Something lunges from our right, cutting Sinclair and me off from the rest of the group: a saint whose mournful eyes are directed toward the ceiling as he nears. What looks like real blood drips from perfectly rounded stone holes in the centers of his palms and feet, pooling on the marble floor as he moves silently toward us. Slowly, his eyes lower and focus on me, and his hands reach forward clawing the air.
There’s no gradual transition from town or country here. No scattered houses or fields or orchards. As soon as we pass the petrol station, we’re in the desert, with nothing but four hundred kilometres of scrub between us and Hansbach.
I gently ease my foot down on the accelerator. The Holden’s engine growls and the ute surges forward. It feels a little bit like driving off a cliff -I have no idea what we’ll find at the bottom, and if we get stuck there’ll be no one to come and rescue us.