by S E Holmes
I was. This was the Kurnell Peninsula, the only remaining dunes within spit of the city and the airport. Seth’s marina was scarcely twenty kilometres from my home, tucked in an isolated part of Quibray Bay. Scanning the horizon, a twinkling contingent of planes circled in the rain-hazed distance. Across the bay, the oil refinery blazed with multi-coloured radiance. The road had to be over the rise. There were no welcoming lights sparkling along the shoreline below, the single source a bulb over Seth’s staircase. I realised too late that stopping to get my bearings was the height of stupidity.
A roiling wave of ugly grey and brown bodies, huge and swollen, surged up the hill. Rats: well fed on the litter of the harbour, the size of daschunds. Hell! They probably ate small dogs for a snack. Their eyes rolled back in their heads, red-rimmed, fangs exposed to tear me to pieces. They shrieked their hatred, oblivious of the downpour.
I abandoned the sham of self-control and scrambled for the peak. Seth could have me and murder me in whatever fashion he chose. Sobbing did not aid my ability to see. Wet clothes intensified the slog and two legs were a clear disadvantage. The horde of screeching beasts gained ground and numbers. They would be on top of me as soon as I breached the summit.
Over my shoulder, Seth’s boatshed stood impassive. He was nowhere to be seen and I was soon at the mercy of a gnashing tide of undulating terror, growing too huge to fight, their claws lengthening scimitars, their teeth those of raptors. I tried to leash the fear, aware now it made things worse, but I was bone-tired and running on empty. Finally breaching the miserable hill, I saw the road cutting a valley through this wasteland. Were I not about to become mincemeat for my worst phobia, I could have walked out.
I sank to my knees. Where was Seth? Why hadn’t he come for me? Perhaps he was observing, watching as the fiends finished me off and spared him the trouble. I covered my eyes with my hands and waited for the inevitable pain. They crashed into me with a ferocious grunt and I was airborne with the collision. Tumbling down the other side of the dune, they refused to let go as I bumped and cartwheeled, my eyes fused shut. I heard a loud snap – possibly a rib – and rolled to a tangled heap at the bottom.
“Too slow!”
Before I could get my bearings, I was yanked up and towed towards the road. Language cruder than a trucker’s cursed my the lack of speed as I was abruptly flipped over someone’s wide shoulder encouraging a scream at the sharp pressure on my rib. There was only one person I knew with such a comprehensive store of expletives. The elation dulled the agony spearing my lung with every jolt.
“Smithy!” I wheezed into his scapula, as he sprinted through the wilderness.
A quick crane of my neck revealed that we’d thankfully left the rats far behind. My Warrior was fast!
“What took you, Bear?” he asked, clearly hurt. “I’ve been waiting so long.”
“Waiting?” Conducting a conversation from this position was quite taxing. “How did you know—?” He gracefully hurdled a bush, hardly breaking stride. On landing, the breath expelled from my lungs with an audible ‘ughh!’
“Sorry. Long story short, the cats tracked the whereabouts of Seth’s hideout earlier. He wasn’t around. There was only one other place your guardians thought he’d be, much to their horror. The original plan was to corner him here, but Fortescue thought it too risky on his turf, especially once it all went to hell and they guessed Seth had you. Your butler’s a wily old coot. He came up with a better plan.”
Across the dash through several kilometres of dense scrub, Smith’s powerful athleticism never waned. It was a slightly nauseating and rugged way to travel, but I did not care. This amazing boy had come to save me.
“They had no idea he’d actually approach the warehouse. Or be so bold as to take you. When I found out they’d been so blasé about your safety … It was probably worse than an argument with the judge.” Smith and his father fought so ferociously, we sometimes heard them across the alley.
His breathing remained at an even tempo while we ran, his strong heart beating in time to each bump of my head. We finally emerged by the road. He gently set me down next to his idling bike, propped on its stand in the middle of the asphalt, and began to examine me with his eyes and quick hands.
“So much blood, Winnie,” he breathed in horror.
Smithy softly probed my ribs. Ticklish, I flinched.
“It looks worse than it is.” I held up my wrists to show him. “See? Already healing.”
“Fuck!” he spat venomously. “I hate that prick more than I hate the Crone.”
I thought of all the ways Seth had hurt me and shuddered to envision what his mistress could do. “That’s because we haven’t met her yet.”
