She headed in the direction of where the barbecue had been the night before. The dry grass, cracking under her boots, was littered with empty beer bottles and cigarette butts, a couple of footballs lying here and there. She wondered if the debris was all from last night or from a few different shindigs, and if they ever cleaned the place up. She suspected not. This town didn’t seem the sort to want to impress anyone.
She crossed to the edge of the field and looked into the darkness of the bush. Despite the heat, she shivered. This was where she had met Trent. Emerging from the scrub with his gun and immediate awareness that she was putting on an act. Had he reported that to the others? Did it matter if he had? Even thinking back on it brought a surge of anger at herself, a voice that sounded a lot like her father’s muttering in her ear: What, you really thought you could make it out there by yourself, thought you could face the big bad world alone? A few more fuck-ups like that and they’ll come for you, like you know they will eventually. You can’t hide after what you did.
Maggie kicked a bottle. It rolled towards the tree line. No matter where she looked, all she saw through the trunks was gloom. It made her feel as though this town existed in some strange purgatory separate from the rest of the world. Her mind was made up. It was time to leave. But as she turned, something caught her eye, a gleam of sun striking metal. She took a few steps and saw, tucked away behind the trees, a large shed.
It seemed a strange place for it. It was about the same size as the houses in the main part of town, with a corrugated iron roof and steel-sheet walls. The closer she got, stepping into the shadows of the trees, the more she could make out. There seemed to be a lot of growth around it, as if the place was forgotten. Or as if someone was trying to hide it.
Behind her the coast was clear. There was no sign that anyone was following her. She was, after all, a fair distance from the houses in the town. She approached the shed. Up close it didn’t look forgotten. There was a clear path leading up to the tin door and there was no sign of rust on the door itself. Reaching it she put an ear to the cool metal, but there was no sound from within.
Her heart had picked up and she wasn’t sure why. She had no need to look inside if she didn’t want to. She had no reason except curiosity – it wasn’t as though an answer to where her mother was would be in there. She opened the door.
His ears were ringing, the sound high and keening and awful. There was blood in his eyes, washing the trees and bushes red. He thought of his mother.
Her face had appeared unbidden as the bat came down and he felt the crack of bone, knowing it was just his arm but feeling as though his whole body had broken. His mother appeared in his mind then, brushing his hair away and singing. But the singing morphed into laughter, followed by hands wrenching him up and shoving him away from the car and voices calling ‘Run, piggy, run’, and after that, his mother wasn’t there anymore, just the scratch of branches, the tears and blood in his eyes, the pounding of his heart and more laughter, falling away as trees closed in and he kept running, cradling his throbbing arm, and none of it mattering.
In stolen snatches, her song came back to him. He wanted to call for her and to know that it was just a dream, that he had never been to the bush, that the monsters weren’t real and he was still in his bed, still a kid, still safe.
But the laughter drowned out the song.
The trunks were denser now, the leaves above tangled in black. On some level he knew he had to be quiet, but that was secondary to the fact that he had to escape, to get clear before the laughter got close enough to cut again.
‘Faster, piggy!’
The crack of a gunshot. An explosion of bark from a nearby tree, splinters scouring the skin of his face, the pain blending into all the rest, meaningless. The rustle of birds taking flight above. Simon couldn’t breathe. Something was crushing his lungs. His muscles screamed in agony that he couldn’t afford to feel.
He ran.
How far had the bush stretched? There was a road here, somewhere. If he could just reach the road, if he could just—
Another gunshot. Another eruption of laughter. Closer.
One leg went out from under him. He landed on his limp, useless arm. Pain slammed into him, so hard it left him winded, so all-encompassing he couldn’t even scream, just curl into a ball there in the dirt. He tasted blood. He could hear singing, but he didn’t know if it was his mother, himself, or the others.
The others.
He cried. He begged – who, he didn’t know, but he did anyway as he forced himself up. He couldn’t look at his arm. He knew it was wet with blood. Didn’t matter. He stumbled forwards.
