by Jaye Ford
The outskirts of Sydney were an hour away.
She shook her head. ‘You said Sydney.’
‘We’re making a stop.’
‘Out here? Where?’
He lifted the gun from his waistband, aimed it at her chest. ‘Take the exit, Miranda.’
51
Jax followed a curving stretch of bitumen that took them under the south- and north-bound sections of the motorway and quickly became a narrower by-road – one lane in each direction, bordered by bush and distant mountains. There were small communities out this way, with names she knew from signs on the M1 and trips as a kid: Wisemans Ferry, Peats Ridge, Mooney Mooney. There were also state forests that were densely wooded and isolated.
She wanted to believe they were just making a stop. People had holiday homes out here and huge cruisers moored on the Hawkesbury River.
‘Take this right,’ Hugh said, nodding at an approaching junction.
The Hawkesbury was straight ahead. Fear lifted her foot from the accelerator. In one swift move, he wedged the gun under her arm, shoved the muzzle hard up against a rib. Her lungs froze. She found the pedal, made the turn.
The bush was thicker here, native scrub filling the spaces between stands of gums that came right to the edge of the road. She licked her lips, cleared her throat. ‘Where are we going?’
The bastard didn’t answer, just took the gun from her side and laid it on the seat beside him, hand still firmly around the grip.
Okay, be calm. He just wanted her to follow his orders. She eyed the potholed road and the canopy of towering ghost gums on either side, told herself it wasn’t inconceivable for drugs to be grown or manufactured out here. Hugh was delivering Jax – maybe there was another package that needed to be picked up and delivered.
She tried again. ‘What are we stopping for?’
Eyes forward, just a passenger in a car.
He’d told her he’d let her go if she gave him the phone and he didn’t. He told her they were going to Sydney and they were here. Shit. Shit.
Her chest tightened, fingers tingled. Christ, don’t panic. Think. What if she just stopped the car? Slammed on the brake and made a run for it? He had a gun. He could shoot her before she had the door open. Okay, what about demanding answers? Yeah and he was a liar with a gun. No reason to tell her anything.
Talk to him, Jax. Just fucking talk.
‘If the man in Sydney is worried I’ll tell someone or write something, he doesn’t have to be. I don’t need to be told to forget. It’s already forgotten. Done.’
His expression this time made dread ooze into her bones. She’d hoped for assessment, second thoughts, something she could make an appeal to. But he watched her with intrigue, as though her attempt at persuasion was an interesting development.
She wanted to scream, kick the dash: fury, frustration, desperation. She understood now why Brendan had done it. But she held it inside, figured Hugh might just find it entertaining. Figured it wouldn’t change his mind. His brief phone conversation had ended with, I’ll send confirmation. It was his job, like Brendan had told her. Probably like it had been with Nina. But Hugh was human – he could reason, make a judgement, change his mind, couldn’t he?
And she was still driving. It wasn’t over yet. Zoe needed her to drive all the way home.
‘I was never going to write a story,’ Jax said. ‘It was never about that. I just wanted to know why. Now I know, so that’s it. No more questions.’
Across the car, Hugh finally acknowledged her words with a slow, reproachful tilt of his head. ‘But you had to keep asking, didn’t you?’
‘It won’t go any further.’
‘No, it won’t.’
‘Hugh, please. I –’
‘You fucked it up for yourself, Miranda. You’re just like Nina. You wanted too much.’ He turned back to the windscreen, the side of his mouth turning up just a tad. When he spoke again it wasn’t to her. His voice was low, amused, the punchline to a private joke. ‘Not exactly like her. No cliffs out here.’
Jax turned her face to the windscreen, no need for conjecture or what-ifs. She had the answer she needed.
There were no tears to blur her vision as she focused on the road ahead. She was glad of that. Easier to see the bend approaching fast and the three wide-bodied gums standing like barrier posts in its elbow. The speedo was at eighty k’s. She had no idea if that was enough, just tightened her fists around the wheel and braced her arms.
Time slowed. Her heart thumped. Gravel sprayed the chassis like applause. The rear tyres snaked sideways. The front end thumped the dirt, flung her forward. She kept her foot on the accelerator and floored it.
