Cheeseslaw and Shadows

"In Broken Hill, you can buy chips, a side of cheeseslaw, and a sense that someone’s watching you—whether you want it or not."

Thankfully, Paul's chicken and chip shop of choice wasn't a long walk, and the seemingly vague directions he had given me began to make some sense as the trip unfolded. The location I had chosen for the Portal, while discreet, was central to most of the important sites in Broken Hill and, as I had now discovered, also close to the home of the best chicken and chips in the entire town—at least, according to Paul’s gospel truth. Paul will owe me for this one, I thought, my lips twitching in a wry half-smile as I made my way past the car wash next door.

The car wash stood silent and still, its skeletal steel frames glistening faintly under the streetlights. In its stillness, it almost seemed like a relic of another time—before all of this—its emptiness making the bustle ahead seem all the more vivid.

The glow of the neon sign beckoned from a short distance away, its amber flicker casting a soft, warm sheen over the cracked and uneven pavement. I paused, letting my gaze trace the way the light caught on shallow puddles left by a recent shower, their surfaces trembling under the faint breeze. Pulling my jacket tighter, I felt the night’s chill crawl along my arms and nestle in the back of my neck.

Then it hit me—the instantly recognisable aroma of BBQ chickens. It rolled toward me in waves, thick and intoxicating, curling into the air with an insistence that refused to be ignored. The scent clung to my clothes, seeped into my hair, wrapping itself around me like an old friend whose hug I couldn’t quite resist. It was comfort layered with nostalgia, tugging at half-forgotten memories of warm kitchens and simpler days.

My gaze drifted to the shop’s façade—paint peeling away in curled flakes, the signage worn but proudly hanging on, and the soft, foggy glow of the windows hinting at the warmth inside. Through the haze, I caught the blur of movement: customers shifting in line, a hand reaching for the counter bell, the glint of steel trays under bright lights. A quiet anticipation pooled in my chest, tempered by that now-familiar undercurrent of displacement—the subtle ache of knowing I was somewhere, yet not entirely of it.

And from the way Paul had reacted, I could now easily imagine that if the smell could be bottled up into an aftershave lotion, Paul would be a repeat customer. The image was so vivid—Paul striding into camp, chest puffed out, trailing a heady cloud of roasted poultry—that it almost made me laugh aloud. I pictured him leaning casually against a doorway, waiting for someone to comment on his “irresistible” new scent, all the while oblivious to the fact that he smelt like Sunday lunch at the local RSL.

The thought of someone walking around, exuding the essence of BBQ chicken, was so absurd that it tugged an involuntary smile from me. My mind, unhelpfully, ran further with it—imagining aisles in a department store dedicated entirely to savoury colognes: Eau de Roast Lamb, Charcoal Beef No. 5, Sautéed Onion Seduction. In some corner of the universe I had yet to stumble across, I could almost believe such scents were considered the pinnacle of refinement.

Imagine smelling like a BBQ chicken. The notion lingered like the aroma itself—strange, warm, and oddly comforting—providing a momentary reprieve from the ever-tightening knot of duties and decisions that seemed to weave themselves around me wherever I went.

Despite the chill in the air, several young children darted about barefoot outside the shop door, their shrill laughter shattering the evening’s calm like pebbles tossed into still water. Their small feet slapped against the cold pavement without a care, toes no doubt numb but spirits entirely unbothered. Their young mother, a figure of frazzled determination, wove between them with the frantic movement of someone used to fighting chaos daily. She lunged for the nearest child, her voice sharp with worry but softened at the edges by exhaustion.

"Stay away from the bloody road," she scolded, her arm swinging in a warning arc that promised trouble should they ignore her again. The way she clutched her cardigan tighter against herself, all while shepherding her unpredictable brood, struck a chord in me—a pang of empathy, unbidden and sharp.

Before the moment could settle, the shop door gave a protesting creak as a plump, middle-aged lady bustled out, arms wrapped tightly around a white plastic bag brimming with fried treasures. The heat radiating from it steamed faintly in the cool night air, carrying the irresistible perfume of hot oil, salt, and chicken skin. Her flip-flops clapped rhythmically against her heels as she hurried across the cracked pavement—an oddly comic counterpoint to the swirling chaos of the children.

