by Dean Mayes
No sooner had this feeling visited upon him than he became aware of a commotion at the bar. Chas Kraetzer had become rather vocal in the midst of some lively debate with one of his companions, switching between French and English as his voice rose and fell. As he’d gone to lean on the bar, his elbow had slipped and he’d lurched forward, head butting the corner of the bar, eliciting a collective of winces and “Oohs!” from those around him as they attempted to break his fall.
“Right, you lot!” Ivan thundered, rounding the bar as several of the group began backpedalling, leaving Chas cradling his head in his hands, groaning painfully. As Chas was helped to his feet by one of the men standing by the fireplace, the Frenchman swayed and drew his hands away from his face to reveal a bright red stream of blood running from a cut above his right eye.
Hayden pushed back from the table and stood.
“Christ almighty, someone is going to need to run him down the mountain to the hospital. I don’t want anyone croaking it in my pub,” Ivan remarked.
Hayden approached them, coming up beside Ivan. “Should I have a look?”
Ivan turned to him in surprise, and then smiled. “Sure, Doc. Actually, that would be grand.”
Hayden stepped up to Chas to inspect the injury. The laceration was deep, but it was a clean cut, an inch long. “Do you still keep that first aid kit?” he asked Ivan.
“Yes. Out the back,” Ivan said, glancing across the bar at Isabelle. She turned away to retrieve it.
“Is there somewhere quiet we can take him?” Hayden said. “I don’t think we need an audience.”
“The veranda,” Ivan gestured towards the side door. “It’s sheltered and there’s a heater out there.”
Without warning, Chas’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped forward.
Hitching his arm underneath Chas, Hayden signalled to Andrew Parton, the man who had assisted Chas to his feet, and together the two men bore the Frenchman out through the side door. Hayden pulled on a pair of gloves from the first aid kit as he sat before Chas, who was being supported by Ivan with an arm around his shoulders. Max stood at Hayden’s right shoulder, holding a torch. Subdued now, Chas mumbled incoherently, hissing as Hayden daubed the wound with antiseptic-soaked gauze to stem the flow of blood.
Indicating to Max with a nod, he asked for the beam to be directed over Chas’s forehead as he tended to the laceration.
Isabelle was crouched beside the kit. Its telescoping trays were open and she handed items to Hayden as he requested them.
She couldn’t help but look at him as he worked, focusing on the wound and pausing whenever Chas began to babble in his native tongue. With an even tone, Hayden soothed the Frenchman, patiently waiting for him to settle before continuing. He treated Chas with courtesy, she noted, a kind of practised professionalism.
“The laceration isn’t as deep as I thought,” Hayden said. “I should probably suture it, but butterfly strips and an occlusive dressing should be adequate.” He looked up at Ivan. “This is a very good kit.”
Ivan flashed an appreciative smile. “In the absence of a regular GP up here, I keep it in case we get any calls for assistance from bush walkers and day-trippers who might find themselves in trouble. At least until they can get proper attention.”
Hayden nodded at a clear plastic package containing a sheet of butterfly strips and gestured with his elbow. Isabelle took it out and handed it to him.
“Could you open it, please?”
She peeled open the package and held it out, allowing Hayden to pluck strips from within.
With a steady hand, he applied them one by one to Chas’s forehead, bringing the edges of the laceration together into a thin line. Hayden indicated to a clear film dressing and Isabelle retrieved this and opened it for him. Hayden smoothed it over the top of the wound.
“There,” he said, peeling his gloves off. “As good as a hospital dressing—better, even.” He turned to Max. “Someone should take him home. Does he still live up by you, in Jack Reynolds’s old place?”
Chas continued to loll his head from side to side and Max lifted a hand to support it. “He does.”
“His truck is parked outside,” Andrew Parton added. “Silly bugger probably thought he would drive himself home.”
Max turned to Ivan. “Hayden and I will drive him. Make sure he’s settled in and safe.”
“Good enough,” Ivan responded, concern still evident in his features, though relief was there, as well.
Nodding to Andrew, Hayden stood and helped Chas to his feet while Isabelle closed up the kit and Max handed the light to Ivan.
