by Phyllis King
Darcie eased the joey out backwards so the legs and tail didn’t catch on the way out. It was still warm. She allowed herself a small smile at the thought that she may be saving a life. When she had lifted the joey out however, she recoiled in horror. It too had been decapitated.
Darcie stood up and looked around, wondering if the perpetrator was watching her. Nobody in their right mind would find a joey in its dead mother’s pouch, take it out and decapitate it, then put it back in. She was starting to feel like there was something very wrong about this scenario and became acutely aware of her vulnerability.
She knew that some rescuers used decapitation as a means of euthanasia for joeys that were not viable - in other words, they were too young to possibly survive. Too young however meant no fur, ears still lying against the head and eyes not open. This joey was definitely past that age and all the rescuers she knew in the region would be aware of that. Besides, decapitation for euthanasia was no longer legal and all the rescuers knew that as well.
She backed around to the boot of the car and retrieved her torch and rifle. She heard a twig snap off to her left and swung around to see if someone was there. The torch was strong but there were too many shadows caused by the trees. She heard a series of sniffles, definitely human, but still couldn’t locate the source. The trees were just too thick to see.
So the bastard had hung around to see her discover his handy work. Darcie was sick to her stomach. As if the poor native animals aren’t in enough danger through accidents, but to have someone purposely setting out to mutilate them made her blood boil. She was going to get this bastard, but not right now as he had all the advantages. He may even have night vision goggles so she would be a fool to start pursuing him through the thick scrub.
She realised there was nothing more she could do for the wallaby and her joey. Still scanning the bush to make sure that she wasn’t going to become his next victim, she carefully got back in the driver’s seat of the car and placed the torch and rifle on the passenger seat. She hoped he wasn’t going to shoot at her as she drove away, but she made it down the road, shaking with fear.
The wildlife rescuers’ internet forum was buzzing with the horrific news. Darcie already knew as Sarah had visited in person, shaking with rage and anguish, to let her know. Sarah had a property nearby on which she had set up pens as a half way house for wildlife that had been rehabilitated and were almost ready for release. She had two gorgeous eastern grey joeys there that were almost old enough to go out on their own. Sarah had nursed them since they came to her as orphans of road trauma about six months ago.
While Sarah was staying at the property on Friday night, someone had snuck into the pens and shot her joeys. Sarah had heard the commotion but not until it was too late for the joeys. She ran outside in time to see a ute driving away but hadn’t got the registration number in the dark.
The police hadn’t been much help and had basically told her not to get so upset about a couple of kangaroos. They’d taken Sarah’s description of the vehicle and driver at her insistence, but said they were too busy with ‘real’ crimes to look into it.
Darcie had tried to console Sarah for at least an hour, but she was sharing her grief and frustration and couldn’t really think of anything positive to say about the whole ordeal. They both had a slow burning rage that would be there for a long time. Nothing would replace those joeys and all the effort, time and love that had been invested in them.
Several days later, Darcie was driving back home from a shopping trip in town. She saw a battered ute turn down a side road and caught a glimpse of what looked like a kangaroo or wallaby bouncing around in the back. She stopped the car and watched as the ute drove slowly down the road until it was swallowed in swirling dust.
The skin on the back of her neck was standing up. It wasn’t uncommon for a farmer to drive around in a ute with a roo that he had shot, maybe taking its carcass home to feed the dogs. But this ute had no spotlights or carcass hooks and it was broad daylight.
Something nagged at the back of Darcie’s mind. She squeezed her eyes closed to focus on it before it slipped away. The conversation with Sarah... The ute that had driven away from the shooting at Sarah’s place, Sarah said it was a cream Toyota without spotlights, male driver around 40, solid, long stringy black hair, red parka and beanie. This had to be the guy.
Darcie drove home, unloaded the groceries and picked up her rifle. She drove back to the spot where she had seen the ute turn off and followed down the dusty side road. She drove slowly, trying not to create too much dust. Several hundred metres down the road she could see through the trees the ute parked around a bend. She stopped her car and got out, carrying her rifle.
She managed to sneak through the bush to where she could see the back of the ute. A man was sitting in the back, straddling a large kangaroo with his knees. The animal had been shot and was clearly dead. The man was attempting to hack its head off with a machete. Darcie heard the same repetitive sniffling that she had heard the other night in the bush. He matched Sarah’s description right down to the beanie and long, stringy black hair.
So this was the sick bastard who was mutilating animals and hanging around to see her reaction.
She cocked the gun and shot into the tyre of the ute. The man jumped up in fright and saw her standing there with a rifle. He dropped to the ground and ran down the road towards a creek trying to hide amongst the trees there and stop Darcie from getting a clear shot.
Damn, this guy was fast. Darcie lost sight of him but pursued anyway. She had spent many hours tracking down injured animals and knew that she had to be patient. She pursued at a distance so that she didn’t startle him into panic and make him do something rash.
