Darklands Book 2: Something Wild This Way Comes

by Autumn Dawn

  Camille left the sleeping baby in the car and went to find Noelene. She didn't have far to go. The name badge of the comfortably plump, middle-aged woman sitting behind the only desk in the office made it clear she was the agent Camille sought. She smiled as Camille walked in, her eyes friendly and inquisitive.

  Noelene seemed like a talker and Camille hoped she wasn't in for another dose of the third degree. She exchanged polite greetings then briskly made it clear to the woman she had a baby in the car and couldn't stay to gossip, feeling embarrassed when the woman's smile dimmed, and she broke off from her recollections of Camille's childhood visits with Millie in the old cottage.

  Camille breathed a sigh of relief as she climbed back into the car, a house key dangling from her fingers. In a few minutes, she and Elizabeth would be ensconced in their new home at Bluey's Beach. It wouldn't be forever but at least it would give Camille a chance to plan their next move.

  As the car rattled down the rough track, Camille's shoulders began to relax and some of the tension and adrenalin that had kept her on the move for the past weeks began to release. Still, she steeled herself against relaxing too much. She knew it was dangerous to drop her guard, but at least for tonight, and for a few days if she was lucky, she could shed some of her anxiety.

  The bumpy road woke Elizabeth but she seemed contented enough to chatter to herself until the car pulled to a halt outside the old timber house. It had been more than fifteen years since Camille had last stayed here but nothing much had changed. It was exactly how she had imagined it, with its decorative timberwork, leadlight windows and huge frangipani standing guard at the front, their waxy sweet-smelling creamy flowers perfuming the evening air.

  She looked around with critical eyes. After all it was her house now. The weeds and climbers had taken over the front garden and the exterior paintwork was definitely shabbier, but otherwise it was the house of her childhood summer holidays.

  "Thank God,” she muttered to herself, pulling the car to the side of the house off the unmade road. Her sore body had had enough punishment over the last week or so and she would be glad to leave the long days on the road behind for a while.

  Leaving the car door open so she could hear Elizabeth, Camille walked through the open iron gate to the heavy front door. The clunky, old-fashioned key was awkward in the lock but the front door finally shuddered open, creaking on its hinges as she pushed it back. The interior had the musty smell of neglect and maybe a little damp, hardly surprising as it hadn't been occupied for more than two years.

  After her grandmother, Millie, had gone into a nursing home nearly six years ago, the house had been leased to one of Millie's friends, but a hip replacement saw Joyce join Camille's grandmother in the home. Shortly after, Millie had died, leaving the old place to Camille.

  At the time, Camille's fledgling business in Sydney had demanded every minute of every day and her plans to visit the old place and either sell it or make the necessary improvements and rent it out had never quite eventuated. Right now, though, the house was no longer an irritating problem but a sanctuary.

  Years of grime flung up by coastal storms coated the outside windows, leaving the house gloomy inside despite the early evening light outside. In the hall, a grandmother clock stood on silent sentry duty next to a pretty table with an old-fashioned dial phone. When Camille picked up the phone, to her relief a steady tone sounded. She'd had the phone reconnected in her grandmother's name yesterday, which thankfully wasn't Aston. While it might eventually be traced to her, she felt that, with a baby, it was a non-negotiable having a working landline as well as a cell phone.

  The water and electricity should also be on by now, again under her grandmother's name, she thought. Flicking the hall switch, she watched the old-fashioned light fitting give a couple of intermittent flashes before it settled to a steady though dim glow. If she was as lucky with the water, maybe she would be able to take a long hot soak in the tub tonight. Heaven!

  Ignoring the doors on the right-hand side of the hall, which she remembered were the bedrooms, she entered the room to the left. It opened into a magnificently proportioned formal sitting room with a fireplace, ornate plaster ceiling and decorative windows. Double French doors opened into the dining room that overlooked the garden. Another set of identical doors linked the dining room with the huge kitchen.