Isabelle led the way down the path, holding an umbrella as they supported the Frenchman to his muddy four-wheel drive. Depositing him inside, Max climbed into the driver’s seat while Hayden seated himself opposite.
“We’ll see you later, Ivan,” Max waved. “Raincheck that second beer.”
“Good enough, Maxy,” Ivan groused. “Good to have you back, Doc. We’ve missed you, son.”
As Max started the engine and reversed back, Hayden glanced through the windscreen.
Isabelle was looking back at him, meeting and holding his gaze for the first time tonight. She gave him a single nod before Max pulled away.
~ Chapter 13 ~
IN THE DRIVEWAY BESIDE THE BAKERY, ISABELLE STOOD HUNCHED OVER THE ENGINE BAY OF A SMALL COMMERCIAL van. The light blue vehicle was shrouded in darkness, except for a single globe hanging by a hook from the underside of the open bonnet. An electrical cord snaked away into the darkness behind the house. Isabelle struggled over the innards of the vehicle, her breath condensing as it escaped from her mouth and nose, obscuring her view. She swore and lashed out, striking the top of the radiator with a shifting spanner.
Having spent most of last evening putting the van’s recalcitrant distributor back together, Isabelle had triple-checked it to make sure she’d done the job properly. But no sooner had she stepped out this morning and loaded up the back with bread than the stubborn shitbox had refused to start.
Her nerves frayed as she checked everything over yet again. Distributor, cables, spark plugs. As she reached into the engine bay to pull one of those cables from its corresponding plug, she dragged her hand over a sharp edge.
“Shit!” Isabelle recoiled, lifting her hand to her mouth, tasting the metallic tinge of her own blood.
She gripped the spanner in her free hand and pitched it at the engine.
It had to be today. This very day she’d planned for so long. Her first solo delivery run and the van just had to crap itself out right at this very moment.
It was six in the morning and she was already running late. She’d been awake since a little after two, baking her loaves and getting them onto the racks in preparation. The van was filled to capacity, and though its interior provided some protection from the biting cold, she knew the loaves would be cooling too quickly. If she couldn’t get the van to start, it would all be for nought.
It was all for nought, her evil inner voice taunted her.
“Pig’s bloody arse!” Isabelle retorted.
Dropping to her knees, she searched underneath the vehicle for her wayward spanner and found it. Thankfully, it wasn’t too far out of reach.
As she rose again, she glanced over at the dark form on the bench seat on the porch. Oblivious to the unfolding disaster, Genevieve was huddled in a blanket, sound asleep. As awful as it was to think it, at this moment, Isabelle was grateful her daughter was deaf, given the language she was letting slip.
Leaning into the engine bay once more, Isabelle made a fresh attempt at loosening the spark plug, but the stubborn thing refused to budge. She threw up her hands in exasperation. “What am I going to do?” she shouted.
From the bend in the road, the beams from a pair of headlights splashed across the front of the bakery, illuminating it for a brief moment. Genevieve stirred and yawned under the blanket, peering through the gap at the oncoming lights. Screwing up her face, she twisted h
er body and searched for her mother. Genevieve saw her standing before the van, hands on hips, fury and defeat plaguing her. She could tell from her mother’s expression that the van wasn’t working.
As the vehicle approached Genevieve made out its shape, the familiar lines and curves she’d seen before.
It was Hayden.
She gasped and sat up, trying to get her mother’s attention. Getting no response, she erupted from the bench and chased after the Holden, the blanket fanning out behind her like a cape.
As it approached the bend and threatened to pass from view, the Holden jerked to a stop, its brake lights glowing like fireflies in the predawn. Genevieve skidded on the bitumen as a reversing lamp winked to life and the Holden rolled back towards her. Crossing to the roadside, she grinned and clapped her hands. The Holden slowed to a stop in front of the driveway and Genevieve put her hands to the passenger-side door as the window wound down. Hayden leaned across, yawning as he peered out and saw Genevieve’s excited face.
“Trouble?” he signed a query, tapping the fingers of his right hand downwards on the back of his left.
