by Ben Hobson
‘We’ll go see him, then, if Moore’s not home,’ Martin said. ‘And if he’s at all smart he won’t be.’
‘And the son?’
‘We’ll see about him, too.’
Sharon said, almost to herself, ‘Thought you didn’t like hitting women, Brendan.’
Brendan said nothing, nothing she could hear.
She breathed, ‘Hypocrite.’
There was the sound of footsteps walking out the door. Then there was nothing. Only silence. She rolled onto her back, stared at the ceiling. Coughed. She put her hand up to her mouth and looked to see if there was blood. There wasn’t. She contemplated sitting up. Tried it once, fell back down.
Eventually she managed to get herself to the wall and slump against it. She looked down at her body, now alien to her. One arm dangling like limp spaghetti. Some blood seeping through her shirt. She wanted to feel her stomach, but didn’t dare. Her legs seemed okay. She breathed. A pain deep in her chest, sharp as a knife. She attempted to stand but her legs weren’t up to it. Or maybe it was her spirit. She fell back onto her arse, crying out.
Next she struggled her way over to behind the front desk. She pulled herself up onto the chair and swivelled it around so she faced the telephone. She picked it up, dialled her home number.
Roger answered.
Sharon panicked, unsure of her voice suddenly. She succeeded in croaking out, ‘Hi honey.’
‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘Who were you expecting?’
‘Dunno.’
She sighed.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘You still pissed off with me?’
‘I don’t know. Yes?’
‘Can you come give me a lift?’
‘Can’t. I’m about to head out. You know they run those raffles at the pub during the festival.’
She wanted to reach down the phone and throttle him. Really do it. Watch his eyes bulge as he realised how murderous she was.
‘What do you need a lift for?’
‘The car won’t start. Is Pete home?’
‘He’s still at the hospital, I think.’
‘Can you call him and ask him to come get me then?’
She hung up and sat staring at the phone, before picking up the receiver again. She dialled the number for the Trenton police department.
She cleared her throat. Wiped at her nose with her good arm, her hand coming away bloody. ‘It’s Newbury here,’ she said when the call was answered.
‘Newbury? You boys never call.’
Sharon tried to chuckle, to sound normal, found it ached too much. ‘Is Fitzy there?’
‘Nah, he’s not in today, being Easter and all.’
‘We need you to send some of your men down here.’
The man laughed. ‘You serious? It’s Easter.’
‘We’re having trouble with a few of the locals. We could use a few extra bodies to keep an eye on them. We just need two extra.’
‘What’s wrong with your men?’
‘One of them just quit on me.’
Silence on the other end, the officer said reluctantly, ‘S’pose we could call them in. If you’re sure it’s necessary?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘They won’t be happy.’
‘Thanks. Send them to the hospital and get them to ask for me, Sharon Wornkin.’
‘The hospital?’
She hung up. Then sat and waited for Peter to arrive. Every part of her body ached. At the end of the counter was a computer they used to type reports––Jack did, at least––and she shuffled the chair over to it. She looked at her face in the dark screen. Her chin was thick with congealed blood. Her nose bent. One eyelid was thicker than the other. She touched it tenderly, felt the pain renew itself. In the non-light of the computer monitor the blood appeared black, like she’d dipped the lower part of her mouth in tar.
She supposed she deserved it. After what she’d done to Vernon. Her boots in his ribs, Judah’s in her own.
She looked at the phone again. Maybe Peter wouldn’t come for her at all. She lifted her shirt, difficult with one hand, and saw half of her side turning purple, where the boot tip had struck. She didn’t dare touch it, and gingerly lowered her shirt.
A car pulled up outside and then through the door with the smashed lock walked her son. Peter looked over the station, looked at his mother behind the counter. His eyes widened.
‘Mum?’
‘Hey sweetheart,’ she said, struggling to sit up.
He came over to her slowly, trying to puzzle out what he was seeing. His face fell. ‘What happened?’
