Chapter Two: A Strange Drive narrated by Blair Gilbert

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“So, I didn’t know until recently that Frank even had a kid,” Rowan was saying.

What time was it? Were they still driving?

“Oh, yeah, nah. He didn’t either, until I was ten.”

Her mouth was moving without her input. Soda tried to focus.

“Ha! Really.”

“Yeah, apparently he and my mum were never serious, and he moved away abruptly, then came back ten years later and looked in on Mum, and she was like ‘oh hey this is Soda, she’s yours’. So it wasn’t hostile or anything. I think he was pretty excited actually.”

She smiled sadly.

Frank had blown in from fuck knows where to upend her little world when she was ten. He was a big man, explaining why she towered over her tiny mother. He had a curly reddish beard and crinkly dark eyes, and a huge grin. He was from California originally, and had that jovial, booming American way of speaking. He was always off somewhere, doing something. And the getup! He dressed like he was in a rock band, with pointy leather boots, tight jeans and black shirts. Sometimes outrageous hats, or belt buckles. He never seemed totally real to Soda, so at odds with her otherwise unremarkable life in the suburbs. But she still had her name to prove it. Once he’d said to her mother Louise that he loved soda so much, he’d name his kid after it.

At first, Soda thought he must be some kind of gentleman adventurer. It made him unreliable: she might only see him a few times a year, or maybe he’d stick around for a few months and take her out for ice cream and to go looking for faeries in the scrubland and other fun capers. Her mother never minded too much. Louise seemed to have a certain amount of exasperated fondness for Frank, even if she told Soda he was full of pretty lies.

As Soda got older, and she started to get the occasional wads of cash with rubber bands around them, she realised her father was probably some kind of criminal. It explained why he was so secretive. He was also very funny and charming, so that you almost didn’t notice how he slid away from answering questions, providing details. Soda quietly thought if her dad was a criminal, he’d probably be a pretty good one.

Then, when she was seventeen, just after graduation, her mother had died of bowel cancer. It had been brief, and brutal. Frank sat her down at her kitchen table after the funeral, and held her hand in his big rough fingers and asked her what she wanted. Her mum hadn’t left her much. She asked for help finding an apartment, and if he could stay in town for a while. She lived on her own and got a job at a bookshop. He was still elusive and unreliable, but he was around more often generally after that, and she did love him. She thought the packets of slightly grubby cash were probably his awkward way of saying ‘I love you. I miss you.’

“…And you know, it was just like, really abrupt. He had a heart attack in his backyard one day.”

She’d been talking and talking, and there were tears rolling down her face.

Rowan was quiet for a while, looking out the window.

“Ah, you’re a good kid. I’m sorry about your dad.”

“Yeah… yeah. Me too.”

Soda wiped her face awkwardly across her shoulder. A very fine, very white linen handkerchief appeared in view, and she took it, glancing at her passenger, who seemed to shimmer slightly around the edges, just for a moment. It was probably all the crying. How embarrassing.

“And, you know, I just thought I had it figured out finally! All I wanted to do was be a writer and that’s just not possible any more unless you’re rich or well-connected. And so I took a job working for someone rich and well-connected and I thought it was hustle!”

“The Hustle?” Rowan asked in confusion, miming the disco dance move.

Soda laughed wetly.

“No like, work hard, work your way up and all that! To be a hustler. I worked my ass off for that fuckin’ prick and he…”

Her face burned as she remembered.

“What happened? Did you lose your job?”

The rabbit-prey feeling had faded at some point. Soda didn’t usually blab like this, so she surprised herself again by launching into an impassioned explanation.

“Get this right? I’m working for a digital magazine as their arts editor for like, five years! And this editorial management role comes up, with proper pay and everything.”

It was promotion time. The office was buzzing, with little groups of bobbing top-knotted heads clustered about the trendy offices of Reaxn (pronounced ‘reaction’). Online media disruptors and tastemakers in the shifting sands of the modern internet, the purveyors of everything under-thirty-five and cool. Or so they said. Soda strutted past the breakout pods and around the rounded couches towards the managing editor’s office. Various people watched her with open interest or side-eyed glances. She’d been pretty vocal about wanting the senior editor role, and had done her very best to prep for the meeting. She was leaning in, holding space, setting goals, managing her brand and aiming high. She had slides. Maria, the designer, had helped her make them pop.

