The cloak of night had fully descended, shrouding the vast, open landscapes in an impenetrable darkness, punctuated only by the occasional glimmer of distant stars. The "Welcome to Broken Hill" sign emerged from the abyss, its faded letters momentarily illuminated by the car’s headlights, offering a silent, almost mocking greeting. The excitement of arriving at this remote outpost was tempered by the night's obsidian embrace, denying me the vibrant, rugged welcome I had envisioned.
The fatigue from the drive was a creeping, insidious force, gradually weighing down my eyelids and dulling my senses. The thrill of the journey had waned, replaced by a growing sense of isolation and an unsettling quiet that seemed to envelop everything.
Navigating the town's quaint streets to find Paul's house was an exercise in patience. The charm of the town's naming conventions lost its appeal quickly, morphing into a frustrating puzzle. Roads and lanes, so whimsically similar in name, became a labyrinth in the dim glow of the streetlights.
Upon arrival, Paul's house presented itself as a tableau of abandonment. The structure, modest and unassuming, was swallowed by the shadows, its windows dark and lifeless. The absence of a car in the driveway, coupled with the sight of neglected mail peeking out from the letterbox, painted a picture of a home forgotten by time, or perhaps deliberately left behind.
A pang of disappointment washed over me as the realisation set in – there was no sign of Charlie. The purpose of my arduous journey, the reunion I had longed for, seemed to slip further away with each passing moment. The house's unyielding doors, locked and indifferent, were a physical manifestation of the barriers that now stood between me and my goal.
Defeated and with the gnawing emptiness in my stomach becoming ever more insistent, I had no choice but to retreat to Clivilius, empty handed.
Manoeuvring the car to the side of the Portal after entry to avoid any collisions, exhausted, I promptly exited the vehicle. Closing my door, the slam of another door closing echoed through the cool evening air, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to bristle with warning.
"Beatrix!" Paul called out, jogging toward me, firestick in hand.
My eyes narrowed, trying to make out the silhouette of the person that followed not far behind him. Karen!
"Beatrix!" Paul huffed, panting as though he had just sprinted a marathon. His face was flushed, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead under the dim light of the firestick. “Did you find her?”
"Sorry, Paul," I replied, biting the inside of my cheek, a mixture of frustration and disappointment churning in my stomach. "I couldn't find her."
"Really?" asked Paul in surprise, dribbling saliva down his chin as he continued to pant. His eyes, wide with disbelief, searched mine for answers, for hope.
"Is everything okay here?" I asked, suddenly concerned for Paul's wellbeing. His laboured breathing was unsettling.
"We've been chasing those blinkin' chickens of yours," answered Karen, hands on hips as she heaved deeply. Her voice was laced with irritation, yet there was a hint of amusement in her tone.
Confused, my brow furrowed.
"Well," began Paul, a satisfied grin spreading across his face, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of mischief and pride, "You gave me an idea earlier. I was going to wait for you to return, but then I figured that they'd probably be better in separate cars anyway."
I continued to stare blankly at Paul, my brain struggling to process his words amidst the mental and physical exhaustion that clung to me like a second skin.
"The chickens," he emphasised, as if the word itself should explain everything.
"Yeah, I got that part," I replied, my voice laced with confusion and a growing sense of incredulity. "What about the chickens?"
Karen groaned loudly.
"I've taken Glenda's car–" Paul started again, oblivious to Karen's growing irritation.
"You mean we," Karen interrupted, her voice sharp, a clear assertion of her involvement.
"Of course," Paul corrected himself quickly, a flash of embarrassment crossing his face. "We've taken Glenda's car to the Drop Zone and decided to turn it into a hen house."
I gasped audibly, my mind reeling at the absurdity of the idea. "You've put the chickens in a BMW?" The words felt ridiculous even as they left my lips, the luxurious car an absurd sanctuary for poultry in a world where luxury had lost all its meaning.
"I take that back," said Karen, her voice firm, her face set in a mask of determination and slight annoyance. "The idea was all yours, Paul."
I rubbed my temple, a headache brewing at the forefront of my mind. What the hell was wrong with Paul? Chickens in a BMW?
"It's not as though we really had many options," cried Paul, in an attempt to defend his decision. "We can't very well leave them running freely around camp. They're a threat to all of us."
