by Tim Pegler
He lifts the dented chest armour off, placing it carefully on the floor. His face is bruised and scratched — and gaunt, as if he hasn’t been sleeping or eating. And there’s something different about him, as if he sees me for the first time. When our eyes meet, he doesn’t drop his gaze. He reaches for me, pulls me towards him. Holds me close.
I feel his chin, nuzzling my hair as he slowly shakes his head from side to side. I whisper my reply.
‘I know. I’m sorry too.’
There are footsteps outside. Ned’s body tenses. He looks away, across to the pistol on the metal workbench. We hear a voice — Steele.
‘Senior Constable Spencer is on the way. Just don’t do anything stupid, Edwards. You cannot escape. You’ll just make things worse for yourself.’
My head is spinning. Every movement telegraphs a spasm down my right side. I’m panting now. I can’t seem to suck in enough air. Tenderly, Ned urges me across the shed. In the rear corner, there’s a crumpled canvas tarp. It’s agony lowering myself to it but a relief to be off my feet. Ned squats beside me, alert and edgy.
Where the hell is Barbara Spencer? I’m not sure I’ll be able to speak when she gets here, let alone argue Ned’s case. I’m aware of a magpie warbling outside but nothing to suggest police in a hurry. No sirens, no loudspeakers, nothing.
I utter a silent prayer that Mick is arguing on our behalf, that the gung-ho Steele has been put back on his leash, that Ned and I will be OK. A nun once told me ‘Prayer should be a way of life, not just an emergency hotline’. I feel guilty now, putting in urgent requests upstairs when I rarely remember to pray. When I do pray, it’s often because I can’t sleep — thinking of all the people I’d like to see blessed is a bit like counting sheep. I hardly ever make it to ‘amen’. Wonder whether I will today.
My mind is all over the place. My plan, if you could call it a plan, was to think of what to say to the cops, to have a speech ready, something to stick up for Ned. Instead, I think of Bron and wonder if she’s seeing the boy with the Friesians. Then Collier’s ugly mug is in my head and I desperately hope he’s been arrested and is already in a cell, scared silly. And then Dad, whether he’s got away with whatever he’s up to; whether he’s pulled a swiftie on Aunty Rhona. Then I’m peering back down the trapdoor, into the cellar, into blackness.
Ned gently urges me back to consciousness. There’s action outside. A grind of gravel in the car park; muffled voices. Ned rises, takes my left hand and helps me up. Standing is excruciating. I sway. Ned’s hand is immediately at my back, supportive and strong. We inch towards the door. I hear footsteps, lighter and more urgent than a man’s. Barbara calls from the other side of the door.
‘Erin — are you OK?’
‘I think I’ve busted more ribs,’ I pant. ‘I … I can’t breathe properly … want you … talk about Collier … need to tell Ned … Collier’s been arrested … locked up … tell Ned … he’s not in trouble … That the police know Collier … Collier’s behind this whole mess … So we can sort this out … and go home.’
No response. The seconds that pass teem with unwelcome possibilities. Then: ‘I need you to open the door, Ned — at least enough for me to see Erin. I’m going to walk to the door. Don’t do anything rash.’
Ned looks at me. I shake my head, unsure whether to trust Barbara. I whisper: ‘A couple of inches … no more.’
Kicking the tomahawk aside, Ned grabs hold of the massive door and pulls. As a splinter of sunlight enters, he quickly wedges the door again. Barbara Spencer’s face appears in the gap, squinting as her eyes adjust to the dim light. I see movement behind her, a blur of blue. I have a sinking feeling it’s Steele.
I struggle towards the door, stopping two metres short. Ned stands behind me.
‘Erin, I’m afraid I have bad news. Now, you and I both know you were raped. Your injuries leave me no room for doubt. But we’re not going to be able to press charges against Nigel Collier. The detectives investigating your allegations have been in touch with the police in Murnong. There’s a file there that says you assaulted a young man in town. No charges were laid but — but it weakens your case here.’
