by JD Nixon
He didn’t answer, but instead said, “Also, I wanted to know what I was coming back to.” Then under his breath, but loud enough for me to hear, “The guys weren’t exaggerating.”
“I don’t really care what they told you about me.”
“Doesn’t sound as though you showed them much country hospitality.”
“I didn’t run them out of town with a pitchfork. What more did you want me to do?” Then his words sank in. “Anyway, you’ve now seen what you’ve come back to. I suppose you’re here to pack up the rest of your things to head back to the city.”
“Nope. I’m back for good.” His eyes stayed steadily on mine. “Just as I said I would.”
“Is the PIU investigation over?” I asked.
“Yes. I was fully exonerated, so my suspension is over. I’m back on active duty, and ordered to return to work.”
“Oh. So you were ordered to come back here?” And I just couldn’t help the acerbic tone entering my voice at that thought. Not to mention the fact that nobody had informed me the investigation into Denny and Dylan’s deaths was complete.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said gently. “I was ordered to return to work. It was my decision to come back here. With a little help from others.”
“You had to convince the brass to let you to return here?”
“Yes. Someone wasn’t happy about it at all, and had to have her arm repeatedly and violently twisted behind her back to agree. You’ll never guess who.”
Fiona. Who else?
I wasn’t going to let him off that easily. “Must be nice to get to do pretty much whatever you want because you have some high contacts.”
“I didn’t want to leave, Tessie. I had no choice about that.” Sure, whatever, I thought. He sighed. “I thought you might be a little pleased to see me again.”
“Why? It makes no difference to me who’s my sergeant,” I lied.
He sighed again, this time in exasperation. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”
“I didn’t realise I was supposed to. I guess that must have also been in the memo I didn’t receive about the PIU investigation being complete.”
We faced off, but he broke eye contact first. “I’m tired. I’ve had a long day driving, and I came here straight from the airport. I understand Baz chose not to occupy my house.” I nodded. “Do you have the keys for it on you?”
“No, they’re at home.”
“Do you mind if I swing past there to pick them up? Will your father be home?” I nodded again. “I’d like to do some unpacking tonight before I crash.”
“Did you bring Melissa with you?” I could imagine her refusing to leave his car, not deigning to converse with me.
“No.”
“Is she still resisting the move here? I suppose she’s stayed in the city?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know where she is.”
I frowned. “What do you mean? Is she still overseas?”
“Like I said, I don’t know. Perhaps.” At my obtuse face, he explained further. “We broke up while we were overseas.”
I goggled at him. “Broke up?” I repeated stupidly.
“Yes, Tessie,” he replied patiently. “We’re no longer engaged. I haven’t had any contact with her for over a month. Which you’d know if you’d read my emails.” Said with a pointed expression.
“Why did you break up?”
Again, his eyes rested steadily on me. “I had my reasons,” he said, and without another word, he departed.
I watched him drive his Beemer the fifty metres between the station carpark and the police house driveway, my head spinning.
*****
I worked for a bit longer, wanting to finish my report on what Mr Mansfield had told me earlier before leaving for the day. It was strange to see lights on in the police house again after months of it sitting in darkness each night. I refused to let my mind dwell on the fact that the Sarge had returned to stay, and that he’d apparently returned as a single man.
I could have got on the phone to alert Gretel and Romi about that fascinating fact, but I decided to let people find out for themselves. It wasn’t my job to be the town gossip, I thought piously, watching as the pages of my report glided smoothly from the printer. I stapled them together, threw the report into Baz’s in-tray for his perusal tomorrow. Normally, I would have also emailed a copy to Mr X and Zelda, but Baz insisted on first reading all my reports before they became official records – just one more thing that annoyed me about being disciplined.
A giddy thought suddenly struck me. If the Sarge was back in town as officer-in-charge, then that must mean my disciplinary time was correspondingly served. I’d be free of Baz’s well-intentioned, but cloying, administrations.