"He's not wrong," agreed Karen, nodding her head slightly.
"We can't risk them attracting any more wild creatures," Paul added, his eyes scanning the horizon as if expecting a threat to emerge at any moment.
A deep frown smothered my face, my brows knitting together in a mixture of concern and disbelief. "So, you'd rather sentence them to a torturous death out here... alone?"
"Beatrix, don't be so foolish," scolded Karen, her beady eyes penetrating mine, sharp and unyielding. Her stance was firm, her resolve clear, as she continued, "You know as well as I do that we can't let our love for the preservation of nature surpass the logical faculties that the universe has bestowed upon us."
Oh my God, what a freak, I told myself silently as my eyes rolled. Karen's words felt like a slap, a jarring blend of condescension and pseudo-philosophical rambling. It's true, I have a deep passion for nature and wildlife, but logical facilities bestowed upon the universe... what the hell does that even mean!? In this moment, the absurdity of our situation – arguing over chickens and philosophical principles while the world crumbled around us – struck me with full force, a poignant reminder of the strange new reality we were all navigating.
Simultaneously, almost as though the new Clivilius universe were sending us instant messages, all three of our bellies grumbled. The sound, embarrassingly symphonic, seemed to echo around us.
"I'm so hungry," Karen confessed, her hand gently rubbing at her belly, a look of genuine discomfort crossing her face. "I'm not sure I've eaten today."
Paul's eyes suddenly lit up, and my heart skipped a beat in preparation for what request might follow next. His sudden change in demeanour was startling, almost as if a switch had been flipped, transforming his concern into an eager anticipation.
"You're in Broken Hill now, aren't you, Beatrix?" Paul asked, his tongue running salaciously along his lower lip, a gesture that seemed overly dramatic for the context. The sight was unsettling, out of place amidst the desolation that surrounded us.
Cringing, I replied in the affirmative, albeit reluctantly. My voice was a reluctant whisper, betraying my unease at the direction this conversation was taking.
The pleasurable, almost sexual groan that escaped Paul's moistened lips sent a reprehensible shudder down my spine. It was a sound that seemed to belong to another world, one far removed from our current struggles and concerns.
"I think there is some food being prepared back at camp, but–" Paul paused, his eyes seemingly rolling back into his head as he got lost in his own fantasy. The moment stretched uncomfortably long, filled with an awkward silence punctuated only by the uneasy shuffling of our feet.
After what felt like an eternity, during which Karen and I exchanged concerned glances, silently questioning the sanity of our companion, Paul continued. "You must get us some Rags chips. They are simply divine."
"Rags?" I queried, latching onto the least bizarre aspect of the conversation, a welcome distraction from the unsettling display I'd just witnessed.
"They're on Oxide Street," Paul said quickly, a hint of fervour in his voice. "You can't miss the shop. Simply the best chips you've ever tasted!"
I remained somewhat hesitant, my mind still reeling from the oddity of Paul's behaviour. Yet, given that he looked as though he was deeply fantasised by the idea, I decided to agree to the suggestion rather than engage in further conversation. It seemed a small concession, a way to bring some semblance of normality back to our interaction, even if the thought of Paul's earlier groan still lingered uncomfortably in my mind.
Thankfully, Paul's chicken and chip shop of choice wasn't a long walk, and the seemingly vague directions he had given me began to make some sense as the trip unfolded. The location I had chosen for the Portal, while discreet, was central to most of the important sites in Broken Hill, and, as I have now discovered, also close to the home of the best chicken and chips in Broken Hill. Paul will owe me for this one, I thought as I made my way past the car wash next door, its silence contrasting sharply with the bustling activity of the evening, and towards the shop entrance.
The glow of the neon sign flickered in the dusk, casting an amber hue on the cracked pavement. I paused momentarily to take in my surroundings, feeling a slight chill in the air that made me pull my jacket tighter around me. The instantly recognisable smell of BBQ chickens filled the air like a thick invisible fog, permeating every corner of the street and weaving its way into the fabric of my clothes. It was a comforting, almost nostalgic scent that momentarily eased the weight of the day's worries.
