Journey’s End

by Jennifer Scoullar

  She didn’t know what to say, tried to smile.

  ‘Anyway, I’m too stirred up to sleep.’ He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. ‘Before I go, I think I deserve a reason.’

  ‘I can’t give you one,’ she said. ‘It just wasn’t working.’

  ‘Speak for yourself.’ He rearranged the crotch of his jeans. ‘You sure know how to take the wind out of a bloke’s sails. Well, I guess that’s it. See you.’

  Kim waited until she heard his car leave before making herself an extra milky hot chocolate and taking it to bed. She turned on the bedside lamp. It cast a familiar shadow on the wall. The room was her own again – lonely, but all hers. It seemed inconceivable that ten minutes before, Ben had been lying in this very place, naked.

  She finished the chocolate, turned out the light and snuggled down. Mel would never believe she’d turfed the dazzling Ben Steele from her bed. She could barely believe it herself. Would she regret her decision in the morning? She was too drunk to tell, and didn’t dare think about Jake. Abbey would be happy, at any rate, and Dusty. Daisy too.

  What had Daisy said? You’ve got the wrong man.

  Kim felt for the empty place on her finger. For once she didn’t feel compelled to put the ring back on. Tonight she could sleep without it. Kim closed her eyes and drifted into a wine-induced slumber, and at the edge of dreaming she saw Taj’s face.

  CHAPTER 36

  A loud banging jarred her from sleep. Barely light, and someone was knocking on the front door. More like pounding, or was that just her head? No, there it came again. Loud, angry, out of control. She checked the time. Seven o’clock on a Saturday morning. What on earth?

  Kim shuffled down the hall in her dressing gown, with furry teeth and a headache.

  Geoff Masters stood on the porch, his legs planted wide. Water dripped from his hat. Yesterday’s sunshine had given way to grey skies and rain.

  ‘A friendly warning to you, Kim. My wife’s coming home on Monday and I don’t want you filling her head with any more crap about dingoes. Wild dogs are the natural enemy of livestock, it stands to reason. But my Mel’s gullible, always has been, and for some reason, you seem to be able to talk her into any kind of crackpot scheme.’

  ‘Your Mel?’ Kim could just imagine how furious Mel would be at this characterisation.

  ‘And another thing – leave my boy alone while you’re at it. Todd was spouting some nonsense about wolves saving Yellowstone. He could only have got that from you.’

  Kim did her best to appear imposing, which was difficult with pillow hair and a pilled dressing gown. ‘You’re wasting your time, Geoff. I’ll speak to whoever I like, whenever I like, and that includes Mel. You don’t run her life, and you certainly don’t run mine.’

  His fleshy face reddened. ‘Why don’t you close your goddamned mouth?’

  Kim didn’t respond at once. Mel had warned her about Geoff and his anger. ‘Once he starts, you have to shut up. He’s like a string of firecrackers. You have to let each one explode until it’s through, and not let it touch you.’ What must it have been like, being married to such a man?

  Geoff thrust his face closer, a mask of contempt and rage, and something else . . .

  ‘Was it you, Geoff? How . . . brave. You don’t scare me. If there’s one more sign on my gate or one more harassing text, I’ll call in the police.’

  ‘You stupid bitch.’ He spat on the ground. ‘Those dingoes are as good as dead.’

  She slammed the door in his face, too shaken to remember exactly what she’d said, apart from the lie. He did scare her. How he must have scared Mel.

  A long shower, which took some of the fear away, some coffee, scrambled eggs and Panadol. Kim felt better, almost human. She’d been afraid of waking up full of regret. But no, her decision about Ben had been the right one. He wasn’t the man for her. What her mother said was true: things did look better in the morning. Except for Geoff Masters. And one other thing – they couldn’t find Dusty. He wasn’t there when Jake woke up.

  Kim thought back to last night. She hadn’t checked in on the kids as usual and, in the confusion of Ben leaving, she hadn’t fastened the dog-proof safety chain on the back door. She had no idea when Dusty might have gone walkabout.

  He’d be back when he was hungry. Dusty had wandered overnight before and come back safely. There was no reason to suspect this time would be any different. Yet in the back of Kim’s mind was a haunting vignette – the dingoes circling around her, shadowy figures shrouded in mist. Dusty shifting at their centre, the darkest shadow of all.

