What bullshit.
A tear rolls off my cheek onto the guest book.
‘Are you okay?’ Nathan asks.
I blink up at Nathan and Tajik.
Tajik forces a smile: ‘We could still go,’ he says. ‘Look at this.’
He unfolds a tourist map that shows one road leading north—and a network of fire trails, walking tracks and old convict routes spreading out in the vast bush all around us. It’d be easy to get lost. If we didn’t have Evan.
‘You guys should go,’ I say.
Nathan shakes his head. Tajik folds up the map.
I nod, glad, grateful again.
‘So does anyone have anything like a plan?’ Nathan asks.
‘I mean we’re not gonna just give up, right?’
Half of me wants to make a last stand. Take as many of them down with us as we can. But killing Minions won’t save us, won’t save Evan, won’t avenge Mum. Only killing Jack will do that. And it’s not like he’s gonna just deliver himself to us.
Unless . . .
I focus on the guest book, eyes flitting over the testimonials.
‘Truly a beautiful spot with a beautiful woman.’—Huw and Linda
‘Here indeed is where we did the deed!’—Steve-O + Skylar
So many other dedications, declarations. They make me think of Jack’s letter. I realise it’s still in my jeans pocket. I pull out what’s left of it. His letter’s a wet blob. The ink has run everywhere. But I don’t need to read it. I remember every word. What he wrote still strikes me as sinister. But it was also . . . real. He felt as romantic about me as the people in the guest book did about their partners. Part of Jack still might. Enough—at least—to want to make sure that no one else has me if he can’t.
My first experience of the Snap was my usually placid dad driven to uncontrollable rage because he knew Stephanie had been with someone else and secretly mocked his masculinity. I need to provoke that same reaction in Jack.
The vacant block landing place. The old tape machine in the antique-store window. The Courthouse as a love nest. Jack’s letter. Evan’s countdown to consciousness. All of it lines up in my mind like it was meant to be. I laugh.
‘Danby?’ Nathan asks. ‘You got an idea?’
I look up at him.
‘The plan,’ I say. ‘You and me—we’re the plan.’
THIRTY
I recite Jack’s letter to Nathan and Tajik. Watch their eyes widen and feel my cheeks go bright red.
‘Did you feel the same way?’ Nathan asks. ‘Not that it’s my business.’
I don’t want to lie. Not when we might be dead soon.
‘I wasn’t sure,’ I say. ‘He had me mixed up pretty good—about Mum, about Evan—and about you.’
Nathan grins. ‘Stabbing a dude in the face. Remind me never to break up with you.’
I don’t laugh. ‘It wasn’t that. The asshole killed my mum. Took control of Evan. He deserves to die. He has to die.’
Nathan and Tajik exchange a look. I must sound psycho. I don’t care if I do.
‘No one’s arguing with that,’ Nathan says, eyes returning to the pulpy letter. ‘But I’m not following. How can we use this?’
‘This might sound crazy,’ I begin, before explaining my idea of how the letter can be made to link up with everything else.
We leave Tajik crouched by the stone wall, rifle covering the valley, whistle around his neck. Evan lies beside him under a blanket, head on a pillow. Beside my little brother is a plastic bottle containing two little lizards we caught. They look pretty placid in their little hothouse. I tell Tajik to keep an eye on them. If they start wriggling around, it might mean that Evan is coming around but pretending to be unconscious.
Nathan and I manoeuvre a trolley we found in a storeroom down the driveway, him holding the handles and pulling back against the weight, me trying to ensure our stacked cargo doesn’t topple off and roll away. At the bridge, we climb into the hatchback and rig up half our load. Then we edge the trolley around the car’s front end and continue into Samsara.
Nathan suggests we should get a note-taking app going on one of the phones or tablets of the dead people around the pub. My argument is that we’ll waste time on devices with drained batteries. He sees my point and trusts me when I say we should go old-school.
‘There,’ I say, pointing at the tape machine in the Antique Antics window.
I take the shovel from the trolley, smash the window and retrieve the chunky silver ‘Executive Talkbook’.
