by Dean Mayes
“I-I thought it was all right,” the woman responded. “I checked it before I put her in.”
Hayden glanced sideways at the ambulance officer.
Turning back to the child, Hayden continued his scan upwards, across the child’s abdomen. When he arrived at the level of the navel, he noted a sudden line of demarcation where the scalding ended. The skin above was completely unaffected. Hayden’s jaw locked. As he lifted her arms above her head, he took one of her small hands in his and examined a random pattern of blisters, indicative of splash scalds.
“And where was the father at the time of the accident?” Hayden asked.
When he did not receive a reply, he turned towards the parents. The father’s expression was taut. His right fist was opening and closing, even as his partner tried to clasp his hand. He shrugged belligerently. “Wasn’t there,” he said. “Was out at the shops.”
Hayden shot a look at the ambulance officer, and this time, she raised a finger and scratched the bridge of her nose.
The universal sign for I call bullshit.
“I’ll take it from here.” Hayden dismissed Magda and the ambulance officer with a nod, and after they’d left he turned to face the parents.
“The area of skin affected by the scalding—her legs, her groin, and abdomen—and the severity of the blistering, suggest she was in the water for longer than thirty seconds. There are also marks on both arms indicative of some sort of struggle. And this—” His hand hovered over the child’s belly. “This line of demarcation, between the affected skin and the unaffected skin. It suggests these injuries weren’t acci—”
“What the fuck are you getting at?” the father spat.
The mother grabbed his arm as he steeled himself like a predator, ready to pounce, and glowered at Hayden.
Hayden snatched up the ambulance report from the bench and scanned the document, tracing along with his finger as he read. “You said you weren’t at the house when the accident happened.”
“Yeah—so?”
“The ambulance officer reported you were outside in the garden and came into the house as soon as your wife shouted for help.”
Incredibly, the father allowed a slick grin to cross his lips. “Like I said, mate, what are you getting at?”
Hayden turned towards the mother. “Why didn’t you test the temperature of the water before you lowered your child into the bath?”
“I-I did test the water,” she implored.
Without warning, the father erupted, barrelling forward and swinging his arms. Hayden reacted, ducking to avoid the blow, but the man’s fist connected with his cheek, and his neck snapped back.
Clutching the side of the gurney, the child’s father steadied himself, preparing to attack again. Hayden fought to clear his head and he cradled his chin. His jaw throbbed.
The father launched again, whirling his fists anew. Hayden tried to anticipate the punches but suffered several blows. Bringing his own arms up, Hayden lurched forward, his hands latching onto the man’s neck. The mother screamed. The man’s eyes bulged in shock and his arms fell to his sides.
The curtain of the cubicle was yanked aside and Magda shifted into the cubicle behind Hayden. “Code Black! Code Black!” she shouted. The two men were now wheeling in a circle.
“Security!” screamed one of the other nurses.
“You bastard!” the father spat as he flailed his arms.
Hayden locked his elbows to keep him from retaliating. He shoved the man hard against the rear wall. The man’s head snapped back, hitting an oxygen regulator, and he roared.
“Remove the child!” Hayden croaked.
Magda complied, holding the little girl as she backed away from the two men.
Hayden’s desperation fluxed as he tightened his grip on the man’s throat. And then it was no longer desperation driving him. Glaring into the man’s reddening features, Hayden felt anger blossom.
Anger. Rage.
He relished it.
The man’s arm jerked forth and went rigid as he struck Hayden repeatedly. His strangled cries reached Hayden’s ears but he blocked them out. One of the man’s legs came up, his knee searching for Hayden’s groin, but Hayden anticipated the move and shifted to one side.
Then, the unthinkable happened.
Hayden responded in kind. He thrust his own leg up and it struck home. The man cried out, and all at once, the fight went out of him. His eyes rolled back in his head and his body went limp.
But Hayden refused to back down. He maintained his grip, not wanting to let go, baring his teeth with the effort. He was determined to punish him.
Then, he felt arms and hands on him, yanking him backwards. His fingers retracted and the man dropped like a stone.
Horror flooded him, colliding head-on with his anger. He barely registered the security guards dragging him away. The room began to spin and sound became a series of loud echoes and disjointed noise.
Rafter marched into the cubicle. “What the hell is going on here?!” he shouted, blinking at Hayden in the arms of the guards, while the father flailed like an overturned beetle on the floor.
More guards arrived while nurses frantically pulled the curtains of the other cubicles across to block the spectacle.
The director’s look shot from the father to Hayden to Magda, who was still holding the child. He was apoplectic. Jerking a thumb up, he glared at the guard. “Get him out of here!”
He then jabbed a finger at the man on the floor. “Him, too! And call in the police. And get Child Protection down here, now! Jesus Christ!”
The guard holding Hayden eased him back and he submitted without protest. His awareness shattered. He did not notice the shocked stares of the people in the department—the nurses and doctors, children and parents, and other nameless faces, all of whom stood stunned as he and the guard passed by.
Shame crashed over him like a tidal wave.