‘I just need to get to the hospital.’
‘Bloody hell. Mum. What happened? Are you …?’ Peter reached out a hand to touch her face. ‘You were in a fight? Have you seen your nose?’
‘I was.’
Her son’s eyes hardened at this. ‘Who did it?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Who?’
‘Peter,’ she said, and saw him look at her weapon, on the ground by the door. ‘Just get me to hospital. Please.’
‘You need an ambulance.’
‘I’m alright. I can walk.’
‘You didn’t shoot? Bloody hell, look at your arm.’
‘Hospital, please.’
She saw tears brimming in his eyes. He swiped at them, nodded, and put his head beneath her arm. She let him take all her weight and he lurched with her to the door, then to the car. He propped her up against it as he opened the passenger door and helped her in.
Before he started the car, he said, ‘Shouldn’t you lock up?’
Sharon smiled sadly. ‘Can’t. They blew the lock off with a shotgun. You didn’t see it?’
Peter shook his head. He backed out of the lot and Sharon watched him as he drove with his usual ease, lounging back in the seat, one hand on the bottom of the wheel. If he was panicked about his mother he was doing a good job of hiding it.
Sharon said, ‘I was attacked because—’
‘With a bloody shotgun—’
‘Because I didn’t give people what they wanted.’
‘You should’ve just given them what they wanted, then.’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘They wanted a man.’
Peter slowed down and put on his right indicator. ‘So did you stop them getting him?’
‘No.’
‘So you getting beaten to hell didn’t do any good?’
‘I don’t know what good it did. But I feel good I didn’t give in.’
‘Well, it doesn’t look good.’
Sharon smiled, felt her nose twinge. ‘Yeah. Guess it doesn’t.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
CALEB MOORE
He made it to his parents’ house. Found the key in the shed, up on the shelf out of sight. He went back and opened the front door and walked inside calling out for them, but nobody answered. He made himself some sandwiches and sat there eating happily, enjoying the ability to make decisions for himself, choose what to do. He was free, though he knew that each moment he spent outside prison meant a longer time in it. It may be worth it, though, if those Cahills were coming for his parents. If he could protect them.
He finished his lunch and went outside and sat in his father’s old chair. Memories of his old man reading the newspaper in this chair after a long day at work. Drinking his tea. Caleb playing footy in the backyard, trying not to punt the ball into the water.
He looked at the old shed, got up and walked over. He rounded the corner of the shed and behind it found his father’s boat missing. The trailer, too, was gone. He walked back inside and looked around the house. He checked in the garage on the shelf and found their old tent missing. He sat again in the chair outside and looked out at Snake Island. He knew they’d gone there. Knew it like he knew how to pull his pants up. He must have just missed them.
Leaning up against the back of the shed he found his father’s crappy
old tinny. The hull rusty. The old man had sold the motor years ago but in Caleb’s memory he still used the boat sometimes for fun, putting it in down the embankment when the tide was in, just rowing around. Probably hoping to take his grandkids out in it one day. Some hope of that now. Caleb studied it and saw the oars and moved his bandaged forearm, flapping it like a wounded bird.
He hefted the tinny—tricky with his forearm in its cast—onto its base and shoved it on the grass over to the wall overlooking the water. He shoved it in. It landed with a thunk and immediately was pressed down into the mud beneath the boat. Caleb climbed down the wall and walked over to it, the mud caking his prison-issue boots, the water up his shins. He pushed the boat until it was free of muck and floating and then jumped in himself. He sat up, regarding his old house. He grabbed an oar and started rowing.
He started with his good arm and then tried once with his sore but found the forearm incapable of much force. So he kept on with the good arm, switching from side to side, until it was too fatigued to continue. The sun beat down and he knew he was getting burned, which made everything worse. Sweat soon stained all his clothes. He put his free hand over the side into the salty brine and splashed it over his head, wetting his hair. He kept rowing. Snake Island grew closer to him but it was slow going and by the end of the day he had barely made it over half the distance. He could still see his old home.
