Shelter

by Rhyll Biest

Holding the beer can to her hot cheek, Kat had to ask whether the rough and tumble of her childhood had been perfect preparation for her new job. What a depressing thought. She remembered the deadbeat dad. He might still be loitering outside depending on how dumb he was. ‘Alright, I better bounce. Don’t forget to come by for the vitamins.’

  ‘Sure.’ Ruth nodded.

  She’d better come for the vitamins because Kat didn’t think she’d be returning to the tattoo parlour any time soon. For anything. Ever. Pressing the can of beer to her face she pushed through the door, a fist of hot air slugging her the second her foot hit the pavement.

  As expected, the deadbeat dad was nowhere to be seen.

  A sourness settled in her belly, sharp and heavy.

  Crap. Shit and derision. Though what had she expected? She was no Miss Marples.

  And now her knee hurt. She’d twisted something. Which meant that when she got home tonight she’d end up googling everything that could go wrong with a knee and would probably decide it needed amputation. Sometimes it sucked knowing yourself too well.

  As she limped away, Bert called after her. ‘Fuckofffuckofffuckoff.’

  Yeah, she got the message, she was a fucking failure. Tell me something frigging new.

  Five minutes later, as she sat in her car checking the route to the next job, her mobile rang.

  She held the phone to her ear, clutching the beer can to the other side of her face, like some kind of weird Transformer with a lump of steel pressed to each cheek.

  Sharon spoke. ‘Hi, Kat, we just got a priority call about injured sheep. They might have been attacked by dogs.’

  ‘Okay, what’s the address?’

  ‘The Townsend property, Lot 101, by Walgarra Creek. You might want to take Luka or Evert.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ She was pretty damn sure Evert was too busy to come hold her hand, likewise Luka. And she was also sure she didn’t want either seeing her banged up face with its red badge of stupidity.

  ‘The owners have been difficult in the past.’

  What was it, cryptic Monday? ‘How difficult is difficult?’

  ‘Hang on, I’m just looking at the file.’ Sharon’s tone was not friendly. Fancy that.

  For a good minute Kat dangled on the other end of silence.

  ‘Says that they strongly objected to having strangers on their property. I don’t have any more detail than that.’

  Great. ‘Strongly objected’ could be anything from spitting to shots fired. ‘Okay, thanks, I’ll get in touch with one of them. Bye.’ She rubbed the beer can back and forth over her cheek. It was too bad for her pride because she really needed to know if it was safe to go out there. Spitting she could handle, not so much firearms.

  Phoning Evert was a bust. No doubt he was up to his knees in mud or worse. She tried Luka’s number, doubt and discomfort nibbling her insides as she dialled.

  He answered on the first ring. There was no doubt about it, someone upstairs hated her.

  ‘Belovuk.’

  The deep rumble through her phone and his surname reminded her that she was speaking to ’the Brick’. The man had a physical presence even through the phone line.

  ‘It’s Kat. I’ve got a question for you.’

  A fire engine went past, sirens blaring, and she had to pause before she could speak. And heard the same siren at his end of the phone.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked before she could discourage the train of thought.

  ‘London Street, but what I wanted to ask—’

  ‘I’m one street away. Which end are you?’

  She glanced in front of her. ‘Next to the fish and chips shop.’ Definitely not near the tattoo parlour.

  One, two, three. And there was the police car. He pulled up right next to her, as if she were about to hand him a brown paper bag full of money.

  Belovuk’s window slid down. Kat kept her window raised as high as possible but it didn’t help.

  ‘What in shit happened to you?’ He glared at her bruised cheek like it had personally insulted him.

  ‘Nothing,’ she muttered, even though she knew that answer wouldn’t ride.

  ‘I want a name and I want it now.’

  And damn if that wasn’t the exact tone her old man used to hit—along with her mother. ‘Do you now? I’d like to be legally recognised as mistress of the universe. Let’s see who gets what they want first.’

  Silence as he registered her tone and backed off. Temporarily. ‘Did you ice it?’