  For as long as Camille could remember, the house had simply been called “the cottage at Bluey's Beach". Colonial in design with a typical bullnose veranda that wrapped around three of its four sides, it had been built by one man, Millie's grandfather, Billy Meagher, presumably with the red hair that, in laconic Australian style, had given rise to his nickname.

  Bluey had supposedly been a poor fisherman who'd married one of the girls from the big house up on the hill and come into more money than he ever would have catching perch or flathead. He'd chosen to build on one of the prettiest spots in the area. While the house didn't have panoramic ocean vistas, glimpses of the sparkling waters could be glimpsed through the trees from the front, side and back of the house, and it had what was effectively its own private beach, accessed by a little footpath.

  The house had probably not been touched in thirty years or more and it looked like it, Camille thought to herself as she wandered through it. Peeling and scuffed wallpaper lined the walls, the floorboards and rugs were dull with age, dust and lack of attention, and the drapes that covered the furniture gave it a ghostly quality in the gloomy light.

  "Well, that can be fixed,” said Camille, twitching the covers from the furniture and sending a cloud of fine dust toward the ceiling. She ran her fingertips over the comfortable old furniture. Though sagging and worn, it immediately gave the house more of a lived-in feel. She unlocked the French doors from the dining and kitchen areas, and stepped out on to the back veranda that provided welcome shade in the heat-burnished days of late summer. For a second she stood and enjoyed feeling the breeze as it licked through the house, sweeping out the distinctive smells of damp and emptiness.

  Beyond the wooden veranda, the large garden stretched, shadowed now as the sun had all but disappeared. Even in the gathering gloom, the signs of neglect were all too apparent. Once handsome camellias had lost their shapely curves, branches straggling in all directions, and flowering climbers had established a strangulation grip on several shrubs. The grass was brown and sparse, and weeds infested the garden beds that had once been her grandmother's pride and joy.

  Feeling guilty at not visiting the old place earlier, Camille walked back into the house through the kitchen. It had bypassed many of the advancements of the latter half of the twentieth century, with the exception of a relatively modern fridge hidden inside the pantry. But the old electric stove was still in working order, and the taps above the old-fashioned porcelain sink, though they rumbled and groaned at being turned on after years of inactivity, finally relented and water poured out. Camille felt guilty at letting the tap gush as most of Australia's eastern seaboard was currently in the grip of drought but she needed to clear the rust and gunk from the pipes.

  An old-fashioned dresser was the only storage, and a scratched and scarred pine table with four chairs sat in the middle of the room. Camille smiled at the thought of the games of Scrabble that the table had hosted. Verity had inevitably got bored of them after fifteen minutes, leaving Camille and Millie to battle on to the end. She peeked inside a door next to the fridge, and found that the small laundry held a surprisingly recent washing machine.

  She heard a distant cry from the front of her house. Elizabeth had evidently woken. On her way back to the car, Camille opened the doors on the other side of the house to reveal three bedrooms and a bathroom. She flung open the windows to release the depressing fog of damp and neglect.

  Nanna Millie's old room was still replete with the huge old iron bed where, as a child, Camille would cuddle up to her grandmother early on holiday mornings. The bedroom that she and Verity shared as children now had just a single guest bed a
nd a beautiful wooden rocker. She imagined nursing Elizabeth while rocking in the chair. The third room seemed to have been used as a storeroom, and was filled with old furniture and boxes.

  Everything was old but there was enough furniture for Camille to envisage a reasonably comfortable stay for herself and Elizabeth, for however long they might need to hide out here.

  Elizabeth beamed at her as she plucked her capsule from the car with one hand, baby bag with the other. “Come and see your new residence, young lady. It's a little bare at present but with a little work, we can turn it into a boudoir fit for a princess."

  Elizabeth gurgled and played with her toes, little interested in the new surroundings. Camille settled the baby capsule on the floor of the second bedroom, and pushed the old single bed closer to the window to make room for the portable crib, which she brought in from the car and assembled in thirty seconds flat. She'd become an expert in the past three weeks.

