…So where you headed then, mate? I ask him, hoping it’s somewhere really close.  
He jabs the point of the scissors close to my face, his arm shaking, the point of the scissors bobbing an inch from my left ear. 
Mind your own fucking business, he snarls, his voice shaking with rage. 
I keep my face really relaxed, but my heart is going like a whipper snipper, and my mind is racing…

Mikey is a rangy, whimsical bloke, with a mop of curly brown hair and a curiously hesitant way of speaking.
I meet Mikey beside a campfire at Confest.  We smoke a joint or two and swap hitchhiking stories.
Mikey’s done a few kilometers in his time.  As a young fella’ he hitched all over Victoria, New South Wales and Queensland, stealing veggies out of paddocks to feed himself, dodging the coppers, and sleeping rough in ditches.
When Mikey starts telling me his stories I’m a bit frustrated at first.  He speaks slowly, with a kind of muffled stammering voice.  But when he gets in the swing, I am riveted.  Mikey knows how to spin a yarn.

(Top: Mikey at Confest, eating a burrito.)

I don’t hitchhike much anymore, Mikey tells me.  I got a car now, and a Missus, but I pick up hitchhikers all the time.  I feel a bit sorry for them, ’cause I remember what it was like standing there watching cars zoom past.

About two years ago I picked up this fella’ in Gippsland.  He was French I think, or German.  Young backpacker.  He was a nice kid, spoke pretty good English, so we were having a pretty nice chat.
Then, I seen this other hitchhiker standing beside the road.  He looked a bit funny, I thought, straight away.  It was raining a bit, but he didn’t have a jacket or nothing.  He had a big plastic bin bag in one hand, and under his other arm he was holding this little puppy.  Usually I don’t think twice ’bout picking people up, but there was something a bit weird about that guy.  It was raining though, so I felt like a bit of a prick, not to stop.
The bloke gets in, and we drive along.  He was real quiet.  Didn’t tell me his name or nothing, but I figured, well, he’s probably just shy or whatever.  His clothes were dirty, and he had some leaves and stuff in his hair.  The dog is even more grotty than he is.  It’s one of those fluffy, long haired dogs, and its long hair is all tangled into clumps and dreadlocks over it’s eyes.
Me and the backpacker tried to start up our conversation again, but the bloke in the back just sits there, totally silent, hunched over the puppy.  I can see him in the mirror, and he’s just kind of staring at the back of my head.  It was a little bit unnerving, to be honest.

I pulled into a servo to get some petrol.
I get out to pump the fuel, and the bloke with the puppy says:
can you get us a coke, mate?
I lean back in the car and look at him.  I say, look mate, I don’t mind driving you, but you’re gonna have to buy your own drinks.
I can tell he doesn’t like that, but he doesn’t say nothing.

I fill the tank and head into the office to pay.
While I’m standing at the counter, the backpacker kid comes up to me, looking twitchy.
He’s searching your stuff, the kid whispers.
What do you mean? I ask him.
When you went in here to pay, he started  searching through your glove box, and looking around in your bag.
I’m not too worried, ’cause I know there’s nothing worth stealing in my car, but I crane my neck and take a look out the glass to the driveway, just too see for myself.  The bloke is sitting in the back seat, with the puppy on his lap, absolutely still, staring back at me.
You sure? I ask the backpacker kid.
Yes, yes, he hisses at me, I was sitting right with him in the car while he was doing those things.

I pay for the petrol and we get going again.
Two minutes later, I hear this sound like, click, click, click.  I look over my shoulder.  The bloke in the back is cutting the dog’s hair.  They’re my scissors he’s using.  My missus used to keep them in my glove box for cutting flowers.  He’s got this big pair of scissors, and he’s snipping off clumps of matted dog hair, and dropping them on the floor.
The atmosphere in my car is really tense now.  To calm the mood a bit, I ask the fella’ in the back:
What’s the dog’s name?
Doesn’t have a name, this bloke says, in a quiet sort of voice.
OK, I think, well, thats a bit weird.
I found him, the bloke says, defensively.  I just got out of prison yesterday.
Well, the penny dropped then.  I picked that fella’ up just near Sale, and that’s where Fulham is; the big jail.  When prisoners get released, they put all their stuff in a bin bag, and push ’em out the gate.  Fulham is in the middle of nowhere, so if they don’t have family or mates to pick ’em up, they got to walk or hitchhike.
Alright, I thought, I got to play it cool.  He’s just a young fella’.  He couldn’t have done anything too bad.
I got a few mates who’ve been in jail, I say, trying to act like I’m all calm.  What did you go in for?
He stops snipping at the dog’s hair and looks up.  His face is calm, but his fingers are gripping the handle of the scissors so hard his knuckles are white.
Murder, he says, in his quiet voice.

I glance over at the backpacker kid, and he’s got a funny expression on his face, like he just sat on something sharp.
Play it cool, I tell myself, don’t let this kid rattle you.   He’s probably bullshitting.   He’s too young to have done a sentence for murder.  Just keep it friendly.  Keep it nice and friendly.

Oh yeah?  Murder hey?  How many years they give you? I ask him, keeping my voice really cheerful and sort of polite.
He doesn’t reply.  He goes back to clipping the dog’s hair, but I can see his lip trembling.
So where you headed then, mate? I ask him, hoping it’s somewhere really close.
He jabs the point of the scissors close to my face, his arm shaking, the point of the scissors bobbing an inch from my left ear.
Mind your own fucking business, he snarls, his voice shaking with rage.
I keep my face really relaxed, but my heart is going like a whipper snipper, and my mind is racing.
The backpacker kid is rigid in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead.  He looks like he’s about to cry.
Then the dog starts whining.  The murderer tries to keep it still, but it’s fidgeting and squirming around, trying to jump off his lap.  The bloke looks really worried.
Is your dog OK? I ask.
I didn’t hurt him, he moans, I was just cutting his hair.
He needs to shit, I say.  Don’t let him go in the car.  Hang on, I’ll pull over.

I ease the car to a stop under some trees beside the road.
Quick, before he goes on your lap! I tell the murderer.
He scrambles out of the car, with the puppy held at arms length, and the second he’s clear, I mash the accelerator into the floor, and fishtail away down the road.

I can see the murderer in the rear-view, standing on the roadside, holding the dog, and I feel a bit bad for leaving the dog there with him.
I breathe out a sigh.
The rear door is rattling.
Can you close that door for me? I ask the backpacker kid.
He nods, shakily, and leans into the back seat.  His movements are awkward and stiff.
He sits back in his seat and I see his face is all red.
You OK? I ask him.
Can you please stop soon? he says, in a strangled voice, I have done some shit on myself.

I pull up again, and the poor kid goes off in the trees with a towel, to sort himself out.
I get out of the car and try to shake the tension out of my body.  Then I notice the bin bag in the back seat.  I lean into the car, pick up the bag, and shake it out on the hood.
There’s a couple of t-shirts, some shorts, a greasy looking cap, and a bundle of torn out newspaper articles.  All the stories are from a small town paper, about a bloke who was sent to prison for threatening his girlfriend with a screwdriver.  She lived.
 

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