Free Volcano Street by David Rain

last curve brought them to a viewing deck, a rectangle banded with a fence of painted pipes, like a stage-set fragment of an ocean liner. Water splattered Skip’s face. She gripped a blistered railing. ‘It’s so loud,’ she cried. Here was the cave: dark chambers opened behind the curtaining water, and she wondered how far back they went and where they led.
    ‘Where does the water come from?’ she asked Pavel.
    ‘From the lakes, they reckon.’ A pool below them surged and foamed, buffeted by the impact from above. ‘Then it runs off again. There are underground rivers all along this coast.’
    Skip marvelled at this surprising information. Dull, sensible South Australia was not all it seemed. Volcanoes had once shaken this green corner of the state; riven with fissures, faults, subterranean channels, the earth spoke of strangeness. This hole in the ground was a prehistoric pit. The park above, with its rows of roses, the town hall with its tick-ticking clock, were the merest imposition on a timeless land.
    Marlo said suddenly, ‘I don’t like it here.’ Something in her voice was wild, almost pleading, and Skip turned to her sharply. Marlo looked helpless, lost, and with an aching heart Skip vowed that somehow, in some way, she would make things better for them both. She must.
    She took her sister’s arm and gripped it tightly.

 
    Chapter Four
    ‘I got a good one, I got a good one!’
    The words exploded on a gust of beery breath. Sandy Campbell slammed down his bottle, wiped his mouth with his hand, and tilted his chair precariously away from the table. The others turned towards him: Auntie Noreen eager for mirth; Uncle Doug with a weak smile; Marlo cold-eyed; Skip not ungrateful. It was Sunday evening. A week had passed since the sisters’ arrival in Crater Lakes. A moment earlier, their aunt had been informing Sandy Campbell that Baby Helen wasn’t Miss Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt – no, not a bit of it! Bunking off school, eh? Fighting with boys. Old Noreen heard everything.
    ‘Get this, then.’ Sandy Campbell, who only wanted to tell the good one, crossed his furry, barbecued forearms over his barrel chest and began. ‘There’s this bloke, see, and he’s driving up the Birdsville Track. There he is, way out in the sticks, burling along in his old red FJ, like you do, sinking a few stubbies, splattering a few echidnas, knocking a roo or two six ways from Sunday … when he reckons he needs a piss.’
    ‘Eh, language!’ Auntie Noreen gestured to the girls.
    ‘Needs a piss ,’ repeated Sandy Campbell, ‘so he pulls up, like you do, on the side of the Birdsville Track, clunks open the car door, steps out (whew! fucking hot up here!), flops his dick out. There he is, having a good old piss, like you do – sss-sss, sss-sss – when, what do you know, he sees he’s stepped into quicksand. “Fucking oath,” the bloke reckons, “I’m sinking!”
    ‘Already he’s up to his ankles. Well, he tugs his feet, tugs and tugs and tries to get out, but does it do him any good? Not fucking likely. Before he knows it, he’s up to his calves. “Fuck me, I’m a goner,” the bloke reckons, but lo and be -hold! Just then he hears an engine – brmm, brmm – and here’s a pink Torana, burling along the Birdsville Track. Looks like his lucky day.
    ‘The bloke waves and waves, shouts and shouts; pink Torana pulls up next to the FJ; bloke in the Torana leans out, looks at the bloke in the quicksand, and reckons, “Fucking shit! What’s happened to you?” “Mate, I’m sinking!” says the bloke in the quicksand. “Can you pull me out?” That’s when a twinkle comes in the other bloke’s eye and he reckons’ – Sandy Campbell’s voice grew high and fluting – ‘“Ooh, duckie, only if you give me a kiss.” So, as you’d expect, the bloke in the quicksand reckons, “Poofter!” and tells him to fuck off. Pink Torana drives away.’ Sandy Campbell took a swig of beer. Gingery whorls of hair