Play, pause, record, rewind, forward buttons: it is a close relation to the vintage Walkman that Mum gave me so I could listen to her mix-tapes. Best of all: it has a speaker on the back. I press stop/eject and let out a whoop when the cassette tray pops open to reveal a tape marked ‘Lecture 15/4’.
Nathan joins me. ‘Can you work it?’
I press play. Nothing happens. I open the battery compartment. Empty—which is good. If there’d been old AAs in there they would’ve leaked and rusted up the terminals.
‘Batteries,’ I say, climbing through the broken window, with Nathan following.
Inside, the joint is a dust trap. Bicycles and ladders hang from chains on the ceiling, musty movie posters peel from walls, shelves heave with dented board games, tacky china figurines and spine-cracked paperbacks. Other things jump out at me from the clutter: kiddie keyboards, remote-control cars, 35 mm flash cameras, personal shavers. What they all have in common is they need batteries. When I’d manned the stall with Mum potential customers always asked the same thing about such gizmos: ‘Does it work?’
She always had fresh batteries so they could see for themselves.
I throw open the desk drawer below the cash register. Bingo—AAs, AAAs, Cs and Ds roll around amid the butterfly clips and chewed pens.
I click two AAs into place and press play.
‘. . . in Book One of De Officiis, Cicero says that living in peace unharmed is the only . . .’
I hit stop and rewind and grin at Nathan.
‘Happy birthday,’ he says, handing me a watch from a cabinet, taking one for himself. ‘We should, y’know, synchronise. Isn’t that what people do at times like this?’
I laugh, click the watch around my wrist. ‘But what time is it?’
‘Let’s call it nine thirty?’ he says.
We wind and set the watches. I look around the store. Wanda Jackson grins at me from a framed vintage poster that announces her as the ‘Fujiyama Mama’. Mum would’ve loved this place. My eyes fall on a stack of old petrol cans by the door. ‘How about those?’ I ask.
‘Perfect,’ Nathan says.
We wheel the trolley into the vacant lot. I get busy digging and burying and spreading steel and stone. Nathan takes a length of garden hose and the petrol tins back to the pub’s car park to see if he can fill them.
Nathan and I are back at the Courthouse by ten. Tajik circles us eagerly. We tell him the gods have smiled on us so far. But he knows that already. If they hadn’t, Jack’s forces would’ve already arrived. The lizards seem asleep in their bottle. Tears still flow from under Evan’s eyelids.
‘You cool to keep watch?’ I ask Tajik.
He nods.
‘Okay, showtime,’ I say to Nathan.
He smiles.
We retreat into an empty guest room, close the door, sit down side by side on the big soft bed. I look at Nathan. He bats his eyelashes at me. We burst out laughing.
‘Awkward,’ he says.
‘A little,’ I agree. ‘But we need to make this work.’
Nathan nods. He knows.
‘Ready?’ I ask.
‘Ready.’
I take a deep breath. Press record on the Talkbook. ‘Seriously, he told me he was a busker,’ I say, hoping I sound unrehearsed. ‘Thank God he didn’t write his own lyrics. I mean, listen to this.’ I rustle a tourist brochure, to make it seem like I’m reading. ‘ “I don’t think of you as the last girl. You’re the only one for me.” ’ I us
e the most sarcastic voice I can.
Nathan laughs. ‘He could’ve got a job doing greeting cards.’
We guffaw. It feels cruel, even now, to taunt Jack like this. But it feels good too. If anyone deserves to feel bad and humiliated it’s that bastard.
I settle. ‘You think we’ll be safe here until dark?’
‘Should be,’ Nathan says. ‘The choppers were back at the crash. It’ll keep them occupied for a while. Even if they work it out, there’s a gazillion miles of bush. We could be anywhere.’
‘How long will Evan stay under?’
‘Spacing out the doses, another three days—long enough. Relax, Danby. We’ve made it. We’ve won.’
‘God,’ I say. ‘God.’
‘What is it?’
I sniffle. ‘Just Tajik. It’s so unfair. I can’t stop thinking about it. To survive everything and just—’ I let out a sob—‘just drown like that.’
