Vanished

by James Delargy

  The punch rocked her. It caught her on the neck and caused one side of her body to suddenly go numb, her arm letting go of his shoulder.

  There was no follow-up blow. Just a hard shove that forced her away from him.

  It allowed her to clear some of the blood from her eyes. It felt like a thick, stinging molasses. Though the ache in her skull cried out for her to give up she put her hand out to lever herself back up. To go again. To attack. In doing so her hand brushed something hard. Metal. The rifle.

  Grabbing it, Naiyana staggered to her feet. She raised the gun and aimed it at Lorcan. At the blur that was Lorcan, one arm hanging limp by his side.

  She could hear Ian yelling for her to put it down. And Lorcan yelling that Ian had killed Dylan.

  She needed to end this.

  She would aim for his chest. The largest surface area. One half-decent shot would do it.

  She tried to set her feet to do so but found she had little control of her limbs, as if the blow to the head had sheared the connections. The sand grabbed onto her feet, holding them in place as her body weight pitched forward. She stumbled towards her husband, falling pathetically.

  Lorcan’s one good hand grabbed for the rifle. She tried to squeeze the trigger but off-balance it was twisted from her hands, the butt swinging around and cracking into her forehead, spinning her to the side. More pain. More violent lullabies ringing around her skull.

  The shot deafened her as she fell to the sand.

  Blinking hard again, riding out the pain, she found Lorcan lying beside her, blood pumping from the hole in his chest. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. She rolled over and faced the sun, the savage evening heat and thick blood scalding her eyes, as if seeking to blind her completely.

  Ian appeared into her blurred vision, standing over her. The rifle was in his hands. Now would be the time to kill her. She watched his finger tease the trigger. She tried to find the sparkling blue eyes that had drawn her into this mess. To plead with him. For what? For mercy? But what was mercy? Was it him finishing her off? Ending her misery?

  She didn’t find the answer, blinking furiously as the world washed away from her, leaving her in complete darkness.

  134 Naiyana

  She had spent most of the drive across the country in the back seat, fighting bouts of headaches, nausea and dizziness, but most of all she was besieged by the sheer weight of what had happened. Dylan was dead. Lorcan was dead. She was on the run with their murderer, dragged away from them as they lay in the sand. He had professed his love for her all the way out here. Every day if not every hour since. Probably because she was the only thing he had left. He blamed Lorcan for dragging Dylan into harm’s way. Blamed Lorcan for causing all this. For making him shoot.

  She only blamed one person. Him.

  He had taken her to this place and this cabin. It was his retreat apparently. For a couple of months a year, if he had the money. He had warned her about the mosquitoes but not the sheer number. They swarmed around her like the plague but with the repellent coating her she was invisible to them. If only she could get an Ian repellent. Or a memory repellent.

  He had been out today and purchased wigs for both of them, but the blond wig he had picked for her was worthless. It would only make her stand out more given her Thai blood. The contact lenses too raised the same problem. She was small but hard to disguise. When he donned his blond wig and fake moustache it was hard to tell who he was. It was easy to think of him as someone else. And wish he was someone else.

  The next day he brought her a black, short-haired wig. Wasting money on these disguises while they barely ate. Even if the mozzies could get to her there wouldn’t be any blood to drain soon.

  The new wig didn’t help. She just saw herself in the mirror, blinded by familiarity. She was the cause of all this trouble, yet it hadn’t been worth any of it. With her hatred of herself swollen to bursting, her hatred for him only grew every day. But she was weak from blood loss and the crippling pain of losing Dylan. He’d killed her child and she was stuck with him. He was her crutch.

  But after a few days and a few meagre meals forced into a stomach that wanted to reject them, she had finally felt stronger. Strong enough to do what she had to.

  135 Emmaline

  ‘The presumption is that the animals dragged Dylan’s body away post-mortem. Lorcan was too heavy to move so they returned to finish him later,’ continued Zhao.

  Emmaline stared at the cabin. Though a long shot she had been hoping to find Dylan alive and well. She supposed that there was still the slimmest of hopes. Forensics might have been wrong and it was another child’s skull.

  She waited by Liang’s shoulder as he gave the signal. Two of the SERT team crept up to the front door of the cabin, their steps skilful and silent on the detritus. After a momentary pause and silent count they burst through the front door while another pair entered from the rear.

  There was a sharp cry of ‘Don’t move!’ All her muscles tensed as Emmaline wondered just what was in there.

