Journey’s End

by Jennifer Scoullar

  From his vantage point, Taj had a good view as they made camp. He couldn’t pick out faces, but a tall grey-bearded man seemed to be their leader. Hours ticked by, and at last the cold sun dipped behind the mountains. When it was almost dark and they were cooking meat in their fire, Taj made his move. Lying on his stomach, he aimed the rifle and shot the canteen from the hands of Grey-beard. He shot the pot hanging over the flames, spilling boiling water over the nearest two men. They screamed as he made mincemeat of their bundles of rolled-up skins.

  Wild volleys of return fire rang around the cliffs, but in the failing light the frantic men could neither spot him, nor identify where the bullets came from. They were sitting ducks, and knew it. Taj’s next shots strafed their tents, and the men had had enough. They fled back along the river.

  In the morning, Taj crept down to investigate the deserted camp. The poachers’ tracks in the damp earth showed the story of their panicked flight. With any luck, Malik and his men would be waiting when they tried to escape the forest. He threw their bundled skins and trophies into the dark, swift-running waters of the Pashtu, and set off up the gorge.

  His electronic tracker revealed the wolves were close. So as not to alarm them, he cupped his hand to his mouth and howled, a long, double-toned note that swelled in volume and echoed off the ravine walls. The howl of a lost pack member. An answer came swiftly. Minutes later, a large, black wolf appeared on a ledge above him. Aakil. A second wolf appeared, and a third and a fourth.

  With a bound they were upon him in a frenzy of greeting, nuzzling his mouth and rubbing themselves along his body. With a jaunty sweep of his tail, Aakil led him to the den, a roomy, well-concealed fissure in the cliff-face. Zahra was curled around six fat pups, two of them jet-black like their father. She was not pleased to see him, flattening her ears and baring her teeth.

  ‘I won’t bother them, mama bear.’ Taj backed off, his grin as wide as the mighty Pashtu. Proud as any father. His assortment of waifs and strays had grown into a tight-knit, functional pack. The cubs were proof of that.

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, just as Aakil raised his hackles. What was that? He sensed an approaching threat. The pair stole from the den.

  What a fool he’d been, reckless and overconfident. An armed poacher had followed them into the gorge. He and Aakil took cover behind a pile of boulders, as the man took aim. The crash of the rifle. Bullets smashed into the rocks around them, raising puffs of dust, but missing their mark. Taj aimed his own weapon, but the poacher was well protected too, ensconced behind a stony buttress. They exchanged pointless fire, both pinned to their positions: a stand-off.

  Taj sensed the new danger too late. A second shooter. He whirled to see a rifle barrel clear the boulders behind him. In a flash Aakil had launched himself over the barrier, whacking the weapon aside as he went. The rounds intended for Taj slammed into the wolf. With an anguished cry, Taj scaled the boulders, firing again and again, until he was sure the poacher was dead. He turned to see the first man running from the gorge.

  The bloodied bodies lay at the foot of the scree. Aakil and the poacher, side by side in death.

  Taj knelt beside his fallen friend and bowed his head. One by one the wolves emerged from the den. Each in turn touched noses with Aakil. Last came Zahra. She lay beside him for a while, her head across his bloody neck. Then as one, the wolves tipped up their muzzles and sang their sadness to the sky. Taj joined in the melancholy cry. The pack couldn’t afford to be sentimental. Soon the other males would fight for the right to mate with Zahra, but for now they were united in grief.

  At some invisible signal, the wolves melted away, leaving Taj alone. He would bury Aakil by the river, where he loved to play. Taj turned his attention to the dead man, lying face down in the dirt. With an effort he rolled him over and tugged the shemagh from his face. He blanched. Grey-beard. And he now recognised him.

  Aakil must remain where he fell. Taj scrambled down to the Pashtu and lay face down, drinking his fill of its sweet, life-giving water. He took two handfuls of river sand and, returning to the scree, cast one over the dead wolf.

  ‘Goodbye, Aakil, my brother. Forgive me.’

  Taj slipped the second handful into his pocket, and set off. He had to get back to the village before it was too late.

  CHAPTER 38

  When Ben arrived that afternoon, he found Kim in her bedroom, packing.