Jax had seen crash test dummies in slow-mo. Airbags exploding in faces, heads snapped back, bodies thrust forwards and upwards, limbs flailing like rag dolls. It must have been what happened but it didn’t feel like that.
There was a stunning, deafening screech. A sharp suck of breath in her chest as her seatbelt locked. An explosion in her face as the airbag deployed. And …
She had no idea how long it took for her throttled brain matter to start receiving messages. The first one she got was light. A glaring, burning red behind her closed eyelids. She registered a high-pitched hum like the whine of a jet engine filling her body, vibrating in her bones, shuddering in her head. Then the nerves that had been reeling in shock shook it off, took a look around and found pain.
Jax gulped at the air, coughed, moaned. It hurt her chest to breathe. Her face and neck burned. A shoulder felt … dislodged. She tried to open her eyes. There was something wrong with one of them. Blinking, leaving the right one shut, she saw the wide girth of a ghost gum beyond her shattered windscreen. It was a little left of centre, surrounded by the crumpled green metal of her bonnet.
Awareness grasped for focus. White airbag hung limp from her steering wheel. Hot engine smell. Heart thumping. Then she had her first real thought: she needed a phone. Her phone.
It took long seconds for her left eye to trawl across the dashboard and down to the recess where it was kept. Except it wasn’t there. It must have fallen. When …
Oh, God, Hugh.
She wanted to swing her face to the passenger seat, wasn’t sure she could move. Straining to listen, she heard nothing more than her own shallow breaths. No engine rumbling, no flames crackling, no groaning. Had he gone? Was he sitting beside her with the gun and a smile, waiting for her to turn? She inched her face to the left.
He was upright, his head tilted back, wedged between the headrest and the passenger window. Eyes closed, mouth slack and open, a thick smear of blood down the front of his shirt from a wound she couldn’t see. Was he dead? Had she killed him? She tried to sit forward but dizziness made her vision swim. Reaching out a hand, wincing as she leaned, she pressed fingers to his throat.
A pulse tapped back.
Not dead. Unconscious.
Come on, Jax. Move. He could wake up.
She unclipped her seatbelt, raised a hand to the door, pulled the handle and gasped at the pain that sliced through her shoulder. A metallic screech then hot, humid, engine-smelling air wafted in. She kicked, tumbled out and was on the ground, coughing, dry-retching, curling into a ball.
The phone. Get the phone.
On hands and knees, she crawled across gravel to the car, searched the driver’s foot well, found her phone under the seat. She wanted to take it and get the hell away but Hugh had a gun. She was dazed, possibly concussed – not enough to leave him with a weapon.
Clambering in, trying not to touch him, she hunted around his legs, his seat, his body, hoping he didn’t grab her by the throat. She checked the rear seats and floor. Nothing. Maybe it fell the other way, was lodged between him and the door.
She kept a hand on the car as she worked her way around the outside, one eye closed, dizziness making her stumble and weave. The passenger side of the chassis was crumpled all the way to the rear panel. She hauled on the handle at the front, the door didn’t
budge. She looked inside, saw Hugh’s face. A neat, straight gash on his cheek – clean skin above it, the streaks of a red waterfall below.
She reared back, caught sight of herself in the window, and a hand flew to her face. It was slippery with blood spreading from her hairline; thick and clotting in the misshapen swelling of her eye, wet on her cheek, chin, throat. She held her palm in front of her face, breath growing short and sharp, head going fuzzy.
Don’t look. Just go.
Stumbling back, staggering to the road, she pulled the phone from her pocket, trembling so hard she had to hold it with both hands. She found the On button, squatted on the tarmac as she waited for it to power up, legs unable to hold her. Head ringing, copper on her lips, in her mouth. She left a smear of blood as she swiped the screen. A bunch of missed calls: Tilda, Deanne, Kate. Two from Aiden. He hadn’t given up. It took three goes to start his number dialling.
He answered before it rang. ‘Jax, where are you?’ It was urgent, measured, sounded like he was in a car.
‘I … I …’ Jax sank to her butt on the hot road, woozy, sucking at the air so hard she could barely speak. ‘I drove my car into a tree.’
