End It With A Lie

by Peter M. Atkins

Quinn had been comfortable enough until he’d felt a stinging pain in his right arm. He’d searched his shirt sleeve and had found a large red bull ant. The sting was enough to interfere with his concentration, allowing the scrim netting to fall away from his binoculars and expose its lens to the sunlight. He cursed the ant, and tried to rub the pain away, but it stayed with him as he squashed the offender with the handle of his folded pocket knife.

  By the time he’d focused his binoculars back on the veranda, the man in the wide brimmed hat and the woman were gone.

  He wondered if he’d been spotted, but no good worrying about that now, he thought, as the pain of the ant sting persisted.

  Simon loaded the rifle and donned the heavy drill shirt he usually wore when he knew he’d be crawling around in the dirt. He stood at the closed window again, and focused the binoculars on the place amongst the roots of the Coolabah tree. There may be something he thought, as he played the binoculars over the area.

  A billabong ran along behind the trees. It would give him the cover he’d need to creep up near the gnarled old trees exposed and shadowed roots.

  Simon left the house and kept it between him and his destination, while he made his way to the river. He made quick time and worked his way downstream for some minutes, before he followed a tributary which connected to the billabong that ran behind the target tree.

  The billabong was as dry as a bone and Simon followed its left bank. He reckoned he would come up directly behind the target tree, and hoped that whoever may be lying under the tree would still be looking in the old house’s direction.

  Moving from tree to tree he stopped at times to check his bearings, making sure the coast was clear through the scope of his rifle before he progressed.

  He reached a gully which had to be crossed and dropped into it. Followed its far bank for a short distance, until he turned into a shallow tributary whose sloped bank gave little cover.

  His shirt front scraped heavily against the hard earth, as he tried to keep his body profile as low as possible. The tree he sought was not more than fifty metres from his present position, and he brought the rifle to his shoulder to view it through its scope.

  Simon concentrated on the thick roots. He could make out an indefinite shape in the shadows and stared at the place until his eye began to ache, then rubbed the ache away and looked again.

  At last he was sure.

  There was definitely something there. He slowly moved towards another tree about five metres away; it too had heavy exposed roots. Simon slithered across the ground with the rifle in the crook of his arms. The drag of his shirt on the rough earth seemed noisy in his ears, and with his heart pounding he finally sought cover behind the tree. He wiped stinging sweat from his eyes, and then with breath held he began to edge around the trunk of the tree.

  He wanted to just turn around, go home, sit down in the old chair and read, or eat, or drink wine, because life had become complicated lately.

  As he left the comfort of the tree he couldn’t believe his ears.

  “Stop right there or drop right there, it’s your choice.” A voice whispered and the metallic sound of a pistol slide emphasized the words.

  Simon froze.

  It was as if his heart would explode, and his feet seemed to cling to the ground as if they tried to sink into the dirt. Taking Simon down, so he could find some security in the folds of the womb of Mother Earth.

  The voice spoke again as if in general conversation.

  “Not a bad effort. I didn’t pick you up until you dropped into that gully; it was right in the open so don’t feel bad about it. Now, put the peashooter on the ground. Slowly, just lean forward and put it on the ground.” Simon aimed to please.

  “What’s in the pockets of your shirt?”

  “Not much,” Simon said.

  “Empty them.” Simon did so.

  “Now lift your shirt up so I can see your waistband.” Simon did that too.

  “Now pull up your trouser legs so I can see your sock tops.” Simon wondered how far this would go and began to turn his head toward the voice.

  “I didn’t tell you to move your head, so stay still. Who else is at that house other than your girlfriend?”

  “There’s only Sarah.”

  “Are you absolutely sure? I don’t like liars.” The voice went quiet for some seconds as if it was giving Simon time to reconsider his answer. When Simon was not forthcoming it began again with another order, “Now I want you to march slowly and carefully towards the house. Remember, if you’ve lied to me then you’re the first to go. Understand?”