"Did you grab some gravy?" a bearded man called from the open window of his dark ute, parked crookedly at the kerb. His tone was casual enough, but there was an unmistakable thread of urgency—this, clearly, was not a negotiable part of his evening meal.

"Shit," the woman muttered, her brief victory over the dinner run instantly deflated. With a sigh heavy enough to be felt from where I stood, she pivoted back toward the shop, her shoulders sagging with resignation.

I guess she forgot, I thought, watching her disappear into the warm glow of the doorway again. Around me, the scene hummed with life: the chatter of customers, the clink of coins, the greasy scent hanging thick in the air. It was the kind of busyness that pressed in from all sides, a sensory crush that made me wonder—for just a second—whether Paul’s beloved chips could possibly justify braving this little maelstrom.

Seizing the moment, I slipped in behind the plump woman, the door swinging shut with a dull thud that seemed to sever me from the cool relief of the street. No sooner had my foot crossed the threshold than a harsh buzzer tore through the low murmur of voices, a grating sound that felt less like a welcome and more like an alarm. Heads turned briefly before returning to their business, but the sound lingered in my ears, setting my nerves slightly on edge.

The air inside was heavy and warm, thickened by the mingled aromas of hot oil, salt, and roast chicken, so concentrated it was almost tangible. The narrow space pulsed with movement—a chaotic ballet where patrons and staff alike weaved and sidestepped. Elbows jostled, paper bags crinkled, orders were shouted above the din, and I instinctively edged to the right, finding a precarious foothold of stillness beside the large shop window, near the end of the counter. From here, I could observe the flow without being swallowed by it.

My gaze was drawn immediately to the back wall where deep vats of oil bubbled with an almost malevolent life, the constant hiss and crackle underscoring the hypnotic rhythm of the fryer baskets. The golden sheen of the crinkle-cut chips emerging from them should have been inviting, but there was something menacing about the relentless churn of heat and oil.

Along the side wall, the real spectacle unfolded. Behind the counter, rows of chicken rotisseries rotated in slow, glorified unison, each skewer piercing through the glossy, headless carcasses. Their browned skins glistened under the harsh fluorescent lighting, fat and juices sizzling as they dripped into waiting trays with a sound like faint applause. The whole process was mechanical, efficient—mercilessly so.

"Hey, you!" The voice boomed from my left, snapping me out of the loop my mind had been replaying. The words jolted me as effectively as a slap, my thoughts scattering like startled birds.

I turned to find myself face-to-face with the plump woman who’d returned moments earlier, her cheeks flushed from the cold outside and the heat inside. She had that harried look of someone on a mission, a white plastic bag swinging from her wrist, its contents steaming faintly.

"You're standing in the way of the buzzer. You need to move," she said, her tone a peculiar blend of irritation and urgency, like this was the hundredth such inconvenience she’d endured today. She jabbed a finger towards the door, where I now noticed the metal plate I’d been unknowingly blocking.

"Oh," was all I could manage, my voice thin and distracted, the word slipping out as more of an apology to the universe than to her. My feet shuffled forward awkwardly, clearing the path. Only then did the constant buzz register fully—sharp and insistent, a mechanical bark that had woven itself unnoticed into the background hum until she’d pointed it out.

"What can I get for you?" The new voice came from the counter, pulling my attention sharply to the present.

The server stood there, a middle-aged man whose stained apron bore the splattered story of his day’s work. His forearms were dusted with salt, his eyes quick but edged with impatience, scanning me as if gauging how much trouble my hesitation might cause in this fast-moving environment.

"Hmm?" I uttered, still half tangled in the unsettling imagery of the rotisserie behind him, my mind slow to bridge the gap between thought and speech.

"What would you like?" he repeated, leaning in slightly. His voice had a subtle snap to it, not unkind, but a clear reminder that this was no place for daydreaming.

"Ah," I said, the syllable buying me the moment I needed to reel myself fully into the now. My gaze flickered sideways, deliberately avoiding the glossy, spinning carcasses. Paul’s request rose from the haze of my thoughts—chips, large, chicken salt. "I’ll have a large chips with chicken salt, please," I said, my voice finding its footing again.

"Would you like gravy with that?" he asked automatically, his words infused with the muscle memory of countless similar transactions.

The plump woman’s earlier muttered “shit” at forgetting her gravy floated into my mind, a small, absurd reminder of the moment’s ordinariness amidst everything else.

