Without a Doubt

by Fleur McDonald

  The first shower after he’d been out mustering was almost as good as the first taste of beer or the first kiss with Margs. He smiled and gave himself a little rub as he thought about her.

  He was the only one of the team with a woman and he was proud of that. The other blokes didn’t seem to be able to keep them the way George had Margs. There were always women that came and went. Bill had had one at the pub the other month, but she hadn’t hung around long after she’d heard they were going bush again.

  George liked to think the others couldn’t keep their women satisfied the way he could. After all, Margs could leave any time she wanted to, but she was always still here when he came home. And she was always hanging for sex. For him.

  He heard the door open and shut. She’d come for his clothes.

  ‘You clean in there yet?’

  The shower curtain was pulled back and there stood Margs, her dirty blonde hair hanging over her shoulders, a smile on her face. Her body was curvaceous, just the way he liked his women, and her voluminous breasts were nearly at eye level. Waiting to be taken into his mouth.

  ‘Nah, I think my back needs washing,’ he said to her, handing her the soap.

  ‘I’m meeting Bill and Chris at the pub,’ George told Margs as he dried himself with a scratchy towel. He rubbed it hard over his hair and then down his back. Glancing at himself in the mirror, he decided he wasn’t in bad nick for a fifty-seven-year-old. His body was thin and wiry, kept fit through all the motorbike riding and buggy driving. You couldn’t be a bull catcher and not be fit. He ran his finger over the deep scar on his lower abdomen. He’d been gored by a bull. The accident had been his own fault. Not concentrating. He’d been too hot and had felt sick and the bull had come out of nowhere.

  Bulldust had saved his life; he’d been close enough to ride over and shoot the bull and pull George to safety. But the scrubber had taken a little while to die. He’d been an angry one-tonne mass of muscle and had charged at Bulldust, blood flowing from the wound in his head. He charged again at the tree and at George.

  By then Bill had arrived and Chris in the chopper. Chris had managed to keep the bull out of the way with the skids of the helicopter while the rest of them had loaded George up onto a makeshift stretcher on the back of a ute and driven him to town. Surgery and a few weeks in hospital and he was right as rain.

  Now he had a war story to tell every time someone saw him with his shirt off.

  Bulldust had been hurt too, and his hospital stay had been longer. Something about the horn grazing his liver.

  ‘I’ll leave your tea in the oven,’ Margs said, stretching her arms above her head. She did that when she was trying to entice George for another round of love making. He’d told her once he liked the way it made her breasts lift and tightened her stomach and bum.

  He reached over and patted her arse before pulling her close, his rough hands roaming her body. ‘Not now, sweetheart. But later.’

  She pouted. ‘You’re no fun.’

  ‘You weren’t saying that five minutes ago.’

  Margs grinned and gave him a smacking kiss. ‘Go to the pub. Wash that dirt out of your throat. I’ll see you when you get back.’

  Ten minutes later George was walking out the front door and on his way to the pub five blocks away. He’d learned the hard way not to drink and drive. Five years ago some young copper out to make a name for himself had pulled over fifteen cars as they left the pub one Saturday night. Fifteen fellas without licences for twelve months and fifteen very pissed off wives and girlfriends.

  He hurried along the pavement, keen for the first taste of an ale and the coolness of the pub. Conversation with blokes he hadn’t seen in a while. Along with his own team. They all got on well together, but it was a relief when the muster was finished. Living in close quarters and working with the same people week after week, you ran out things to talk about and the tall stories that had once seemed hilarious, well, when you’d heard them fifty times over, they weren’t so funny any more.

  The pub came into view and he quickened his steps. The heat engulfed him. Strange, he thought. Never noticed it as bad out in the bush. But when he was in town, sometimes he felt as if he were sitting in a pot of bubbling curry, the burning air infiltrating every part of his body.

  As he pushed open the door to the pub a humid blast of air hit his face. Even the air conditioner was having trouble keeping cool today. A few people looked around to see who had entered but he didn’t recognise any of the faces. Except for the bartender.

  ‘Mac,’ George nodded and ordered a beer.

  ‘George. Been out and about?’ Mac selected a dewy glass and held it under the tap.

  George almost salivated at the sight of the amber liquid. ‘Busy, busy,’ he answered evasively.

  ‘Should keep you off the streets then.’ He put the beer in front of George and picked through the change that was now lying on the bar.

  ‘You buyin’, George? Beauty. I’ll have one of them.’