The tide was now up and he could not get out if he wanted to and so he laid down in the boat and studied the stars as they formed above him, resting his tired body. He wondered what his parents were doing. He had to get to them. Be with them. He soon somehow managed to fall asleep.
TWENTY-NINE
BRENDAN CAHILL
After the visit with Sharon he sat with Martin and Judah in the bakery down the main street, eating pies for lunch. The festival was now over, the street reopened. Streamers and confetti pooling in gutters. The other two taking their time, laughing it up. It pissed Brendan off that they felt no urgency. These two thought they knew it all and had seen it all, and that the people around them were country bumpkins who wouldn’t get one over on them.
He knew Mel had always liked this bakery. Knew more about her than he cared to admit. He’d always been interested in her at high school, had even taken to smelling things she’d handled. Nothing creepy, at least he didn’t think so. Just things like paper she’d pass him, a bottle of water. His friends all knew, and never said a word to his face about his strange obsession, but he knew they saw weakness in him. When he was around her his brain would piss-fart and moan about and he’d end up a stammering idiot. She took all his hesitation and twittering with good grace.
And the difference in her face now—it made his tendons tighten. Made him relish the memory of snapping Caleb Moore’s forearm. That rotten mongrel. What he’d done to her. Scarred. Her twisted nose. Wished he’d put his foot in the small of that bastard’s back and snapped his spine.
The two jokers finally finished their meal and got up. Out in the car they both sat in the backseat, leaving him up the front like a bloody chauffeur. He felt a right dickhead driving these two around like that and he sank low in his seat, hoping no one would see him.
‘Look at them,’ Martin said. ‘Look at them.’
‘Who?’ Brendan said.
‘Your people, mate. The people in this town. Just take a look at them.’
‘What about them?’
Brendan did look. The people were just people. Back to normal after the festival. One fat slob walking across the street with his gut wobbling like a hippo glanced up at the car as it bore down on him and smacked it angrily as it passed. He was wearing a blue flannel shirt tucked into jeans. Old Frank Forster. Brendan knew him from the hardware store. Reinforced the station’s door, apparently. Old Frank Forster who whenever you went in wouldn’t stop complaining about his back starting to seize up when he worked not working so much nowadays.
He kept driving the car Martin had pissed on. Out of the town and past farmland with cows munching grass or lying down in the shade of trees. Through his mind flashed the pain etched in Sharon’s face. He kept going, took the left that led down to Port Napier.
‘Where does this guy live?’ Judah asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean you don’t know?’
‘I mean, I thought we’d just look for it.’
Judah snorted. ‘You’re a git.’
Brendan said nothing to this. Knew he could just ask and find the house almost instantly. He passed the cemetery on the right, drove down the long stretch of road cloaked in green on either side, and came to the roundabout. Ahead was the main part of Port Napier, where the fish and chip shop was. There wasn’t much to the town. He turned left, into the small housing estate.
‘He’ll live here somewhere,’ Brendan said. ‘Just look out for his car.’
‘Isn’t his car out bush? With its tyres slashed?’ Judah asked.
Brendan kept driving, pretending like he’d remembered that.
Martin leaned forward and said, ‘You’d forgotten. Right? It’s alright. Listen. I get it. Your dad does the thinking for you. Nothing wrong with that. Like Judah here. Better as a heavy hitter. World needs all sorts. But if you’re driving us around on the back of a prayer, well, just admit it.’
Brendan gripped the wheel, making the rubber squeak. ‘We just need to ask somebody and they’ll tell us.’
As he said this he saw an old man watering his front garden. Slowing the car he wound down his window and shouted, ‘Hey, can you tell me where Vernon Moore lives?’
The old man squinted into the sun and said, ‘Hello to you, too.’
‘Hi. Sorry.’
‘It’s alright. Manners always a good way to start off a conversation though.’