  Locating a sponge and spray cleaner in the kitchen, she cleaned the dresser, unpacking clean diapers and clothes into the drawers. In the kitchen, she made up a fresh, warm bottle for the baby and then slumped onto a bench on the veranda for Elizabeth's last feed of the day.

  With the exhausting travel they had both endured over the past few weeks, she hoped that Elizabeth would sleep through the night. As evening fell, the air cooled rapidly and Camille shivered as Elizabeth finished her bottle. After changing the baby, she snapped her into a sleep suit. She spread a rug on the floor of the baby's room while she made up the crib with soft sheets, and sang a gentle lullaby as she picked the baby up and tucked her in.

  Elizabeth kept her eyes fixed on Camille's face for long minutes, trying desperately to keep her eyelids open, but despite her efforts, they finally drooped over her bright blue eyes and her breathing lengthened into the rhythm of sleep. Camille rubbed the little girl's stomach for a few moments before turning on the baby monitor and switching out the light. She left the door ajar so that light from the hall would spill softly into the child's room.

  For a moment, she stood in the hallway, not knowing quite what to do next. She should eat something but she was too tired to be hungry. She needed a shower or a bath but a glance inside the bathroom showed her it was filthy and she didn't know if she had the energy to clean it. The car needed unpacking but it didn't seem urgent. In the end, the promise of soaking in hot, scented water was enough to revive her flagging energy, and she set to with sponge and detergent until the old-fashioned bathroom was reasonably hygienic. She even found a rag mop to clean the beautifully tiled floor.

  It was worth the effort, she thought, as she sank into the deep claw foot tub, perfumed bubbles nearly to her nose. The steaming water began loosening her muscles, and she breathed a sigh of relief as the aches and pains began to disappear from her body. She wished she had a glass of wine to allow her mind to wallow in the same sort of languor as her body but the car had been up to its weight limit with essential provisions. Luxuries would have to wait.

  Camille was reluctant to leave the scented water but finally it cooled too much to be comfortable. Wrapped in a well-used bath towel from the linen closet, she looked at herself critically in the large mirror above the basin as she cleaned her teeth. Shadows still darkened her eyes, a legacy of the most stressful weeks of her life, and the telltale signs of bruising marked her neck, upper arms and ribs, but otherwise she looked like the same old Camille. Interesting, but a long way from drop-dead gorgeous.

  Dark blonde hair, thick with a slight wave, surrounded an oval face unremarkable but for her dark-lashed hazel eyes and full mouth. She was average height and finely built, and the past few weeks had robbed her of even her slight curves, giving her an angular, waifish look. She was the pass mark where Verity had been the gold star, she thought, not for the first time.

  Verity, the adored younger child had been a vivacious beauty with mischievous blue eyes and glorious blonde hair, not to mention a figure that had managed to be both voluptuous and slender at the same time. Poor Verity, Camille sighed. She'd never had to use her education, never acquired any skills other than to flirt and charm and manipulate. She'd thought her looks would bring her everything she wanted, and maybe they did. But then she had probably wanted the wrong things. Still, whatever mistakes her younger sister had made, she had done one thing very right and she was sleeping soundly down the hall.

  Camille looked in on Elizabeth, wondering whether she should bring the baby in to sleep with her in the master bedroom but she was snoring soundly so Camille checked the baby monitor and left her to her sweet dreams.

  Wearing just the towel, she went outside to collect her bags and bed linen from the car, rubbing her arms against the cool air. The night was dark and cloudy, just a few stars visible. It seemed strangely still outside, the birds all flown and the early evening breeze dropped to a whisper. Camille suddenly realized how rare it was to experience complete silence, especially after days of motel living. There was no traffic, no voices, no blaring music. Peace.

  She locked the car and house securely, before quickly making up her grandmother's old iron bed. The mattress smelled musty but it was dry. She would air it tomorrow. For tonight, clean sheets and a soft pillow were enough. Pulling loose cotton pajamas from her bag, she put her watch on the nightstand and slipped into bed.