I observed the shop's façade, noting the peeling paint and the warmth emanating from within, visible through the fogged-up windows. A sense of anticipation built up inside me, mingling with an odd sense of displacement—a feeling that was becoming all too familiar in my travels.
And from the way Paul had reacted, I could now easily imagine that if the smell could be bottled up into an aftershave lotion, Paul would be a repeat customer. The thought of someone walking around, exuding the essence of BBQ chicken, was so absurd that it brought a slight, involuntary smile to my face. I found myself wondering whether, in some corner of the universe I had yet to explore, such a scent was considered the height of sophistication.
Imagine smelling like a BBQ chicken. The strange thought tickled my mind, offering a brief respite from the complex web of emotions and responsibilities that came with my journey.
Despite the chill in the air, several young children ran about barefoot outside the shop door, their laughter piercing the evening's calm. Their young mother, a figure of frazzled determination, scrambled after them, trying to herd them away from the busy road. "Stay away from the bloody road," she scolded, her voice a mix of worry and weariness. Her arm lifted in a swinging motion, warning of the consequences should they stray too close to danger again. Witnessing this, my smile quickly inverted into a frown, a pang of empathy striking me for the harried mother.
At the same moment, a plump, middle-aged lady bustled out of the shop, her arms cradling a white plastic bag almost overflowing with fried goodies. The aroma of the food wafted out, mingling with the evening air. Her flip-flops slapped against the soles of her feet with each hurried step she took on the pavement, creating a rhythm that seemed out of sync with the chaotic dance of the children.
"Did you grab some gravy?" a bearded man called out from the open window of his dark-coloured ute, parked haphazardly at the curb. His tone was casual, yet there was an undertone of expectation, as if this tiny detail could make or break his evening.
"Shit," the plump woman muttered under her breath, her moment of triumph deflated by the forgotten gravy. She turned on her heels with a sigh, her body language a mix of frustration and resignation, and retreated back into the shop.
I guess she forgot, I figured, observing the scene unfold with a mix of amusement and sympathy. The busyness of the place, the cacophony of voices, and the flurry of activity were beginning to overwhelm me, making me second guess whether the chips really were going to be worth the effort.
Seizing the moment, I followed the plump woman into the shop. As I stepped inside, a harsh buzzer cut through the hum of conversation, announcing my entrance. Instantly, I was engulfed in a loud hive of activity. The space was cramped, filled with the chaotic ballet of patrons and staff moving in a tight choreography. I navigated the small space, positioning myself slightly off to the right in front of the large shop window, beside the end of the counter, where I could observe without being swept away by the current of customers.
My eyes were drawn to the back wall, where a row of vats filled with hot oil bubbled menacingly, frying what I assumed were the shop's famed crinkle-cut chips. The air was thick with the scent of frying food, a smell that was at once appetising and overwhelming. Along the side wall, directly behind the counter, the chicken rotisseries turned slowly. The sight that unfolded before me was jarringly brutal in its culinary efficiency: blackened, headless chicken carcasses rotated in an unending cycle, their skin glistening as oil and juices popped and dribbled down the sides, collecting in trays below.
A sudden, visceral reaction clenched my stomach, and a wave of empathy washed over me. Oh no! I silently gasped, my heart sinking as I watched the grim spectacle. The reality of the meal, the stark, unvarnished truth of what it meant to eat meat, was laid bare before me in a way I couldn't ignore. I can't look, I cried to myself, turning my head away, a hand instinctively coming up to cover my mouth. Those poor chickens!
"Hey, you!" a voice to my left boomed, snapping me out of my unsettling reverie. Dazed, I turned, finding myself face to face with the plump woman who'd just re-entered the shop.
"You're standing in the way of the buzzer. You need to move," she said, her tone a mix of annoyance and urgency, gesturing towards the door where I had inadvertently stationed myself.
"Oh," was all I could muster, my voice a faint echo of my internal turmoil. I awkwardly took a step forward, clearing the path. With the commotion inside the shop, the constant buzz had blended into the background noise until now.
"What can I get for you?" came a man's voice, pulling my attention to the counter. The server, a middle-aged man with a stained apron, looked at me expectantly, ready to take my order.
"Hmm?" I uttered, still somewhat disconnected from the moment as I turned my attention to him.
