Chapter One | Tessa
A Drive In Rural Ashberry
A transfer isn’t a bad thing, Tessa.
A transfer will be a fresh start.
I reach into the pocket of my overcoat and pull out the crumpled receipt I’d scrawled the address on the back of. 36 Wegara Way, Ortus Point, Western Ashberry. It was a brief phone call from my new boss. About eight gruelling days after I’d submitted my job application, she’d finally given me a ring. Get here by 10:00 PM, and bring the completed documents I send you via email. I didn’t even have time to finish drafting up the resignation letter I’d been meaning to submit to my old place. As far as they know, I either died on the way to my next shift or I’m just avoiding work.
At least one of those options is true.
I slip my key into the ignition, pressing my right foot on the brake pedal as I start the car. Almost immediately, a musty miasma from the air-con hits my face. Low mileage, the seller had told me. I’d foolishly presumed that meant the rest of the car would be in good condition, too. I wrinkle my nose and consult the centre console for the temperature controls. No...not that one...there it is. I twist the dial from “blue” to “red” and wind my windows down before wafting the unpleasant smell out of the car. Heating shouldn’t take too long to kick in. There’s fog starting to creep around the edges of the windscreen, but it’ll go away once the car’s all nice and toasty. Soft and warm. Safe from the jagged, bladed outdoors.
In the meantime, I’ll cut through the silence with my usual suspects.
After switching the audio over to USB (a miracle in its own right), I flick through my playlist on my steering wheel. Not really in the mood for soft and gentle, but I’m a bit too highly-strung for anything crazy at the moment. I’d usually listen to something more upbeat, something loud and shockingly out of character for my appearance...no.
I think we’ll drive to this for the last stretch.
As I reverse out of my parking spot near the entry gate and head back onto the main road, I drum my right index finger against the steering wheel. Twenty-two ticks of a clock, a steady metronome paving the way for a descending chime. An accompanying B-fifth chord on piano. And then...
...the song begins.
Gentle giants stretch in an arc over the road. Their leaves rustle in the seclusive midnight breeze, with a few scattering through the inky air. If it wasn’t for the asphalt (and a simple road sign up ahead that reads “80”), the natural world would remain victorious here. I like driving on my own, especially in the deeper hours of the night. There’s something so peaceful, something so serene, about wandering the world without as much of a trace as another human’s presence. Nothing can bother me, nothing can bring me harm. Back home, I used to nip off during the later hours of the evening with one of my friends. Always from Sunday to Thursday, never Friday or Saturday night, because that’s when all the hoons and show-offs were out racing from place to place. We’d go to all sorts of places on our adventures. Alkimos, Kalamunda, even halfway to Bunbury at one point. And we’d talk for hours about music, our jobs and our lives.
Crack some jokes here and there.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s fun. But right now, right at this moment, I’m alone. Being alone is different. I’m in complete control of my surroundings, of my emotions, of my thought processes and...
...my life.
A couple of fuzzy kangaroos hop across the road in the wake of my car’s path, the second one slightly smaller. The first one’s child, perhaps? With their bounding presence, I’m reminded that just like them, I’m not actually supposed to be here. I’m not of Hybridian descent, let alone Ashberrian. I’m pretty much as far away from my home as I could be. Not just on the other side of the world, but on the other side of the orbit.
But hey, everyone’s gotta leave Perth at some point.
I don’t have much of an affinity for Ashberry at the moment, but this is just something temporary for the time-being. Ideally, I’d like to knuckle down with a permanent job in a role that isn’t so demeaning and mind-dulling, like—
No. Don’t dwell on the past.
I’m still not sure exactly what to expect at my new place. It was one of those generic application pools I applied to, and they’d taken note of my unusual schedule. Something in an office should be nice and worth the commute. A job where I can genuinely help people would be better. But I don’t really like people. I just want to help them.
If I can help them without actually talking to them, even better.
- - -
Turning right onto the narrow stretch labelled “Wegara Way” on the navigation, I dial down the music and shift my glasses closer to my face. There’s not much aside from trees and road.
I’m...not even sure there’s anything on this street.