And on that happy consideration, I locked up and jumped down the stairs of the station with more enthusiasm than I’d felt for a long time. Jake would be a happy man tonight.
I glanced up at the station as I opened the Land Rover, not needing to unlock it, as all the door locks were now officially kaput. I’d had to reluctantly start using Dad’s old steering wheel lock, despite the unattractive and decrepit nature of the vehicle. Nobody in their right mind would want to steal it, but more than once I’d caught one of the younger Bycrafts – mostly Chad – trying to hotwire it. I’d be the first to admit it was hardly worth a cent at its great age, and couldn’t muster up enough speed to make it a desirable joyriding vehicle, but it was my only set of wheels. I’d be damned if I let one of the Bycrafts steal it from me.
At home, I parked next to Jake’s flashy golden ute, the real love of his life. My slightly upbeat mood was immediately spoiled by the truculent set to his face when he greeted me at the door. Without a word to him, I detoured to my bedroom, closing the door in his face, to change out of my uniform into a skirt and t-shirt, my knife snuggled securely on my thigh. I padded barefoot to the kitchen, Jake following in my wake.
“So, Maguire’s back in town,” he said, as I peered in the fridge, looking for some inspiration for dinner. Jake must have already been here when the Sarge came over to pick up his house keys.
“And?”
“Suppose he’s here to pack up his shit and leave?”
“Nope. He reckons he’s back for good.”
“Oh, just great. Now you’re going to spend all your time with him again. I barely see you as it is.”
I turned around to face him then, my hands on my hips. “I don’t remember you complaining much about me having to spend every second of the day with Baz. So why would it be any different with Maguire?”
“Baz is old enough to be your father. Maguire’s young, rich, and educated. That could turn a lot of women’s heads.” I let the implied insult hang in the air between us, aware it stemmed from his own insecurities about his financial struggles and lack of education. Didn’t stop me from glaring at him though. “Well, I’m waiting.”
“For what?” I demanded.
“For you to remind me for the millionth time that he’s engaged.”
Not answering, I busied myself pulling out some premade pizza bases from the fridge and ingredients to go on top. Chopping some chorizo and red onion, my resolve not to be a gossip dissolved. Jake would find out sooner or later (most likely sooner in this town), so it was best he heard it from me first.
“He’s not engaged anymore.”
“What?”
“They broke up while they were overseas. That’s what he told me.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic!” he exploded. “Why do you think he’s come back to this shithole?”
I spun around, feeling rather volcanic myself. “How the hell would I know? And why are you getting so shitty with me? I have no control over who I work with, and I sure as hell don’t have any control over Maguire’s personal life. So, back off, Jakey!” Recognising the dangerous look on my face and tone to my voice, he remained silent. I deflated. “Can we just have a nice evening together? Please? I don’t want to talk about Baz. I
don’t want to talk about Maguire. I just want to talk and think about you.”
“I’m sorry, baby doll,” he said, immediately contrite. We hugged and kissed before I returned to my prep work.
“Everything okay in here?” Dad asked, having rolled his wheelchair to the door of the kitchen, and eyeing us both off.
I dropped a kiss on the top of his head. “Yep, everything’s fine. Jakey’s just offered to help me,” I said, holding out a knife for him in an unmistakable hint.
“Anything I can do, love?”
“No, Dad. It’s all under control.”
Peace reigned in the kitchen again as Jake and I worked together to produce dinner. As we ate at the kitchen table, Jake regaled us with scurrilous tales about some of the high-profile inmates at the low-security prison where he worked. More like a holiday resort than a punishment, the prisoners were treated to all sorts of luxuries that Dad and I could only dream about. I sometimes wondered if I should commit a string of petty crimes so I could get banged up in the female equivalent low-security prison, and enjoy the same benefits. But I always ended up ruling that daydream out, knowing that for obvious reasons, cops weren’t particularly welcomed in prison.
The evening passed peacefully, Jake and I careful not to discuss either the Sarge’s return or Denny’s funeral.