  ‘You’re leaving?’ He paused. ‘Not because of last night?’

  ‘Oh, Ben, I don’t know. Because of last night, because of today . . . because of a lot of things.’

  ‘Are those tears?’ He took her hand and led her into the kitchen. ‘What, you’re leaving for good? You sit. I’ll make a cuppa.’ He handed her a wad of tissues from the box on the bench.

  She blew her sandpaper nose. Her whole face hurt, dry and salty from the crying.

  ‘I reckon we can get past last night.’

  ‘Thank you, Ben, you’re very sweet. But the truth is, I don’t want to. I thought I did, but apparently I’m not ready. I’m just as surprised as you are.’

  Ben’s laugh was hollow. ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘There’s something else, something terrible – Dusty was shot last night, down by the billabong.’

  ‘Shit. Is he . . .?’

  ‘Yes.’ This bald statement of fact almost provoked fresh tears. She knuckled them away. ‘I can’t stay here.’

  ‘Give it a few days.’

  ‘Why? What will change? There’s nothing for me.’ Her words came out in a rush. ‘You and I haven’t worked out. Mel hates me. Loonies with guns are roaming the place at night. The town’s turned against us. Geoff Masters is making threats. I don’t want to check my messages. I’m scared every time I come home that there’ll be a disgusting sign on the gate. I’m suspicious of everybody. The kids are copping it at school. The last thing Jake needs is to become a pariah again, especially for something that’s not even his fault.’ She paused for breath. ‘And now some bastard’s shot Dusty dead. The truth is, I don’t want to spend one more minute in Tingo.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve made up your mind.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for the kids, staying strong for them, I’d fall apart. It’ll be easier in Sydney.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ She’d never seen Ben look sad before. ‘I care a lot about you, Kim, you and your kids. Even Abbey.’ This said with the hint of a smile. ‘What a stinking, rotten thing to happen. I know how attached kids get to dogs. If there’s anything I can do, just say the word.’

  ‘There is something,’ said Kim. ‘Find me a very special buyer for Journey’s End. Someone who appreciates a unique conservation opportunity when they see it, and who’ll put up with the dingoes. I don’t care about the price. Hell, I’d happily give it away to the right person.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘I’ve got someone on my books right now. An older lady, very private. She’s looking for a bushland retreat, somewhere with plenty of wildlife. She doesn’t want to farm, so the conservation covenant won’t be a problem. The thing is, she doesn’t have a big budget, and she’s in a hurry. Do you want me to give her a ring?’

  ‘Sounds perfect. I’m in a hurry too. Can I meet her, do you think, if she’s interested?’

  ‘I don’t think that’ll be possible. As I said, she’s a very private person.’

  ‘Then could you give her a letter? I’d want her to know about the history of the place, about the plants and animals.’ Kim’s hands started to shake. Her insides were twisting at the thought of leaving Journey’s End, but twisting even more at the thought of staying. ‘Call me and let me know.’

  ‘Why don’t I come over after work on Monday? Tell you how I got on?’

  Kim tried to speak, but instead made only a strange choking sound. She tried again. ‘We’re leaving for Sydney tonight – going to stay with Daisy.’ She stood and wrapped her arms around Ben’s solid warmth one last time. ‘I’m
going to miss you.’

  Ben hugged her back, a little awkwardly. ‘What about Mel?’ he said. ‘And Taj, and Jean? Do they know you’re leaving? Does anyone?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to ring Taj, but he’s not answering. Will you tell him I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye? And Mel too? Tell them I’ll ring them, and that they can have the plants in the rainforest nursery. And let Jean know the kids aren’t coming back to school.’

  Jake came into the kitchen, looking naked without Dusty by his side. He seemed to have shrunk. He wouldn’t speak, or eat, or cry – he was just a blank thing.

  ‘See ya, champ,’ said Ben, with a final salute.

  Jake watched him leave with dead eyes. Kim knew that look. Her son had crawled back to a place where Dusty was still alive, and she wanted to join him there.

  By three o’clock the possums, wallabies and quolls were rounded up and delivered next door to Mel’s astonished sister. By four o’clock the car was packed and ready to go. Kim did a final check of the house, slipping Scout’s ashes into her pocket before she pulled the back door shut. By five o’clock, they were nearing the coast road turn-off, and speeding straight for Sydney.

  CHAPTER 39

  Taj had been crouching on a rise above Granite Hills homestead since lunchtime, waiting for Ben to leave. When the red LandCruiser started off down the drive, he wasted no time. Moving at a scrambling run, vaulting the post and rails, he made a beeline for the vehicle shed.

  Ben’s old ute, with its remote-mounted spotlight, was parked outside. Taj pulled back the tarp. Just as he’d thought. Ben didn’t believe firearm regulations applied to him. A rifle and boxes of ammo were carelessly stowed in the tray under the tarp. Taj took up the Browning, a classy-looking rifle with a tactical scope. A precision weapon.

  Taj worked quickly, with no idea how much time he had. At least Ben had the decency to leave the gun unloaded. Taj opened the breech, retracted the well-oiled bolt, thumbed bullets into the magazine and slid it home again. He put a log of wood underwater in the deep concrete trough at the cattle yards as a makeshift recovery tank, and shot four rounds into it. Cartridge shells arced to the ground, and he could smell burned cordite.

  Taj picked up the shells. Two of the bullets lay on the bottom, in perfect condition. The others had penetrated the log. He dug them out with a penknife. Mission accomplished. He stowed the rifle back in the ute, and made a swift getaway.

  Back home, Taj set up his seed-identification microscope on the kitchen table. He possessed a good, working knowledge of ballistics, and had matched bullets to poachers’ weapons in Afghanistan. Who’d have thought such knowledge would prove useful in his new country?

  He collected the bullets and cartridges for comparison: one from his test fire, and one that he’d gouged from Dusty’s skull. The calibres matched. He compared the spent cartridges he’d found, and examined their micro-stamps under the microscope. All marked Rem* for Remington Arms Co., the same brand that Ben used. So far, so good.

  He compared the rifling impressions, distinct to each make and model of firearm. Another match. Finally, he painstakingly scrutinised the pattern of striations and scratches on each bullet. These were caused by grooves and imperfections in the barrel. Under the microscope they looked a bit like bar codes, and were individual to each particular rifle. They matched too.

  There was no doubt about it; Ben had shot Dusty.

  Afterwards he examined the bullet he’d taken from the spine of Mel’s pregnant ewe, along with the spent shells he’d found at the scene. The result was also crystal clear. Ben had shot them as well.

  Taj arrived at Journey’s End just on dark. He’d been agonising over how to tell Kim the news. She liked Ben, and so did Jake. She’d formed an attachment, although he didn’t know how deep it ran. It still made no sense. What possible connection could Kim have with such a man? Women were mysterious creatures.

  As he pulled in the gate, a peculiar emptiness crept over him. Something was wrong. Bonnie and Clyde weren’t in the garden. No lights in the house. No car in the drive.

  He pushed his way through the unlockable back door, wandered from room to room. The fridge – empty and off, a tea towel over the door to keep it from closing. To stop the mould.

  Kim was gone.

  The logging, the sheep, Dusty; she had to know. The need to tell her roared inside him like dammed meltwater in spring, seeking release. Where would the truth go, without Kim? What use, to scream it to the mountains?

  When Taj reached Kim on the phone next morning, her voice sounded far away, farther than Sydney, the distance more than geographic.

  No, she hadn’t said goodbye and was sorry. Yes, he should bury Dusty in the garden, maybe under the waratahs. No, she’d changed her mind, and didn’t want to dwell on his death. Yes, she was staying in Sydney. No, she wasn’t coming back.

  Taj ended the call. These things he knew about Ben Steele, these were not things to be shared in phone calls or emails. But what was he to do? He had no idea where to find her. No idea if she’d listen if he did. Taj slammed the wall, filled with wild, impotent anger. He had to calm down; he had to try. Kim must learn the truth, face to face, and Ben must pay. There would be a way.

  CHAPTER 40

  When Kim first arrived at Daisy’s, she could hardly hold up her head. Her weariness ran bone-deep.

  Daisy hugged her. ‘Why not let me look after things for a while? Take it easy.’

  The first two days Kim did just that: sleeping late, rising later, and starting a Tolstoy novel of almost fifteen hundred pages that she’d found on a shelf. Trying not to think about how the possums were getting on, or whether the quolls would bite Nicole, or whether Mel was all right, or how Taj and his dingoes had wrecked everything. She fought a terrible restlessness. When the worries got the best of her, Daisy lent a sympathetic ear. Dear, sweet Daisy. It was a mini re-run of when Connor died.

  Staying with Daisy was a tonic. The house in Holsworthy was modest, but comfortable and not too crowded, although the kids had to bunk in together. It even backed onto a park, a civilised affair of bare-branched poplar and oak trees, and one of those plastic-fantastic playgrounds with lots of rubber and no monkey bars. There was a dog, a portly spaniel with allergies named Oscar. Stu and Grace helped take the kids’ minds off Dusty – when they weren’t at school, that was. And she had Daisy to do the same thing.

  Ben had rung with details of his buyer, a woman named Karen Thompson. She was keen on Journey’s End, but was offering a full fifty thousand dollars less than Kim’s already-low asking price. ‘Draw up the contract,’ Kim said. ‘I want this over with.’

  By the third day, she wasn’t wearing her nerves on the outside of her skin anymore. All this practice must be making her better at grief. At six, when Steve came home from the barracks, Kim helped serve the evening meal of pot roast and vegetables.

  ‘Guess what?’ said Daisy. ‘Steve knows your Taj.’

  Kim stopped dishing out carrots. The sound of Taj’s name sent a quiver right through her. He’d been on her mind more than she cared to admit, distracting her. She kept losing her place in War and Peace, having to reread pages over and over.

  ‘Taj Khan worked with our unit as a translator and cultural adviser,’ said Steve as he carved the meat. ‘Was that bloke ever fearless! He hated the Taliban more than we did. I helped arrange his Australian visa a few years ago under the interpreter immigration program. Connor would have known him too.’

  Kim tried to take in the information. Jake too, was hanging off every one of Steve’s words.

  ‘Dad knew Taj?’ A look of shame crossed his face. Kim felt for him through her own shock.

  What a thing to find out. All this time practically living next door, working with Taj, pumping him for information about Afghanistan, and this connection had existed all along, right under her nose. Trust Daisy to find out more in five minutes than she had in nine months.

  Connor had told her about the Afghani interpreters and the
program to resettle them. ‘They patrol with us, trudge the same stinking, booby-trapped tracks as us. Bleed the same blood. They’re our lifeline, but to the Taliban they’re traitors. We owe them big-time.’ He and his mates had been fiercely loyal to these allies. One member of his unit had been awarded the Victoria Cross for risking his life to rescue a wounded interpreter under enemy fire.

  ‘It’s serendipity, that’s what it is.’ Daisy gave Kim’s arm an affectionate squeeze.

  Kim was quiet during dinner. Afterwards she helped Stuart and Grace do their homework, making her children join in, so they wouldn’t be living in a totally education-free zone.

  After the kids were in bed, Steve excused himself.

  Daisy brought out a bottle of tokay, and poured them both a glass. ‘You look like you could use a drink.’

  ‘I can’t believe it, about Taj, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, I know what you mean, all right.’ Daisy stretched back in the armchair. ‘I can’t believe it either.’

  That tone. Kim cocked her head. ‘What?’

  ‘That you don’t know you’ve got a thing for him. He’s all you talk about. Taj this, Taj that, Taj ruined my life. You’re like a broken record.’ Daisy wore her smuggest I-know-you-better-than-you-know-yourself smile. Kim opened her mouth to defend herself, but no words came.

  CHAPTER 41

  Kim woke to the sound of Oscar’s steady barking, with the sun streaming in the window. A little groggy. All that tokay last night. She sat up in bed, sending her book sliding to the floor. She could hear the murmur of voices. Who on earth was Daisy talking to?

  ‘Come on, lazy-bones.’ Daisy poked her head round the bedroom door. ‘You’ve got visitors. Don’t keep them waiting.’ She cast Kim an appraising glance. ‘And you might want to brush your hair.’

  ‘Who is it?’ she whispered, but Daisy had disappeared.