Good luck! Maria mouthed furiously as Soda strode past.

Mason Turner’s office was a bit cramped with a standing desk, stiff mid-century leather sofa and slightly droopy ficus. Soda tried to think un-sweaty thoughts as she sat down with her laptop and smiled what she hoped was a winning, promotable smile.

Mason was wide and muscular and liked to wear tight pastel suits of the kind usually reserved for getting shitfaced at a horse racing event. He thought they conveyed an air of seriousness with just a touch of whimsy. Soda thought they conveyed ‘private school wanker with polyester-related heat rash’, but she sucked up as hard as anyone else because his uncle owned the media conglomerate that paid their bills. He smiled warmly at her and sat back in his chair.

“Jones! Jonesyyyyy,” he drawled, his expression unreadable.

Soda felt her confidence withering by the second, but she clenched her asscheeks and proceeded.

“Mason, thanks for arranging this meeting, I really appreciate it! Now you know I’ve expressed my interest in the senior editor role and I want to tell you why I think it’s a really great idea.”

She paused and looked at him expectantly, but he just raised an eyebrow, so she continued.

“As you know, I’ve been here almost since Reaxn started, and I’ve spent the last five years working as the arts editor - actually, you know, I made some slides with some stats around engagement and - ”

“Jones.”

Soda flinched.

“Just let me get them up and I can show you how I optimised for organic reach using-”

“Listen. I do think you’ve done a good job and I appreciate all the work you’ve done to date on our arts section.”

The words were kind, but they clunked into Soda’s guts like a punch. She stopped fiddling with her laptop and let her hands drop.

“So, you’re keen to give me the promotion? Or, at least, you’re keen to give me a full-time position as an employee?”

“Soda, do you even have a TikTok account?”

Her face grew hot and she scowled.

“Not yet! I just you know, watch the reels versions on Instagram…”

As she went on, she saw Mason’s face become sad, like maybe she’d just admitted she lived alone with six cats and was married to one of them.

“You’ve been doing good work here but your passion for the role is clearly lacking these days. I think you’ve been here too long. You need to expand your horizons. You have lots of potential, but you’re just not going to reach that potential here with us as part of the Reaxn Turner Media family.”

She could scarcely believe what she was hearing. She’d just won an award for innovation in blogging strategy! She’d pretended to like Mason’s fucking yacht rock band! For this?

Realisation dawned.

“You’re giving the role to someone else. You already chose them.”

“That’s not true, there was a robust discussion around who would have the right combination of skills.”

“So who is it then?”

“I’m not at liberty to say just yet…”

“Who is it Mason?”

“You’re not allowed to be upset.”

“Oh Christ, who is it?”

“Sophia Maroney…”

Soda’s face creased up in a pucker of disbelief.

“Sorry am I understanding correctly? The chick who got famous from leaking a video of her sleeping with two footballers at once?”

Mason steepled his fingers together and looked at her over them disapprovingly.

“Soda you know that’s not a very inclusive comment. I really shouldn’t have to tell you she’s more than that video, especially now.”

Soda let out a little involuntary squeak of rage.

“Why her? She’s like, twenty-one years old! She hasn’t done anything yet!”

“She’s an omni-channel powerhouse with huge subscriber bases monetised across major content streams. She deeply understands what the future of content should look like and how we’re going to become more profitable in these challenging times. And she’s twenty-three. I think that suggests a level of entrepreneurship this publication really needs.”

Soda stared at him. He was being dead serious. A well of fury had sprung up inside her and it was surging forward, straining to escape. Her hands were balled into fists.

“We’ve really valued your time here, Soda Pop,” he said warmly. “How about a goodbye hug?”

Something inside her snapped.

“No.” She said through gritted teeth. “How fucking dare you. How fucking dare you call me that name.”

Whatever Mason was expecting, it clearly wasn’t that.

“What?”