  She wished Taj was back. It felt as if he’d been gone forever. She tried ringing him, but it went to voicemail.

  The weather closed in further as the morning wore on. Jake had gone looking for Dusty in the paddocks and neither of them were back yet. Kim and Abbey sat on the verandah, staring out at the grey curtain of rain, the firewheel tree dark and sodden, the willow peppermint slumped under the weight of the water.

  ‘Aren’t we going to look too?’ Abbey asked

  ‘I thought we should wait for Jake to get back.’

  ‘We could leave him a note?’

  ‘Okay. Go get your coat.’

  Kim gazed hopefully down the track. No dingo, no boy. Just a wet sky. Wait, there he was, trudging up from the sheds, shoulders hunched against the rain. Thank goodness. Kim prayed for the figure of a dog to be trotting at his heels: wanted it so badly that for one glorious moment she could see Dusty, clear as day. But it was a trick of the light.

  ‘We’ll start down on the road,’ Kim said, resolving to not say anything about Jake’s red eyes.

  She turned right out of the gate and drove a few kilometres. Nothing. Back again and past their drive. A couple of kilometres on, her heart froze as a dark shape loomed on the verge. She slowed – a dead wombat. She felt ashamed for being so pleased.

  The downpour redoubled its efforts. Poor Dusty, he was a sook with rain. Even with the windscreen wipers working overtime, it was hard to see. She pulled over for an oncoming car. Bangalow Road was too narrow for overtaking at the best of times, let alone when the runoffs each side were like rivers.

  ‘Look, Mum. It’s Taj.’

  Abbey was right. The familiar old ute, caked in mud, piled high with tools. She closed her eyes and sagged with relief. Taj stopped his car. He came across to her, took her hand, his dark eyes the brightest thing in the rain-soaked day, his hand full of strength. Taj would know where to find Dusty.

  Taj did find Dusty. His body lay in plain sight, in a paddock above the billabong. Too late to keep the kids away. The four of them stood and stared. The rain had stopped, and, as if in tribute, blue bands of sky appeared. A shaft of sunshine reached the ground.

  Kim knelt down, blood thundering in her ears.

  Dusty seemed smaller in death, sweeter, like a puppy again. His open eyes still seemed to see. He must be cold, with his fur all flat and bedraggled like that and his plumed tail lying in a puddle. She knelt down, reached out, touched him. It felt holy, like a psalm. An electric charge filled the space between them: expanding, intensifying, until she was sure the air itself would explode and jolt Dusty back to life. She waited, but it didn’t happen. The bloody hole in his head saw to that.

  Abbey began to cry. Kim gazed at her children, her own heart breaking, thinking of that last day and how she’d pushed Dusty away. Jake’s lip trembled. With buckling knees, he fell on Dusty, stroking his still form, pulling his ears and tickling his tummy the way he liked. Jake looked at her, beseeching, disbelieving. His pain unbearable. Kim shook her head. No, this couldn’t possibly be happening.

  Taj swept Dusty up, and cradled like a babe in arms, carried him to his car. Jake walked beside them, a hand on Dusty’s collar, while Kim and Abbey trailed behind. Taj laid the dingo with tender care on a tarpaulin in the back, folding a T-shirt to pillow his head.

  Jake jumped in beside him.

  ‘No, darling, you need to come in our car.’

 
; ‘Leave him,’ said Taj. ‘The boy must say goodbye.’

  Kim hesitated, then nodded. Taj fastened the sidegate, and cleared a place for Jake to sit. She laid a hand on Taj’s arm. Her pain was his pain too. ‘Thank you.’

  His hat lay low over his eyes, but there was no hiding his silent tears. This could break them all.

  CHAPTER 37

  Taj watched Kim move around the kitchen, going through the motions, making coffee and hot chocolate. Her face was deathly white. This wasn’t the time to tell her what he’d discovered about Ben Steele.

  He sat with the children at the table. Jake quiet. Abbey weeping in a steady stream, as if it was now her normal way of being. Without thinking, he opened his arms. She moved into them, and buried her head in his shoulder. Poor child, she must be nearly out of tears.

  ‘Dusty loves you, little one. He wouldn’t want you to cry.’

  ‘But he doesn’t want to be dead,’ she said between sobs. ‘He wants to come back. He’s lonely.’