"What would you like?" he rephrased, his voice carrying a hint of impatience amidst the bustling environment.
"Ah," I finally managed, gathering my thoughts and deliberately avoiding the unsettling view of the rotating chickens behind him. What was it Paul wanted? My mind scrambled to recall the order. Ah, yes. "I'll have a large chips with chicken salt, please," I stated, more confidently this time.
"Would you like gravy with that?" he inquired, a routine question that momentarily brought me back to the plump woman's forgotten gravy.
"No, thank you," I replied quickly, eager to conclude the transaction and step away from the unsettling display. He nodded and shuffled off to fulfil my request, leaving me with a moment to collect my thoughts and adjust to the shop's frenetic energy.
Between the rotating chickens and the congested waiting area, I quickly decided that I needed some fresh air. It's all a bit too much in here, I thought, as I pushed the door open. The buzzer sounded its harsh alert, marking my exit, and the familiar smell of BBQ chickens wafted over me once again. Despite its persistence, it was a welcome respite from the overwhelming atmosphere inside. It's still better than inside, I concluded, taking a deep breath of the cooler outside air.
Oxide Street was buzzing with activity around me. Cars whizzed past, their engines a constant hum in the background. The drive-through line for KFC diagonally across the street snaked around the corner, while traffic was backed up at the roundabout to the left, congesting the road outside. Wow, chickens must be really popular in Broken Hill, I mused to myself, a hint of amusement in my thought. Or is this an outback obsession?
Lifting my gaze up the street to my left, my attention was caught by a strange, hooded figure. He was leaning against the wall of the building across the road, an island of stillness in the bustling environment. His hands were buried deep in his trouser pockets, and his head was dipped forward, obscured by the hood of his sweater. Despite the lack of visible eyes, I couldn't shake the feeling that he was staring directly at me. A cold shiver ran down my spine, unsettling me further.
Curiosity piqued and a bit unnerved, I subtly shifted my stance to face the hooded figure more directly. "What the hell?" I whispered to myself, a reflexive response as the man suddenly stirred. As if sensing my scrutiny, he abruptly turned and started down the side street, his movements quick and purposeful.
Who is he and why the peculiar interest in me? The questions echoed in my mind, fuelling a mix of curiosity and apprehension. My instinct was to follow, to uncover the reason for his mysterious presence and interest. Yet, I hesitated, torn between the urge to investigate and the instinct to maintain my distance from potential danger.
"Oi, you." The voice, tinged with impatience, snapped me back to the present. I turned to face the source, the plump woman who'd just exited the shop. She was clutching her plastic bag more securely now, the forgotten gravy now in her possession. Her interruption steered my focus away from the mysterious man and back to the reason I was here.
"Yes?" I responded, a bit taken aback by her abruptness.
"Your order is ready. They're looking for you inside," she informed me, her voice a mix of helpfulness and haste, as if keen to get back to her own business.
"That was quick," I replied, a note of surprise in my voice. With a polite nod, I manoeuvred past her, re-entering the shop's chaotic interior.
"Ah, here she is," announced the man with the red apron from behind the counter, a beacon of familiarity in the bustling space. "Your order is ready. Come down here to the register, and I'll ring it up for you."
Weaving through the cluster of customers, I reached the far end of the counter, positioning myself in front of the register. The man with the red apron, his age evident in the deep lines etched across his face, began to process my order. His hands, skinny and slightly trembling, moved over the register's buttons with painstaking slowness. His fingers fumbled, tracing frustrated circles in the air as he struggled to locate the correct keys.
Oh my God, I thought, a surge of impatience washing over me, at this rate, I'll be here all evening! Watching his struggle, a mix of sympathy and exasperation bubbled inside me.
Finally, the man behind the counter looked up, a quirky smile playing on his lips as he peered over the top of his square glasses. "That will be $8.50, unless I can tempt you with some cheeseslaw to go with your crunchy chips?" he offered, his tone light and inviting.
I couldn't help but let a little giggle escape. "What in the world is cheeseslaw?" I asked, genuinely curious and slightly amused by the novelty of the concoction.
"Why, it's only the best salad in Broken Hill," he replied with a hint of pride in his voice. "It's made of cheese, shredded carrot, and a bit of mayonnaise." His description was straightforward, yet it carried a sense of local charm.