Brendan did his best not to open his door and choke the mongrel. Instead he said, ‘I’m sorry, I said.’
‘Now who’s asking about Vernon?’
‘Just a friend.’
‘What sort of friend?’
‘I’m a friend of his son’s.’
The old man gave him a harsh look. ‘Up to no good, that one.’
‘Can you just tell me, please?’
‘You’re not up to no good, are you?’
‘No, sir. Just wanting to see how he’s doing. With Caleb in jail. Thought he might need somebody to talk to.’
The old man did not seem appeased, but said, ‘Oh, alright. Turn right down the next street and he’s at the end, just on the water.’
When Brendan rounded the corner he saw a police cruiser at the end of the street. It was parked outside the last house before the water, what Brendan assumed was Vernon Moore’s home. Next to it was a mustard-coloured car. He pulled in to the kerb and turned around to face the men in the back.
‘What is it?’ Martin asked.
‘You don’t see the cops?’
‘Oh, them,’ he said. He squinted, leaning forwards. ‘Do they matter?’
‘Looks like Trenton cops.’
‘Okay, but do they matter?’
Brendan said, ‘They don’t not matter.’
‘Come on,’ Martin said. ‘Just pull into the driveway like you own the place.’ He sat back.
‘They’ll ask questions.’
‘So pretend you’re his son. It won’t be a problem.’
Judah said, ‘Just do it, you pansy.’
Brendan, furious, thrust the gearstick into first and revved the car. He pulled into the driveway and, without looking back at his passengers, stepped out.
The doors of the police car were opening. Brendan, with acute fear, went over to the two officers.
‘Hey there,’ he said, and felt an idiot.
‘You live here?’ the first policeman asked. They were both young. The second one, standing a metre behind and trying to act tough, had pimples covering his chin.
‘My dad lives here,’ Brendan said.
‘Oh yeah? You know where he is?’
&nb
sp; ‘He’s not home?’
‘He didn’t answer when we knocked.’
Brendan pretended to think on this. ‘Guess he’s out then.’
‘You know where?’
‘He hangs out at the pub sometimes.’
‘In Newbury?’
‘No. Darlington.’
‘Where’s Darlington?’
‘You would’ve driven through it on your way here.’
‘The place with one milk bar and a pub?’
‘Yeah. Just past the cemetery, going from Newbury to out here.’
‘That’s a town?’
‘That’s Darlington.’
Both policemen laughed. The first said, ‘Guess that’s all you need.’
Brendan tried to smile. ‘If he’s not home I’ll try him there, then.’
‘Alright. Cheers, mate. Hey,’ the officer said, and put his hand on Brendan’s shoulder to stop him turning. ‘You know what’s happening with him?’
‘No.’ Brendan said.
‘You know Wornkin?’
Brendan nodded, remembered her face as Judah struck her with his boots. ‘The police sergeant.’
‘She was being cagey about the whole thing, didn’t tell us much,’ the officer said. He added, ‘We just got word, too, over the radio that Caleb—your brother?—escaped from Boodyarn a few hours ago. The car he took is that one just there’—he nodded—‘so he’s probably taken the old man’s car and bolted. Anyway. Just maybe watch out for your dad. He might be in trouble. We might go look for him at that pub ourselves, actually.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’
‘You should tag along, mate. Help him see a friendly face.’
Brendan looked back at the car. ‘I only came to see him quick. I’m in a bit of a hurry.’
‘Yeah? Where to?’
‘A party. Got my mates in the car.’
He nodded at the car. Martin, for his part, raised a hand, smiling.
‘Alright,’ the officer said. ‘You don’t know where Caleb is, do you? You haven’t seen him?’
‘We don’t exactly get along. If he’s out he won’t come see me.’
‘Alright. If you say so. Contact the police, obviously, if you see him or hear anything, okay? We’ll go check out Darlington. Not sure what we’ll do if we can’t find him.’
