Road to Nowhere(Hazel Dow) It was a late afternoon on a day very much like today when I disappeared.

It was mid-autumn, almost a year ago. I stepped off the bus into the darkening evening. Icy grey clouds promised sleety rain. I could smell the timeless nostalgia of wood smoke in the crisp air. Gold and red leaves lost their grip on sleeping trees, and drifted lazily to the rich tapestry of leaves below. A full jaundiced moon hung heavy and sullen on the horizon.

I stood there in the moment, feeling a deep yearning for something I couldn’t put a name to.

My life drifted through my thoughts in brutal clarity. Get up in the dark, make everyone’s breakfast, clean up, a tepid shower after a husband and two surly teenagers had used most of the hot water. Catch a bus with forty other tired commuters with zombie eyes. Spend the day entering meaningless data for extraction to reports that no-one would read. Catch the bus home in the dark. Tidy the house while my husband watched tv and the kids stared at their phones. Dinner. Take the family dog for a tedious walk and carry its puny turds home in a bag. Clean up. Go to bed.

Rinse and repeat.

Day after week after month after year, for the rest of my life.

I was suddenly close to tears, and could feel something snap in my head. Nothing dramatic, just a soft bump like a car driving into a brick wall.

At that moment, the city-bound bus wheezed to a stop on the other side of the road, and I crossed over without a second thought, using my travel pass to board the bus. Once in the city, I booked a ticket on the first Greyhound out of there.

Not a moment’s hesitation or doubt.

All I had in my carry bag was my phone, lunch leftovers, a half read novel, some spray-on body cologne, and my purse with about two hundred bucks, and a thick stack of plastic cards that defined me. Defined my life.

I fell asleep on the bus, waking only when the driver stopped for meals and toilet breaks.

The sun wasn’t quite up when the bus stopped for the last time, but I could see a band of silvery blue-pink on the horizon. A new day was dawning.

I could smell the sea air, and figured I’d landed somewhere along the coast. I supposed my family must have noticed my absence by now, for there were a few angry texts and two voicemail messages that I didn’t bother listening to. I sent a text to my husband that I needed time out and would be home when I was ready. I didn’t share with him the strong hunch that I would never be ready to face that life ever again.

The Greyhound terminus served a pretty decent breakfast in spite of the early hour, and I felt much better after bacon and eggs, buttered toast with marmalade, and a strong coffee. It was full daylight by the time I left the depot, and my spirits soared at the sense of freedom on this beautiful day. I wondered how long I would continue to be paid before my work even noticed I was gone. I made use of a nearby ATM to withdraw all the money currently in my account, another five hundred bucks to add to my escape fund.

It was too early to check into a motel, so I took a taxi into town and bought some cheap clothes, good walking boots, some basic camping gear, and a sturdy knife. It was still warm enough to camp out, and my money wouldn’t last long if I blew it on more than a couple of nights in a motel!

It was mid-morning before I booked myself into the first motel I came across. I ate all the courtesy biscuits and helped myself to the coffee before lying on the bed and falling into a deep sleep until well into the afternoon. Completely refreshed and a little restless, I walked back into town for an early dinner. Pizza and wine on a balcony overlooking the turbulent ocean. I felt humbled by my simple happiness.

After dinner, I walked along the beach in my bare feet and watched the sun set over the sea, painting the sky and water spectacular shades of blue, pink and purple. So beautiful, it was nearly painful to look at. The wind was picking up, stinging my bare legs with the scudding sand. It was also turning a little cool, so I went back to my motel room where I paced from one room to another. I lay on the firm bed and rolled through the channels on the cheap motel television. Nothing worth watching. Click.

I made another cup of coffee that I didn’t want, with the panicky feeling that all I had done was swap one set of claustrophobic walls for another.

And it was only seven o’clock in the evening.

I packed my gear into my backpack, left my prison, and didn’t look back. I walked along the highway, fading into the thick bushes whenever a car came by. I walked until I could walk no more, until I was nearly asleep on my feet.

About twenty feet into the bush, I found a tree that had fallen onto a log, forming a natural cave of sorts. Shrubbery provided a decent privacy screen, and the ground was soft with fallen leaves. I wedged myself into the womb-like darkness, cocooned in my camping blanket, feeling warm, safe, protected. This was exactly where I was meant to be. Sleep overtook me quickly, and I didn’t wake until the rising sun glared into my exposed face through the tapestry of overhead leaves and branches.

My body was so stiff I could barely squeeze out of my makeshift bedroom. The soft leaves had flattened under my weight until I had eventually slept on the iron-hard ground. Small bitey things had made a meal of my exposed flesh during the night, my hands and face puffy and crazy-itchy. “Don’t scratch them!” I scolded myself as I scratched furiously at the bite-lumps.

You couldn’t imagine a more wretched creature than the one sitting in front of a watery fire, the nearby kindling barely dry enough to ignite. I made a bitter coffee, and ate cold baked beans from a tin while I figured out what to do next.

Walk some more, I guess. Boy, this adventure was turning out to be somewhat of a boring fizzer.

