by Sandy Vaile
“I know it’s not the weekend,” Neve said, “but I didn’t get to finish my workout at the Shed. There’s time for a contest before dinner if you’re up for it.”
“You’re on.”
It didn’t take her long to disappear into the bush on their two-hundred-acre property. These training sessions had been a part of her life since she came to live with Tony. Nowadays they were an opportunity to release tension, feel the burn in her muscles as sweat trickled across her scalp and along her spine, but for a long time she’d resented her father for preparing her for a disaster that would never eventuate. You couldn’t get a quieter town than Turners Gully, and there wasn’t any sign of an end-of-world disaster anytime soon.
As she clung to the underside of a fallen tree, wedged between the banks of the Onkaparinga River, shallow water rushed across brutal rocks twenty-feet below. No time to dwell on it though, not when she was exposed like prey.
For a moment, she paused and listened. The river whispered over moss-covered stones, birds twittered in the bushes, bees hummed. No sign of Tony. Of course not; she’d be dead before she saw him, because he’d be moving through the bush barefoot and silent.
With her arms and legs burning with effort, Neve focused on the far bank. A welcome breeze ran cool tendrils across the sticky sheen on her skin. A few deep breaths brought her heart rate under control. She kept moving, hand over hand, boot after boot. Bark scraped the soft, olive skin of her forearms. Each movement sprinkled debris across her face, and the log creaked ominously. With stomach muscles clenched, she slowly lowered her feet to hang in mid-air. Then, kicking back and forth, she got into a swinging rhythm. When there was enough momentum, she arched her back and let go.
The pale cliff face loomed, and then she was falling . . .
Her splayed fingers caught the lip of a tiny cave, and her body dropped against the jagged stone with a thud that took her breath away. For an instant, she dangled, and then she mustered one last burst of strength to haul herself into the cool safety of the cavern.
As far from the riverbed as the little hollow was, dried reeds and moss from the last flood clung to the walls. Today, though, it offered respite from the final gasping breaths of summer, which refused to submit to autumn.
Neve couldn’t quite stand in the small space, so she knelt on the soft soil to retrieve a Fox combat knife, bow, and quiver from the fissure she’d dug into the soft sandstone wall long ago. With a twitch of one hand, she flicked her long, dark braid over her shoulder, flung the quiver onto her back, and made easy work of the final climb to the top of the riverbank.
After years of practice, it was now habitual for her to seek out straight sticks, sharpen one end to a point, and carve a notch in the other end. Once the quiver on her back was full of homemade arrows, she stepped away carefully. Her leather boots were an impediment as far as sound went but had the advantage of foot protection. She’d sidestepped a brown snake earlier.
With a bow slung across one shoulder and the knife tucked through her belt, Neve crept between a fallen gum and a granite boulder. She stooped to study the ground. Trip wire. Rather than step over it—rookie mistake—she backed away and took another route.
The hillside curved back and forth alongside the Onkaparinga River, but it was a thicket at the top she aimed for. Spiky blackboy grasses tore at her arms as she crawled through the undergrowth, and myrtles added a tacky lemon-scented residue.
In the centre of the thicket, there was just enough room to squat so she could peer at the grey fur about a hundred metres away. The pulse from her sprinting heart thundered in her ears, but she stayed focused. With deliberate slowness, she nocked an arrow into her bow, lifted it to her cheek, and pulled the bowstring taught.
The kangaroo didn’t move—of course it didn’t, it was just a pelt draped over a bough.
She took aim on an inward breath and held it . . .
“You’re dead,” a deep voice whispered in her ear as a finger was drawn across her throat.
Neve squealed and wrenched her chin from her father’s iron grasp.
Antonio Botticelli hung upside down, legs curled around a tree branch, an arrogant grin on his stubbled face, and, yes, his feet were bare.
Neve ruffled his dark curls. “Damn, Tony, I nearly had Skippy that time.”
He swung from the tree and landed lightly. “That’s because you’re too focused on the prize and not your surroundings.”
“We can’t all be Vietnam vets.” In all the years they’d been playing this game, Neve had only bettered him a couple of times. “Okay, time for dinner.”