  George turned to see Bill standing next to him. He was freshly showered and shaved, wearing a clean pair of shorts and shirt, looking every bit the townie. The only things that gave him away as a musterer were his hands. They were cracked and beaten and, in a couple of spots, bruised.

  ‘Feel human?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure do.’ He took the beer that was offered and drained the glass in two gulps. ‘Ah, hit the spot, eh, Mac?’

  ‘Looks like it did.’ Mac refilled the glasses and put them down on the bar.

  ‘Always get a thirst after a muster,’ Bill said.

  George’s beer froze halfway to his mouth. Bill shouldn’t have said that. No one should know they’d been mustering. It was all right to talk about real musters, but they hadn’t had one of them for three weeks. If someone worked out they were mustering when they shouldn’t be, questions might get asked. Bulldust had always flogged into them that they were to keep their mouths shut and say nothing. He hoped Mac wouldn’t notice.

  As it was, Mac was called away to serve another customer and Chris arrived.

  ‘Almost didn’t recognise you without all the dust,’ Chris said as he sat down next to them.

  ‘It was a good shower,’ George answered, raising his glass to the chopper pilot.

  ‘How’s Margs?’

  ‘She’s good. How’s your crew?’

  Chris’s ‘crew’ was a menagerie of dogs, horses, pigs and chooks that he kept on a few acres on the other side of town. He was a collector of animals who needed help.

  ‘All good. The Kid did a good job looking after them.’

  ‘The Kid’, George knew, was a Year 12 boy who fed and watered the animals and made sure they were all healthy and well while Chris was out bush.

  George nodded.

  Mac was back. ‘I hear that Boyd’s block is for sale. Jacko was in here yesterday saying he’s putting it on the market at the end of the year.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Chris asked.

  ‘G’day, Bill, what are you doing here? I thought you were out bush until next week.’

  George looked over to see who was speaking and saw Bill’s brother, Charlie. Bill slapped him on the back, ordered another beer and moved down the bar a bit.

  Frowning, George tried to hear what they were saying and concentrate on Mac at the same time.

  ‘Selling walk-in walk-out, so you guys won’t get a mustering job there.’ That was Mac.

  ‘Did you end up where you thought you would?’ That was Charlie.

  ‘Yeah.’ Bill. ‘It was busy. Got a heap of calves, ranging from six months old to maybe a year and a half. They were in good nick. Turned out to be a couple of loads. Pay day!’

  George’s heart sank. Shit. He glanced at Chris and saw the grim look on his face.

  Chapter 7

  Bill stumbled out of the pub six hours later. It had been a big session. After the beer he’d gone on to whiskey and dry—now that was a refreshing drink on a hot day—then George had bought him a c
ouple of vodkas.

  Damn, now he had to find his way home. Charlie had left long before him. Only stayed for a couple of beers.

  ‘Piker,’ Bill had called as his brother had said goodnight.

  ‘The missus will be pissed if she knows I’m at the boozer with you. Self-preservation, mate.’

  ‘Pussy-whipped, that’s what he is,’ Bill muttered to himself as he stumbled over the kerb.

  Looking around he got his bearings and started to walk towards his house. Four streets over and to the left. The night sky wasn’t as clear in here as it was out bush, and though he could still see the stars, the streetlights dulled their beauty. It was nice to have a night in town, though, he thought to himself. Just one night. A hot shower, few beers with the boys and a comfy bed.

  Would be nice to share it with someone, but that wasn’t going to happen tonight. Bill always looked out for someone who would go home with him, but rarely was there a woman in the pub who was interested. He’d forgotten how to talk to women anyway. Years in the stock camp had seen to that. Sometimes he had trouble talking to his own mother!

  Must go see her tomorrow, Bill thought. He stumbled over the small stones on the sidewalk and decided it would be safer to walk on the road.

  There was a noise behind him; somehow it registered through his foggy brain and he stopped. Scanning his surrounds, he couldn’t work out what it was.

  ‘Hello?’ he called. ‘Anyone there?’

  That was the trouble with town. People everywhere. At least out bush you only had to worry about dingos and pigs. Oh, and the odd scrubber bull that might take a fancy to you.

  As he looked around a movement caught his eye. His hand went to his hip, where normally he’d have a pistol for protection. But he was in town and it wasn’t there.

  ‘Hello?’