‘I guess Afghanis don’t learn to swim,’ Nathan says, voice low and sad.
I start to cry. I don’t need to try. Tears are never far under the surface.
Nathan’s expression melts. ‘Danby,’ he says, hugging me for real. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault except Jack’s.’
I snuffle into his shoulder. ‘I know, I know.’
‘It’s going to be all right,’ Nathan says, nuzzling me. ‘We’ll rest and then we’ll get out of here. You, me and Evan. We can be a family.’
I wipe my tears, smile up at him. ‘You’re sure?’
Nathan nodded. ‘I’m sure.’
He looks like he wants to kiss me. I close the gap and kiss him. Hard. Our plan was to fake this. Put on a little play for the tape. Instead I’m consumed by an urgency to feel something—anything—that’s good. To experience this—lose myself in it—at least once before the end. Because that’s what’s gonna happen. We’ll die soon. But right now we’re full of blood and heat and life. Our tongues swirl. Nathan pushes me back gently. His eyes are wide and his breath is hot
I’m panting. I don’t want to stop. If we’re doing this—loving, living, whatever it is—then we’re not dying.
‘I love you,’ Nathan says. ‘I want you to know that.’
His words—or similar—are in the loose script we worked out.
‘I love you,’ I say, not sure if I’m acting or not. ‘I want you to be my first. Now.’
Nathan’s eyes glitter with confusion. I was never good in school plays. But he believes me now. I believe me too. All that matters is that Jack believes what he’s hearing on the tape.
‘Are you sure?’ he says.
I am.
I think.
I have no idea.
‘Yes,’ I say for the tape. ‘I want you to be my first.’
Our plan was to fake a lot of sex sound effects. Now it’s like we won’t have to. Our eyes lock. Nathan leans in but doesn’t kiss me. His lips brush my ear. ‘Not like this.’ That’s what he whispers. He leans back.
I nod. Look at the tape recorder. ‘I want you more than anything,’ I say. ‘He can’t take that away from us. No matter what happens.’
We lie down beside each other. Hold each other tight. Make noises for the tape.
I check my watch.
Eight minutes of what sounds like sex. Enough time for Jack to get airborne and fly up the valley. I press stop.
‘Ready?’ I say to Nathan.
He nods. ‘Just don’t ask me to stand up.’
I laugh. ‘Okay, here goes.’
I press record.
‘Nathan, stop!’ I yell.
‘What?’
‘Listen!’
‘Oh, shit, is that—?’
‘How did they find us?’
‘Evan’s locked in his room and should still be under.’
‘Quick, dose him again,’ I say.
‘It’s too late.’
‘Get dressed, quick, quick!’
‘How many bullets have we got left?’
‘Not enough.’
‘We’ve got to hide. They might not—’
‘Ssshhh, listen.’
‘It’s going to be all right.’
‘Hide, they might not come up here.’
‘No, they will, they will. I’m so scared.’
‘Ssshhh! Listen!’
We let the tape run another minute, adding ‘Ssshs’ and ‘Be quiets’ and ‘Can you see thems?’
I press stop.
‘We good?’ Nathan asks.
I don’t know what we are. But we’ve done the best we can.
We collect Evan and lay him on a bed. Tajik’s job is to sit by him and watch. It might be minutes, it might be hours, but as soon as he is sure my little brother is stirring, Tajik is to close and lock the door, set the Executive Talkbook in the hall outside and press play. Outside, he’s to blow a K in morse code on the whistle and take up a firing position by the stone wall.
I’m under the caravan, lying in the dirt, mostly hidden behind a rusty wheel with an old cracked tyre, sharing this den with cobwebs and centipedes. My rifle’s aimed through a fringe of dandelions at the centre of the empty block. I glance at the old-style watch Nathan got for me from Antique Antics. It’s 11.40. I’ve been in this musty lair nearly an hour. It might be another hour or two or three before Evan wakes up. But when that happens everything after has to happen in minutes. If it doesn’t we’re dead.
Across the paddock, the tin shed leans precariously. I hope when the time comes it won’t just blow down around Nathan’s ears.