“YOU DON’T GET TO CALL ME THAT! ONLY HE GOT TO CALL ME THAT!”

She was shouting at the top of her lungs, but her voice was stretching and cracking and the words would barely come out properly. She wanted to unleash a devastating, crisp reply that would incinerate Mason Turner and his stupid skinny suit into ashes in his replica Eames chair but all that would come out were hiccuping sobs. She got up abruptly, snatched up her laptop, and stormed out of the room. The entire office was as silent as the grave, every face turned to her. Maria’s face was twisted into a frown of pity. She felt a strange pressure in her brain. She turned back to Mason.

“Your band sucks!” She yelled wetly, then stomped out of the building altogether, crying uncontrollably.

Back in the car, Rowan laughed.

“Did you really tell him his band sucked?”

“Yes,” groaned Soda. “I’ve been informed he was particularly hurt by that comment and won’t be writing me any references, so I really didn’t do myself any fuckin’ favours there.”

“Funny though.”

“Yeah yeah, I’m hilariously unemployed.”

“Does it matter?”

Soda’s voice rose half an octave.

“What do you mean, does it matter?”

“Do you need to be employed currently? Didn’t you say you were living in Frank’s house? Do you have other expenses?”

“Yes! No, I mean… I don’t know! What kind of question even is that? I need to have a job.”

Rowan’s eyebrows shot up, but she put up her hands.

“Alright, alright, just trying to understand the situation. And so if you weren’t on your way to pick me up, what were you doing?”

“Oh! Just casually making bad life decisions. I let my housemate extort me into attending a yoga retreat on a farm fuckin’ out the back of woop woop with no phones or internet.”

“And you didn’t have a nice time?”

Soda sighed heavily.

“If I’m honest, I think I’m the problem here. Some people like getting up at dawn to do brutal exercise and then eat things that deliberately make them shit themselves as a way to feel closer to God or whatever.”

“Yes, I must agree that’s a surprisingly evergreen pastime. But I think it’s called ‘purging’.”

“Purging! Christ on a fuckin’ bike. Anyway, I’m not one of them. But North Star was pretty nice and the farm was nice.”

“North Star?”

“He said his name was Normal actually. Like with a capital N. I dunno man, there was nothing bloody normal about it.”

Rowan gave a little splutter.

“Normal Wilks?”

“I didn’t catch his last name, sorry.”

“Skinny fellow, black beard, crinkly eyes?”

“Yeah that’s him! Do you know him? Is he legit?”

“As straight as a corkscrew. What’s he up to these days?”

“Running yoga retreats and workshops about ancient magics and other such nonsense! I went because my housemate blackmailed me.”

“Soda,” Mick had declared over breakfast the morning after the incident, “you need a chakra cleanse. Your aura is brown. I’ve never met anybody with a brown aura. I didn’t even know that was possible. Dolphins swim into your aura and beach themselves and die.”

He pointed his yoghurty spoon accusingly.

“Can you please spare me your bullshit for thirty-six seconds Mick?”

Soda felt prickly and heartsore. She rubbed her face vigorously, to no avail.

“I just woke up, I got fired yesterday, I don’t want to ‘find myself’, okay? I want to punch about a million cones and go back to bed.”

“Oh yes, and all the weed you’re smoking, no wonder your soul is a quagmire!”

“Mick, you sell me the weed!”

“And I won’t sell you any more until you agree to go on this retreat. Kitty went last year and said it really changed her mindset.”

Kitty was Mick’s girlfriend, who was always at the house eating their snacks and drinking their beer while never paying for anything. They were both beautiful, in a smelly hipster kind of way, and their joint wellness social media profile had a million followers who lapped up their 'lifestyle' videos and bought the associated face creams. Mick was still a bit soft in the cheeks, with green eyes, golden brown skin and masses of curly black hair. Kitty was exactly the right kind of curvy, dainty, tattooed and porcelain pale. Soda, by contrast, was awkwardly tall, a sort of shapeless straight up and down. She had a shaggy Joan Jett style haircut Mick had talked her into six months ago and she ferociously regretted, mostly because it was still limp and mouse brown at the end of the day. She also had a habit of wearing nothing but black jeans and black shirts, because fashion was a waste of money (and trying to buy clothes was an act of self harm).