‘We can see you, little piggy.’
‘Help,’ he rasped, to the darkness and the trees ahead. ‘Please help.’
‘It’s not fun if you don’t run.’
He ran.
Maggie. Maggie had done this. She had brought him here, she had teased him, she had made them stay and now he was going to die. The injustice of it, the monstrousness of it, almost blasted away the pain. He would have been angry if he’d had the strength for it. All he felt, though, was a gaping, empty hopelessness, a knowledge that this wasn’t fair, that he had done nothing to deserve this, but that it was going to happen anyway, all because of her.
Run.
The panting came suddenly behind him, hot and hungry and savage, the sound of paws landing hard in dried leaves and dirt, the snarl of the dog. He tried to run faster and then he felt the teeth. He screamed as the dog pulled him back, his fingernails tearing as he clawed the dirt and none of the pain mattering because the mongrel had him by the leg, wrenching him from side to side; powerful, too powerful. A memory floated . . . playing with the family dog as a kid, giggling and poking it until it nipped him. He had been stupid.
A whistle, a gunshot and the teeth were gone, the panting and the paws bounding back to their master. The pain was still there. The dirt he squirmed in was soaked and hot. He tried to stand. His leg wasn’t working. He tried again. He was up. Trees warped, the shadows between them growing, reaching for him.
Simon, I don’t think you should go on this trip. His mother. He had told her she was being silly, that there was nothing to worry about.
Another gunshot and he was face down, inhaling dirt with each desperate, gasping breath. He got his good arm under him. Tried to push himself up. Couldn’t.
And then the pain. A new pain, not sharp but slow and rising like a wave coursing through his whole body, pain that burned white and then became cold. He was shivering. He was submerged in ice. A foot, rolling him over. The treetops above flickering in and out of focus. Wind, rustling branches. The cry of a bird.
And then Steve’s face in his. ‘Come on, mate. This ain’t fun for any of us. Pick up the pace.’
‘I can’t.’
He heard it without knowing if he’d said it or not. He wanted to go home. He wanted a blanket. He wanted his mum.
‘Don’t stress, mate. Kayd is gonna show little Maggie a good time. He’ll make her forget all about you.’
‘Please.’
‘Please what?’
‘Please don’t kill me.’
The laughter. It was all he could hear. It filled his ears and crawled through every inch of him.
‘My family. They know I’m out here.’
‘But they’re not here, are they, mate? Families are meant protect each other. But you’re all alone.’
Dancing flashes of late-afternoon light through jagged leaves. The slow, dragging movements of a nearby wombat in dry undergrowth. The call of a kookaburra, somewhere far away. The shotgun barrel in his face.
‘What are you, mate?’
Stupid, I’ve been so stupid.
‘Say again, mate?’
‘Mum.’
‘What are you?’
Something sharp, something that made him want to scream but he couldn’t scream anymore.
‘Mum’s not here, mate. We are. Tell us what you are and we’ll make
it end.’
He didn’t know his name anymore. It slipped away as he tried to reach for it. His mother was gone. He couldn’t remember the song. There was the dirt, the trees, the gun and the cold, always the cold, everywhere. Why couldn’t they feel it?
‘Tell us.’
He said it. He said it because it was the only thing he knew. And as he said the words the laughter started again and built.
‘Goodnight, piggy.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Now
Charlie stood in the darkened living room, eyes on the window. All he could see was the night. He listened intently, waiting for the approaching car that meant Delilah was back and they could leave.
Without quite knowing why, his thoughts returned to the incident in the Adelaide pub. Things were new and fresh then: he and Delilah only a few days past a one-night stand. They’d settled into a corner booth and were chatting and drinking. He’d only just started to suspect the potential of what this might become, the realisation that he wasn’t feeling even the beginnings of the unbalanced panic that usually got to him at around this point with a woman. He’d gone to the bar to get a drink, when some arsehole had swaggered over to him. He was tanned, with an unbuttoned flannelette shirt and heavy, steel-capped boots. He might have been around Charlie’s age, but he could just as easily have been much younger or much older. The sun had done its job.
‘Gotta shout you a drink, mate.’ There was the hint of a slur in his voice, but there was purpose to his smirk. ‘Pulling a woman like that, looking like you do. What’s your secret?’
Charlie shrugged. He wasn’t playing this game. One thing he’d learned about Australia – it was full of different variants of a certain kind of guy who was fixated on belittlement and condescension, especially when there was a girl involved.
‘Nah, seriously, mate.’ He elbowed Charlie, a little too hard to be a joke, a little too gently to be called out on. ‘What’s your secret? I need some help.’
‘No secret,’ Charlie said, picking up their drinks. He turned and started to walk back to the table. He saw the boot shoot out in front of his feet just in time. He stopped abruptly, sloshing beer down his front.
‘Come on, mate, you can’t leave me hanging,’ the man said. Charlie noticed a ring of similar-looking guys at a nearby table, following what was happening with leering fascination.
Charlie turned to him. ‘We’re just having a quiet drink. You mind?’
‘Hey, mate, relax there, eh? Bit touchy.’ He winked at the others on his table. Charlie could hear sniggers. Delilah stepped up beside him and he felt the hot flush in his cheeks worsen.
‘Here she is!’ the guy said. ‘Was just asking your fella how he swindled you into the sack.’
‘Were you?’ Delilah said calmly. ‘Well, I’m asking you to leave us alone.’
‘Aw, don’t be like that.’
‘Like what?’ Delilah said. ‘You’re the one being a straight-up piece of overcompensating shit. How small does your penis have to be to make you think this is the best way to get a girl’s attention?’
The guy blinked at them. An explosion of raucous laughter came from his table. Delilah took Charlie by the elbow and guided him back to the booth, just as a last, desperate attack came from behind: ‘Pretty tough, mate, getting a girl to stand up for you.’
Charlie sat, eyes on the drinks. He didn’t feel much like staying now. There was an unpleasant, churning shame in his gut.
‘Ignore them,’ Delilah said gently. ‘They’re jealous.’
He pretended it was all fine and tried not to let his relief show when the table of loudmouth pricks left after another few minutes.
That night hadn’t come up again, but it had established a precedent that Charlie wanted to displace: that he was a pushover, too soft and gentle to confront anything uncomfortable. Whatever Delilah said she liked about him, he didn’t have to like it about himself.
But there was a big difference between being brave and being stupid.
It had been a mistake to get involved in this. He’d had this feeling many times before – been in situations that had just felt wrong. Working with people he wasn’t sure about, taking opportunities that looked great on paper but somehow didn’t sit right. He’d always told himself he was being paranoid and inevitably, every time, things blew up in his face. He had that same feeling again now. Worse. It had started the moment the car pulled up and only grown, an ominous acidic discomfort gnawing at his guts.
But he couldn’t have just left. Of course he couldn’t. Not when somebody needed his help. Not when he was supposed to be a nurse but had spent the last year drinking his way across a country where responsibility couldn’t find him.
He turned back to the girl on the couch. She hadn’t moved. He’d cleaned her wounds as best as he could, had even managed to suture the lacerations and bandage her, but it wasn’t enough. She needed a hospital. Pain relief, a tetanus shot and definitely antibiotics. Maybe a transfusion.
Sitting on the edge of an armchair nearby, Allie fidgeted, keeping an eye on the unconscious girl.
Charlie’s gaze returned to the window.
‘Who do you think she is?’ Allie asked.
Charlie rested his head against the glass. Darkness filled his eyes. He closed them. He could think of only one answer to that question that made sense and if he was right, it meant that he really had made a big mistake trying to help.
‘She has to be a criminal,’ Allie said.
‘Yeah,’ Charlie said. ‘I guess so.’