‘He … attacked me! … That’s why … why there weren’t charges … He attacked me … there was a medical report … doctor knows what happened!’
‘I’m sorry, Erin, but there’s no medical report on file. And, well, Mr Collier is a trainee police officer. Without witnesses who can back you up, it’s his word against yours. I’m sorry. I really am.’
I’m devastated. It’s so cruel! I needed Collier charged to help Ned. But, once again, there’s one set of laws for my family and another for everyone else. We’re stuffed.
Ned darts from behind me, headed for the workbench. I’m about to beg with him to leave the gun alone — part of me wants to snatch it myself and start blowing this shitty world apart — when I realise he’s reaching for the book, a stack of books actually. There are three exercise books, bound together with a piece of twine. On the upper cover I see a title that chills my blood: Ned’s last stand. My story.
My mind somersaults as I guess at what the exercise books contain: Ned’s testimony — the other witness Barbara needs! But, as Ned clutches at them, disaster strikes. The twine snags the hammer on the pistol, dragging it to the edge of the bench.
I scream, catching the fear in Barbara’s eyes. Ned twists back, too late.
The handgun topples, falls.
The sound of it hitting the concrete floor is swallowed — consumed by the boom of a gunshot.
CHAPTER 38
NED
I just wanted Erin to understand. To know my story. See the world through my eyes. To know I wouldn’t hurt her or anyone else. I didn’t load the gun. Didn’t even check it. I left the ammo in the drawer, never thinking that Mick would have a bullet in the chamber. I only wanted the gun to wave around. Attract attention. Bring people in like a circus spieler. Had to let them know what Collier did. Did to Erin. Did to me. Show them that simple, ‘disturbed’ Ned could be as game as a Kelly and help the truth come out.
Like Glenrowan, it’s all going horribly wrong.
Smell of gunpowder. Festering silence. Then gunfire, bursting through the shed walls, zinging like bionic blowflies. Dragging Erin behind the workbench, back to the rear of the shed. Feeling unusually calm. Detached. As if I’m watching from above.
Watching bullets zip and ring. Watching my chest armour tip backwards, steel-petalled puncture holes at the front and rear. Tools cavorting, leaping from Mick’s wall. A bullet striking the lawnmower jerry can, sending a dragon’s breath to the roof. Fire crackling, groping hungrily at the canvas dropsheet. Erin slapping me, bringing me back. It’s not over yet. Need to get her out.
Recalling a conversation with Mick about a loose sheet of corrugated iron at the rear of the shed. (It keeps him awake on windy nights.) Scanning the shed, hearing voices screaming at the door. Black smoke, everywhere smoke. Paint pots popping like Christmas crackers. Feeling my way through smoke to a metal bin where Mick stows large tools: rakes, brooms, shovels, mattock, axe. Grabbing the axe. Stumbling to the rear wall. Pushing at the corrugated iron, warm against my palm. Tasting fumes now, a wicked perfume of paint, petrol, rubber. Locating the loose sheet of iron. Tossing a spare tyre out of the way. Belting the wall with the back of the axe head; once, twice, three times. Gulping in fresh air as the base of the sheet springs outwards. Flames feasting on the new oxygen. Blooming. Curling around us.
Urging Erin towards the hole. She takes a step, hunches over, her body racked, snatching at air. Shunting her forward. She manages two steps. Too slow, too slow! Stepping around her, grabbing the axe again, ramming it against the loose iron, jamming it open. Lifting Erin (so light!). Bundling her through the gap. Seeing her tumble, wheezing, into long wet weeds outside. Sprawling through the gap, beside her. Seeing her mouth words, two words. Can’t hear! Leaning closer. She’s pointing, back into the flames. My books!
Retreating. Burrowi
ng through smoke, through crackling roaring popping whistling squealing orange black blue purple. Colliding with the workbench. One sleeve over my mouth. The other hand swiping the bench-top, searching, sending hot tools, a tin of nails flying into the smoke. My books! Where are they?
Sinking to the floor. Coughing. Sucking smoke. Wondering if I should stay. Merge with the colours, the colours. My story lost. Nothing left of my last stand. Only ash. And rumours.
