Sisters of Freedom

by Mary-Anne O'Connor

  ‘You lookin’ for them bad blokes? That Donovan?’ he’d asked.

  Riley figured it could only be to his advantage to be honest and answer in the affirmative and he’d been proven right. Apparently Pop’s granddaughter had been the wife Donovan had killed and Riley had spent a full day and night with the man as he gave him advice on what to look for and the all the likely places the fugitives would go.

  For fugitives they were. The law may not have given Pop’s family any justice but they couldn’t ignore Margie and Barney being witnesses to events that fateful night, nor the state that poor Fiona had been found in. They were wanted men but the police had given up the search long ago, figuring the gang would eventually just show up, and, when they did, they’d be arrested on the spot. Every local station had sketches of them on the wall but Riley knew these men better. They’d have plenty of supplies stashed away in caves up here and they could hide out for a very long time. But they didn’t deserve to live for a long time. They didn’t deserve to live for a day.

  That he was taking the law into his own hands bothered Riley not a whit, even though he’d never actually taken a man’s life. He knew if he did kill them all no-one would ever be the wiser in such remote land. Certainly no-one would care if they lived or died. Riley didn’t know of a single person who liked any of them, indeed they were despised. Especially Donovan. The river had always contained its own brand of local justice, each man a law unto himself, and if they did the wrong thing quite often it was dealt with outside the confines of the greater legal system. That was the way Riley had been raised and the way these men had been raised too. The natural law.

  They’d be expecting him to come after them, and likely watching their backs, but every day that slipped by would see them slowly lowering their guards, until that longed-for moment arrived and Riley found them. Then justice could be served.

  Riley packed up, tossing his billy tea away and rolling his swag, looking out at the partially cloudy day and wondering what the weather might do. It would affect the way these men behaved – if it poured rain they’d make camp and he could continue his search and get an advantage, but the disadvantage of losing their tracks, as he had yesterday, outweighed it. If it was sunny they’d hike along, just as he was, traversing Smuggler’s Track and the bushland that stretched for miles around it. However they’d return to favoured spots sooner or later, Riley was betting, and he was developing a pretty good idea where those were.

  The last tracks he’d found had led to the north-west, up here, and Riley set out to follow the main trail before breaking off down a thin gully towards a cave he knew of, guessing they’d be needing fresh supplies of whisky by now. The last two he’d found had been emptied out and there was no way these men would last a day without grog.

  Riley walked along, briskly now, thinking about Fiona and churning with hatred as he scanned the track and looked for clues. Better that than he think about the other subject his mind always returned to: Ivy.

  How it had come to pass that she be the one to raise the remaining three members of his family while he hunted for Fiona’s killers seemed an impossible irony. It had him sleeping restlessly at night, especially when he considered the difficult mess they’d be in trying to share custodianship on his return. It seemed much simpler to focus on revenge, which was just as consuming yet far less complicated; singular and straightforward with only one person’s actions and decisions to consider: his own.

  Riley saw the spot where the smaller track broke off up ahead and approached carefully, scanning the ground for any possible human signs. There were wallaby tracks imprinted clearly enough, and little fairy wren marks in the soft mud near the puddles, but no tread of a boot that he could see. He decided to go on and check anyway. There was a storage cave down there he’d heard George speak of when he was drunk a few times and it was too close by not to investigate.

  He could see Marramarra Creek through the trees as he went, a winding, snakelike waterway that twisted through the thick forest and scrub. It wound as though it searched for something, as if it too hunted for life, although it sought to give it, not to take it away. It was picturesque, Riley supposed, unable to prevent his mind from flicking back to Ivy. No matter what path she chose in life, he hoped she would always take the time to pause and sketch, and never lose that passion for appreciating what was beautiful in this world. Despite everything he kept the drawing of the wallaby carrying her joey folded up in his shirt pocket, a reminder of that fact. A sweetly maternal image to reassure him that his three nieces were safe with Ivy and away from the violent ugliness that had destroyed Fiona.

