The main road to take if you were heading up Brisbane way from Sydney was the Pacific Highway. For the most part it was fast, smooth and straight through, like a good shit, no muss, no fuss. But of course, it was the main road. If you weren't in any particular hurry, and scenery was more your style, you took the New England Highway. A winding route, passing through countless small towns that looked as though they came straight off a postcard.
Or straight out of a Stephen King novel.
Along this highway, not too far from Armidale, but still a good distance from Tenterfield, walked a man. Dressed in worn jeans and t-shirt, he was remarkable only for the fact that he was totally unremarkable. The man walked with an easy, rolling motion, striding out at each step. He seemed tireless, as though he'd been walking all morning and could effortlessly walk all afternoon. As he walked, the man glanced frequently along the main road behind him, his face anxious. He carried no luggage. Not a single, solitary backpack or even a bum-bag. A car appeared in the distance, heading in the same direction the man was walking. He held his hand out in that timeless gesture of all foot-weary travellers.
The car didn't even slow down.
The man stopped, squinting after the disappearing car. A ray of sunlight broke through the cloud cover and shone down on him for a moment. If someone had passed at that instant, they would have taken one look at the man and sped on past. The sun fell clean across the man and should have thrown his shadow across the road like a stain. But there was nothing there.
The man cast no shadow at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE