‘Check for deer, dickhead,’ said Tubs, struggling to pull binoculars out of his own pack. ‘It’s called glassing.’
‘Just like a standard night at the Crown,’ said Brownie.
‘Jeez, will you shut up,’ said Tubs. ‘I’m trying to concentrate.’
He turned in a slow half-circle, scanning for movement.
‘Fuck,’ he said in a whisper. ‘I think I see some.’
‘You think?’ said Sam.
‘It’s hard to tell! Deer are brown! The whole hill is fucken brown!’
‘Let me look,’ said Brownie, and put his hand on the binoculars.
‘Oh, right,’ said Tubs, skewing out of reach. ‘You got native vision or something?’
‘Tubs, don’t be a wanker.’ Brownie sighed, beckoned for the binoculars.
‘Fuck off. Get your own!’
‘Better give them to him, Tubs.’
Sam hadn’t heard Deano speak for so long, he wasn’t even sure it sounded like him. Deano still had his pack on, thumbs hooked in the straps. He was standing a few feet away, Sam realised. Not with them. Apart.
‘Deano.’
Brownie’s face and voice were friendly, and it was only Sam’s newly contracted condition of paranoia that detected a warning in the way he’d said the name.
Deano didn’t look at Brownie, only at Tubs.
‘Or else, you know?’ he said. ‘Yeah — or else.’
‘What the fuck are you on about?’ said Tubs.
But it was Brownie who Sam looked at, and as he did, the truth hit Sam like the clear slap of the plateau air after the earthy fug of the bush.
‘You’re in it, too,’ he said. ‘Whatever shit Deano’s in, you’re there as well.’
Brownie’s smile was almost, but not quite, apologetic.
‘Hardly the time,’ Brownie said.
‘What—?’
‘Shut up, Tubs,’ said Sam. ‘Seriously, shut right the fuck up.’
And before Tubs could protest, Sam turned to Deano.
‘What’s happening? Tell me.’
‘Deano.’ No doubt this time. Even though it was pleasantly couched, Brownie had issued a warning.
Sam refused to be deterred.
‘Is it drugs?’ Sam kept on. ‘Are you both in some kind of gang trouble?’
Deano swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork in his scrawny neck. His eyes swivelled towards Brownie and away again. ‘Not both of us, nah,’ he said. ‘Just … me.’
Sam, whose gaze had also been darting between the two, saw Brownie’s shoulders fractionally relax. But it didn’t feel right. It didn’t smell right.
‘You’re lying,’ he said to Deano. ‘It’s both of you, somehow. Isn’t it?’
He turned to face Brownie. ‘Isn’t it?’ he yelled.
It was the smile that did it. Poor little Sam, it said, with your loving family and your nice, warm house and your comfy, easy life — what do you know about anything? You’re soft and stupid, the smile said. Far too soft to handle the truth.
Sam launched himself at his friend, shoved him hard, and Brownie, taken by surprise, caught his heel on a rock and fell onto his back. Sam jumped on top of him, began laying his fists into every body part he could reach.
‘You fucker!’ he yelled. ‘You lying fuck, what the fuck are you doing, what—’
Tears as well as punches were landing, and not just because Brownie had managed to smack Sam in the head a few times, trying to get him off. But Sam was as big and fit as Brownie was, and maddened by fear and rage, and Brownie hadn’t a hope of dislodging him, just had to protect himself best he could.
But then Sam was grabbed under the arms, dragged up and off, who knows how, by slow, lardy Tubs.
‘Jesus, stop, stop!’ Tubs was saying. ‘You’ll kill him!’
Sam found himself on his knees, panting. Brownie was still lying on the ground, curled over, making no attempt to sit up. Sam was seized by an urge to go pummel him again, but he stifled it, took a few deep breaths instead.
Tubs was standing bent over, palms propped on his knees. He expelled a whoosh of air, straightened up.
‘What the hell was that?’ he said, plaintively. ‘What the fuck just happened?’
A jolt shot through Sam. Deano!
But he was still there, didn’t seem to have moved an inch. Was staring at Brownie on the ground. Then Deano seemed to become aware of Sam looking in his direction.