Once she got to the creek it wasn’t hard to see where he had gone by the boot marks in the mud. She followed the boot marks down the creek bed at a steady pace. He must be sticking to the creek for cover without realising that he was leaving tracks in the mud.
After several minutes she was starting to sweat, but she knew that she was still following his tracks and that he couldn’t be too far ahead. Eventually he would either think that she was no longer tracking him and turn back for his ute, or he would tire and need to rest. Even if he did leave the creek and she could no longer follow his boot marks, Darcie was confident that she had enough experience to anticipate where a threatened animal would go. She grinned to think that, even if he got back to the ute, he wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry with one tyre shot out.
She had about an hour of daylight left. He didn’t have anything on him when he jumped out of the ute so he wouldn’t have any advantage in the dark that might be provided by night vision goggles or a torch. He may have a mobile phone in a pocket but was unlikely to get reception in the gully. She would track him down if it took her all night.
As the daylight was fading, Darcie rounded a bend in the creek and saw him. He had attempted to jump a barbed wire fence and not cleared the top strand. He was now hanging upside down with the barbs cutting cruelly into his legs, and the more he struggled to get out, the more entangled he became.
Darcie approached cautiously and quietly to avoid startling the victim. This was a classic fence hanger, and a large male would be very difficult to free on her own without causing more damage. She quickly assessed the damage and the victim’s chances of rehabilitation. She knew what had to be done.
An hour later, Darcie logged on to the rescue database and filled out the rescue details: Adult male; Fence hanger; Euthenased.
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Plain Jane
Louise Bolland
In the aftermath, the thing I loathed the most was the silence. It was suffocating, so unlike the peaceful quiet I’d once cloaked myself in. It was like a pair of icy hands slowly constricting around my neck, stealing the warmth from my body. It followed me, trapping me, wrapping around my ankles like a pair of unbreakable shackles. The silence, the pain, the self-deprecating - misery’s invited guests.
Violet, they begged, please, please don’t become Jane.
There was one place where I could escape the silence - Jane’s house. Once the police formalities were over and the terrifying ordeal had faded to a painful memory, I spent quite a lot of time with Jane’s mum, Ellie. We did trivial things to keep ourselves occupied - gardening, cooking, cleaning. She would talk and I would listen, grabbing at the chance to break routine. She was just grateful for the company. Like me, her life was marked by two very different timelines. Before Jane, existence was normal, unmarred. After Jane, Ellie was avoided like the plague.
Each night in my fitful nightmares, I’d hear Jane’s voice. Musical, comforting; the same voice that fought off bullies, soothed me when I needed comfort, kept me safe in all those years of friendship. Then, ugliness would creep into her tone, and her voice would transform into the monster’s roar that had torn my world apart. Each night would remind me of what she’d done, and of my failure to see it coming. Guilt, guilt, guilt; the word bounced within the confines of my mind like a broken record. Each night, I’d wake up screaming.
And each night, no one would come. After all - see no evil, hear no evil, and evil does not exist.
I trudged through the days, avoiding the places that ripped into my still-fresh wounds, lacking the courage to meet the hollow eyes of my destroyed peers. I should’ve joined them in their grief- I’d lost more than they could imagine - but instead, I was isolated. Banned from the closure I so desperately needed. All because eight years ago, a little girl named Jane Crosby sat next to me at lunch, and said my drawings were pretty.
Like October 17th, I remember that day with absolute clarity. After three years of braving school alone, Jane became my first friend. She wasn’t new to the school; it was almost as if she’d just decided that we should be friends. I knew her by reputation; everyone knew Jane Crosby, the daughter of the police officer that had killed himself two years before. She called me Shrinking Violet, and told me that we could be best friends if I wanted to be. Of course I agreed. Jane was everything I wasn’t and everything I desperately wanted to be — outgoing, confident. Anything but plain.
Jane was true to her promise. We spent each year together, growing through pain, loss, happiness and laughter. Not once, did I ever consider the fact that Jane, my closest friend, could be crazy. She hid it well.
‘Best friends for life, Shrinking Violet, ‘she’d say. ‘No matter what.’
If I’d known what Jane would become, I would never have said it back.
The morning of October 17lh was strikingly beautiful, though admittedly a day like any other. The earth was barely awake, warmed by the sun, cooled by the slow breeze that stirred the still morning air. I’d always loved mornings; something about the promise of a new day brought a smile to my usually solemn face.
The morning passed uneventfully. Aside from a wave as we passed on our way to our respective classes, Jane and I didn’t speak until lunch. Even then, she was distracted. Excited.
‘Jane,’ I groaned, ‘Just tell me.’
She smiled knowingly. She drummed her fingers on her knees. ‘You’re so impatient, Vi.’ She replied. Trailing my hands through the scratchy yellow grass absentmindedly, I made a face.