  The image of his sister at the end of her life flashed through his mind then. It haunted him, that moment, and although he knew he should choose from a thousand other memories, that was the one that stayed. Like a bloody stain he couldn’t wipe away. Indeed, it would remain until she was avenged, he knew. Until the blood of the men who raped and killed her stained the earth too, seeping into the dirt, their cruel bodies incapable of ever harming another woman again.

  Riley continued on, fiercely focused now, every sense on alert as he watched for any movement and listened to each sound that came from the thickly forested surrounds. After three months on his own, save his short spell with Pop, Riley felt like a part of the bushland himself and he was highly attuned to the life-forms within it. The flicker of a honeyeater’s wings, the scratch of a goanna as he moved further up a gum tree, the lament of a crow that echoed in sad resignation – more like a prophecy than a warning, as Riley walked towards an inevitable fate.

  On he went, deeper and deeper into the valley folds that would lead him to a sandstone outcrop and several hollows below where the cave should be, all the while listening out for that one sound that would differentiate itself from all others. Evidence of the cleverest life form of all, the one that did the most despicable of things: humanity.

  It took several hours of hiking to finally reach the outcrop and the sun had long been obscured by cloud, which made it difficult to guess the time but Riley figured it was well past lunch. Normally he’d have stopped to eat his usual fare of beans and damper but he was nearing the expanse of sandstone now and the prospect of climbing down to look for the cave was too tempting. He might even find a clue, or at the very least something else to eat.

  It was a steep climb and at first he thought he’d started at the wrong end of the ridge, so thick was the scrub but then he noticed something unusual and crept along stealthily to get a closer look. It was a clean broken branch, too thick to have been caused by a wallaby or a goanna, and it was a recent break, judging by the fresh cream colour of the wood. A waft of smoke drifted towards Riley then and it was laced with the unmistakable scent of wallaby meat. It made his mouth water on top of all the adrenaline. Riley crept forwards, heart thumping hard, stilling suddenly as he heard the sound he’d been waiting for these past long months, rising up from below. Voices.

  His heart drummed painfully against his ribcage and he moved with painstaking care not to give himself away with a crack of a twig or the scuff of his tread on a stone, following the drone until he could hear a man clearly yell.

  ‘Look out, y’burning it, ya stupid bloody mongrel.’

  It was Donovan. Riley parted the bush in front to peer through and there they were, the four wanted men, and they looked the part. All of them sported beards and they were filthy, the stench of them mixing with the wallaby meat on the breeze. Riley felt a surge of hatred so strong it was all he could do not to take his rifle and start shooting but he’d never get them all that way. And every single one of them had to pay for what they did to Fiona. The most logical thing to do was the hardest option: to sit and wait for his chance to pick them off, one by one. Still, he’d waited three months to avenge his sister. He could bide his time now.

  ‘Get out of the way,’ Donovan grunted, shoving Deano aside and turning the wallaby, which had been crudely cut up and skewered on a mangled contraption to dangle above the e
normous fire. It was gruesome to behold but it smelt good just the same. Any meat probably would after living on beans and damper for so long.

  ‘You’ve made the fire too bloody big again,’ Deano complained, ‘and that stupid skewering thing of yours brings it too close. Course it’s gonna burn.’

  ‘Hey, who took me whisky?’ Petey bellowed as he searched the ground behind him.

  ‘None of it’s yours, is it? It’s my bloody stash,’ George said as he made his unsteady way towards the bushes next to the nearby cave to relieve himself. Riley’s eyes narrowed as he watched him, this brother-in-law who was supposed to be Fiona’s protector yet allowed these disgusting brutes to ravage and beat her in front of his own tiny baby. What kind of a man would ever do such a thing? And how could Riley have ever believed Fiona that he hadn’t been hurting her all along? Riley wondered how it would feel when he killed him, if he’d feel satisfaction or relief or perhaps even ashamed that he’d been so poisoned by hatred he enjoyed it. Two wrongs never make a right, his father always taught him. He wasn’t sure if he’d say that now.

  Deano had sat down heavily to give Donovan a filthy look and he took out a bottle of his own, swigging from it.

  ‘Hey, is that mine?’ Petey said.

  ‘Nuh.’