CHAPTER 39
ERIN
Delicious air. I’m snorting it, still only managing short, sharp breaths. The pain is numbed by the simple goshness of clean air, wet grass and escape. Come on, Ned! What’s taking so long?
I’m crawling to the hole in the corrugated iron, straining to see through the smoke, summoning enough strength to scream. ‘Ned! Come on!’
When he comes out, we’ll hand the books to the cops. That’s what we’ll do. That should sort things. With Ned’s eyewitness account, Collier is history. But what about Ned? Barbara Spencer saw the gun, even if it went off by accident. And the cops all saw the armour. It’s unmistakeable. It’s bound to provoke them. They must hate everything the Kellys stand for. How do I explain that Ned was only trying to help me, to get justice his own way? How do I get them to go easy on him?
I yell into blackness again. ‘Ned! Ned!’
Ned’s never done anything to hurt anyone, Collier aside. And that had to be self-defence, surely. There are no victims of Ned’s actions. My own dad has done more to piss people off. Now there’s a thought. If I told the cops about Dad and Obie, would they be willing to leave Ned alone? Could I do a deal? Get them to trade a couple of habitual crims for a kid whose only crime was to teach a bully a lesson? I mean, do I really owe Dad anything? He’s made his choices. Ned didn’t have that chance. Ned’s troubles are down to me.
I couldn’t do it. I’m a Murphy through and through, damn it. No trade. There’s got to be another way to help Ned.
Where the hell is Ned? ‘Ned! Come on!’
CHAPTER 40
NED
So tired. Slowing. Watching. Orange sprites dancing. Concrete floor warm against my cheek. Swiping at a sprite tiptoeing to my elbow. Feeling my hand knock something, knock it further under the metal bench. Something flat. With string around it.
Hope surging. Scrambling to my knees. Reaching under the bench. Rescuing them. Shoving them under my shirt.
Crawling. Away from the bench. Through the stickiness of melted plastic hose. Crawling. Where? Just away.
The sprites are demons now, teasing, goading, tearing, snaring. Sizzling in my hair. Biting.
A voice in the smoke. Calling my name. Crawling towards it.
Colliding with the back wall. Coughing. Creeping along the wall until I feel a draught of air rushing, seduced by ravenous flames. Collapsing over the rail. Through the gap.
Someone slapping my shoulder, my hair, my jeans. Throwing themselves across me. Sending the demons away.
Erin. Safe.
Nodding as she asks, ‘You OK? … Get the books?’ Plucking them from my waistband. Pleased to be passing them over. Watching, worried as Erin reaches into her jeans pocket. Extracts a key. She’s still struggling to breathe.
‘My house … There’s a cellar … Under the piano room … use this key … hide there … I’ll take your books … to the cops … a magistrate maybe … Then I’ll come for you … Hide … until it’s safe. Go!’
Shaking my head. Standing, collapsing, my ankle unwilling to take me any further. Pausing. Gritting my teeth. Rising again.
Helping Erin up.
Limping together. To the police.
CHAPTER 41
ERIN
You should have seen the coppers’ faces when we stumbled out from behind the shed. They’d long given us up for dead. Mick, he just about kissed me. Apparently the sergeant nearly had to handcuff him to the door of the police car to stop him charging like a bull elephant into the shed when they first saw the smoke.
Constable Steele was sitting on the ground, a bandage against his wrist. Barbara told me he started shooting without permission. Kept shooting until he emptied his gun. One of his own shots bounced off a steel girder and back into his arm. Idiot. The sergeant was towering over him, screaming about the havoc Steele had caused.
An ambulance took me to the Rushton Base Hospital. One of my busted ribs had punctured my lung. My collarbone was fractured too. Barbara Spencer rode with me, apologising all the way. She swore she’d say in her statement that the gunshot was an accident and that the fire was Steele’s fault.
Ned was carted away in a divvy van with two armed police. They were going to take him to the lockup but he ended up in hospital, only a couple of rooms down from me. He had burns to his hands and back and a sprained ankle.