“Hang on. You haven’t done drills yet.”
“I’m tired, and I’ve got things to prepare for kindergarten tomorrow, so fun’s over.” She kissed his cheek and tossed the makeshift arrows on the ground. As much as she enjoyed running about the bush with Tony, working at the kindy offered a welcome reprieve from his alternate universe.
His thick brows mashed together. “It’s not fun, honey. Weapons training is just as important as survival skills. One day it might just save your life.”
“Yeah, sure, Tony, there’s a big call for guerrilla warfare in Turners Gully.” They headed back to the house, and Neve pushed the salvaged front door aside and stepped into the warmth of the small living area. Even on warm days, the wood stove was lit in the evening, to keep the chill of the night fog at bay. The ceiling was low, supported by rustic beams and posts, thick walls the colour of yellow ochre had traces of straw showing through, and the back wall was the hillside. Rain was diverted above the house, but there was a fail-safe covered grate along the base of the back wall just in case.
She kicked off her shoes and blanched at the biting cold of the cement floor. The very reason a pair of Ugg boots had pride of place in the shoe line-up by the door.
“Give me a minute to get changed and I’ll give you a hand with dinner,” she said.
She headed for her bedroom, which was no more than a double bed and a curtain in front of shelves to suffice as a closet. She hung her blouse on a coat hanger and pulled a comfy windcheater from a battered pine tallboy. She unfurled her French braid and ran a comb through the long locks as they kinked up to half their length, forming an obstinate frizz around her face.
Adjoining her room was a study. Tony called it “the library” because two walls were covered from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. The house had solar-powered electricity, but only her rooms had power points, and Tony wasn’t happy about her Internet dongle, just in case Big Brother was tracking it.
Tony had butter melting in a cast-iron frying pan on top of the wood stove when Neve joined him. He tore washed lettuce leaves and dropped them into a ceramic bowl.
“Nearly the last of our lettuce,” he commented. “Still plenty of tomatoes though.”
Bubbling butter sizzled as he dropped the filleted bream into the pan. How had he managed before she came to live with him? He took isolation and self-sufficiency to new levels. If he couldn’t harvest it from the land or barter with the neighbours, he didn’t use it. No doubt why his clothes hung loosely on his slim frame. At least now, she picked up additional supplies from the supermarket.
She stood beside him at the split trunk of red gum that was their kitchen bench, washing string beans, yellow capsicum, and celery. Neve was suddenly exhausted. Her shoulders rose and fell with an exaggerated sigh, which was loud enough to make Tony stop chopping.
He stared and then tucked a spiral of hair behind her ear. “I would’ve made the salad, but I thought you’d be home later. Didn’t you go to Jack’s? Is something wrong?” His brows pulled together.
“Nothing, it was just a trying day.”
“Must’ve been.”
She felt an unexpected sting in her eyes before her vision blurred, and she quickly turned her head to the pantry shelves, pretending to look for . . .anything. Rowan’s chubby cheeks and open smile flashed through her mind, and she sniffed. A warm, gnarled hand rested on her shoulder.
>
“Honey, what happened?”
She shrugged and swallowed a couple of times before she could speak. It amazed her how Tony could be so attuned to her feelings, yet on a different planet to the rest of civilisation. She left the salad, sat at the four-seater dining suite, and told him all about Micah and Chelsea.
“I’m so confused, Tony. I know I have to protect Rowan, but you should have seen the look in this guy’s eyes. It was— was like—” She took a deep breath. “It was like looking into my own soul after Carlos and Mum died.”
Tony shuddered. “Is he dangerous?”
“I don’t think so. He just really wants to see his kid.” There wasn’t any evidence to lead her to that conclusion, but deep in her bones, she just knew it was true. Micah didn’t strike her as someone who especially wanted to threaten her to get to Rowan. He was desperate, and she knew better than most the compulsion to protect those you loved. It didn’t matter though, because she still had to protect Chelsea’s privacy.
“You did the right thing. You don’t want to lose your job at the kindy. Hopefully this guy will get the hint and leave you alone.”
She didn’t tell him how Micah found her at Jack’s Shed. Tony wasn’t entirely balanced when it came to her safety. “Yeah. The only thing that bothers me is that he has the money to hang around and make life difficult for Chelsea.”
“A rich bastard?” Tony growled.
“Posh car, expensive clothes, all the trimmings.”
“Keep the hell away from him, Neve.”
Tony’s mood darkened. She shouldn’t have said anything. The last thing she needed was to set off his nightmares again.
“Anyway, it’s a moot point, because I’m committed to the Department of Education’s Code of Conduct and no one can make me compromise Rowan’s safety.” The heat emanating from the stove and the low ceiling were suddenly too much. The same anger she’d felt while facing off with Micah at Jack’s Shed surfaced, and she clenched her fists.
“I’m going to feed Kookapie.”
Once on the verandah, she sucked in a cleansing lungful of crisp air. Long shadows stretched across the clearing in front of the house, and it took a few minutes to spot the bird she was looking for. Kookapie rested on a low gum branch, a watchful eye on Neve. She whistled, placed a handful of diced kangaroo on a flat stump, and stepped back. The bird raised its beak to the sky and gave a half-hearted cackle—Oo-oo-ah-ah-ah-ah—and then flew down to the stump. It wasn’t tame exactly, but it turned up at dinnertime each night.
It was a freak of nature, the shape of a kookaburra but with the colouring of a magpie faded in the wash. Tony had named it.
Kookapie snatched a sliver of bloody meat, smashed it against the stump to make sure it was dead, and tossed his head back to swallow the morsel whole. Life was savage and simple at the same time.
Chapter 7
Micah balanced a takeaway cup of coffee on his knee and watched mums arrive at Turners Gully Kindergarten, with enthusiastic children wearing tiny backpacks. No sign of Chelsea or Rowan.
He was perched atop a picnic table made from slabs of red gum, and the dampness from the wood was seeping through his jeans. He wasn’t well prepared for the cold, having left Sydney with no more than an overnight bag. If he stayed much longer, he’d need to buy a few items. By nine o’clock, the traffic ceased. At nine thirty, it was pointless to wait for something he knew wasn’t going to happen. Chelsea was probably halfway across the country by now. She hadn’t phoned him again, which wasn’t a good sign.
He opened the map he’d bought earlier that morning. The only thing left to do was a methodical search of the back roads and chat with the locals. Maybe he’d get lucky and someone would tell him where Chelsea lived. Unlikely, but optimism was all he had right now.
He caught a glimpse of Neve in the kindergarten yard. In jeans and a blouse, her hair in a tight braid, she looked elegant. Last night she’d dominated his thoughts, and not just because he was frustrated with her. She’d smelt so good as they’d faced off in front of Jack’s Shed yesterday. The supple and toned body he’d seen didn’t detract from her femininity, but complemented her fearless attitude. Quite a woman. But he couldn’t forget that if she’d helped him yesterday, Rowan would be with him now, and he wasn’t.
A little brown-haired boy ran up and grabbed her hand. Micah’s whole body tensed, the way it did every time he saw a four-year-old brown-haired boy. No matter how sure he was he’d recognise Rowan when he saw him again, a part of him was terrified he might not.
A year ago, Rowan had been a toddler with a healthy curiosity, small hands that wrapped around Micah’s fingers as they walked side by side, and an infectious giggle. Now he was a kindy kid. A year was an eternity for a child . . .
There was a slim possibility that Neve and Chelsea had pulled a swifty again and snuck Rowan into the kindy. He picked up the binoculars from the table and scrutinised the child, but it was impossible to see clearly with them on the move.
He’d lost faith in his ability to tell when a woman was lying to him. It’s not like he’d thought his relationship with Chelsea was perfect, but he’d committed to forever and assumed the same of her, right up until she had done a runner with Rowan. The family he’d always craved had dissipated with her.
The only way to be sure his son was in the kindergarten building was to see for himself, but his reception was unlikely to be warm. Besides, he didn’t want to frighten the children. But phoning couldn’t hurt . . .