  The cry of ‘Don’t move’ was quickly followed by a call of ‘All clear’. There was no gunfire, no physical altercation. The occupants taken by surprise or fatigue.

  Unable to resist, Emmaline broke away from Liang’s short stride and ran, closing in on the door, twigs cracking under her urgent steps.

  Up the front steps, she burst through the door, still unsure of what she was hoping or expecting to see.

  Inside the atmosphere was fetid, the hut filthy. Food wrappers littering the floor, used medical gauze, wrappings, ointments and the intense aroma of two people cooped up in a small, humid room for too long. Accompanied by the ever-present tang of mosquito repellent.

  Lying on the bamboo couch was Naiyana, covered by a thin blanket. She looked like she had lost weight, her cheeks gaunt, wearing an expression of haunted desperation. Beside her lay a clump of fur that at first Emmaline mistook for a small animal but which turned out to be a black wig. A blond wig lay on the floor in front of her. Streaked with red and loosely attached to Ian Kinch’s dead body. A rifle and a bloodied knife lay on the floor beside the couch.

  Naiyana Maguire broke down in tears, her spindly arms reaching out, the tendons in her neck pronounced as she screeched at those who had disturbed her resting place.

  ‘He killed Dylan.’

  Sucking in some air, the realization of where she was and what had happened seemed to hit her, her blinking pronounced as her voice fell away to a whisper. ‘I had to kill him. He killed my son…’

  Emmaline had a thousand questions to ask. Like, what exactly had happened in Kallayee? To Lorcan Maguire. To Stevie Amaranga. To Mike Andrews. To her son. And what had happened after?

  But Naiyana was babbling now, drowning in her grief.

  The paramedics came bustling past Emmaline. Here to repair a mess that could never be rectified.

  Acknowledgements

  As I write this the whole world is in the middle of lockdown during this COVID-19 crisis. I have already mentioned it in the dedication but I just want to reiterate my thanks to all the hospital, post office and supermarket staff, and every one of the essential workers who put themselves at risk so the rest of us can shield indoors.

  As for the book itself, again I have to thank West Australia for providing the inspiration for this story – with a nod to the Northern Territory and Queensland as well – for the sheer majesty and possibilities that lurk behind every town and rock and gully and for being such an inspiring place to write about.

  The people I want to thank remain much the same as for the first book but I want to mention them again because they deserve praise for keeping me focused and sane at this time. Of these people one stands out most and that is my wife, Harpinder, for being honest about a story or a plot and as an inspiration for sheer hard work, drive and talent. And for not killing me during lockdown given she had to bear the brunt of my rubbish jokes.

  I want to thank my family and friends, for being far away b
ut always at the other end of a phone/video call. My wonderful agent, Marilia Savvides of 42 M&P, for expert guidance on what works, what doesn’t, and for supporting me from the very beginning. Without her, this book wouldn’t have seen the light of day. My editor, Anne Perry, was and is as amazing as ever, full of advice and ideas, helping me reshape this book to make it the best it can be. Kay Gale found many blatant errors my eyes overlooked. To Kim, Jack, Petros, Rhiannon, Alexandra and Gillian: thank you very much for your help behind the scenes. To Bethan, Harriett and Jess for their help, especially when I turn up at things unannounced. Also Jamie, Breanna, Sharon, Siobhan and everyone in S&S Australia who were so kind and helpful to me when I was out there last year – back when travel was a thing.

  A special thanks must also go out to all the readers, tweeters and bloggers who take the time to read and review all the books out there and a thanks to all the bookshops that are going through a hard time at the moment and who I hope to be able to visit in the near future.

  Finally – when I started out last year I didn’t know another soul in the crime-writing community but I was lucky to fall into cahoots with a wonderful group of writers called Criminal Minds. They have been essential in keeping my spirits up through the long, slow process of writing a book and I hope to be able to meet up with them again soon.

  And that’s about it. Sorry if I left anyone out that deserves to be in this dedication. That is not because of a fault in your efforts but a fault in my memory. Any mistakes in this book are also mine rather than the fault of any contributor. For that I blame my memory also.

  More from the Author

  55

  Also by James Delargy

  55

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  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2021

  Copyright © James Delargy 2021

  The right of James Delargy to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-4711-7756-9

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-7757-6

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-3985-0136-2

  Audio ISBN: 978-1-3985-0129-4

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.