Soda was slumped in the mismatched chair opposite Mick, puffing moodily on a joint and drinking black coffee.

“I can’t afford to go on a retreat. Did you hear me? I got fired yesterday.”

“Didn’t you like, get a payout?” he asked mildly, stirring his quinoa porridge.

“Payout! Those ungrateful motherfuckers! Five years I laboured on that preening cunt’s terrible fucking website! He’d probably still be selling ad space on porno sites if not for me! Christ, can you turn that shit off please?”

Mick tapped his tablet and paused the video that was playing. It froze on a particularly close-up shot of a young Asian man’s face, with a patchy beard and frenzied eyes behind thick glasses. WHO ARE THE ENCLAVE REALLY???? NEW EVIDENCE!!!! Read the title underneath.

“Who, Trufax? He’s alright, I think he’s funny.”

“I know conspiracy theories are ‘hot’ right now,” Soda made sarcastic air quotes with her fingers, blunt still in hand, “but international wizard cabals are pushing it.”

“Come on, you love fantasy novels! It’s all in good fun.”

“He’s deranged! His weirdness is harshing my vibe.”

“Fine, fine. I can tell you’re in a grump this morning, jeez. I’m sorry about the job, I really am. But this isn’t the end of the world. Book the retreat. You need a change of scenery anyway.”

“I don’t need a change of scenery! I need a fucking job that isn’t going to treat me like shit. At this rate I’m going to die destitute.”

“Mate, you’re harshing your own vibe at this point."

“Mick, you’re only twenty-four. You still think things are going to turn out ok.”

“Don’t give me that shit Soda, you’re only twenty-eight, you’re not some old hag.” He shot her a sly, sideways look. “Besides, we both know you have the cash to spend.”

She huffed indignantly.

“Are you seriously going to sit here in my house and tell me to spend my dead dad’s inheritance money on some hippy-dippy bullshit retreat run by your questionable mates in the middle of nowhere?”

Mick surveyed her across the table. Ratty bed hair, yesterday’s clothes, clotted mascara. A concerning number of worry lines for someone under the age of forty.

“Not a single bud until you do. You need to do something. I’ll feed the cat.”

So she’d trundled the old Corolla out of town and westward, deep into what she thought of as murder country, especially when the reception died. The farmhouse was either pretty or ramshackle, depending on your point of view. A few sheep grazed next to the driveway and watched her bump and swear her way down the gravel driveway.

“Hello, dear! I’m North Star, you must be Soda. You’re lucky last. Tell me, are you named after the character from The Outsiders?”

“Good guess, but no. My dad just really liked soft drinks,” she said without a trace of humour.

“Ah well, my name’s actually Normal, so I know how it goes. Come and I’ll get you settled in.”

The retreat began at dawn with a prayer song invading Soda’s subconscious and growing steadily louder until she shot up in her bed. There was a gruelling ‘salutation to the sun’ yoga session that left her feeling sweaty and brutalised. Wasn’t this supposed to be relaxing? The lunch had been pretty alright at first, a spicy, tasty curry soup that had been described as ‘cleansing’.

Soon after, Soda had found out why the first afternoon’s schedule was clear. She’d shat herself absolutely ragged for hours, going through the different stages of anger, grief and acceptance of her own death. A little knock on the door was ignored for the safety of both parties, but after a while Soda opened it to find a teapot and a little handwritten note instructing her to drink and feel better. She almost kicked it across the hall but sighed and took it into her room. She took an experimental sip, and cool relief trailed into her boiling guts. She drank it, scowling, and then tried for the hundredth time to use her phone.

No good, there was just not one scrap of reception to be had. She stared at her apps moodily, willing a distraction to appear. She flicked through her photo album and cringed when she reached the ones with her ex, who had summarily decided to move to London without her after two years of pleasant-enough dating. She flicked back to the last picture she’d taken with her father, a selfie with his arm around her shoulder, him grinning widely, her doing a comical frown. She looked at it until she fell asleep.