He dialled the number in his notebook, and a female answered. Not Neve, because he could still see her in the yard, crouching to speak to the child on his own level. She looked over her shoulder and nodded. The blonde staff member he’d yelled at yesterday, Annemarie, took the little boy’s hand. Neve went inside.
“Hello, this is Miss Botticelli, the director. How can I help you?”
So polite. Micah felt the pilot light of his annoyance flicker to life at the sound of her voice, but he took a calming breath.
“Neve, it’s Micah Kincaid. We spoke yesterday,” he added awkwardly. It wasn’t likely she would have forgotten.
“I see. I’m working Mr. Kincaid, and have nothing further to tell you.”
“Wait! Hello?” For a moment, he thought she’d hung up, but a faint exasperated sigh made him smile. So, he was Mr. Kincaid again. No matter, he was going to keep it friendly. A tactic he should have employed yesterday. You caught more flies with honey than vinegar.
“I’m here,” Neve said.
He hurried to speak before she changed her mind. “Neve, I promise I’m not going to come in and make trouble and I won’t ask you to tell me where Rowan is. All I want to know is if Chelsea has contacted you. Maybe to cancel Rowan’s kindergarten registration.”
There was a long pause. He set the binoculars down and leant towards the building, willing her response.
“It would be unprofessional to compromise Rowan in any way or give out personal information, but”—she cut off his argument—“I can tell you Rowan isn’t here and Chelsea hasn’t contacted me.”
“Shit!”
“I’m sorry. Really, I am.”
“It’s not your fault. Look, can you call me if she shows up or phones? I only want to make contact with her. Try to sort this out.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Please. It can’t be good for Rowan to be without a father. All I’m asking for is a heads-up.”
“If you promise not to come onto the kindy property, I’ll ask Chelsea to contact you. I don’t want this centre involved in a custody dispute or whatever this mess is.”
“Thank you, Neve.”
He gave her his number again—she had probably thrown out his business card at the first opportunity yesterday—and thanked her yet again. Whether she made good on her assurance remained to be seen.
• • •
Neve cursed Micah Kincaid and his fancy car and Louis Vuitton clothes. Why did rich people always think they could get w
hatever they wanted? Still, it wasn’t his fault she’d agreed to talk to Chelsea. She blamed it on a sleepless night spent worrying about Rowan.
The nightmare had woken her last night, for the first time in ages.
Neve sat with her eyes closed, crisp country air whipping in the open car window, and Carlos sniggering beside her at something on his iPad.
“Would you shut that window? It’s making a drumming sound,” Mum complained.
Neve sighed and reached for the button, but the car lurched sideways. There was a squeal of tires, a careening of metal, and glass crunched. Then they were spinning, spinning, across the road, through a fence, into a paddock.
Neve stared right into the eyes of the woman in the other car, which was now wedged in her mum’s door. The woman frowned, as though she couldn’t understand how this happened. Her car stopped, but Botticelli’s kept rolling. It was so quiet, almost peaceful for a moment, until the car jolted. Neve’s head hit the back of her mum’s seat as a spray of water flew past the windows.
Precious seconds ticked past in slow motion. Water oozed through the door seals. Mum was lying down and the car was all buckled over the top of her. The car floated, like a big broken boat. Muddy water gurgled over the lip of mum’s broken window.
And then Carlos screamed.
Water rushed in too fast. Faster than Neve’s frantic heart, and faster than her fingers could release Carlos’s seatbelt.
Only this time, the screaming face in the nightmare was Rowan’s.
The same panic raced along the surface of her skin now and raised horrified goose bumps in its wake. What if Chelsea really had skipped town, like Micah said she would? Neve might never see Rowan again. She paced the short span of her office, flicking a pen against her chin.
“Mikey wet his pants again. Can you watch the kids while I— Is everything all right?” Annemarie frowned in the doorway.
Neve struggled to regain her composure. “Everything’s fine. You change Mikey. I’ll watch the kids.”
There was nothing she could do about Chelsea or Rowan right now, and making herself sick with worry wasn’t helping. Perhaps after work, she’d check in on them.