I check the rear-view mirror, and then the side mirrors. Centre console. 9:32 PM. Nobody else is around. I’m already late, but I don’t know where I’m going. Did I turn down the wrong road? I did see another intersection a little bit back. No, that was just a driveway to someone’s house, or maybe a little patch of clearing with some tables and other stuff to have a picnic.
I push my foot against the break and indicate left before pulling over onto the side of the road.
Dragging my finger across the screen, I groan at the thought of how long this road could be. As much as I love driving, I haven’t seen as much as a decrepit building for a good two hours now, let alone a fully fleshed-out town with all the fixings. No food, no toilets, not even a welcome sign. I know this is a national park, but surely there’s still someone out here, someone keeping an eye on things. Ashberry didn’t get its name because of flooding. And this can’t all be bush broken up by the occassional road every fifty square kilometres...can it?
Does Director Carta live all the way out here by herself?
“We’ll make it,” I decide under my breath. “A little bit later than we’d like, but we’ll make it.”
Nine kilometres, and then I’ll finally be there. Finally ready to leave behind all I’ve ever known in my (currently three-year) career of scrubbing grimy floors and scooping oil-soaked salt out of troughs. Finally able to do a load of washing without the stench of oil and grease embedded deep within the fibres of my “industrial-strength” clothes.
Finally free to tell my old place to shove my resignation right where the Sun don’t shine.
I’ve been sitting in this seat for hours: four, to be exact. I’ve stopped here and there to rest my eyes for a bit, but I’m just itching to get out and really stretch my legs. My fuel is a little lower than I would’ve liked it to be. Five-eighths full at the moment. There’s a servo back in that town I passed through to get here, but with the prices they’re charging, I’d be better off fuelling on hopes and dreams to get back home...well, to my house. My house. It doesn’t quite feel like a home yet, but I’ve just got to give it some time. Settle in, get familiar with my surroundings. Small steps. Slow and steady.
At my own pace.
I place my hands back on the steering wheel and slowly lift my foot off the brake. As the car rolls back onto the road, I shift my foot to the accelerator and take off, continuing my trek along the notorious Wegara Way. Why Wegara Way, though? I’m sure they could’ve set up shop a bit closer to civilisation; if not for anything else, at least for convenience. But hey, it’s the 21st century. I’m sure they get deliveries.
“26.”
Driveways are far and few between on this street. I can’t make out any sort of abode, nor can I see any other signs of life. Well…that is, apart from the odd letterbox here and there. Even then, quite a few of the letterboxes seem to be overflowing with unopened envelopes, pamphlets and flyers. Who’s sending all of this crap?
Maybe these places aren’t really inhabited. Maybe they used to be, but the owners abandoned them or passed away, and there aren’t many buyers with their sights on the middle of nowhere, Ortus Point, who are keen to take their places.
“32.”
This is it. I’m getting there. It won’t be too much longer now, and I can stop. I can stop. Not pause...stop.
9:54 PM.
I’m so late. I hope she’ll forgive me. I always need a bit of time to settle into my surroundings, but that phone call was so sudden, I didn’t even have time to apply a dash of make-up (not that I normally would, but first impressions, right?
Second impressions.
The man who interviewed me on her behalf saw my face. Although I was the subject of relentless teasing for my eye squinting and other unusual tendencies in primary school, I’m sure my face had to have been decent enough to get the tick of approval. But…I don’t want to be decent. I want to be more.
I glance up at the sleek, glassy building. Four stories tall, all flashy and new...nothing like the natural environment it’s hidden within. A chain-link fence borders the building, at least one and a half floors tall, with barbed wire lining the top. I take note of the sign to the left of the open gate.
AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY. ID REQUIRED AT ALL TIMES. TRESPASSING WILL BE PROSECUTED UNDER ACT 7 OF THE FEDERAL ASHBERRIAN LAW.
I know I’m allowed to be here. I know I’ve been hired, and that this is where I’m supposed to be. But yet...I still feel like I’m not supposed to be here.
“36 Wegara Way,” I assure myself. “We’re here, Tessa.”