“Then after the indignity of the shitpocalypse, I wake up the next morning and everyone’s fuckin’ gone! House is bloody empty! No cars! What the fuck? I looked around, found a library full of the weirdest books imaginable, and some ancient weed in a drawer.”

Soda heaved a massive sigh.

“And so then I left to come pick you up!”

Was that true? It must be, she said it. But she didn’t remember organising it with anybody. She never did remember her emails very well.

“That definitely sounds like a bummer of a weekend. But you mustn’t blame Norm. Rich people have been parted from their money in the name of oriental mysticism since the British Empire stole it from the East.”

“I’m not a rich person!”

“Then what were you doing there?”

“I - fuck me, I dunno. Probably the same thing as everybody else there, which is desperately hoping I can fix my problems in a weekend.”

“Then the game hasn’t changed much.”

How long had they been driving? A few hours at least. The sun was low in the sky, and everything was splashed with stripes of bright orange and deep purple. What was in that weed?

They rounded a corner and Soda’s inherited house loomed into view. It was a grand old house in the hilly inner suburbs south of Brisbane city, in the Queenslander style, with weatherboards and deep wraparound verandahs. Or at least it had been, once. Now, it didn’t so much stand as squat drunkenly on its elevated block, mostly hidden by ratty bushes and overgrown gardens. White paint curled off the weatherboard. The tin roof was rusted and leaky, and the stumps that held it off the ground looked rotten.The double staircase leading up to the front door was sagging perilously on one side. Twenty-five years of her dad’s crap was partially visible underneath.

Frank had left all of his earthly possessions to Soda, including the house, a safe full of stacks of cash in different currencies totalling a hundred grand, and a very large, very fat tomcat simply called Big Red.

At first, she’d refused to go near the place for fear of his former ‘associates’ waking her up with a burlap sack over the head and a quick trip into Moreton Bay, but she needed to feed the cat. Besides, no one had come, not that she knew about anyway. When Chris left for London she moved in, and invited Mick for company.

The Corolla heaved up her steep driveway and Soda felt suddenly more alert. The streets had been unusually quiet, even for a Sunday. There was a growing sense of urgency somewhere in the back of her brain.

“So yeah, the car is probably under the house,” she found herself saying to Rowan (what car?) who had taken off her sunglasses and tucked them into her jacket, and was now squinting up at the house.

“Ah Frank, I can’t believe a heart attack got you in the end. I had hoped to do it myself, but sometimes Fate Herself has other ideas.”

She got out of the Corolla and walked straight up to the carport, hoisting the rusty door up easily even though it squealed and strained.

“Hey,” said Soda, the sirens in her brain sounding through the fog. “What are you doing?”

Rowan ignored her, flicking her hand like she was chasing away flies. Tins of paint, old toolboxes and various other junk tumbled off the top of a hulking shape covered by a thick sheet. What just happened? It was so hard for Soda to concentrate. Every part of her wanted to look away, to go upstairs and inside, to be anywhere else and think about anything else. But a small, stubborn part of her resisted. This wasn’t right, was it?

Rowan grabbed the dust cover and yanked it off. Dirt and dust billowed up, and through the haze Soda made out an old car: a classic Mustang with a pearly white paint job and matching white leather interior.

“Hey! Has that always been there?”

It was true that Soda hadn’t really wanted to deal with her dad’s possessions, but she thought it was just a rusted out chassis under there. She’d totally remember a pristine muscle car amongst the weird tiki trash and old obscure medical devices!

Rowan checked under the driver’s seat and emerged triumphantly with the keys, flashing her wide, wolfish grin.

“Well Soda Jones, it’s been a pleasure meeting you. I’m sorry I didn’t get to kill your father personally, but at least he didn’t sell my car. You’re a good kid. Stay out of your dad’s line of work.”

She got in, and rubbed the dashboard a few times lovingly. The car roared into life, puffing out a few plumes of sparkly purple smoke as it did so. Rowan pulled down the driveway, and stuck her head out the window.

“Stay inside kiddo, it’s about to get weird out here.”

And with that, she sped off down the street, purple sparkles trailing faintly behind her.