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, HE STAGGERED towards the front door of the house. He dropped his bike on the porch, nearly tripping over it as he fumbled with his keys. His emotions were chaotic. He could not think. He was unable to reason. His hands shook as he guided the key into the lock. The events of the morning taunted him, ensuring that his shame continued to roil inside him.
The child on the gurney. The unbelievable burns. His hands clasped around the neck of the father. The screams of the mother. Being dragged away by security.
He pushed open the door and staggered up the stairs.
Sitting in Rafter’s office, a uniformed police officer taking notes. Rafter’s fury.
Disciplinary action. Suspension. Loss of registration.
Hayden nearly choked and he dared not allow himself pause for thought, lest he be crushed under the weight of his circumstance, or worse—to reconsider what he was about to do.
At some point in the morning, someone at the hospital had thought it best to contact Bernadette. On hearing the circumstances, she’d begged them not to let him leave the hospital.
No one would dare try to convince him to stay.
When he reached the bedroom, the walls seemed to close in on him. The disgust at being here, in front of the bed where he’d witnessed his wife fucking that bastard, brought acid to the back of his throat.
The phone in his backpack rang yet again, but he refused to answer it. He knew it would be Bernadette. He pounced on the wardrobe, yanking out a large duffel bag, then tore clothes from the rack and stuffed them inside.
He turned to the bed, their bed, and the memories came again.
Her naked body captured in the moonlight. Her groans of pleasure as she threw her head back.
This bed. This room. Both would be forever tainted with the stench of their sex.
Hayden steeled his resolve once more and pulled the zip of the duffel bag, struggling against the bulge of his clothes until it yielded, then he swept from the room and down the stairs. He released his hold on the bag, then turned into his study and reached behind the door. He snatched
his backpack from the hook there, threw it down on the desk, grabbed his laptop, and shoved it inside, not bothering to free the cords trailing from it.
His head began to spin. He sat down, second-guessing himself. He had nowhere to go. No friends of his own whom he could turn to. There was only Bernadette’s family here in Adelaide and the majority of his and Bernadette’s friends were those she had introduced him to.
Hayden felt totally and utterly alone.
Bowing his head, he began to weep, allowing grief to have its way.
Through his tears, he saw the framed photograph of his mother. He blinked at it as a sudden, disparate idea struck him.
He pushed up from the desk and reached across to snatch up the photo, knocking over his and Bernadette’s wedding portrait beside it. Slinging the pack over his shoulder, Hayden paused at the entrance to his study as his burgeoning idea continued to spin into being.
Walhalla.
He backed out into the living room, grabbing his duffel bag.
Walhalla.
As much as he’d tried to forget that name, suddenly, it made sense.
It was the only option.
He left the house and locked the doors, marching across the lawn and into the garage. His Holden stood silent and solitary.
Unhooking the canvas cover, he swung the backpack and duffel bag into the tray, then moved to the cabin where he reached in through the open window and snatched the keys from under the sun visor. He aimed a remote attached to them at the garage door.
Hayden opened the door and swung into the vehicle, firing up the recalcitrant engine and wrenching the gearshift into position before the Holden even had a chance to warm up.
A twinge of panic needled him.
I’m really going to do this?
His grasped the steering wheel, knuckles white, as a wave of inertia washed over him.
Stay or leave…
There was nothing left. No future in this place.
Gunning the engine, Hayden swung hard left and reversed into a laneway, shifting gears before the Holden had completed its reverse arc. He planted his foot and the tyres squealed as he lurched forward onto the street. He turned right and accelerated away.
BERNADETTE’S AUDI PULLED UP IN front of the house and she leapt out. She clutched her phone in one hand, wrestling with her keys with the other.
Dizzy with panic, she kicked off her heels and sprinted to the front door where she jabbed the key into the lock and wrenched it open.
“Hayden!” she cried, bursting into the house and searching the downstairs area.
There was no sound. No signs of life anywhere.
Shaking, she thumbed at her phone’s screen, redialling Hayden and listening on speaker as the tone rang over and over until it disconnected.
Slapping a hand to her forehead, Bernadette hissed as her eyes darted from the kitchen to the living room and down the hall. She went to Hayden’s study and found his desk in a shambles and his laptop gone.
“Shit!”
She stumbled back into the living area and collapsed onto the carpet, leaning against the sofa and covering her face with her hands.
“What have I done?”
IN THE REARVIEW MIRROR, THE sun dropped below the Adelaide Hills. Hayden stared straight ahead, fixing his gaze far into the distance. His phone lay on the seat beside him. It continued to ring, but he barely noticed it. If anything, he took a perverse pleasure in hearing it at the fringes of his consciousness.
His silence would be driving her crazy.
He recoiled. This wasn’t like him. He might be awkward, aloof at times, but he certainly wasn’t cruel. He’d never wanted to be cruel.
He felt a pull—a desire to return. His foot eased away from the accelerator.
What am I doing? I’ve got to go back! Maybe we can sort this out?
Flashes popped before him. Visions of Bernadette and James. The looks on their faces.
Hayden’s eyes closed involuntarily against the images, causing him to drift across the highway. A truck’s air horn blasted and he gasped, wrenching the steering wheel with both hands until he brought the Holden back under control. The large rig thundered by his window.