  ‘No, no. He misses you all, but he isn’t lonely. He’s happy, playing with his mother and father.’ He gently lifted Abbey’s chin. Kim had stopped to listen. ‘It is you who are lonely without him, yes?’

  Abbey nodded.

  He gave her a tissue from a box on the table, and she blew her nose.

  ‘Our daddy’s dead. Is he happy too?’

  ‘Of course. He has plenty of friends in heaven, right?’

  Kim sat down, a little more colour in her cheeks.

  ‘There’s Grandma, and Poppy, for starters. And Ron and Macka. Auntie Joan.’

  ‘And Scout,’ said Jake. ‘He was our other dog. I wish he could meet Dusty. Do you think Scout will meet Dusty?’

  Taj’s smile was one of infinite reassurance. ‘Oh, I’m sure he will,’ he said. ‘Since you have wished it, Jake. Heaven is a magical place where wishes come true.’

  ‘How do you know so much about heaven?’ asked Abbey.

  ‘Many people I love live there.’

  Abbey had stopped crying. ‘Mum, why didn’t you ever tell me that heaven was magical?’

  Kim looked bewildered. ‘I don’t think I knew myself.’

  ‘Does it make you feel better, now that you know, I mean?’

  ‘Why yes.’ She pulled Abbey into her for a kiss. ‘Yes, it does . . . Could I talk to you alone for a minute please Taj?,’ said Kim. ‘Outside?’

  He followed her onto the verandah, wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, the way he had done for Abbey.

  ‘Dusty was shot in the head, wasn’t he?’

  Taj took two empty shell casings from his pocket. ‘I found these, and tyre tracks.’

  ‘Of all the vile, despicable acts.’ She ran her hand over the railing of the verandah, the painting he’d done worn in now, no longer new. ‘Geoff Masters was here this morning, making threats.’

  ‘What sort of threats?’

  ‘Against the dingoes. There’ve been signs left on the gate as well, some awful texts.’

  Taj felt sick. What was wrong with him? Why wasn’t he ever there when people needed him? ‘Have you called the police?’

  ‘That would really endear me to the town, wouldn’t it?’ She searched his face. ‘Is there any way you can tell who killed’ – she struggled to say the words – ‘who killed Dusty?’

  ‘Maybe. I’d need the —’

  She held up her hand. ‘I don’t want to know. Take Dusty’s body, if it helps.’ Her voice broke. ‘We can bury him later.’

  This was his fault. He should have been there to protect Dusty. To protect them all. ‘Shall I stay?’

  ‘No, I need time alone with the kids – to decide what to do.’ There was that haunted smile again. ‘What you did for Abbey, telling her about a heaven filled with magic and miracles . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, I spoke out of turn.’

  ‘No, you helped her a lot.’ Her eyes held his. ‘I think you helped me too. Is that an Islamic belief?’

  He bowed his head, suddenly shy. ‘No, it is only my belief.’

  ‘Well, now it’s mine too.’ Kim caught his large, rough hand in her small one. ‘There was a time I didn’t want Dusty. Now I’d sell my soul for one more day.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Find out who did this.’

  Taj couldn’t remember driving home. Dusty’s death had dredged up memories of a time in his life that he’d crossed the world to forget. He settled the dogs, then went inside. In his bedside drawer was a pouch he hadn’t looked at since coming to Australia, though for many years he’d carried it in a shirt pocket, close to his heart. He took it out now. Inside was a handful of sand, and the photo of a black wolf with piercing yellow eyes. Aakil. Taj lay on the bed, allowing the tide of emotion to wash over him. A surrender. He closed his eyes, and he was back in the shadowy forest of the Hindu Kush, following a wolf trail through stands of cedar and blue pine.

  Taj took off his muddy boots, and pushed through the ivy at the back door. Spring in Nuristan had come early this year, the garden bursting with new growth. Camila sat at the table, stuffing small plastic gift bags with toothpaste, toothbrushes and floss. Freebies for patients coming to the mobile dental clinic the following week.

  She looked tired. Taj swept back the lock of fair hair escaping from her scarf and kissed her. Camila laughed, and pushed him away in mock distaste. ‘Can’t you wait until you wash up?’

  ‘No.’ Taj hungrily reclaimed her lips. As much as he loved his job, being away from Camila so much was pure torture. He released her, flushed and smiling. He wanted to take her to bed then and there.