After repacking all my gear, I hoisted my backpack over my shoulders and limped along the road, feeling sorry for myself, close to tears again. What the hell was I going to do?

Lost in self-pity, I didn’t even hear the ute pull up beside me. A bearded man with a cap leaned over from the driver’s side and pushed open the passenger door. “Hop in, love,” he called out. “You look like you could use a break.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the old me advising caution caution caution, I shrugged my backpack into the stairwell and climbed onto the passenger’s seat.

The man looked over at me as he pulled back onto the highway. “So where to, love?”

“I’m on the road to nowhere,” I sang, with only a slight catch in my voice.

“Well if you don’t mind me saying so, you look like you could use a shower and a decent meal. Some cream on those bites. My name’s Thomas Caldwell, and I live just up the road. You’re more than welcome to come home with me. My wife’s dropping the kids at school and doing some shopping, should be back in a couple of hours.”

I nodded, scratching at my itchy face. “Thank you, that’s very kind. My name’s Claire ... Smith.”

“Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Claire Smith.” He smiled at me, making me feel a little uncomfortable inside, suddenly unsure that this was a particularly bright thing to do.

My uneasiness flared brightly as he turned up Paynters Lane, a narrow dirt track winding through the dense bush, branches squeaking against the side of the ute. My heart sank, and I leaned forward, rummaging through the backpack for my body spray. Just in case.

We stopped at a gate, and Thomas hopped out to open it, watching me closely as he walked back to the ute. I waited until he had hoisted himself back into the ute. He turned to me to say something, and I sprayed him full in the face with the cologne.

Thomas clawed at his eyes, then swung a fist towards me. I don’t know if it was an accident or on purpose, but his fist caught me on the forehead and I saw stars. My anger red-lined, and I grabbed the knife out of the backpack and sliced at his neck. The third slice must have hit an artery because blood sprayed everywhere, the surprisingly hot liquid covering my hands and splattering my face.

And just like that it was over. Thomas was dead. I had just killed a man and wasn’t sure what to feel about it, but pretty sure that strong and savage was probably the wrong answer.

I rummaged in his pockets until I found his wallet. His licence read, Thomas Caldwell, Paynters Lane ... Uh oh. His seventy dollars and change went into the kitty, and I wondered what to do next.

I hauled him with some difficulty into the passenger seat, and hopped into the driver’s seat. With a crash of unfamiliar gears, I jerked the rest of the way along the dirt track until a red brick house came into view. Washing flapped on the line, bikes and assorted toys littered the yard. Well, that wasn’t really proof that he didn’t have mischief on his mind, his wife was out for a couple of hours, after all.

I may have been in shock, I guess. After all, this was my first murder. But I felt as cool as a cucumber. I used Thomas’s keys to let myself into his house, and headed for the shower. The hot water felt so so SO good! I used Mrs Caldwell’s supermarket shampoo and conditioner, and coconut body wash, and scrubbed myself until the blood was gone. I found some Savlon in the vanity unit and dabbed it on my itchy spots, immediate relief. I wrapped my bloody clothing in the towel I used to dry myself with, and walked naked through the house to find the main bedroom. Luckily, Mrs Caldwell was close to my size, and I thanked her as I hauled out her cheap cotton underwear, flannelette shirts, and a couple of pairs of jeans. I had to cinch the jeans tight with a belt, and the shirts were a little big, but better they were too large than too small. I had never felt so clean in my life! Luckily, my walking boots were black, so the blood didn’t show up much, just a couple of darkened spots that could have been anything.

I wandered through to the kitchen and looked through the fridge and containers until I found the housekeeping money. Another three hundred. Sweet. Definitely some civilised accommodation tonight!

I left the house and stared at the blood-soaked ute and its sole bloody passenger. Suspicious much? I really needed to buy myself some time, and wished I had thought of this before my shower.

I wiped off the steering wheel as best I could, and laid a tarp over the seat, then drove the ute into a tree. So far, so good. The blood had dried out a bit, and it made a grisly crackling sound as I hauled the body back into the driver’s seat. I tossed the towel with my bloody clothes into the back of the ute, and poked one of my new shirts into the petrol tank opening until I could feel the dampness as the fuel soaked its way up the cotton material. I raced back into the house and looked for alcohol, finding half a bottle of whiskey on the top shelf of the pantry.

I took the lid off and threw it on the passenger’s seat, shoved the bottle between Thomas’s legs, lit the shirt that was dangling out of the petrol tank and ran for it! Well, it wasn’t quite like the movies, but eventually the burning shirt reached the petrol reservoir which exploded very satisfactorily, consuming the vehicle and its contents with a smoky roar.

On reflection, it was just as well there was a delay between the lighting and the exploding. It wouldn’t do for me to rock up to a motel stinking of petrol and smoke. And burned Thomas.

Exhilarated and feeling pretty damned good, I cut through the bush and made my way back to the highway. Walking felt much better now, I faded into the bush whenever I heard a vehicle, not wanting to be a person of interest so close to a crime scene.