There was a pause, something tight in his voice. ‘Where are you?’
Did he think …? ‘I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I … I planned it.’
‘Do you know where you are?’
She looked at the car, at the trajectory, the shattered rear window, and started to cry. ‘It’s Hugh Talbotson.’
‘I’ve been looking for you. Where are you?’
‘He’s in the car but I couldn’t find the gun. There’s blood and my eye won’t work.’ Christ, she couldn’t find the right answers and the sobbing hurt her chest.
‘Listen to me, Jax.’ It wasn’t nice and soothing. Aiden’s voice was hard, a directive. ‘I’ll find you but you have to help. What can you see?’
She looked back along the road, alarm firing like needles. Nothing but fucking trees. No, wait, that’s not what he meant. He thought she was in shock. Maybe she was. Her thoughts were flapping about like fish out of water. She licked her lips, tasted blood, dirt, sweat. ‘I took the Peats Ridge exit.’
A pause. ‘You were on the motorway?’
‘He said we were going to Sydney but it was a fucking lie. He was going to … Christ, he was …’
‘Jax, hold on.’
She listened to muffled words, giddiness filling her head like a fog. She sat on the tarmac, ignored the heat burning through her trousers, kept her eyes on the car where the rear window used to be. Hugh’s skull was a silhouette between the headrest and the door.
‘Do you know where you are now, Jax?’
‘I went under the motorway lanes then turned right. I’m in the bush. There’s a road with no lines in the centre.’
She heard sirens start up, glanced along the road – realised they were on his end of the phone. He was coming. And she was crying again. Sobbing and hitching and gasping at the pain in her chest.
‘Jax, you’re doing great. Really great. I’m going to find you, okay? Keep talking to me. Can you do that?’
She pressed her lips together, forced it down. ‘Yes.’
‘Are you in the car, Jax?’
‘No. I got out.’ She looked back. ‘Hugh’s still there. He’s unconscious.’
‘Are you shot?’
Had the gun gone off? She patted herself down. Blood was wet on her shirt, dripping on the road. ‘No. My head’s bleeding.’
‘Can you walk?’
‘Yes. My legs are good.’
‘Yeah, Jax, your legs are great. You need to use them, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ve got a chopper in the air. Can you see open ground?’
‘Wait.’ She pushed to her feet, turned a slow circle, eyes searching the dark shade through the trees, ears only now registering the wall of noise from cicadas. ‘I think …’ There were bright pinpricks of light off to the right. ‘Hold on.’ She checked the car for Hugh’s silhouette, started towards the bend, saw a break in the line of bush further down the road. ‘There’s something up ahead. A field, maybe.’
‘Can you get there?’
She touched her hairline, felt the soft, jagged edge of an open wound, the tender mountain of swelling around her eye, the dizziness in her head, the sharp pain in her ribs. ‘It’s a long way.’ Six hundred metres, maybe more. A long way just now. She tipped her face to the canopy of gums overhead: the helicopter wouldn’t see her here. ‘I can try.’
‘Good. The chopper is on its way. Start now, Jax.’
She did, walking as she spoke. ‘Tell them to hurry.’ A sound made her stop, turn. ‘Oh, God.’
‘Jax? What is it?’
It was Hugh Talbotson. Out of the car, bent at the middle, holding on to the driver’s door with one hand. The gun in the other.
52
The blood from the gash in Hugh’s face looked like it’d been painted in one long stroke of a wide brush, cheek to thigh. He was unsteady and swaying, his head moving one way then the other. Not lolling uncontrollably but searching the road, the bush. Searching for Jax. It was his job. Brendan had said he wouldn’t give up.
‘Oh shit.’ Move, Jax. She willed her legs to work, pushed them to a lurching gait.
‘What’s going on?’ The panic in Aiden’s voice matched her own.
She swung a glance over her shoulder, fear rocketing through her. Hugh was standing, braced against the car, gun arm raised, the pistol pointed at her.
The roar of a shot echoed into the bush. Jax screamed, stumbled, almost fell, kept going. Phone to her face, she yelled, ‘Find me, Aiden. I don’t want to die out here.’ She didn’t wait for an answer. Just shoved it in her pocket and ran.