  For long moments, she gazed up at the shadowed ceiling listening to the sounds of Elizabeth's snuffling breaths over the monitor and brooding on how quickly things changed. Her life had been turned on its head in the past few weeks. She'd always been a methodical person, career oriented without being obsessive. She'd been a diligent student at school and university, had built her commercial art skills in a variety of positions, while using snatched spare hours and weekends to work on her portraits and landscapes. She had planned her own business down to the smallest detail, taking two years until she was confident enough to leave her job and go out on her own. A triumph of hard work and organization.

  Now she was a fugitive, relying on her instinct and wits to get through each day. She had to think on her feet and react to whatever fate threw in her path. Camille turned over in bed, curling her knees toward her chest. She was on the run, and she'd better get used to it.

  Chapter Two

  Malcolm Lord sat silently behind his desk in the corner office on the twenty-fourth and top floor, his chair swivelled so that he faced the window. Outside, dusk chased daylight from the city and the Yarra River became a dark snake cutting through a landscape of shadows. On the streets, people jostled with elbows and umbrellas, taxis screeched to a halt and streetlights sparked harshly to life as the rush hour peaked and then ebbed.

  Lord saw none of this. He remained unmoving even when his secretary stuck her ash-blonde head around the door to let him know she was leaving. She hesitated at the door to his office. He was acting oddly, but no more than usual. She wondered if she should offer to stay late, perhaps offer a sympathetic word or two. She quickly reconsidered. He wasn't the kind of boss who would welcome personal overtures however kindly meant. Anyway, it was Friday and she had a date. She shut the door quietly behind her and slipped through the deserted office space to the lift.

  At last Lord roused. He ran pale, manicured fingers through his stylishly over-long hair, touched now with silver at the ears, and turned in his chair to face the desk. He seemed to arrive at a conclusion and reached for the phone, his hands jabbing the keys in an often-used sequence. But the short conversation didn't please him and he replaced the handset sharply, cutting off the speaker at the other end. There was no change in expression as he turned swiftly and hurled the phone at the window. There was a sharp crack as the phone struck the reinforced glass and fell in pieces to the floor.

  Lord continued to stare out of the window, ignoring the shattered phone. Then he walked across the room, took the hand-tailored charcoal suit jacket from the back of the door, walked out of his office and shut the door behind him.

  * * * *

  Camil
le blinked and turned her head toward the window as the screech from a pair of disgruntled cockatoos rent the night silence. They squawked noisily as they flew past the cottage and she wondered what had disturbed them. No curtain obscured the window and she could see that it was still dark outside. She strained to see her watch in the faint light from the hall. Just gone four. She felt groggy and disoriented, as though she had been woken from a deep sleep. Despite the warmth of the bed and the cool of the night air, she rose and stood at the bare window. Outside, all was silent. No wind stirred the trees. Perhaps a nocturnal animal had been stalking the cockatoos and they had simply fled in fright.

  She listened for Elizabeth, wondering if the baby had also woken and would begin to cry for a feed or a cuddle. Although she regularly slept through the night now, she did occasionally demand a bottle in the early hours of the morning. But there was nothing on the baby monitor except for the rhythmic breathing of a sleeping child. Camille stood for a few moments listening to the steady sound before sliding beneath the sheets, cursing whatever had woken the cockatoos. She was fully alert now and wondered how long it would take her to fall asleep again. For long moments, her ears strained for any sound but the night remained silent. Snuggling deeper into the warm bed, she closed her eyes, deliberately relaxed her breathing, and in moments she was fast asleep.

  * * * *

  "How good is this?” Camille murmured to herself. Seated on the veranda, she propped her feet on one of the kitchen chairs and took a long gulp of freshly brewed coffee. It was after nine and she felt a trace of guilt at waking late and indulging in a lazy breakfast but it was rare for Elizabeth to sleep so long or so late and Camille was determined to make the most of it. It wouldn't be long until the baby gave her customary good morning yell for attention. In that way Elizabeth certainly took after her mother, she thought ruefully. She loved attention and plenty of it.