  The silence was broken only by the scuffle of boots on the hard black earth, and the buzzing of flies.

  Worry for Sarah weighed heavily upon him.

  Simon on command slowly opened the gate to the old house’s front yard, and moved through the gateway. The long untrimmed branches of the overgrown and unkempt hedge fell in behind him as his raised hands waved them away. He stepped into the house’s front yard.

  The armed man followed.

  Simon kept walking slowly while the armed man stopped in the gateway and ran his eyes over the garden area. He then came on, while his gaze roved the hedge line in both directions away from the gateway.

  All of Quinn’s instincts heightened. He looked ahead at the fruit trees and could see nothing that might explain his feeling that something was about to happen. His years of experience screamed at him.

  Adrenalin rushed as he looked to the ground and saw that some sand had been smoothed down.

  He tried to step back, but he knew it was too late.

  The ground exploded in front of him.

  His eyes filled with dirt as his face was assaulted by its sand storm. He felt himself being torn from the ground, as would a tree before a violent wind. The pistol flew from his hand as his back hit the ground and he lay there stunned.

  Simon felt the blast at his back and was pushed forward violently, but with less intensity than the man three metres behind him. He fell to his knees and then his face hit the ground.

  Strange sounds rang in his ears and dust besieged his nostrils as he lifted his head. His hand involuntarily went to the back of his neck which felt as if it had been sun burnt.

  He rolled over onto his side and looked back to where the force had come from.

  Ray was on his knees, leaning over the body of Quinn who was spread-eagled on his back. Simon gained his footing, lurched to Ray’s side and looked at the face of the fallen man.

  “Is he alive?”

  Ray’s look was one of derision.

  “Of course he’s alive. I put enough putty down to knock him out, not kill him.” The tone in Ray’s voice stressed indignation that Simon might suggest that he, a professional, would use too much explosive.

  “Shit, what did you do?”

  Ray cut the question short.

  “Talk later. First thing we have to do is get this fellow trussed up before he comes around. Get his pistol, and keep him covered in case he does before we get it done.”

  Simon picked up the gun and then watched as Ray and Sarah loaded Quinn into the wheelbarrow. They wheeled him to the steps which led up to the veranda, and from there they man handled him to the spare bedroom.

  Simon left Sarah and Ray to tend to Quinn while he retrieved the backpack and raked smooth the loose sand that had been dislodged by the detonation.

  By the time he’d returned to the spare room, Ray had Quinn secured to the bed, so Simon brought beer. While they drank, they stood over the man and studied him.

  He was tall and filled the bed with his body bulk. His face had a look of calm, but the lines which contoured and spread about his face suggested a life of hard going, touched also with the grimace of determination.

  After some time he stirred, then sighed as his eyes flickered open. He clenched them shut again, and then blinked many times before squinting up at the trio.

  Quinn began a movement with his right arm,
as if to bring it down to rub the grit from his eyes. Then realizing he was tethered he tugged at the bonds before he relaxed and offered a wry smile.

  “Where did you learn that one?” He directed at Ray.

  “Are you hurt anywhere in particular?” Ray asked.

  Quinn stopped, as if to think about this a moment, then moved his limbs as far as the lashings would allow.

  “No. Except that my eyes and my face feel like shit.” His eyes went to Sarah and he said, “Sorry, but I don’t know how else to describe it.”

  He looked at the beer bottles.

  “Throats a bit on the dry side though.”

  Simon went to the refrigerator, brought another bottle and tipped it to Quinn’s lips.

  Quinn gratefully licked the excess from his lips.

  “What are you going to do with me now?”

  Ray thought about this for a moment.

  “We are going to ask you a few questions. If you can’t answer them, then fair enough. If you won’t answer them, then I can easily start the back hoe and dig another hole down in the back paddock.”

  Quinn went quiet as he noted the way the wiry man mentioned, ‘Another hole,’ and was reminded once again that it was not always preferable to know exactly where you stand.

  He knew the wiry man was serious.

  CHAPTER 27