Much later that night, I had to dress quickly and leave Jake slumbering in my bed to answer a domestic call-out. I tossed up whether I should attend it by myself, but decided that as I was almost close to freedom, I shouldn’t risk doing anything that would bring the wrath of Baz (or even worse, the Super) down on my head. So I reluctantly roused a bleary Baz, dragging him away from the dubious charms of Foxy. He swung by my house in the patrol car to pick me up, both of us in our civvies, but wearing our utility belts.
A domestic call-out was always an unwanted job. You never knew what you’d encounter. It could be a neighbour dispute, a fight between friends or family members, or a case of domestic violence. You could arrive at the scene to find everyone denying anything was wrong, a cowed child or partner in the background sporting fresh bruises and trying to hide them. Or you could arrive to find the whole matter still in full swing. You could arrive to find a hostage situation had developed, or in the worst scenario, it could be a murder scene that greeted you. One thing that was usually for sure was that there would be alcohol and/or drugs involved, which only ratcheted the entire sorry situation up another notch. And the fact that it was a Bycraft call-out ratcheted the situation up to full blast.
I was half-glad, half-sorry, to have Baz accompanying me. On the one hand, he was very good at defusing tense situations in an authoritative but genial way, as I’d witnessed multiple times. On the other, he wasn’t in the best shape for a cop, and we really hadn’t had any physical altercations since his arrival. And if there was one thing in the world the Bycrafts seemed to enjoy, judging by how many they were involved in each year, it was physical altercations.
I glanced at Baz’s big belly straining through the buttons of his ‘going out’ shirt (as he called it), now rather crumpled. He’d probably thrown it to the floor earlier in the evening with scant regard, eager to get down to business with Foxy – an image I really didn’t need in my brain at this time in the morning. I wondered when was the last time he’d had to do some hard physical policing with desperate people, instead of merely ‘wrangling’ poor cops like me.
I guess I’d find out tonight.
We pulled up in front of Lola’s house. Every light blazed inside, and we could hear shouting and crashing from the patrol car.
“Sounds like it’s going to be a good one,” Baz commented neutrally, clicking open his seatbelt.
“Yep. There might be some sleepovers in the lockup tonight,” I said, automatically patting down all my equipment as I always did, assuring myself it was all there. I’d also brought my knife with me tonight as soon as I heard that Bycrafts were involved.
I wasn’t sure who’d rung me, but it was a female, her voice muffled and panicky. I thought it might have been Kym Lebutt, sister to Jake’s estranged wife, Chantelle. Kym lived with her other sister, Dorrie, and her mother, Cheryl. She had two children to Jake’s brother, Tommy, currently serving out his sentence for hitting and killing Nana Fuller in his car. The Lebutts and the Bycrafts were intricately linked in multiple, often confusing, genealogical ways.
I led Baz up the rickety stairs of the timber house to the spongy boards of their front verandah. Angry male voices greeted us, accompanied by the shrill shrieks of Hell’s Hound, Lola herself.
Something fragile broke.
I banged on the open front door to no avail, just dodging a flying boot at the last minute.
“Police!” Baz boomed into the maelstrom. “Police!”
Not receiving any kind of response from that, he inclined his head at me. I nodded curtly and stepped over the threshold, my hand on my gun. Bycrafts weren’t usually inclined to own guns, but since Red had been put away, I figured his pissy little pink-handled gun had been handed on to one of his brothers. Having felt the pain of a shot from it before, I wasn’t in any hurry to repeat that situation.
The house, never the tidiest or most hygienic place at the best of times, was a wreck. Broken furniture littered the hallway, which Baz and I had to step over. We advanced towards the door of the lounge room, from where most of the noise, apart from the bawling of a dozen Bycraft brats, emerged.
In the lounge room, cousins Rick and Mark were at each other’s throats. Rick sported a black eye and a split lip. Mark appeared to be missing a chunk of hair and blood trickled from his left ear.
“Hey! Break it up,” I shouted, running to the struggling men, attempting to separate them.
“Grab one. I’ll grab the other,” Baz ordered.