Despite my promise to myself, I figured it would be safer to spend the night in the bush again, and found myself a cosy nest among a copse of bushy trees. I lit a small fire, brewed up some coffee and toasted a sausage from the Caldwell fridge over the open flame, using a slice of their bread to make a sausage sandwich. I bemoaned the fact that I hadn’t nicked some tomato sauce while I was at it, but it was still the best sausage sandwich I have ever had.

Also wished I’d taken some insect repellent, but at least I had the Savlon.

The sun was past the highest point, and I guessed it must be mid afternoon. How time flies. It had been a big day, so I lay down and dozed on and off until the sun set. It was getting a bit cool, so I stoked up the fire and stared mesmerised at the flames, wishing I had also taken a couple of beers while I was at it. Never mind, next time. Haha.

Murder aside, I was getting pretty bored with this adventure. It seemed to involve a lot of walking and hiding, and I thought long and hard about how I was going to make this work.

I woke up with a start the next morning. At some point, I had covered myself from head to toe with the camping blanket, and didn’t have too many itchy bites to add to my collection. Just a couple on the knuckles of the hand that was clutching the blanket around me. The fire was about as dead as Thomas, and I had to start from scratch so I could have a coffee and some dry toast. Really should have grabbed some butter and jam. Rats. Next time. Haha.

I spent a couple of unmemorable days after that at a low-cost caravan park a few miles further down the road. It had a small store, public showers and toilet, and great access to a crappy beach strewn with rocks and bluebottles. The smell of rotting seaweed drifted into my caravan at night despite all the windows being closed. The only good thing about the place was that it took cash, with no questions asked. I spun a story about escaping from an abusive husband, my newly blackened eye backing me up, but the owners didn’t really care so long as I threw money their way.

I watched the news on the small balky television in the caravan. The police had changed their investigation from a single driver accident with alcohol involved, to a “suspicious death”. I didn’t worry too much about fingerprints, as mine weren’t on record. I felt strangely calm, fatalistic. My destiny would take care of itself.

Then I hit the road again.

The second murder was more difficult to execute, given it wasn’t an unplanned event, but still surprisingly easy. I got picked up by some drunk in a clapped out Cortina, who kept leering at me while he swerved all over the road. I asked him to pull over, as I thought I was going to be sick. He pulled up into the next dirt track he could find, driving way further than he really needed to. I felt quite justified spraying him in the face with my body spray, then stabbing him in the back of the neck while he was bent over rubbing at his eyes. I left the knife in this time, to avoid a bloodbath. Worked a treat. I grabbed a rag from the backseat, which actually turned out to be one of his dirty t-shirts, and clamped it over the wound while I pulled the knife out, the man’s body jerking in its death throes. His name was Mark Munroe, not that it matters. What did matter was the wad of cash in his wallet. Almost three hundred dollars! I secured the t-shirt with his belt, and dragged him into the passenger seat, doing his seat belt up so he looked like a sleeping passenger. Well, kind of. I jumped into the driver’s seat and took to the road.

I must have gone nearly a hundred miles before the petrol tank ran dry. I left the car on the side of the road, and walked the rest of the way into the nearest town. Hopped on a bus and went another hundred miles.

I don’t know how many people I killed that year. Enough to keep me in no-questions-asked motels and caravan parks, anyway. I ate in cafes and restaurants, walked beaches all around the country, bought new clothes and just chucked the old stuff. My technique didn’t need refining.

Sometimes I got picked up by nice families, by women, by teenage kids who just wanted to help a stranger. I didn’t kill any of those, which I think ought to balance the books.

I hitchhiked and killed through all four seasons, which brought me full circle to a balmy autumn evening, much like the evening when I disappeared.

I was running low on cash, and walked in the fading light hoping for a ride.

A man pulled up alongside me in a ute and pushed open the passenger door. All I could see in the dim light was a beard and a cap. He looked familiar, but they all look the same after a while.

I hopped in, and we drove in silence. There was a peculiar smell in the ute, a very faint odour of burning plastic. I think I could sense my fate coming at me like a locomotive, but I guess it was time.

He pulled off the road onto a dirt track, the headlights a physical force against the pitch black. The smell of burning was stronger now.

He stopped the vehicle. “Get out”, he said, his voice gravelly and strained.

I got out, and could hear his door slam. I turned to look at him, and wasn’t really that surprised to see his face, now blackened and charred, red meat showing between the cracks in his skin.

“My name’s Thomas, what’s yours?” he croaked.

I looked around the clearing which was starkly illuminated by the stuttering headlights of the burned-out husk of a ute.

Other figures stepped out from behind bushes, from behind trees.

“You made my wife a widow.” “You took my children’s daddy.” “You finished my life before I was ready.” “You stole my future.”

Twenty, thirty, fifty damaged figures surrounded me. Getting closer, emboldened by my helplessness.

I was surrounded by the smell of burned and rotting corpses. I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t move, as the blackened figures moved in closer, their hands and teeth desperate for bloody revenge.

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