  ‘No, I prefer that it swells to the size of a second head.’

  His eyes warned her, warned her not to push him.

  ‘I’m using this to ice it.’ She raised the beer can. ‘And it was an accident.’

  ‘The fuck it was.’

  ‘No one hit me, I tripped and hit my face on something.’

  ‘Do you know how many times I’ve had to listen to shit like that?’

  Don’t talk to me like that. ‘Too many times is my guess, but this time it’s true.’

  Some of the tension left his face. ‘Okay, so you tripped. What happened to make you trip?’

  Unease ground its bony pelvis against her. ‘Nothing.’

  His whole body stiffened and his expression turned ominous. ‘Bullshit.’

  Why couldn’t he just leave it alone? ‘What if I told you it was just macho posturing, the same sort of crap just about every woman born has had thrown at her a thousand times in her lifetime?’ She put the beer can down to tighten her ponytail. ‘And I hightailed it outta there. See? I have an excellent sense of self-preservation.’

  He made a noncommittal type noise, almost a grunt. ‘And where did all this take place?’

  Ruth would not appreciate being ‘dobbed in’. Not one bit. And it would land her in a world of shit with her father, who Kat had already picked for unjust and dangerous. And abusive. ‘If I tell you will you go there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’m not telling you.’

  ‘So why did you call me then?’

  With a jolt things gelled. He thought she’d called him to show him her injury, to sic him on whoever had done it.

  Did he really think her incapable of sorting her own shit?

  While Galenka was still busy making a retching sound of revulsion, Belovuk’s bulk unfolded from his car, and before she knew it he’d leaned in to inspect her face more closely. ‘Wind your window down, I want a better look.’

  She hesitated and he mimed winding it down, as if she needed hand signals to understand English.

  With a glare she wound the window down. ‘Happy now?’

  ‘Yes.’ He raised a hand as if to brush her throbbing cheek and she flinched, relaxed when he only touched the beer can. ‘Feels warm. Want an ice pack? We have some at the station.’

  ‘It’s alright.’ He fussed worse than an occupational health and safety officer. ‘I wanted to ask you something.’

  ‘Okay, you’ll probably regret it, but it’s your shiner. What do you need?’

  To win lotto and nail you. ‘I need to know whether it’s safe to visit the Townsend property on my own. Sharon said the owner has been difficult in the past.’

  She found it easier to study his monster of an arm with its river of veins than to meet his eyes.

  ***

  Luka stared at the beer can pressed to her cheek. She was so small and fresh faced, what sort of monster would make her take a fall? If he ever found that person … And why wouldn’t she tell him who it had been? Why would she protect them?

  ‘So have they? Been difficult, I mean?’ She gave him an impatient look.

  ‘The Townsends? Bert’s getting on and can be a bit cranky but I can’t imagine he’d threaten you.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  ‘Give me another look at that shiner.’ Could be she needed to see a doctor.

  She held the beer can away and he shook his head at the amount of swelling. ‘You sure I can’t offer you a better cold pack than a half-warm beer?�
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  She sighed, pressed the can back in place. ‘Fine, I’ll accept a cold pack if you tell me something.’

  He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Are we bargaining here?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Impressive how scrappy she was for someone who’d just garnered a shiner. He had to admire her lady balls. ‘Okay, I’ll bite. What do you want to know?’

  ‘That tattoo parlour over there, Grinder’s. Who owns it?’

  His mood darkened. ‘Darryl Hicks, also known as Grinder.’

  Recognition flickered in her eyes. ‘The mullet guy?’

  ‘Yeah.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘He got anything to do with that beer can you’re holding to your face?’

  ‘No.’ She met his eyes. ‘He doesn’t. And wasn’t it you who told me not to go around stirring up shit? You should take your own advice.’

  Wow, built like a ballerina but aggressive as a yard shark. ‘Why are you asking, then?’

  ‘Because the cockatoo out the front of his place is missing its feathers. I need to put his name in the report.’

  Bleakness welled up in him. ‘Don’t even dream of it, especially not for a bloody bird.’