Barbara came to see me in hospital this morning. I was dead keen to catch up with her. I needed to know Ned wasn’t going to be charged.
‘He’s the witness, Barbara. He saw it all. Can you think what it must have been like for him to see it all and know that nobody thought his point of view counted? And then to see the newspaper articles and think everyone reckoned he was psycho? That he had no way of getting people to accept him as a witness? Can you? Can you imagine what that must have felt like?’
Barbara smiled. ‘You like him, don’t you? If you’d given me a chance to speak I would have told you that they were going to charge Ned with assault, kidnapping and threatening police. But, on the strength of his diaries and your evidence, it’s clear these don’t apply.
‘Mr Hartnett isn’t pressing charges in relation to the gun or entering the cottage. Truth be told, he’s embarrassed he’d kept the handgun in such an unsafe place — or kept it full stop.
‘Ned has admitted in his statement to entering a shop and taking certain items. However, given his clean record and the value of the items taken, he’s likely to be cautioned or given a suspended sentence at worst. And it won’t hurt that the storeowner is friendly with his grandpa.
‘You’ll also be pleased to know that Mr Collier has been interviewed and charged with rape, assault and making a false report. He’s denied everything of course, but we think he’ll change his tune when his lawyers see the evidence against him. Ned’s recall of events is nothing short of amazing.’
Speaking of Ned, he’s out of the hospital already. And Mick has offered him a promotion. When his burns are healed, he’ll start as official groundskeeper for the centre. How cool is that? I reckon The Silver City is going to have the best garden in Rushton. And me, I’ve told Mick I want to study nursing. Only part-time, though. I want to keep working at the centre.
Dad and Obie got busted trying to sell a truckload of stolen antiques and jewellery at a market in Melbourne. The police prosecutor told the court that ‘neither man is believed capable of being the brains of the operation but neither is willing to assist us with further enquiries’. So Aunty Rhona was never charged. But she stopped charging Mum and me for rent, which is mighty handy. She left her spare key in our letterbox, too. We don’t see her much these days.
Oh, and last night during visiting hours, Ned held my hand the entire time he was here. When the bell rang for visitors to leave, I pulled him towards me and kissed him, long and hard. It was the first time I’d seen him smile. I don’t reckon it will be the last, believe me.
EPILOGUE
NED
The courtroom is imposing. Formal. The judge sits higher than the rest of the room, an ornate wooden barrier around his desk. To my right, Nigel Collier fidgets in the dock, a uniformed officer seated beside him. The reinforced door behind Collier leads out to the cells.
I’m standing in a raised wooden arc, a bit like a church pulpit. My right hand rests on a Bible. The statement I signed for the police — a typed, slightly shorter version of my story — is crucial to the case. Now I have to testify. Tell the court that it’s true.
To take some pressure off me during questions, the judge has indicated he’ll accept a
nod for ‘yes’ or a shake of my head for ‘no’. He directs the jurors to pay close attention.
The judge’s associate stands facing me. ‘Do you swear by almighty God to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?’
The oath has a power to it, a weighty responsibility. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Collier shake his head dismissively. I focus on the judge, the oath, the question awaiting me. As I do, I feel a whisper. It rises, slowly, surely. Gives me goose bumps. I grip the Bible tightly.
Then I hear it. A stranger’s voice, hoarse and older than I expected. Bolder, too. A stranger’s voice escaping my throat. Carrying my words: ‘I do.’
Collier’s barrister bounds to his feet, his face flushed. ‘Your honour, my client wishes to change his plea.’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tim Pegler is an award-winning journalist and author. During a decade at newspapers including The Age, the Herald Sun and the Australian, he received media prizes from the Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission and United Nations Association of Australia. Tim is now a freelance website editor.
COPYRIGHT
Angus&Robertson
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers, Australia
First published in 2007
This edition published in 2014
by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited
ABN 36 009 913 517
www.harpercollins.com.au
Copyright © Tim Pegler 2007
The right of Tim Pegler to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