"No, thank you," I replied quickly, the answer sharper than intended, fuelled by my eagerness to seal the transaction and put physical and mental distance between myself and that grim row of turning birds.

He gave a curt nod and turned away, shuffling off to disappear into the hiss and clatter of the fryer. That gave me a precious moment—just enough to exhale, to gather the frayed threads of my composure, and to force myself to match the rhythm of this cramped, chaotic space until I could escape it entirely.

Between the rotating chickens and the congested waiting area, I quickly decided that I needed some fresh air. It’s all a bit too much in here, I thought, pushing the door open with a little more force than necessary. The buzzer shrieked its parting note, sharp and metallic, announcing my exit to anyone who cared to notice. The cooler evening air met me like a balm, though it carried the ever-present scent of BBQ chickens—persistent, clinging, but still a welcome relief after the suffocating heat and noise inside.

Oxide Street was alive with a chaotic rhythm. Cars whizzed past in hurried bursts, their engines merging into a continuous hum that underpinned the night. The KFC across the way was a hive of movement, its drive-through queue snaking so far around the corner it seemed to have ambitions of encircling the block. At the nearby roundabout, brake lights flared red in an impatient chain, trapping traffic in a slow, inching grind. Wow, chickens must be really popular in Broken Hill, I mused wryly. Or is this some sort of outback obsession?

My gaze drifted left along the street, idly scanning the activity—until it caught on something still. A figure. Hooded. Leaning against the wall of a building as though it was the only thing keeping him upright. He was entirely out of sync with the energy around him, an unmoving shadow amidst motion. His hands were sunk deep into his trouser pockets, his head angled forward so the hood cloaked his face completely. Yet despite that concealment, an unshakable chill whispered that he was looking right at me.

A cold shiver licked up my spine, sharp and sudden, the kind of instinctive reaction you can’t reason away. My posture shifted without conscious thought, squaring my body to face him. “What the hell?” I whispered under my breath, the words slipping out like vapour.

As if I’d tugged some invisible thread between us, he stirred. The movement was abrupt, decisive—no casual saunter, but a purposeful turn as he melted into a side street. His pace quickened, not quite running, but intent enough to make my pulse lift.

Who is he—and why that peculiar interest in me? The questions didn’t so much form as bloom inside my mind, unfurling tendrils of unease that twined around my curiosity. Every nerve itched to follow, to close the gap and demand answers. But there was another voice too, quieter yet no less insistent: Keep your distance. Don’t be stupid. You don’t know what you’re walking into.

I stood caught between those two forces, the cool air wrapping around me like a reminder that danger could be both thrilling and lethal—and sometimes, it wore a hood.

"Oi, you."

The voice, edged with impatience, snapped me back to the here and now. My head turned sharply, tugging my thoughts away from the retreating hooded figure. It was the plump woman from earlier, now gripping her plastic bag as though it were precious cargo. The bulge of the once-forgotten gravy shifted inside, its return clearly the resolution to her earlier disappointment. Her presence was jarringly ordinary compared to the quiet menace I’d just felt outside, and it forced me to recalibrate my focus.

"Yes?" I answered, still a little off-balance from the mental whiplash of moving from potential danger to domestic banality.

"Your order is ready. They're looking for you inside," she said, her tone a mixture of helpfulness and haste, as though she were trying to be polite but had somewhere far more important to be.

"That was quick," I replied, genuine surprise colouring my voice. Offering her a brief, polite nod, I manoeuvred past and back into the heat and noise of the shop.

The door’s buzzer screamed again, folding me into the thick scent of hot oil and roast chicken that seemed even heavier after my short break outside.

"Ah, here she is," called the man with the apron from behind the counter, his voice carrying easily over the din. He was a strange anchor in the chaos, his tone brisk but not unfriendly. "Your order is ready. Come down here to the register, and I'll ring it up for you."

Threading my way through the dense knot of customers, I reached the far end of the counter, where the register was tucked away like a command post in the corner. The man’s age was written deep in the folds of his skin, every line a map of years spent in the dry heat of Broken Hill. His hands, narrow and slightly trembling, hovered above the register keys with a painstaking deliberation that instantly tested my patience.

His thin fingers pressed a button, hesitated, then drifted uncertainly to another. They circled the keypad in a slow, frustrated dance, tracing invisible shapes as though the correct key might reveal itself if coaxed gently enough.