  Her face stiffened. ‘I think we’ve covered this territory before. Unless you’re going to provide me with specific details, don’t issue any warnings or directives to me relating to my job.’

  A mob of emotions rushed him, cudgelled his insides and raised a sweat on the soles of his feet. How was it possible that she filled him with terror, admiration and frustration all at once? Admiration for her sheer guts, frustration at his own inability to get through to her, and terror that Walgarra’s very real dangers would get her.

  ‘I think Grinder killed Mark, or had someone kill him.’ The words erupted from him. Now why had he gone and done that? Was he that desperate to protect the new girl that he was happy to ignore police protocol and run his mouth?

  Her expression flattened out, like he’d just reported her family’s involvement in a road fatality.

  ‘Why did Grinder want him dead?’

  Why? That question rarely arose in conjunction with bikers who sold ice, because it hardly mattered. Everything was just collateral damage. ‘Over greyhounds, I think.’ And how sad and pathetic was that?

  ‘Walgarra has a greyhound track?’

  ‘Yup, just what a town full of low-income gambling addicts needs.’

  She frowned. ‘Since when do bikers own greyhounds?’

  ‘Grinder has several. Mark said owners earn money just for entering a dog in a race, but I think it’s more about the money laundering potential of the sport that interests people like Grinder.’

  She shifted the beer can against her cheek and winced. ‘Where does the nickname come from?’

  ‘His dad was a butcher. The rumour is that he sometimes used his father’s meat grinder for disposing of bodies.’

  ‘Sounds like bullshit.’

  She cussed a lot. He liked it. ‘Agreed. Mark told me that he’d reported Grinder to the track stewards and that it was possible Grinder would lose his licence to race greyhounds.’

  ‘What did Mark report him for?’

  He hesitated.

  Her grass green eyes narrowed. ‘No need to protect my delicate sensibilities.’

  As if she had any. ‘Mark said the dog’s tail was broken during a race and that it needed treatment by a vet.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Later in the day, Mark found the dog’s tail, manually detached, by the side of the track.’ Just telling the story made him feel unwell.

  The new girl’s response was something else. A queasy look followed by an insane smile.

  Like she needed enemies and he’d just given her one. A gift. No, a cause. Her eyes flashed, bright with serrated edges and broken glass. ‘Is he still racing greyhounds?’

  He could guess where this was going. ‘Yes. I don’t think the stewards have acted on Mark’s report.’

  ‘I see.’

  He took the beer can from her hand. It roused her from whatever fucked-up revengicide trance she’d fallen into. ‘And you will not go near that racetrack, or him, or his dogs, or his business, unless I’m with you. Agreed?’

  She tilted her head, everything about her poised to give him grief. ‘Now why would I agree to that?’

  ‘Because you’re not stupid, and you like me too much to give me ulcers.’

  She smirked. ‘Why should I worry about your ulcers?’

  He sighed. ‘Don’t make me put you over my knee until you agree with me.’

  She flushed, looked away. Why did she have to be engaged? If she was with him, he’d fuck the living daylights out of her twice a day and equip her with her own personal panic button.

  When she looked at him again it was with her cool-and-calm game face. ‘So, you’ve stolen my beer. Where’s this ice pack you promised?’

  ‘At the station. Follow me.’ He waggled the beer can. ‘If you promise not to drink this while driving, you can have it back.’

  ‘Gee, thanks.’

  As she tried to take the can from him, he held onto it. ‘If you want to avoid the need for future ice packs, take the de-escalation workshop.’

  She chewed her lip. ‘Don’t nag. I said I’d think about it.’

  ‘Say yes and I’ll stop nagging you.’ He was a pushy fucker today.

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Alright, fine, yes, I’ll go to your training thing. At least once. Happy now?’

  Lightness stole into his veins and he wanted to grin like the simple dick he was. Instead, he toned it down. ‘Very happy.’ In fact, the happiest he’d been in a long time.