  Instead he went to the kitchen and washed his hands in a bowl at the sink. ‘Poachers are on the move,’ he said. ‘Malik found an abandoned camp, the remains of a moon bear and her cub. He said they were heading for Wadi Gorge.’

  Camila’s lovely face creased with concern. ‘Aren’t the wolves there?’

  Taj nodded. ‘They’ve denned in readiness for Zahra to give birth. Malik and I will hike out to check on them in the morning. But first, I must take you to your parents’ house.’

  ‘You just want an excuse to visit Aakil.’

  He couldn’t deny he was looking forward to seeing the orphaned black cub he’d raised from birth. Aakil may be grown, and leader of his own pack now, but they were still brothers. Camila glided over, pressed against his back and put her arms around his waist. ‘I don’t want to stay with Amma. She fusses over me, makes me drink milk.’

  ‘Good.’ Taj spun her round, stroked her growing belly. ‘I’ll be gone just a few days, a week at the most.’

  ‘That long?’ Camila’s lips found his, feather-light at first, then more demanding. He swept her into his arms, and carried her to the bedroom.

  He and Malik set off at first light. Their driver took them as far as he could. At the end of the road, they unloaded guns and gear, hefted their packs and walked off into the wild western forest. Sunshine glanced off snow-capped peaks. Wildflowers bloomed in grassy clearings. Delicate buds of alder and birch unfurled in bursts of emerald green, and the air was aromatic with pine needles. A place of vast beauty.

  The poachers’ camp lay a two-hour march from the road. No attempt had been made to hide it or the skinned bodies of the bear and her tiny cub, whose heads and paws had been cut off. These were brazen men. Taj examined the carcasses, no more than two days old. The meat had been abandoned, not something opportunistic locals would do. This was a well-organised hunting party, and he and Malik were outnumbered. They counted the tracks of five men. It would take all their ingenuity to arrest them, but they’d done it before. The element of surprise was on their side.

  Rugged Wadi Gorge was a two-day hike away, at the tip of a remote valley, where the broad Pashtu River flowed between high granite cliffs. Zahra’s tracking collar told Taj the hand-raised pack had selected Wadi for their den site. A wise choice. The valley boasted an abundance of wild goats, hares and ibex. It boded well for the wolves’ first breeding season.

  It was
a hard climb at first. They needed ropes to navigate the narrow rocky overhangs. At one point Malik slipped, falling metres down a shaly scree, his fall broken by a spindly juniper tree, clinging recklessly to the cliff face. Yet, despite these setbacks, they were gaining on their quarry, who were laden down with skins.

  The poachers had set snares as they went. Taj removed them one by one. He released a little beech marten, and two jungle cats trapped by their paws. At lunchtime they passed where the poachers had camped last night, a level clearing below a cliff face. They exchanged tired smiles – they were only half a day behind. Flayed bodies lay scattered on the ground: ibex, foxes, even a rare Marco Polo sheep, Afghanistan’s national animal. Its severed head, with two-metre spiralling horns, was tied to the fork of a tree: a prize to be retrieved on the return journey. Taj carried it to the top of a jagged outcrop and cast it over the edge.

  They camped that night beside a swirling confluence of rivers, running high with snowmelt. Taj had hoped the trail might veer west, towards the headwaters of the Siah. But no such luck. The poachers were following the Pashtu, heading straight for the gorge, and wolf pelts were worth big money in the markets of Kabul.

  Next morning – disaster. Malik’s fall had been worse than they thought, his ankle swollen like a balloon overnight, and he could barely stand.

  ‘I can manage with a stick,’ he said.

  ‘You’d slow me down.’ Taj began packing his gear.

  ‘You can’t go on by yourself.’

  ‘Watch me.’ Taj shrugged on the rucksack and grabbed his rifle. ‘You head back and report what’s happened. Keep out of sight. They’ll return this way.’

  Taj shunned the easy path along the river, reaching Wadi Gorge that afternoon well ahead of the poachers. He took up a sheltered position on a ridge to wait. Once he stopped moving, the cold seeped into his bones. Hours later, when a line of armed men appeared below, every part of him was numb. They picked their way along the stony riverbank. Too many to take single-handedly. Driving them off would have to do for now.