Oh my God, I thought, feeling impatience swell inside me. At this rate, I’ll be here all evening. The frustration was tinged with guilt—his fumbling was hardly malicious, and yet the day’s fatigue left me ill-equipped to be charitable. My mind flitted back, unbidden, to the hooded figure outside and the possibility he might still be lingering nearby. A small, anxious pulse throbbed under my irritation, reminding me that the sooner I left, the better.

Finally, the man behind the counter looked up, a quirky smile tugging at his lips as he peered at me over the top of his square glasses. The fluorescent light caught the smudges on his lenses, giving him an oddly endearing, slightly frazzled air.

"That will be $8.50, unless I can tempt you with some cheeseslaw to go with your crunchy chips?" he offered, his tone light, almost conspiratorial, as though this mysterious side dish were a secret worth sharing.

A small giggle escaped before I could stop it. "What in the world is cheeseslaw?" I asked, genuinely intrigued, my curiosity piqued by the charming absurdity of the name.

"Why, it's only the best salad in Broken Hill," he replied with a flash of pride, straightening slightly as though delivering a well-rehearsed line. "It's made of cheese, shredded carrot, and a bit of mayonnaise." The words were matter-of-fact, yet wrapped in an almost folkloric reverence.

Is that all? I thought, biting back another laugh. How is that a salad? The simplicity bordered on endearing, and I couldn’t help but marvel at how such a humble concoction could be elevated to local treasure status. It really doesn’t take much to please these people, I mused, warmth mingling with my amusement.

"In that case, I had better get some cheeseslaw as well, thanks," I said, letting my voice carry an easy cheer. A small smile spread across my face. Paul is going to love me, I thought, already picturing his theatrically grateful expression as he tucked into this regional specialty.

The man’s fingers resumed their slow, deliberate dance across the register’s worn keys, a few hesitant taps followed by moments of visible concentration. After a short, victorious pause, he announced, "That will be $12.50 now, thank you."

I handed over the cash, watching as he turned his attention to bagging the order. His movements were clumsy but oddly careful, like a man determined to do a job properly even if the execution lacked finesse. A few rogue chips made daring leaps from their container, skittering across the counter to their greasy demise, yet he didn’t falter.

Finally, with a small, satisfied flourish, he placed the precious chips inside a larger plastic bag, nestled alongside a clear container of the fabled cheeseslaw. He handed it over with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

"Here you go. Have a lovely evening, miss," he said warmly, the twinkle behind his glasses betraying both kindness and the kind of fatigue that comes from long hours in a hot, bustling shop.

Hastily retreating from the shop, my smile broadened, tinged with a blend of relief and quiet amusement as I reflected on what could only be considered my first real outback experience. "Well, excluding Yunta," I muttered under my breath, the words slipping out like a small, private joke. My growing collection of uniquely outback encounters was becoming absurdly eclectic—and what an addition this one had been.

Stepping back onto the street, I paused, scanning the shifting shapes and moving shadows for any sign of the strange hooded man. The night air was cooler now, carrying with it the mingled scents of hot oil, car exhaust, and distant eucalyptus. Yet he was nowhere to be seen—no lingering silhouette at the corner, no figure slipping between pools of light.

Maybe I really am imagining things, I thought, a faint frown creasing my brow. The idea didn’t sit entirely comfortably, but I tried to dismiss it with a small, wry chuckle. Too much of this Broken Hill dust must be affecting my brain.

Still, the eerie prickling along my neck refused to fade completely. I tightened my grip on the plastic bag, its warm contents radiating against my leg with every step. It was definitely time to get out of here.

With renewed determination, I set off towards the nearby alleyway, the bag of chips and cheeseslaw swinging lightly at my side. The rustle of the plastic and the occasional muffled clink of the container inside became the metronome of my progress, keeping me company in the hum of the evening.

The street was alive around me—distant laughter spilling from a pub doorway, tyres crunching over gravel as cars pulled in and out of side streets, the faint, rhythmic squeak of a shop sign rocking in the breeze. Yet, despite the reassurance of movement and noise, a restless part of me kept scanning the periphery, eyes darting over darkened paths and the shadows pooling beneath parked cars. Every few steps, I glanced over my shoulder—just to be safe.