  ‘It is mine. Give it over.’

  ‘I said, it’s not yours.’ Deano’s tone was menacing now.

  ‘Give him the fucking thing,’ Donovan growled as he turned the meat.

  Deano glared at him. ‘I’m gettin’ pretty sick of you telling me what to do.’

  ‘Yours is over here,’ George said, finding a bottle where he stood and Deano went over to get it slowly, tossing Petey’s on the ground.

  ‘If you’ve broken that you’ll pay,’ Petey said.

  ‘Touch me and I’ll kill ya,’ Deano told him. The bottle was intact, however, and the four drank in silence as Riley watched on. Maybe he wouldn’t even have to shoot these men himself. They looked ready to do the job any minute, the tension of living a fugitive existence day in, day out in this remote bushland together obviously wearing thin. That they were starting to turn on each other was obvious judging by the cuts and bruises they sported: a black swollen eye on Deano, rough and bloodied bandages around Petey’s leg and George’s head, a gash that ran the length of Donovan’s forearm. Insults and threats flew and it only got worse as the day wore on and they got drunker and meaner.

  By sunset knives had been drawn by Deano and Donovan twice and Petey had begun cleaning his gun as George looked from one to the other, obviously frightened. He was in far deeper than he’d bargained for, befriending this scum – George was used to beating a woman, not fighting hardened men. Riley watched his fear without pity, thinking how terrified Fiona would have been all these years and especially that last terrible night. How afraid the little girls would have been too.

  Donovan stood, slicing off more of the wallaby meat, half-eaten by now as the fire blazed.

  ‘Thought we decided we were gonna salt that and take it with us tomorrow,’ Deano said.

  ‘You decided, which means I don’t give a shit,’ Donovan said, tearing at the meat and dangling his knife from his fingers with a nasty grin in the bright firelight. ‘Got a problem with that?’

  ‘Yeah, I got a problem with that,’ Deano said, standing up and rocking unsteadily in his boots. ‘I got a problem with all your bossy bullshit.’

  ‘Why don’t ya clear off then? No-one’s holding a gun to ya head. Yet.’ Donovan looked over at his own rifle and back at Deano, eyebrows raised.

  ‘You better be careful what you say, Donovan. I can slit ya throat in the middle of the night and none of these blokes’d care.’

  ‘That so?’ Donovan said, looking at George and Petey.

  Petey stopped cleaning his gun to glare back and answer. ‘You’re the one that got us into this shit.’

  ‘Didn’t see you sayin’ no to a turn.’

  Riley felt murderous rage of his own begin to pump in his veins at those words and he picked up his rifle, shouldering it; waiting for the moment to arrive when he’d take aim.

  ‘What about you?’ Donovan said to George.

  ‘You … you didn’t have to hit her so hard,’ George stammered, staring at Donovan’s knife. ‘Now I got no wife and I can’t see me kids and Riley … Riley’s gonna kill us if he finds us.’

  ‘Bah, he won’t have the guts,’ Donovan scoffed drunkenly, twirling his knife, ‘but I tell ya what, if he turns up I reckon I’ll knock him off too. Can’t believe he had those fine women staying on his boat and didn’t give us a go. Come to think about it, why the hell didn’t you have a crack?’

  ‘Couldn’t get near ’em with Riley hanging around,’ George muttered, his eyes still on Donovan’s knife.

  ‘Well, ya know what I think? I think you’re a coward,’ Donovan said, stumbling closer towards him.

  ‘I’m not …’ George said, eyes round beneath the bandage on his head as Donovan waved the knife towards his face.

  ‘Prove it then,’ Donovan said, arms wide.

  ‘H-how?’

  ‘Little game I know called chicken,’ Donovan said and Riley’s blood turned cold as George blanched.

  ‘I’d rather n-not.’

  ‘Aw, come on. It’s simple,’ Donovan said. ‘You just get a knife like this, see? And you throw it close as ya can at the other bloke’s hand against the tree.’

  ‘Think we’re too drunk for that,’ George said, looking sick.

  ‘Chicken?’ Donovan said, making clucking noises.

