Chapter Five
The Drifter
Cactus Loop, Arnhem Land
Ext. Cactus Loop Main Street — Day
Blake Adams (29, rugged, unshaven) coasts into the centre of Cactus Loop, which appears deserted.
He parks under the shade of a bull nose veranda and looks around.
Removes his helmet, unties a bandanna to wipe his face and drinks from a military water bottle.
He stares into the distance.
Montage — Blake’s Memory
Family scene—Young Blake fishing with his father.
Graveyard scene—His parent’s funeral.
An office—Blake reading a will. Looking at a photo of a lighthouse.
Military base. Blake shaking hands with an officer.
Open road—Blake riding away on his motorbike having quit the army.
A fly buzzes him back to reality.
He starts the motor and zooms off.
As he turns a corner, he almost rams into a tall, rangy, ponytailed guy.
Across the road another man is collapsed on the sidewalk.
A police car glides past.
An ambulance siren shrills in the distance.
At speed, Blake rides off.
Ext. Coastal Bushland — Day
Blake reaches a cliff-edge, stops his bike and scans the horizon.
Not far to the South, he spots a lighthouse and grabs a pair of binoculars from his side-saddle.
He homes in on the landmark.
Takes out a map, studies it.
Blake
(to himself)
That’ll be it.
Above him, a KESTREL screeches, intent on its prey.
Blake looks up.
The Kestrel plummets.
Blake loses his footing, throws his body against the ground, grapples, slides down.
His belt lassos a stub of wood, wrenching his pants upward.
He hollers with pain, sways, unable to move.
The bird circles, then settles on the ridge below.
She turns her head to look up at Blake, lets out another screech.
Int. Cactus Loop Pub — Day
Frederick Cecil Bagley, aka “Fleabag” (30s, six-foot-five, angular, ponytailed, unwashed) sits hunched over his beer, constantly glancing at the door.
His clothes are rumpled, sweat-stained.
His mongrel dog DRUMMER sits atop the bar, dripping saliva.
Fleabag’s rifle leans against the bar nearby.
Bartender Mick (50s, weathered) wipes glasses, eyeing the rifle nervously.
Mick
You look like hell, Fleabag. Been sleeping rough again?
Fleabag
(defensive, not looking up)
Mind your own bloody business.
Mick shrugs, moves away.
Fleabag’s hands shake slightly as he lifts his glass.
He stares into his beer.
Fleabag
(to Drummer, bitter)
Know what your problem is, boy? You trust too easy. Just like I used to.
A Regular at the far end of the bar glances over.
Regular
Talking to yourself again, Fleabag?
Fleabag
(sharp, touching his rifle protectively)
I’m talking to the only friend who never betrayed me.
The pub goes quieter.
Other patrons avoid eye contact.
A Local Woman whispers to her companion.
Local Woman
(hushed)
Should call the cops about him. Carrying a gun like that.
Companion
(shaking head)
And tell them what? Being unpleasant ain’t illegal yet.
Fleabag glares at them.
He runs his finger along the rifle barrel—a practiced, almost loving gesture.
Fleabag
(to Drummer)
This old girl’s kept me alive more times than I can count. Before I learned that everyone’s got an angle. Everyone wants something from you.
Mick
(nervous)
Maybe leave the gun in the truck next time?
Fleabag
(protective)
Ain’t leaving her anywhere.
The door opens. Feelgood Willow (80s), weathered elder, enters.
Fleabag watches him with a mixture of recognition and shame.
Fleabag
(quietly, to Drummer)
Look who’s here. Uncle Feelgood. Wonder if he still thinks about the old days.
Feelgood glances at Fleabag, shakes his head sadly, and takes a seat far away.
Fleabag
(bitter)
Course not. Family’s got standards now.
He drains his beer, slams the glass down harder than necessary.
Fleabag
(to Drummer, growing agitated)
Reckon that biker saw me knifing the bloke that was after me. Probably thinks he’s some kind of hero, gonna turn me in.
He lifts Drummer from the bar, drops him to the floor.
Fleabag
(standing, shouldering his rifle)
But heroes don’t understand survival, do they boy? Sometimes you gotta do bad things to stay alive. Sometimes you gotta do worse things to stay free.
The pub patrons shift uncomfortably. Feelgood watches with sad, knowing eyes.
Fleabag
(to Drummer, heading for the door)
Better go and sniff out that bloke before he talks to the cops.
He crosses the dusty street and heads for his dual-cab pickup truck, Drummer trotting behind.
Feelgood
(quietly, to Mick)
That boy’s carrying too much poison. Gonna kill him one day.
Mick
Or someone else first.
Feelgood nods gravely, returns to his drink as Fleabag’s truck roars to life outside.
End of Chapter Five