‘It is just me who’s in trouble,’ he said. ‘I’m in it and I can’t get out. I was stupid. Thought I could do a bit of dealing on the side, and now they own me. Whatever they want me to do, I’ve gotta do, or they’ll kill me. S’pose I should be grateful. They could have killed me already.’
Sam felt sick. Deano was right; the gang were bad bastards, and he was lucky to be alive. In truth, Sam didn’t want to find out any more, but that would just prove how soft and gutless he was. Time to step up. He jerked his head at Brownie.
‘What about him? How is he involved?’
Deano gave him a sad, brief smile.
‘Dunno,’ he said, with a shrug. ‘Dunno how it all works. Just know what happens to me if I don’t do what I’m told.’
‘You’re saying Brownie beats you up?’
‘Aw, nah, nah.’ Deano’s eyes did the swivel dance again. ‘Not him. He’s just, I dunno, like a messenger or something…’
‘Essentially correct.’
Brownie was sitting up now. Shit, his face was a mess.
‘I get paid to carry messages.’ He winced, flexed his jaw. ‘Among other things.’
‘Drugs.’
‘And money. Occasionally weapons. You know, all the things that make the world a better place.’
So now Sam knew. Now it was out. And maybe he should feel as sorry for Brownie as he did for Deano. But he couldn’t, could he? Deano was a bit dumb and bit hopeless, whereas Brownie was smart. He was the smartest guy among them, and he’d probably thought it was funny to treat poor, dumb Sam like a mushroom — keep him in the dark and feed him shit. Probably thought the whole thing was just a big game, and he was taking all the losers for a ride. Losers like Sam, and—
‘Deano,’ Sam called out. ‘Did you ever ask Brownie for help?’
God, Deano couldn’t even answer. How could Sam not have seen how terrified he’d been all this time?
‘Did you?’ Sam insisted.
‘Fuck…’ Brownie sank his forehead down onto his knees.
‘Yeah,’ said Deano, in a small voice. ‘I did.’
‘Yeah,’ echoed Sam softly. ‘I thought so.’
‘Oh, and how could I have helped Deano, Sam?’ said Brownie, sharp, sarcastic. ‘Do tell.’
‘You got him time off work, didn’t you?’ Sam got to his feet. ‘And I bet Rainer had nothing to do with that decision. You could’ve figured out how if you’d wanted to.’
‘Well, you’re wrong, Sammy boy.’ Brownie was angry now. ‘I am not that fucking clever. If I were, I would have found a clever way to solve my fucking money problems. But that’s what happens when you’re desperate — you grab onto the first lifeline that’s offered to you, and you ignore the fact the dude on the other end has a gang patch and “Hate” tattooed on his knuckles. You persuade yourself that you only have to get out of this hole, and by the time you realise that you’ve just jumped into another one that’s bottomless, it’s too fucking late.’
So that was why. He needed money. Because of his dad.
Sam knew he should feel sympathy for his friend. But if Brownie was really his best mate, why didn’t he ask for Sam’s help? Why didn’t he tell him what was going on?
Because he thought Sam was too soft to handle it, that’s why. And deep down, Sam knew he was right, and he knew that was the real reason he was so angry. But, oh man, he wasn’t ready to let it go. The shame burned and kept his anger hot and alive.
‘You knew what you were getting into,’ he said. ‘You were probably laughing all along at how stupid I
was, that I never guessed. Bet your hard gang mates thought it was a joke, too, eh? Laughing all the fucking way.’
‘Sammo.’
Brownie sounded genuinely upset. But Sam could not forgive him. Not for the lies, or for making him feel like a fool. Not now.
‘Why don’t you just fuck off!’ he yelled.
Brownie stared at him. A fat lip and swelling eyes made it hard to tell his expression.
‘Good plan,’ he said, quietly.
He got slowly to his feet, wincing as he dusted himself off. Began to walk towards Deano, who backed away, firing anxious glances at Sam.
Sam started forward, ready to step between them and, if necessary, fight Brownie all over again, though the adrenaline from before was ebbing, and the pain in his hands was way worse than any time he’d hit his own fingers with a hammer.
But Brownie wasn’t heading for Deano. He lifted the pack that he’d dumped on the ground. And the rifle—
‘Don’t even think about it!’