  ‘Stop it,’ George said, the fear getting to him. ‘Stop it, you bloody bastard!’

  Donovan paused. ‘Well, you’re gonna have to play after saying something rude like that.’ He grabbed the man and threw him against the tree, holding George’s hand flat against it, palm out. George struggled but Donovan just slammed him back against it harder.

  ‘Just let him do it,’ Petey said. ‘We won’t hear the end of it until you do.’

  George looked too terrified to respond, stilling now, his hand visibly shaking against the bark. Donovan made quite a show of taking ten paces and turning before lifting the knife and taking unsteady aim. Riley held his breath as it flew through the air, missing George’s hand but spearing straight into his upper arm.

  ‘Arrrgh!’ George screamed, falling to his knees in agony. ‘Get it out, get it out!’

  Deano stood, glaring at Donovan. ‘What the fuck did you do that for?’

  ‘Help,’ sobbed George as the blood ran.

  ‘I missed,’ Donovan said, arms akimbo again and grinning.

  Deano knelt down and pulled the knife from George’s arm. He screamed again and clutched at it as his shirtsleeve became increasingly soaked in red.

  ‘Ya never think, that’s your problem,’ Deano said as the blood continued to pour. ‘Now we got a badly injured man in the middle of bloody nowhere.’

  ‘He’ll be right.’ Donovan shrugged.

  ‘Looks pretty nasty,’ Petey commented over George’s yells of pain.

  ‘Shit. You know, you really are the lowest arsehole I ever met,’ Deano said, furious now. ‘I reckon I should just haul George outta here, get back to town and tell the cops you’re the one that murdered his missus and where you are.’

  ‘Do that and it’ll be the last thing you ever do,’ Donovan said, his grin fading. He picked up his knife and held it tight. It dripped with blood as George writhed and cried. Riley gripped his gun nervously, unsure whether or not to act.

  ‘Can’t see how you’re gonna stop me,’ Deano said, taking out his knife and holding it up. The two men began to circle, stumbling as they went as George continued to sob.

  ‘Shut up,’ Donovan told him.

  ‘I … I can’t …’ George cried out.

  ‘Shut up or I’ll make you,’ Donovan yelled, his eyes trained on Deano, but George continued to cry.

  ‘I warned you!’ Donovan turned and threw his knife again, and this time it
landed in the man’s chest. George gave a final terrible grunt of pain before slumping lifelessly to the forest floor. Riley watched in shock as Deano launched himself on Donovan, seizing his chance.

  Petey floundered to his feet. ‘Get off, get off!’ he shouted, trying to take aim. He pulled the trigger and a shot split the air, causing the men to break apart but then Donovan yanked the knife from George’s chest. They immediately tussled again, blades held in each of their hands as they strained to keep the other’s away. Petey threw his gun down and tried to pull Donovan off, but only succeeded in knocking Deano’s blade away by mistake. Donovan swung around, burying his blade in Petey’s throat. Deano watched in shock as Petey lurched then collapsed onto his back with a terrible gurgling sound, his head lolling to the side. A trickle of blood seeped from his mouth through his beard. Dead too.

  Donovan didn’t miss a beat, reaching down to pull the blade straight out of Petey. He turned back to Deano, who lay sprawled on the ground.

  ‘Enough,’ Deano said, staring at Petey in horror. ‘Enough now, Donovan,’ he repeated, shaking his head. ‘We’re … we’re the only ones left.’

  ‘I’ll decide when it’s enough,’ Donovan yelled, holding up the knife in manic triumph. ‘You said you’d kill me in my sleep so yeah … it’s not enough yet, is it?’

  Deano glanced over at his discarded knife and lunged for it but Donovan saw that coming. He threw his own blade once more and it landed straight in Deano’s heart.

  He let out a groan and Donovan wandered over to twist it cruelly, taking a third life and leaving Deano to lie with his eyes open, gazing sightlessly towards the sky. Riley watched grimly, sickened by the massacre he’d just witnessed, but Deano’s dead eyes reminded him of the moment Fiona had passed away and he knew the moment for vengeance had finally arrived.