I moved to the back of Rick and wrapped my arms under his armpits, my hands clamped on to his shoulders. I pulled him back with a huge exertion, while Baz did the same with Mark.
We managed to separate them briefly, before Rick threw himself on Mark again, ripping free from my restraining arms. As I manoeuvred to assert my hold on him again, Lola rushed in, pummelling me on the back.
“Don’t you touch my son again or I’ll rip your fucking head off, bitch,” she screeched.
“Piss off, Lola!” I shouted, ungently elbowing backwards, catching some unknown part of her body I didn’t care enough about to discover.
But like the eternal pest she was, she soon recovered and relaunched herself on me. As I had my arms full with Rick again, I couldn’t deflect her, receiving blow after blow on my back from her.
“If you don’t stop that, I’m going to crack your head open with my baton,” I threatened. I struggled to reach for my handcuffs, managing to release them and snap one of them around Rick’s wrist, quickly following with the other. I forced him down to the floor, dragging him over to a wall where I released one wrist, and cuffed him to the leg of a heavy table. It wouldn’t hold him for long, but would give me a short breather to assist Baz, who struggled under the fury of Mark’s anger.
A lucky punch from Mark knocked Baz down and out. He lay on the floor moaning quietly. Surrounded by angry Bycrafts, and with Rick freeing himself from my ineffectual restraint, I pulled out my baton.
“The dumb bitch never learns she can’t win,” crowed Rosie with a huge smile of delight on her face.
“Piglet, you are so going to pay for this,” snarled a heavily intoxicated Rick, shaking his ensnared wrist, the handcuff rattling.
I backed up against the wall, eyes darting back and forth from one inflamed pair of yellowy eyes to another. And one thing I knew for certain at that moment was that I going to end up in a whole world of pain.
“Police!” bellowed a loud voice from the door.
The Sarge appeared at the doorway to the lounge room, his Glock drawn, covering the ground into the room.
Chapter 8
“Back away from the officer,” he instructed, sweeping the crowd with
his gun. “I mean, now!”
With hate showing openly in their faces, the Bycrafts reluctantly gave me some breathing space.
“Who, Tess?” the Sarge asked, pulling out his handcuffs with his free hand.
“Rick and Mark,” I said, trying to calm down my breathing.
I grabbed Rick by his dangling handcuff, and the Sarge shoved Mark over to me.
“Handcuff them together, arms crossed at their backs.”
“Gotcha.”
With that tricky moved completed successfully, the Sarge put away his gun, and pushed down on the two men’s shoulders, forcing them into a sitting position on the floor.
“Cross your ankles and stay down, if you know what’s good for you,” he instructed in a harsh voice.
“What the hell caused this?” I asked.
Mark nodded sullenly in the direction of the Lebutt women who had carefully positioned themselves away from the fray. “It’s her, isn’t it?” he slurred.
“Which her?”
“That slut, Dorrie.”
I groaned. “What’s going on now?” As if I cared about their disreputable love lives.
“She’s only just gone and started fucking Rick again, hasn’t she? Slut,” he spat out. “Makes me think the kid’s not really mine after all.”
“Don’t you call me a slut!” a newly delivered Dorrie screeched. “You’re the one off fucking Stacey Felhorn behind my back. Think I wouldn’t find out, didn’t you, you cheating bastard?” That was a bit rich considering Dorrie had been screwing Stacey’s boyfriend, Rick, behind her back when this infinitely boring four-way soap opera started almost a year ago.
“Look, I couldn’t give a shit about which of you is sleeping with who behind whoever’s back, but you better all calm down now,” I advised.
The Sarge said to me, “Tess, see to Baz.”
I kneeled down next to him, and shook him lightly. He moaned as his eyes fluttered open. “Oh God, what happened?”
“Mark Bycraft king-hit you.”
“Oh, geez.” His eyes rolled back before focusing on me again. “Lock the bastard up for the night, Tezza. He’s off for a trip to Wattling Bay for this.”