Tubs’s voice came out all high and squeaky, and Sam fought back a surge of panicked nausea as he realised Tubs had his own rifle up to his shoulder, barrel shaking as he aimed it at Brownie.
Cautious but apparently unflustered, Brownie raised his hands.
‘I need it, Tubs, mate,’ he said. ‘It’s my only chance.’
‘To fucking do what?’
‘Survive,’ he replied.
‘Jesus,’ Sam said to him. ‘Are you really going bush?’
‘Well, I can’t say as I’ve thoroughly considered the alternatives,’ said Brownie. ‘But it seems like the best option right now.’
And they stared at each other, until Tubs’s nerves gave way.
‘Will someone fucken do something?’
‘Sam?’
Brownie needed him to make the call. Him. Poor, ignorant, soft Sam.
‘Give me the rifle, Tubs,’ Sam said.
He didn’t have to ask twice — Tubs practically threw it at him. Sam pointed it at his former best friend.
‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Take the pack. Put the rifle over your shoulder and then keep your hands off it. Then start walking.’ He nodded his head in the direction of the upper plateau.
Brownie did what he was told. Tubs and Deano had hustled back down to the bushline now, keeping their distance. Sam couldn’t be entirely sure who they were most afraid of.
Pack and rifle hoisted, Brownie began to trudge up the slope. Sam intended to keep the rifle aimed until he was out of sight, no matter how long that took. He watched as Brownie took a curving path that led him up the left, to where the ground dropped away. He saw him pause, then turn, and Sam adjusted his hold on the gun, heart thumping.
‘Sam?’ Brownie called out.
‘What?’ Sam reluctantly responded.
‘What you said. About me laughing at you.’ Brownie took slow steps backwards as he spoke. ‘It’s not true.’
Sam felt tears sting, unbidden. It made him furious. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, mate. Not true at—’
And he was gone! A step, a startled yelp, and then all Sam had was an image imprinted in the negative, as if a camera had flashed right in his eyes.
Sam yelled in shock, heard echoes that might be him, might be Tubs and Deano. Dropped the rifle, not caring if the safety was on or off, sprinted to the edge fast as he could.
There was nothing to see. Below the edge was a rocky slope, steep and slippery, and not far below it bush through which Sam caught glimpses of river. No flash of movement or sound other than water, no tumbling blue pack, no Brownie …
Sam wanted to call out, but found he was gasping for breath, his mind a storm of whirling black panic.
‘Shitshit shit!’
Tubs was beside him, eyes huge, face grey and sweaty, head craning over the edge far as he dared.
‘Can you see him? I can’t see him. Shit …’
Sam didn’t realise he’d started down over the edge until Tubs grabbed his arm.
‘You can’t!’ he said. ‘It’s too steep! You can’t.’
And he held on tight, until Sam gave up struggling and slumped down onto his rear, head between his knees, gulping in big, shuddery breaths.
‘Shit, Sammo …’ Tubs knelt beside him, wrapped an arm round his shoulders and shook him. ‘Sammo, we can’t stay here. We’ve gotta get back, we’ve gotta tell someone!’
The sense, the logic of that finally calmed the tornado in his head. He wiped his eyes with hands that hurt like a bastard, and breathed in.
‘Have we got coverage here?’
Tubs shook his head. ‘Nup, already checked. Sorry, mate.’ He put his hand on Sam’s shoulder again, coaxing him up. ‘We gotta go back.’
And go back they did — quicker back down the hill than up, but no mobile coverage at the camping spot either, so they kept on, not bothering to gather up the tent and campsite gear, walking as fast as they could, none of them speaking, Sam not looking at anything but the track, though every bit of him was aware of Tubs’s vibrating anxiety and Deano’s unnatural calm. They weren’t his problem now, not even Deano. His priority was to find help.
They made it to the truck in two-and-a-half hours. Sam climbed into the driver’s seat, pulled out his phone, dialled his father, who answered on the second ring and didn’t bother to disguise the worry in his voice.
‘Sam, you OK?’
He kept it together throughout the whole explanation, agreed that his dad would call the police, that they’d meet him and Uncle Gene at the Boat Shed, and that he’d not exceed the speed limit on the way back. But the second he hung up, all the pent-up emotion let loose, and he collapsed onto the steering wheel, body shuddering, face buried in his arms.