I puff hard enough to detonate a dandelion and send spores off in all directions. I wonder how many will take root. Become plants in their own right.
‘How’s it going?’ I call.
‘Great,’ Nathan says, voice muffled. ‘Just catching up on my reading.’
I laugh into the crook of my elbow. ‘That’s what I was doing.’
‘Anything good?’ Nathan yells.
‘Not really.’ I’ve been reading and re-reading a grimy pamphlet about a feral tree called the Tree of Heaven that’s plagued these parts. Its success is due to its ability to thrive under harsh conditions and regenerate aggressively from seeds and root sprouts. A bigger version of the dandelion I guess. The things you learn. ‘How about you?’
‘Old newspapers in here,’ he replies. ‘Fascinating stuff. Wanna know your stars?’
‘Virgo,’ I call.
‘I remember,’ he replies.
So do I. It was the first joke he made to me. Back in Parramatta when we were trying to figure out what made us Specials. It seems like a lifetime ago. In a way it was.
Nathan shuffles inside the shed. ‘“Two different forces will tug equally on you today,”’ he reads loudly.‘“Deciding which flow to go with will be trickier than ever, especially with a loved one distracting you subtly.”’
Nathan guffaws. ‘What a load of crap.’
I laugh but I can’t help poring over the words.
‘Want to hear mine?’ he calls.
‘Sure.’
‘ “Gemini”, ’ he says.‘“You may feel the strain as you figure out where you—”’
Nathan goes quiet. My heart thuds and my stomach feels like it’s corkscrewing into the dirt beneath me. I can’t hear choppers—or anything else—and Tajik hasn’t given us the signal that Evan’s waking up.
‘Are you all right?’ I hiss.
‘Listen to this,’ he says. ‘“You may feel the strain as you figure out where you really need to be. Let loose, be courageous, strike with conviction for the people or things that mean most to you. Come up with a unique plan of attack.”’
The hairs on my neck stand up. ‘That’s freaky. When’s it from?’
Nathan rustles the pages. ‘Before either of us were born.’
‘Try another one.’
I hear him rummage for another newspaper and flick through pages. ‘Virgo: you feel your good name is the most important asset in your life. You could well be right. Keep your m
orals intact and protect your reputation.’
Nathan snorts. ‘That’s more like it. Typical bullshit. Here’s mine. ‘“Stop with habits that are no good for you. Don’t drink, eat, smoke or sleep too much. Start today and you’ll have a better and healthier life!”’
He cackles. ‘Oh, that’s awesome. If we get out of this I’m so going to do all of that stuff. I may even take up—’
A whistle blows across the valley. Then there’s a short pip.
I check my watch. Eleven forty-five.
THIRTY-ONE
Tajik’s third whistle fades across the valley.
I imagine Evan up there in the bedroom, groggy from the anaesthetic, Jack making sense of his location—and what he hears from another room.
I listen. No choppers. If I’m wrong, if Jack isn’t consumed by blind anger, if he doesn’t care, if he takes his time, if he and his goons come by river or road, we’re dead. The rusty old recreational vehicle above me will be my grave marker.
I glance at the watch. Eleven forty-nine. The tape will be up to some serious smooching by now. But maybe I’m deluded thinking Jack cares enough to fly into an unthinking rage and try to stop me giving away what he thinks belongs to him.
Eleven fifty.
Eleven fifty-one.
I listen. Think I’ve made a miscalculation.
Thup-thup-thup.
Choppers.
Distant—then deafening as they round into the valley.
‘This is it!’ I shout to Nathan.
‘Stay strong,’ he yells back.
There’s so much more I want to say. I want to thank him for being my friend, for having my back, for trying his best. I want to tell him I meant what I said in the bedroom. But there’s no time. There might never be now.
We’re seconds from contact.
Another one of Mum’s journal entries echoes in my head, louder even than the choppers. ‘It’ll be all right in the end—if it’s not all right, then it’s not the end.’
Calmness washes over me.
I don’t peer up into the sky. I don’t gaze across at the shed. I don’t do anything but sight along my assault rifle at my target in the centre of the field.
The Last Shot Page 30