Her vision swam, she couldn’t keep to a straight line and there was something really wrong in her chest. A knife lodged in her ribs when she tried to fill her lungs.
Half breaths, she told herself. Or you’ll pass out. And then you’re dead, Jax.
She pulled in through her nose, out through her mouth, two foot-beats per breath. She felt the oxygen reach her brain, clear some of the fog. Come on, her legs were fine – it was everything above them that hurt.
Chancing another glimpse over a shoulder, swaying as she did, she saw Hugh on the road. He was concussed: staggering, lurching, but moving towards her down the bitumen, the gun in a fist at his side. He’d missed the first time. How long before his aim improved?
Forget the pain, Miranda. It’s the four-hundred, pain comes with the territory. Her first coach had told her that, the one at school who’d said she didn’t have the puff for the fifteen-hundred. She didn’t have to run that far today. Six-hundred, maybe a little more. She could do it. She had to.
For Zoe.
And the chopper.
Another glance behind. Hugh was moving better. A loping, limping pace, the hand without the gun clutched to his ribs. Injured but on top of it. He was a soldier – maybe he’d been there before.
She set her eyes on the clearing ahead, the bright sunlight, the promise of green pasture, the tunnel of mottled shade she had to travel to get there. She thought of Nick in his last moments, running, sweating, breathing hard. Was he running from someone too? She didn’t want to die the same way.
Work it, Jax, Nick would tell her now. Find your rhythm. A different rhythm, she coached herself. Short breaths, short stride. She heard his voice in her head. We’re not doing the four-hundred this morning, babe. Take it easy. Relax. Enjoy it. He had a point. She shook out her hands, loosened her shoulders.
A roar filled the bush like a pulse of energy.
She screamed, ducked. Was Hugh shooting because he couldn’t go on, or was she an easy target in the centre of the road? She cut right to the gravel, hoping the dense bush at her side might make her more difficult to pick out.
A swift look at Hugh. The gap between them had opened up when he stopped to fire. Now he was moving again and it looked like hard work.
A hundred metres ahead of him, Jax was sucking at the air like she was suffocating, dripping blood on the road, but adrenaline had kicked in and her legs were working from memory. She just had to hold on.
The phone was ringing in her pocket. Not now, Aiden. The clearing was close, the sunshine beyond the trees blazing gold and green. She searched the bush to her right, saw patches of light stretching way back into the scrub as it climbed gently upwards. A pasture, maybe. Cattle or sheep and a farmhouse. Please.
Another shot rang out as she neared the break in the trees. She didn’t scream this time, didn’t have the air in her lungs for it. The bullet missed but she hurt anyway. Chest, throat, head, shoulder. She wanted to stop and gasp, fall to the ground and hold the stitch that was splitting her open.
Kiss Zoe for me, Nick said in her head. It’s what he’d always said in those late-night phone calls when he was away. Jax had kissed their daughter for him every night for the past year.
Why don’t you kiss her yourself, Nick? Why aren’t you at home looking after her while someone tries to kill me? Why the fuck didn’t you call me?
She clenched her teeth. Nick went to his grave with the answers to those questions. Jax wasn’t going to die without them.
And she wasn’t dying with Kate’s answers locked in her head. She might be the only one who had them. No point having goddamn answers if she didn’t tell anyone.
Run, Jax. Just run.
Up ahead, in the sunlight, she could make out uneven, grassy terrain. Not as wide as the distance she’d run, more dense bush on its other side, a dirt trail leading in off the bitumen. Then she was out of the shadows and under a searing sun, standing at the bottom corner of a rectangular paddock. No crops or cattle, no farmhouse, either. Just a rutted track that led to a barn.
The scene looked like something a photographer might shoot for an outback calendar. High blue sky, deep green forest, a rusting tin roof and weathered, wooden planks nestled into the long grass of a dry summer field. Its picturesque quality didn’t impress her. The farm shed did. It wasn’t an abandoned relic; it was the kind used to store tools and machinery – something a cop in a chopper could identify.