‘You want me to drive?’
Tubs’s offer brought him back.
Sam sat up, shook his head, wiped his face. ‘Nah, I’m good.’
And he started the truck, did a u-turn that spun its wheels on the gravel and knew he was going to break the promise about the speed limit to his dad.
If the drive up had been bouncy, this was ridiculous. Tubs cracked his head on the window.
‘Ow, fuck. Come on, Sammo,’ he pleaded. ‘Slow it down. We don’t need all of us dea— Shit!!’
Sam saw it, too, the animal that ran out onto the road, barrel-like, brown and familiar. He shoved his foot hard down onto the brake, and the truck’s ABS kicked in, making it judder and swerve but, mercifully, not roll. After a slow-motion lifetime, the truck slid to a complete halt.
Tubs was panting like he was giving birth. Sam glanced back at Deano, who gave him a weak smile while keeping hold of the grab handle with both hands. And out the back window, Sam spotted the animal, sitting in the road, pink tongue lolling. He hadn’t been mistaken.
‘Hang on,’ he told the others, and jumped out.
Next minute, King was in the back seat next to Deano.
‘You’re shitting me,’ said Tubs. ‘I thought it was a fucken pig.’
‘Close relation.’
Sam put the truck in gear. Finding the dog felt like a sign, and that tiny surge of optimism was enough to make him take his foot off the gas. Tubs was right — only one of them would be rescued today.
The Boat Shed was filled with people — official search coordinators and local volunteers. Sam saw Wyatt’s tall, blond head and homed in, to be enveloped immediately in his father’s big, crushing embrace. Today, he was grateful for his dad being OK with public displays of emotion.
Releasing him, his dad spotted the state of Sam’s hands.
‘What—?’
But he obviously decided an explanation could wait.
Casey came up to them, in full police mode — brisk, efficient, impersonal.
‘Your mate Dean wants to have a chat with me,’ she said to Sam. ‘Should I make it a priority?’
Sam nodded.
‘Anything you want to tell me first?’
‘What’s this about?’ said Wyatt.
‘
I don’t know any details,’ Sam told the both of them. ‘Brownie and Deano — it’s drugs, I think. But I don’t know the details.’
It was true. He’d accused his friend, and beaten the crap out of him — but he had no idea how deeply Brownie was involved, or what he’d actually done.
‘OK,’ said Casey, after a beat. ‘I’ll come back to you.’
‘Sam?’ said his father, gently, once she’d gone.
‘I wasn’t involved, Dad,’ he said. ‘Promise.’
No, he wasn’t, was he? Because Brownie hadn’t had enough faith in him to tell him what was going on. He’d known Sam wouldn’t be able to help him.
‘Jacko’s on his way to the scene. He’ll probably get there before the first search team.’
Uncle Gene. Dressed in outdoor gear that made him look like a cross between Action Man and a garden gnome.
‘He says to pass on his thanks to you boys.’
King. Right. Sam had almost forgotten.
‘Mac’s taken the dumb mutt home and locked him up. Don’t tell Jacko, but I suspect she gave him a swift boot up the arse as well.’
‘He’s OK, then?’ Sam asked.
‘Not even noticeably thinner,’ said Uncle Gene. ‘Some creatures are just better programmed for survival than most.’
Sam couldn’t help a ragged intake of breath, and Uncle Gene’s face filled with concern.
‘Your mate could well be one of them.’ He squeezed Sam’s arm. ‘Always hope.’
The trio became aware of a fourth, hovering. Tubs had both hands wrapped around a cup of tea. Not his usual beverage of choice, but probably better for the shock. He was still grey and sweaty around the edges, but his voice came out firm enough.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ he asked the men.
‘That your flash truck out front?’ said Uncle Gene.
‘Um, it’s Dad’s …’
Uncle Gene’s grin was the kind that made your primal survival instincts go ‘Uh, oh.’
‘Is it? Well, you tell Rob that we thank him for his kind donation to our rescue efforts.’
Sam, with an apologetic look at Tubs, drew the keys out of his pocket.
‘Excellent.’ Uncle Gene bounced them in his hand. ‘Wyatt? Lads, if you’re up for it?’
Of course they were. They had to be.
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