Australian Secrets. Fiona McCallum

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      ‘Yes, a Mister Brown from Brown’s Rentals. I’m driving to Nowhere Else – an hour away according to this,’ she said, reading from the printed itinerary Bill’s assistant had provided.

      ‘That’ll be Bob – he’ll be here any minute. We were a touch early. I’ll wait with you, if you like.’

      ‘Thanks but that’s not necessary – I can always call a cab or stay the night in town.’

      ‘Public phone’s out of order.’

      ‘That’s okay, I’ve got a mobile.’

      ‘Take extra care on the road; there are bound to be roos about – they graze at night.’

      ‘Okay, I’ll be sure to keep a good look out,’ Nicola said, thinking that she couldn’t take much more care than trying to navigate unknown dark country roads in an unfamiliar vehicle. She checked herself; she was being tired and snippy. He was just being friendly.

      They lapsed into silence. Mark shifted from one foot to the other. She listened to the sounds of the country – the thick, eerie silence punctuated by the howls of dogs and hum of traffic on a distant highway.

      ‘This must be him now,’ Mark finally said, nodding to his right. She followed his gaze towards two sets of bobbing lights negotiating the speed humps and winding course of the car park.

      The first vehicle to halt in front of them was a four-wheel-drive wagon that looked slightly outdated with its squarish profile. At least she’d have half a chance in an accident. A burly man in bulging workman blue overalls got out and strode over.

      He introduced himself and went over the particulars of the vehicle, and then showed her how to flick the lights between low and high beam, how to adjust the mirrors, and where the horn was –’in case there’s a roo sitting in the road or something.’

      God, how bad was the roo population? Was she even safe driving? Should she stay the night in Port Lincoln? No, she was expected in Nowhere Else; if she didn’t arrive tonight and someone phoned Bill – the other name on the booking – all hell would break loose.

      ‘Know where you’re going? Just follow the signs,’ he added. Not waiting for an answer, he pulled open the back door, tossed her suitcase inside and slammed it shut. He then gave her a wave and walked to the small hatchback idling behind.

      As Nicola got into the four-wheel-drive, she wondered how she would manage this huge tank after her sleek little convertible. Feeling self-conscious with the other car still behind her, she searched for the seat levers and made herself as comfortable as she could.

      A far cry from her leather seats, she thought, grinding her bum back and forth to get a better position. She adjusted her mirrors, pulled her seatbelt over her shoulder, put the vehicle in gear, and drove slowly from the curb.

Chapter Eight

      Nicola was still chuckling at the Welcome To Nowhere Else sign at the edge of town when she came across the Hotel Motel. She steered the vehicle into the large gravelled parking area, turned it off, and got out. Her legs were a little stiff after the drive, and she was exhausted from concentrating so hard on the unfamiliar road.

      Her Ballys protested at the gravel. She struggled to get traction, and with every step, cringed at the thought of what the sharp stones were doing to her precious heels. Damn not changing into something more appropriate for the drive; they were comfortable, but not that comfortable. If they were ruined, Bill would have to pay for their replacement, she thought with a huff as she finally stepped onto solid pavement and rounded the corner to find an impressive stone façade stretching above and away from her.

      To the left was a door – the top half glass, the bottom half shiny aluminium. Across the glass in large gold letters were the words Front Bar. Surrounding the doorway was old red brickwork, and above that, carved into the stone, the date – 1883. There’s something really lovely about old stone, Nicola thought as she cast her eyes back over the building.

      Now she saw the main entrance, flanked by large glass panels. The place had definitely had a nineteen-sixties makeover.

      Oh well, the good with the bad; at least the sixties had seen ensuites added to most hotel rooms. The thought of traipsing down a long passageway to use a shared loo made her shudder.

      Nicola tried to push the door forwards before realising there was a sticker saying Pull. She suddenly felt a whole lot more tired. The stress of the journey had obviously caught up with her; the sooner she got settled into her room and ran a bath the better.

      She stood on red and black carpet in front of the reception desk. A label next to a plastic black and white doorbell read Press If Unattended.

      It was unattended, but Nicola thought she’d give whoever it was a minute or two – she was probably being viewed on a monitor somewhere anyway.

      On the wall behind the desk was a large blackboard with a menu scrawled on it in white chalk. Nicola’s mouth began to water as she quickly read through the list of entrees and light offerings and then the cuts of steak and varieties of seafood and fish – all with chips and salad or chips and veg.

      She’d planned to call into a fast food outlet to break her journey, and wouldn’t have believed anyone if they’d told her there wouldn’t be one McDonald’s, KFC, or Hungry Jack’s along the way.

      God, I’m starving, she thought, staring at the menu. I really should have something light – soup or a salad, or even the bruschetta. But her gaze kept being drawn back to the t-bone.

      When she looked back down she found a lanky teenage girl with glossy but slightly limp mid-brown hair standing in front of her. The girl wore a navy blue polo top with an image of the building’s facade and the words Nowhere Else Hotel Motel printed in white over her small left breast.

      ‘T-bone, mushrooms, chips and salad – medium rare,’ Nicola blurted, barely giving the lass a chance to open her mouth.

      The girl blushed. ‘Sorry, but the kitchen’s closed,’ she said.

      ‘It can’t be,’ Nicola whined, and had to consciously stop herself from stamping her feet in protest.

      The girl, whose name tag read Tiffany, shrugged apologetically and said, ‘Kitchen closes at nine.’

      ‘But it’s only ten past,’ Nicola protested.

      ‘Sorry. You can get snacks and toasted sandwiches in the front bar,’ she said, pointing back towards the door Nicola had come in.

      Nicola wanted to beat her fist on the faded West End bar towel and tell this kid just who she was – none other than Nicola Harvey – yes, the Nicola Harvey of Life and Times and Walkley fame.

      ‘Is there another restaurant in town? Maybe a café, hotel?’

      ‘No, this is it. Hey, you’re Nicola Harvey, aren’t you?’

      ‘Yes, I am,’ Nicola grinned, suddenly brightening. So the girl did recognise her.

      ‘Was beginning to wonder if you’d show.’

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