Genevieve scooted her hands out from inside the blanket. “Mum can’t get it started. She keeps calling it a piece of…” She searched her vocabulary, then held her right hand up, shaping her fingers in the approximation of a pistol, before swiping it down across her chest and poking at her left shoulder with her thumb. “Shit.”
Hayden grimaced, prompting Genevieve to snort. He squinted over her shoulder at her mother. “Why are you up so early?”
“Delivery day,” Genevieve signed. “The van is full of bread. Mum was supposed to be on the road by now.”
“Oh dear,” Hayden mouthed.
He switched off the engine and climbed out while Genevieve rounded the front of the Holden, hopping from foot to foot in big, puffy slippers the shape of elephants. She led the way over to her mother as he rubbed his hands together.
Isabelle was aware of their presence, but she was too angry to acknowledge either of them. Shaking her head, she set the spanner down and marched around to the cabin. She reached inside to the ignition, grasped the key, and twisted. The groggy engine turned over before popping and grinding—a sickening sound. Isabelle bit her lip.
“Is there anything I might do to help?” Hayden ventured as she stalked back to the engine bay and folded her arms in front of her chest.
“I thought you were a doctor,” she said.
“I thought you were a baker,” Hayden riposted.
Isabelle glared at him.
“Sorry. That was a low blow,” he apologised.
“What are you even doing out at this time of day?” she asked.
“I’m on my way into Moe to get some painting supplies. Thought I’d get an early start, but I can do it tomorrow just as well. Seriously, is there something I can do?”
Isabelle’s shoulders slumped as helplessness suffused through her.
“There’s nothing to be done. The bloody van won’t start. I thought I’d fixed it. But now—” She flung her arms into the air.
Hayden glanced at Genevieve, who pouted. “Genevieve says you have deliveries.”
“I did have deliveries,” Isabelle corrected. “I won’t be going anywhere. I’m already hopelessly late.”
“Well,” Hayden said. “How many did you have?”
Before she could answer, he stepped sideways and held out his hand to the Holden. “It’s not the van, but with the canvas cover, it’s enclosed and protected from the elements. I could make the run for you,” he offered.
Isabelle flicked her chin towards her daughter, who was clapping her hands, having lip-read their exchange. She rounded Hayden, going up to the vehicle and unhooking the elasticised straps that held the fitted canvas cover in place.
“How clean is it in here?” Isabelle asked. “These loaves need to stay pristine. ”
“It’s clean. I haven’t had occasion to soil it recently.”
Isabelle retreated from the tray and shoved her hands into her pockets. All at once, she appeared uncomfortable. “W-well, I wouldn’t want to get in your way.”
Hayden exhaled with a hint of exasperation. “Tell me where you need the bread delivered. Surely it can’t be difficult. There’s not that many businesses in these mountains.”
She hesitated, then turned towards the van, leaned into the cabin, and emerged with a clipboard in hand. She held it out to him, showing him the sheet of paper secured to it.
“These are the clients and these are their orders,” Isabelle explained. “Just check off each one at delivery. I’ll call ahead and let them know the situation. They were all expecting me by now.”
Lifting up the first sheet, Isabelle revealed an order form showing the categories of breads and a column to write down the quantities of each. Hayden scanned the list, noting the flavours available.
Olive and rosemary. Fig and fennel. Cranberry and hazelnut. Pumpkin and poppy seed. Multigrain and plain sourdough. His mouth began to water, and Isabelle elbowed him to attention. “This is to take further orders.” She tapped the form. “Run through the list with each client. They all have accounts with me, so they’ll settle later.”
Hayden took the clipboard and Isabelle found herself studying his profile as he scanned it once more in the emerging daylight.
“I can do this,” he said.
Isabelle pointed at the Holden. “You better back in your ute and help me get these racks loaded.”
Hayden looked over to see Genevieve grinning.
In short order, they had transferred the breads from the van to the Holden, positioning them in the tray so they wouldn’t move about. A plank of timber separated the racks from one another, ensuring the loaves above weren’t in contact with those underneath. Settling the last tray into place, Isabelle assessed their handiwork.