‘You’re impossible.’
We talked about nothing, two forgotten figures dancing on the edge of the student body. A day like any other. Best friends for life.
But not forever.
Jane made some excuse to leave - one I can’t even remember now - and left me sitting alone on the grass. I watched the world pass idly by, lost in a world of blissful ignorance and colourful distraction. I liked being invisible. I could do whatever I pleased. I could watch, free from the worry of discovery. It had been years since I’d been looked at twice. Even at home, I was ignored. Shrinking Violet, trampled into a lost memory.
My brother, Kyle, lifted my wilting petals. He threw me smiles when I needed them, handed me assurances. A safety net for when I fell. A friend, a brother, a certainty.
The first gunshot derailed my train of thought.
At first, the sound didn’t register. I couldn’t understand what sort of thing could make such a noise. It screamed of anger. Reeked of devastation. I leapt to my feet. Shrieks of terror filled the air, murmurs of confusion swimming underneath the sudden panic. I ran across the oval, instinct pulling me towards the sound that had destroyed the quiet. A football lay discarded, forgotten on the grass.
All around me, the students ran. More gunshots rang out. I winced with each one as fright struck my heart. Still, I kept running, feet thudding against the grass with each frenzied step. Faintly, I registered hoarse cries, the smell of blood.
Pandemonium greeted me. Falling students. Crimson tears. Utter chaos leaked into my eardrums - the steady explosions of a shotgun, the strangled, choked sobs of the broken. And in the centre of the horror stood Jane, her head thrown to the heavens as she laughed.
At her feet, lay my brother. In that moment, my world shattered.
People were running in the other direction now.
Word had spread - ‘Some crazy bitch’s got a gun! Run for your Goddamn lives!’ - fear pumping like electricity through the hearts of the still-standing students.
I caught Jane’s expression, realising she wanted to chase them. Excitement glinted in her look, as bright as the sun. I didn’t move. Kyle couldn’t. I began to scream. Jane’s eyes left the skies, focusing on me with harsh intensity. It hurt to look at her. I saw her finger twitch on the trigger. Watched her lower the gun. Heard her voice, louder than my denial.
‘Get out of here, Shrinking Violet,’ she warned, tone guttural and ugly, ‘I don’t want to shoot you.’
‘Jane!’ I managed to gasp. My mouth opened and closed, but nothing else audible escaped. I settled for tears, the liquid agony asking a thousand questions as they trailed down my cheeks. Jane shook her head, something that resembled regret crossing her features.
She pointed the gun at me. Fired it, her arm jerking back slightly. The bullet buried itself in my leg, a pain a thousand times greater than anything I’d ever felt shooting through me. My teeth pierced my lip and I spat out crimson saliva, feeling it dribble down my chin. Blood gushed from the betrayal carved into my skin, a fire spreading up my thigh. Jane stared at me, not unkindly.
‘Vi,’ she sighed, ‘why couldn’t you just listen to me for once?’
Then, she gave into need, and ran after her prey. I lay on the ground, unable to do anything but cry and feel my mind grow dim. I clawed at Kyle’s too-still hand, begging him to wake up until finally losing myself in the embrace of unconsciousness.
But unawareness was only a temporary escape.
In the days following, I was told all sorts of things. The gun had been her father’s. There were seven killed, four injured. She’d saved the last bullet for herself, straight through her head. I was lucky to be alive. School wouldn’t go back for another couple of weeks. I would be discharged from the hospital in a few days.
Kyle was dead.
After they told me that, I didn’t listen to anything else they had to say.
My mum sat with me while I pretended to sleep, crying silently. My dad would visit frequently, silently tracing patterns on my cheek. The silence began in that hospital room. After I returned home, we just couldn’t figure out how to break it anymore. Initially, I was glad. Soon, it became a curse.
It felt like a crime to do anything but mourn. Nausea churned in my stomach at anything bright. Music sounded lik
e gunfire. Going into Kyle’s room felt like home invasion. I locked myself away, lost in a sea of questions and regrets. One moment, life was passing idly. The next, I was caught up in a frenzy of police investigations where they asked me questions I hated answering. Kyle was dead. Jane was a monster. Shrinking Violet was all alone in the world. Fate is cruel.
I was no longer invisible. I became ‘Jane Crosby’s best friend’, a title spoken with unimaginable contempt. I’d give anything to be just Violet Carpenter again, the girl everyone forgot. I was losing myself, losing the person I used to be.
Giving in to the hatred. Cursing myself as loudly as the ghosts.
Somehow, like someone had pressed pause on all the hate, I found myself with Jane’s mum. She’d always been a bright influence in Jane’s life and my own, ready with culinary skill and all things first-aid. I guess it wasn’t totally wrong to turn to her in the aftermath, seeing as she’d been almost like a second mother to me.