He fixed me in a steely gaze. “I trust you gave him hell … little firecracker.”
The joy of Smithy’s arrival collapsed like a pricked balloon. Mortified, my mouth fell open and I rallied a lame apology. But what was there to say? Smithy had seen what occurred on Seth’s boat: me writhing and moaning around on the floor in my best rendition of a rapper’s groupie. If I didn’t hate myself before, his distressed face cemented it now.
“Smith,” I pleaded, “I wasn’t sticking up for him …”
He’d already turned from me and busied himself unzipping a large backpack that leaned against his Ducati, tossing the contents into a pile. I wanted to say sorry, needed to pour forth excuses and explanations, but it might make things worse. And I was too cowardly to admit even to myself, let alone aloud, that Seth’s touch stoked a fire inside impossible to quench.
The disgrace was so acute, I leaned against the bike lest I fall down. Smith was by me instantly. He raised my face with a forefinger beneath my chin. His thumb stroked my lips, concerned eyes searching mine to make it infinitely worse.
“Are you okay?”
I bleakly shook my head. “Hugo is trapped back there. We have to help him!”
“No, we don’t.” He released me and bent to grab a pile of leathers. “The only thing we have to do is get you inside to safety.”
“I’m not going anywhere without Hugo.”
“You have a cracked rib. Are you going to be okay to hang on? Do you need something for the pain?”
“I’m fine.” The stabbing in my side had lessened and I could inhale, but my fury peaked. “Hugo is not fine. He’s drugged and helpless. Smithy, we have to go and get him.”
“Put those on, please,” he said, offering the thick motorbike leathers. “We need to cover you up, as much as possible. Stop the beasties from getting you.”
I couldn’t argue with that and accepted the clothes. Hastily dragging off my sneakers, clods of sand dropped to the pavement. I buckled up knee-boots that were at least two sizes too big, and a heavily padded jacket which fastened under my chin.
“Please, Smith!”
I felt even shoddier, making it hard. He was just as bedraggled as I was. His biker’s gear stuck to every part of him, squelching when he moved. On his haunches, he rifled the rucksack for a growing assortment of items that he neatly arranged next to him, hair slicked back and droplets clumping his eyelashes.
“Listen to me, Bear.” Smith glowered up at me. “I was wrong not to let you read that diary. Then, I wouldn’t have spared a second getting you downstairs to safety and far from that wretch, rather than rummaging the place for useless guns. Number one, his stare entrances and I have no defences until you shut him down by claiming the stone. Once he sets eyes on me I’m toast for good. He can butter me whatever way he sees fit forever. Do you understand? Best I could do was make sure the door to the boatshed was easy for you to get through. Number two, Hugo can rot back there for all I care. How do you think Seth knew where you lived? Hugo is a traitorous bastard who deserves his punishment, not your pity.” His tone was unyielding and furious. “You are most important to me, you take priority. I’ll beg if I have to, please do as I ask.”
He was more precious to me than anyone and he didn’t require sorcery to make me feel that. My love for him
overwhelmed. Smithy had never once broken his word to me across the years of ratbaggery. If he said he’d be there, he was. Drunk and stumbling or otherwise. If we planned a day together, he never failed to show, whether grounded and in trouble already, invoking the judge’s wrath for the trivial return of going on a run with me. I never understood what he got from our relationship. It was so one-sided. I couldn’t even invite him home for dinner. Beneath all the boozed-up bravado, emo camouflage and colourful language was a boy of steadfast integrity and genuineness. He deserved infinitely better than what I was giving him.
“What do you want me to do?”
He gave me a quirked smile, his warmth shining even in this dismal place. Collecting a helmet, he rose and thrust it at me. “Put that on.”
While I did as asked, Smith strode in a large circle around us with a squeeze-bottle in each hand, spraying an oily liquid as he went. He flicked open a Zippo and tossed it into the fluid on the ground. It didn’t seem possible that it could ignite in the bad weather, but high flames sprung to life and we were immediately at the centre of a fierce, bright perimeter.
“Don’t get too close in this wind. You’re banged up enough without burns. You’ve really given those healing advantages a work out.”
Smithy shook his head ruefully, returning to tenderly lift me under the arms and seat me on the back of his bike.