It wasn’t perfect, she thought. But it would do.
Hayden started the engine and let it idle while she secured the cover.
“Remember,” she said, leaning into the open window. “Follow the list and check off the orders. I’ll get in touch with them now.”
Hayden shifted the Holden into gear.
“And don’t drive fast!” Isabelle added for good measure.
“I’ll drop the racks and the order sheet to you as soon as I get back,” Hayden said.
As the Holden began to move forward, he tapped the brake pedal. “By the way,” he said. “It isn’t your distributor.”
Isabelle blinked. “What?”
Hayden motored away from them and disappeared around the bend, leaving Isabelle standing there, wrestling with incredulity and bewilderment.
Finally, she turned back to the bakery. Genevieve was standing in the driveway, still sporting a huge grin.
“Stop that,” Isabelle signed, curling the thumb and forefinger of her right hand into a ring and thrusting it out from her chest. She glanced over her shoulder at the disappearing Holden, smiling to herself.
THE WINDOWLESS ROOM WAS STERILE. Its grey walls, fashioned from industrial bricks, invited claustrophobia. The linoleum floor underfoot was scuffed and dull. Harsh light from twin fluorescent tubes bore down onto a barber’s chair in the centre of the room. In it sat a hulking figure, his frame concealed by a barber’s cape. He stared into the mirror before him, his face expressionless except for his intense eyes, which held a barely contained fury.
A much smaller, thinner man stood at his side, dressed in the drab green of prison garb. Long-sleeved pullover. Starched pants. Dirty sneakers. Through a pair of glasses whose left arm was held to the eyepieces by electrical tape, the barber focused on his subject’s black, slicked-back hair. Armed with a pair of electric clippers in one hand, a comb in the other, he raised the clippers and flicked the power switch. The machine snapped to life, the blades vibrating noisily.
The barber shook his head. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
There was no response. Taking this as silent consent, the barber brou
ght the clippers down.
He worked in silence, shaving the man’s hair and flicking it from the ends of the clippers to the floor. Each pass was as close a shave to the skin as he could get without employing the use of a razor.
All the while, his client sat in silence, consistent with his reputation for being a loner, for keeping his own counsel. He was someone you did not dare cross.
The barber clicked off the clippers and crossed to a bench, where he picked up a small brush to clear the hair. Absently, he began to whistle a tune. The high-pitched sound echoed off the walls.
Behind him, the man made a sharp clicking sound. The barber turned back to observe the man’s pupils flicking in his direction, brow furrowing dangerously.
The barber fell silent. He returned to his work until all remnants of hair were gone from his client’s head. He then lowered the electric clippers towards the sideburns.
Without warning, a hand shot out from underneath the cape, snapping fast around the barber’s wrist. He gasped as the vibrating blades hovered near the man’s jaw, close enough to catch one or two stray hairs.
The barber blinked behind his glasses.
The man turned his head. “Not the beard,” he rumbled.
~ Chapter 14 ~
ISABELLE PACED THE FRONT PORCH, SCANNING THE ROAD IN BOTH DIRECTIONS. IT WAS NEARLY MIDDAY, SIX HOURS since she’d seen Hayden off with her precious cargo, and she hadn’t heard so much as a peep from him since. Mobile reception was out of the question this deep into the mountains and she doubted he owned a UHF radio. Despite this, Isabelle would have thought any normal person would have at least called in to let her know the delivery run had been completed.
Then again, this was Hayden Luschcombe. He was never one for doing things the way everybody else did. She supposed that was why they’d treated him so cruelly when they were children. Old memories of the awkward child she had teased mercilessly years ago fluttered into her consciousness. And with them came an acute twinge of…shame.
Embarrassment.
She recalled the funny little boy, his mop of sandy hair and his Coke-bottle glasses, staring out from the porch of his parents’ cottage, clearly wishing he could join in with them. She couldn’t even count the number of times they’d coaxed the poor duffer from the cottage garden, only to sprint away at the last moment. Yet he would continue to hurry after them and they would hide in the bush, watching and giggling as he searched for them in vain.