Shaking his head, angry with himself, Hayden beat the terrible memories away.
The phone began ringing again. Snatching up the device, he flung it out the window.
The Holden put on a fresh burst of speed and disappeared into the dusk.
The phone struck the tarmac, shattering into a dozen pieces.
And yet, stubbornly, it continued to ring.
~ Chapter 6 ~
DARKNESS. DEEP AND ALL-CONSUMING.
There was a creaking sound, footfalls on floorboards, and then a single light snapped on somewhere beyond the top of a rickety staircase.
A woman appeared, petite and lithe, her features shadowed from the light of her bedroom behind her. She paused at the banister to rub her eyes, yawn, and then stretch, before reaching out to grip the rail. Barefoot, she descended the stairs into the gloom below, not at all concerned with the darkness. She knew her way. She’d padded down these stairs so many times.
At the bottom, she turned and slipped through a doorway, reaching beside her and feeling for a switch. A single light globe snapped on, blinding her, and she blinked until her eyes adjusted.
The kitchen was small, though serviceable. In its centre was a table that took up most of the room. On the table, large sheets of muslin cloth were draped over a cluster of symmetrical mounds.
She approached them, leaned over, and inhaled. She smiled as she assessed the aroma. Lifting a corner of the muslin, she peeked underneath, inspecting the white mounds.
Loaves of bread dough, fully risen and ready for baking.
Beside the table, along one wall, a pair of multi-level racks held more loaves, also draped in muslin. She regarded them and sighed.
She wiggled her wrist and looked at her watch.
1:55 a.m.
“Time to go to work, Belle.”
She washed her hands at the sink, then went to the refrigerator in the corner, took out two large bowls, and transferred these to the table. She lifted an apron from a hook beside the refrigerator and slipped it over her head, then retrieved a canister of flour from a shelf.
She reached into one of the bowls, lifted out an elastic globe of dough, and set it down on the tabletop. Testing it with her thumb, she pressed into its surface and smiled as the dough sprang back.
“Hmm.”
She sprinkled the surface of the dough with flour and armed herself with a rolling pin, then began gently spreading the mass outward.
She fell into the rhythm she knew so well.
Her working day had begun.
A SINGLE DOOR OPENED AT the front of the darkened shop and a lone figure appeared.
He paused on a step to pull on a pair of woollen gloves and adjusted his battered Pastoralist hat, then patted the side of his leg twice. A small dog darted from inside and turned a circle on the road in front of the shop, yapping enthusiastically. Its master shushed it. The dog’s tail curled under its hind legs and it cringed, creeping back to the man’s side, fearing discipline, but was instead rewarded with an affectionate scratch behind the ear.
The man emerged into a starlit night overseen by a silvery crescent moon. It bathed the valley in an ethereal glow, casting long shadows across the towering mountain ranges on either side of the township. The scent of moisture hung in the air. Puddles of water on the road glimmered in the moonlight, the leftovers of last night’s rain shower.
As he buttoned his thick woollen jacket higher and adjusted his scarf underneath his bushy beard, Max Trumbridge turned back to the shop—the Walhalla General Store and Restaurant.
He smiled, noting his breath was visible in the pre-dawn air. It was a smile of respect, an acknowledgement of Mother Nature’s influence over these mountains, one that should never be taken for granted.
A languid trail of chimney smoke curled upwards
from the restaurant. He’d stoked the dining-room fire before venturing out, ensuring it would be cosy for the early-morning diners. He could smell other wood fires and he looked around, observing several chimneys smoking nearby. Then he detected another scent, drifting up the valley from the south, that made his stomach rumble.
The smell of baking bread.
Max’s attention went down the main street towards the roof of a single building just beyond the bend. He regarded his pooch. “Isabelle must be awake already, eh?”
Turning his wrist to catch the glow from the moonlight across the face of his watch, Max checked the time.
4:25 a.m.
Time enough for his regular morning walk before another busy day.
“Come on, Sam,” he called.
Turning north, Max squeezed his gloved hands into the pockets of his jacket and began a slow saunter up the quiet street. The only sound, apart from the cheerful trot of the dog beside him, was the soft babbling of nearby Stringer’s Creek—a welcome noise that Max had known his whole life.
It was as if the creek whispered, perpetually, the story of this township, from the moment prospectors had stumbled across the valley in the heady days of Victoria’s gold rush.
They’d called this place the Valley of the Gods.
A nascent prospecting community had sprung up, hopeful for the alluvial riches hinted at by the creek. When gold was struck, everything changed. Those early explorers became miners and industrialists and soon, businesses and grand homes replaced canvas tents and lean-tos. Walhalla was born.
Feeling the autumn chill in the early-morning air, Max shivered as he followed the main road towards a bend. He loved these morning walks. The worn streets, bordered by buildings that had born witness to Walhalla’s history from boomtown to present day, served a small but quaint hamlet whose few dozen permanent residents made most of their living from the weekend day-trippers and tourists who visited every summer. Max knew all of those residents; they were his friends, neighbours. His family. They were the ones who supported the general store he ran with his wife, Annette. And they supported their neighbours in return.