  Chapter 11

  How was it that she’d ended up taking a self-defence—well, de-escalation, whatever that was—course on her weekend? Probably the same way she’d ended up working in a fucked-up version of Wandin Valley with ice and bikers.

  Or perhaps concussion made her do it. Her head had hit that tyre at Grinder’s. She glanced at Stumpy. ‘I went down harder than a pangolin parts smuggler at Sydney airport, Stumps.’

  Since it was a nice day, she’d brought him along on the walk to the school gymnasium from her house. He rested in a sling she’d fashioned from an oversized nylon shopping bag and raised his nose to scent the air each time they passed one of the giant oak trees lining the footpath to provide shade.

  The streets were quiet as she ambled along, Stumpy bumping against her belly with each step.

  She liked the slow pace, the quiet streets, the greenery and the mostly friendly people in Walgarra. Country towns had a lot going for them.

  A good thing she’d decided she liked Walgarra because now she had to stay.

  When Belovuk had told her about Grinder and the greyhound, everything had clicked.

  Well, first she’d nearly thrown up, but then things had clicked.

  This, this was what she’d studied for. This was why she’d got a job with the RSPCA. So she could go after the kind of motherfuckers who pulled the tails off dogs.

  She’d been good at quarantine but there was so much more she could be doing than checking passenger luggage for apples. That was important work, too, but this, this was so big it felt like a holy war, so big that her usual worries about hand sanitiser and shared drinking cups and never being able to trust anyone enough to have a real relationship receded as she focused on her goal.

  She’d take everything, everything away from Grinder, burn his house down—literally and metaphorically—trash his bike and then pick his bones clean.

  This was total war.

  People like him never hurt just one animal, and they never stopped hurting them. And then there was Ruth. What had he done to her? Kat had to believe the hefty body of research that indicated that animal abuse went hand in hand with domestic violence. As a child she had intuited it, had never asked for a pet, had settled for playing with neighbours’ pets instead.

  Walgarra would not be safe until Grinder was removed.

  She knew she had issues, more
issues than there were smuggled mooncakes in checked luggage during the Chinese Moon Festival. And the biggest issue among them doubt. Doubt was a knot of toads—black, spiny monstrosities that crouched in her head and quietly spat poison in the form of relentless questions about her worth and others’ intentions. The toad tolerated no competition from weaker, more tender feelings and degraded her emotional landscape, left it unsuited for growing trust or love. It preyed on her hopes. Happiness could not survive its toxins. And it was clear, even to her, that the fertile froth on its back bore doubt’s offspring—paranoia and aggression. The evidence lay everywhere in her life, as it endlessly spawned, and spawned and spawned.

  She couldn’t eradicate doubt but she could use her poison to save the town’s animals from Grinder.

  A figure rode towards her on a bike. Walgarra was the sort of place—well, this part of it, at least—where one could ride a bike without worrying too much about becoming road kill. The bike neared and she saw it was a teen—without a helmet. Christ on a cracker, did his parents know? Over forty percent of cyclists, and forty-five percent of child cyclists, suffered head injuries.

  ‘Where’s your helmet?’

  He gave her the finger and peddled onwards.

  Little shit. There was a reason she preferred animals to kids.

  She paused outside the school, used the map at the front gate to find the gymnasium. Not a soul stirred inside, and yet the steel roller doors on both sides of the building were open. A half-hearted draught stirred through it.

  She entered, felt the give to the sprung wood floor under her runners. Despite the open doors, the gym smelled like a used jock strap, the funk of stale sweat almost knocking her out. She hoped they disinfected the mats regularly. The thought of catching a fungal infection disturbed her more than meth-dealing bikers.

  A piece of paper floated by, buoyed by a gentle cross-draught created by louvres set in the lower half of the cement block walls.

  The memory of the ghostly shopping bags floating around Walgarra’s housing estate goosed her and she snatched up the piece of paper to exorcise it, read the lyrics to a song and took in the pencilled notes scratched in the margins about pitch and timing.

  ‘Ginger ninja.’

  Kat raised her head. She hadn’t heard that one since high school.