The Brookton Highway Chair Shuffler

Run Forest, Run

April, 2015.

Backstory: Gordo and I had returned from Sandstone the day prior. We had traveled to Sandstone five days ago, to attempt to help find Raymond the Ram and his wife. After five days of thorough search, we had ruled out with complete certainty that they were most definitely not at the Sandstone Pub. Stories for another day. 

What we had learned was that The Man in the HOLE was Ray. You can read that story here. That knowledge was of course not common, and would not be so for another week later. The coppers had said: “It will take at least a week for DNA results” in the pub the night before. 

That knowledge was quite a knowledge to know—that Ray had been found dead, down a mineshaft—when you don’t really want to know, and no one else knows.

My wife, Sally, and I were due to front up to a family gathering in Beverley on this day after, so we could all show common support, and a belief that they were still simply “missing”.

How do you tell the family without telling? And was this all just a really sick, surreal dream?

Regardless, Sally and I found ourselves driving up to Beverley on this day, April-something 2015, armed with this knowledge that no one really wanted to know.

Let’s begin.

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Amphetamines have nothing on pure, urgent, constant adrenalin. I couldn’t remember the last time I had slept. Sally and I were driving out Beverley way to catch up with the fam. I was wired to the follicles. Chars knows, Mal knows; but, what the hell am I going to say to Keify? To Clarabelle? Oh fuck, what about Mel? The sharp corners of Brookton Highway kept creeping up on me. 

Sally sat bolt upright in the passenger seat. She was holding the jesus-bar, yet she did not criticise my chaotic driving. Or, maybe she did and I just didn’t hear her screams. Hard to tell after a week of no sleep. I was on a motorbike; Ray and I were twisting through the forest highway like times of old.

“Did you see that?” Sally shouted, jolting me back to reality.

“What?”

“There was a chair on the side of the road, it said ‘Big Ray’!”

“Are you serious?”

“Seriously! Turn around, go back and have a look.”

I performed a seventeen-point turn on a blind corner of the highway, because rules no longer mattered in my universe.  A heartbeat later, we reached the spot. “There,” said Sally, pointing into the forest. I parked on the shoulder and we got out. Sure enough, a padded white office chair had been placed in front of a grasstree, facing the oncoming traffic. In bold black letters, someone had marked it “BIG” “RAY”. 

“That’s weird,” I said, numb to weirdness after the previous week of weird.

“Do you think someone put it here on purpose?” asked Sally.

“How could they?”

“Not sure, but it sure seems a coincidence.”

We took a photo and returned to the car to travel onward. I returned to sweeping bends on the Yamaha, Ray now behind me on his Honda. Several perfectly executed right-handers later, Sally shouted again: “Did you see that?”

“What, Sweet?”

“There was another chair! It said ‘Keith’!”

“You’re taking this piss, aren’t you?”

“No, seriously! Turn around, let’s go back and have a look.”

This time I managed a seven-point turn on a straight. It seemed the right thing to do under these new universal circumstances, where there were potentially chairs in the forest attempting to deliver a message. Two heartbeats later, we reached the spot. “There,” said Sally, pointing into the scrub. I parked in a ditch and we got out.

Prominent and pointed directly at our oncoming traffic was another chair. It was framed in silver with a black wrapping. Stenciled in white paint against the black background was one word: “Keith”, my father’s name.

“Okay, this is no coincidence,” said Sally.

I was still high-as-a-kite on adrenalin, so found the whole scene to be manic and somehow hilarious, as if someone were hiding in the forest watching and laughing at us. I laughed back, bellowing into the distance to whoever was there. 

“Are you okay?” Sally asked.

“Oh yeah, I’m okay,” I replied. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I? Please, punch me in the face, I want to feel something.”

Sally led me by the elbow back to the car, and took over the driver’s position. We continued our journey toward Beverley and the fam. I stared out windows that were blocking air inside my helmet, then changed up to sixth gear and hit the rev-limiter on the Yammie. There’s no way Ray was gonna catch me on that piece of shit Honda. Corners came too fast. Suddenly, a golden eye clubbed me with a lump of timber, back to reality.

“Did you see that?” I yelled.

“What?”

“There was another chair!”

“It’s okay, Sweet,” said Sally, gently patting me on the leg. “You’re just seeing things.”

“No, seriously! There was another chair!”

“Seriously?” she asked.

“Yeah, honestly.”

Sally performed a perfect three-point turn as if life truly mattered, and we drove back. No heartbeats later, we reached the spot. “There,” I said, pointing into the forest. I exited the still-rolling car as Sally attempted to park somewhere safe. I floated up the bank to where the chair sat, next to a giant eucalypt. It was a white kitchen chair, its backboard framed in gold in the shape of an eye. A small opening, the retina, central and prominent to a large, capital G painted in black. Sitting on top of the chair seat was a lump of dried, grey timber. I stooped to my knees in front of it. Sally soon reached the spot.

“What do you think it means?” I croaked.

Sally was silent for an eternity. I looked up at her. Her eyes and mouth were agape, staring at the chair. “What was the name of the other guy?” she finally asked.

“Gray Miller,” I said.