreme’ and unusual cases and didn’t understand himself how deeply he’d been impacted for a long time. They’d persevered for another twelve months after he left the force in a genuine effort to save the marriage, but before too long, they both realised that it just wasn’t going to work.

While they were still the best of friends, hell, they got on better now than they ever did when they were living together, they had reluctantly agreed that living under the same roof just wasn’t going to work.

They’d tried to involve Mark in the decision to the extent that they could, and he was surprisingly mature about it. Although Steve had once heard him crying softly in his room, the boy had never really allowed his grief to show. He had accepted the situation like the man he was quickly becoming, and both Steve and Sandy were proud and deeply saddened.

But sometimes things just are the way they are, and there’s nothing that can really be done about it. If there was one thing Steve learned during his years with the force, that would have to be it.

Not an ideal situation surely, but one that they had all learned to accept and make the most of. While the three of them didn’t really do many ‘family’ things together anymore, Steve and Mark had made a habit of these camping weekends away. Just the two boys and nature. Things were discussed around the campfire at night, that neither one would have mentioned elsewhere. Comfortable therapy. Father and son.

Steve took another gulp of soft drink and headed for the shower.

*****

Scrubbing his hair dry with a towel, Steve caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. He stopped and stood upright. His shoulders were broad and his chest was full and hard, he still worked out when he could, but his stomach, it seemed, had begun to feel the years. He pinched his waist and was able to grip some body fat. Not a lot, but some. He made a mental note to resurrect his joggers next week, and make his runs more regular. He wasn’t a vain man, but he did like to keep in shape. It had certainly come in handy a few times as a cop, and he saw no reason to let it slide now.

It was his job at the trophy place, he thought, that was letting him go soft. A simple job, neither mentally nor physically taxing. And wasn’t that exactly why he had taken it in the first place? He’d drifted across a few such jobs in the five years or so since the divorce. He was good with his hands, and had always enjoyed working with wood. But for the second time today, he thought that maybe it was time to move on to something a bit more challenging.

Hmmm, he said to his reflection, maybe, and continued to scrub his hair.

*****

Steve pulled up in front of his ex-wife’s house. His house actually. Their house.

The Land Cruiser rolled to a stop and he ripped on the hand brake. The dash clock said 5:27, he was a few minutes early. It was ‘Daylight Savings’ in New South Wales over the summer months, and wouldn’t be dark for hours.

He stepped from the truck, and his son burst from the front door, bag over his shoulder and hair sweeping his forehead as he ran across the lawn.

Hey Dad!

Hey yourself, Steve said as Mark flew around the back of the truck to stow his gear.

Leaving him to the task, Steve walked up to the house. Sandy appeared in the doorway.

Hello, she said, smiling.

Hi, Steve said, and kissed her on the forehead. He got a whiff of her shampoo and was hit with a pang of nostalgia and sorrow. How are you doing?

Fine, she said, he’s been waiting at the window for twenty minutes. They both turned and looked to Mark who closed the swing door on the truck and headed back to the house.

Jeff coming over tonight? Steve asked, knowing the answer.

Yeah.

Steve had met Sandy’s new ‘partner’ a few times and actually enjoyed his company. He was a down to earth bloke, and seemed to have Sandy’s best interests at heart. More importantly, Steve knew that his son also approved, if somewhat reluctantly. Jeff seemed alright, and as long as Sandy was happy and Mark wasn’t too concerned, things were okay with Steve.

Come on Dad, Mark said from the lawn, it’ll be dark before we get to the highway.

Sandy smiled and shook her head. Steve stepped from the porch. Okay Tiger, he said, kiss your mother and let’s get going.

Mark ran back to the porch, pecked his Mum on the cheek, and was back at his father’s side in a bound.

You two be careful now, Sandy called from the doorway. Drive carefully, and don’t skip dinner tonight.

We won’t, Mark said, see you Mum.

They climbed aboard, and Steve cranked the engine. He backed out of the driveway and they both waved through the window as they drew away from the house.

Mark wriggled in his seat and adjusted the seatbelt.

As they took the first corner, Steve’s heart warmed to see the excitement and happiness on his son’s face.

Outback, here we come, Steve said, shifting up through the gears.

5

Pauly was sweating profusely. He thumped his backside on the ground and leaned his ample frame against a solid tree. He was breathing hard. When he exhaled, his cheeks puffed.

The little girl was finally finished.

It had been hard work. His face was hot. He felt a cool drop of sweat trickle through his hair and down into the corner of his eye. He blinked a few times, then wiped it away with the back of his plump hand.

The finishing itself wasn’t that hard. She was only small and skinny. But he’d had to dig the hole. He hated that part. It always made him very hot.

He looked to the body beside him. He had propped it up against the tree, where he now sat next to it. He smiled when he thought that the two of them looked like two friends sitting together and telling stories.

His face was very sweaty, and so he bunched up her skirt and wiped his face clean. He must have bumped the body when he did that. The little girl had been crying a lot before, and Pauly saw a tear roll down her slumped cheek and hit the ground with a soft puff of dust. He couldn’t hear the puff of course, but he saw it.

As he held the little girl’s dress in his hand, Pauly noticed, for the first time, that part of the dress was wet.

Yuck, he said, piss.

He dropped the skirt with disgust and got up to inspect the hole. The hole was nowhere near big enough to fit her all in.

Pooh! Pauly said. I’m not digging anymore, he decided, I’m too hot.

He stood for a while scratching his head and trying to decide the best thing to do. She had to be buried, he knew that. And down deep, the doctor always said. Down very deep. At least up to your belly. The hole was deep enough at least, but still not long enough.

Pauly looked at the hole again, and at the body. Hmmm, he said,