It was the sole reason he could think of why somebody wouldn’t want to call an emergency number when they were hurt as badly as she was. If that was the case, then he was standing here fretting about the threat her injury posed her and ignoring the very obvious threat she posed them.
‘Have you checked her car?’ Allie asked.
‘We drove over in it.’
‘But did you search it? There might be something in it that can tell us something.’
‘Your grandpa stayed out there for a while. I’d guess he was looking around. He didn’t say anything.’
Allie snorted. ‘He wouldn’t. He never says anything about anything.’
Charlie looked at her.
‘My dad always said that was Grandad’s big problem,’ Allie said. ‘Or at least, that’s the censored version he told me. I overheard him and Mum talking enough times. Booze and drugs and stuff were the real problems, apparently.’
‘Drugs?’ Charlie looked towards the roadhouse. Frank didn’t seem the type.
‘I dunno,’ Allie said. ‘Just what I heard. I never really knew him growing up. I think he was in jail for some of it. Grandma was around, until she died. But Frank was a pretty controversial topic.’
Charlie went to speak, then stopped himself. It was hardly the time and hardly his business.
‘Were you going to ask why I’m staying here?’
Charlie shrugged.
Allie looked away. ‘Because my parents are getting a divorce but don’t have the guts to tell me. Dad thought I should come here while one of them moves out. Mum cracked the shits because Grandad’s supposed to be bad news. Dad reckons he’s cleaned up his act. Dad won the argument because Mum’s been cheating on him.’
Charlie wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he went for the slightly safer question. ‘Do you think Frank has cleaned up his act?’
‘Yeah,’ Allie said. ‘I sort of looked the place over the first day I was here. No booze, no white powders, no nothing. I always got the impression from my parents that he was really fucked-up, but he just seems . . . quiet.’
‘Maybe he’s fucked-up in a different way. Seen and done stuff that he’s trying to get his head around or put behind him. I’m not saying he’s an angel, but if he’s come out the other side and is clean now, it might be worth giving your grandfather a chance. I mean, look at her.’ He nodded to the girl. ‘He didn’t have to help her. None of us did. But here we are.’
&nbs
p; ‘What if . . .’ Allie looked uncertain, like she was trying to find the words. ‘I mean, if someone did this to her. What if she deserved it? If we’re helping the wrong person?’
‘What if we’re not?’ Charlie asked evenly. ‘You can’t assume the worst in people. They can surprise you. They can surprise themselves, as well. That thing I said before, it cuts both ways. It’s why you can’t ever judge people too harshly, because most people have no idea who they really are beneath who they think they are.’
Allie didn’t reply.
The room was silent. Charlie checked the girl again. Still breathing. Still unconscious. He knelt and took her pulse. Steady. He stood, considered, then turned to Allie. ‘You know, I think we should look in the car.’
‘Can we just leave her?’ Allie asked.
‘We’ll only be a few metres away,’ Charlie said. ‘I think you’re right. It could help.’
Allie glanced at the girl.
Together they walked into the hall and out the front door. Standing on the porch, Charlie paused. He couldn’t see the roadhouse from here. Something twisted in his chest, some horrible feeling that seemed to push him to run towards it as fast as he could.
Instead, he went to the car.
When he opened the driver-side door, it looked the same as it had before. Allie was checking the back seat. Charlie’s eyes moved over everything – the keys were gone, he noted. Frank must have lifted them. He was about to grab the backpack from the passenger seat when he noticed a gleam of metal on the floor underneath the driver seat. He reached down and lifted the jacket that covered whatever it was. For several seconds he just stared at it, that twisting in his chest getting worse.
‘Holy shit.’
He hadn’t notice Allie open the passenger-side front door. They met each other’s gaze again.
‘She is a criminal,’ Allie said, just as they heard the distant sound of a gunshot.
‘Delilah,’ Charlie whispered.
It happened in seconds. Before Allie could even shout after him, Charlie was gone; a movement then nothing in the dark. She was alone with the car and the house and the gently swaying grass.
The Hunted Page 10