Is that all? How is that a salad? I pondered internally, bemused by the simplicity of what was considered a delicacy here. It really doesn't take much to please these people, I mused, a wry smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
"In that case, I had better get some cheeseslaw as well, thanks," I replied, my tone light, a soft smile spreading across my face. Paul is going to love me! I thought, already anticipating his reaction to this local specialty.
The man's fingers resumed their dance across the register keypad, a few more seconds of awkward fumbling before he triumphantly announced, "That will be $12.50 now, thank you."
I handed over the cash, watching as he tackled the next challenge: bagging the items. His hands clumsily navigated the task, a few stray chips escaping their container and tumbling to their demise as he placed the bag of chips into a larger plastic bag. Despite the minor losses, he maintained his cheerful demeanour, finally handing me the bag with another smile.
"Here you go. Have a lovely evening, miss," he said, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses, a blend of kindness and weariness etched into his features.
Hastily retreating from the shop, my smile broadened, tinged with a mix of relief and amusement as I reflected on what could only be considered my first real outback experience. "Well, excluding Yunta," I muttered under my breath, a quiet acknowledgment of my growing collection of uniquely outback encounters. And what an experience it was!
Stepping back onto the street, I scanned my surroundings for any sign of the strange hooded man, but he was nowhere to be seen. Maybe I really am imagining things, I pondered, a slight frown creasing my brow. Too much of this Broken Hill dust must be affecting my brain, I concluded with a half-hearted chuckle, trying to brush off the eerie feeling. It's definitely time to get out of here.
With new determination, I began my trek back to the Portal, the bag of chips and cheeseslaw swinging by my side. The rustle of the plastic bag and the occasional clink of the container inside served as a steady rhythm to my steps. Despite the reassurance of the busy street around me, a part of me remained on edge, prompting me to glance over my shoulder every now and then... just to be safe.
Finally, I returned from the shop, the distinct aroma of Rags chips heralding my arrival as I stepped into Clivilius. The scent, rich and inviting, immediately captured Paul and Karen's attention, and I couldn't suppress a small, satisfied smile at their reaction. But the chips were just the beginning. With a flourish that might have seemed over-the-top in any other context, I presented a container of cheeseslaw, a recent discovery that promised to be more than just a side dish.
"This," I announced, elevating the container to almost ceremonial importance, "is cheeseslaw. Apparently, it's a game-changer." I observed their faces closely, detecting the spark of intrigue and the ripple of anticipation that crossed their features.
"Indeed it is," Paul echoed, his voice tinged with a zeal that matched the fervour in his eyes. His hand darted towards the container with a speed driven by his burgeoning satisfaction. As they combined the cheeseslaw with the chips, diving into the taste test, I watched their expressions transform. The fusion of the rich, cheesy flavour with the chips' salty crunch created a symphony of taste, eliciting a reaction that bordered on the reverential.
"Wow, this is amazing," Karen's voice rang out, her face alight with a kind of joy that was infectious. Seeing her so happy over something I had brought felt surprisingly fulfilling. The simplicity of a local delicacy had sparked such a pure, unadulterated pleasure.
I found myself nodding in agreement, my own taste buds revelling in the unique blend of flavours. "Should we share this with the rest of the camp?" Paul's voice broke through my thoughts, carrying a hint of hope that perhaps we could keep this culinary discovery to ourselves just a little longer. Internally, I echoed his sentiment, feeling a selfish tug to keep this small joy just between us three.
Karen, her attention still half on the delightful mix she was enjoying, simply shrugged and offered a contented grin. That nonverbal exchange was all the confirmation we needed; tonight, the cheeseslaw and chips were our little secret indulgence.
As we continued to savour the flavours of Broken Hill, the weight of my responsibilities as a Guardian of Bixbus momentarily lifted. The act of sharing this meal, finding a moment of camaraderie and simple happiness, provided a brief respite from the complexities and uncertainties that had filled my day. Surrounded by friends, enjoying a piece of local culture, I felt a lightness, a reminder that there were still moments of normality, moments of sheer, uncomplicated joy to be found. It was these instances, however fleeting, that added a silver lining to the challenging journey I was on.