  Fear started to trickle through him. That was the trouble when you knew you were doing something wrong. You always thought the worst. He’d been far enough away that George and Chris wouldn’t have heard him talking to Charlie, he was sure.

  God help him if Bulldust ever found out he’d been yapping. He never spoke of the cattle duffing to anyone else, but his brother needed to know where he was in case their elderly mum had a turn. She’d had a few lately; the doc said they were mini strokes. They’d upset him. Being in his fifties, he was lucky to have his mother around. He was close to her and wasn’t looking forward to the day she passed on.

  When the doctor had told them that, Bill had looked at Charlie, trying to understand what had been said: these were small strokes but they would likely lead up to a larger one at some time. His mum wasn’t invincible. Bill would never forget how small and frail she looked in that hospital bed. Since then, he’d always been worried he’d never get to say goodbye.

  It’d been three months ago when he’d had the conversation with Charlie.

  ‘I can’t tell you what I do,’ he’d said, ‘but there are times I’m gonna be away and you’re not going to be able to get hold of me.’

  Charlie had been confused. ‘You go mustering at the back of bum-fuck. I know that. Just send me a message and let me know which station you’re on. I’ll always be able to get a message through. You know what the bush telegraph is like around here. I only need to know what station. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.’

  ‘Look, there are other times that I go places I can’t tell you where I am. Reckon I might get a satellite phone so you can ring me if you need.’

  ‘And where are you going to get that sort of money? Got any idea how expensive they are?’

  ‘Small price to pay if it means I get back to see Mum when she’s dying.’

  Charlie had stared at him for a long time before asking, ‘What are you mixed up in?’

  ‘Don’t ask me that again,’ Bill had answered.

  Over time, Charlie had worked it out. He’d called around when Bill had just arrived home from a ‘trip away’ and had seen him covered in red dirt. Streaks down his face and fresh bruises on his legs from the bike riding and trees he’d come up close and personal with.

  ‘You’re dirty,’ he’d said.

  ‘Filthy,’ Bill had agreed. ‘I’m going for a shower.’

  ‘No, that’s not what I meant. You’re stealing cattle, aren’t you?’

  ‘What the hell are you on about?’

  ‘You’ve been gone for three days—not on a muster according to you—and yet here you are, turning up looking exactly like that’s where you’ve been.’

  Bill knew he wasn’t the smartest tool in the shed, but he was a good tall storyteller. Still, that day, standing in front of his brother, he’d known he couldn’t tell him a lie. They were blood and once his mum had gone, there would be no one else. He didn’t have kids, or aunts or uncles or cousins. Charlie was everything.

  He’d taken a step towards Charlie and put his finger in his face. ‘If you ever say a fucking word …’

  ‘You’re playing with fire.’

  Bill had turned away and Charlie had walked down the steps of the house and got in his car. He’d pulled away from the kerb, but then stopped and reversed back, winding the window down on the passenger’s side.

  ‘Mum would be distraught.’

  Bill had shrugged. ‘He owns me,’ he’d said.

  That had been the last they’d spoken of it until a few days ago, when he’d told Charlie he thought he was going out to Kildell Holdings and he’d let him know when he was back.

  ‘Stop imagining things,’ he told himself now as he stared at the spot where there had been movement.

  A white cat came out of the darkness and shot across the road, straight in front of Bill, then up over the fence of another house. In the distance a dog barked.

  Bill started to relax.

  He could hear his mum saying, ‘Now, William, that’s the trouble if you do something wrong—you’re always waiting to be caught. If you’ve got a clear conscience then you can sleep easy at night and you’re never waiting to be found out.’

  The musters weren’t as exhilarating as they had been when Bulldust had first brought him into the team. He was older now, and each time was just that bit harder on his body. Then there was the money—he’d done everything he wanted to do. Last year he’d made a trip to Brisbane to watch a State of Origin match, and the year before he’d driven to Darwin just to see what the town looked like. Neither of those trips had made a dent in the money he had in the bank and he didn’t want to go anywhere else. There was no family to give the money to other than Charlie, so what the hell was he putting himself through this for?

  ‘I’d like to get out,’ he whispered to his mother as he stumbled down the road. ‘I wish I knew how.’

  Bill had admitted to himself the last time he went away that he was sick of the secrecy, the fear and anxiety that went with the job. Every time they started an illegal muster, there was a nervous energy among the group until they’d finished, but what nobody knew about Bill was that every morning, before the sun had come up, he took himself for walk, far away from the camp. When he was sure no one could hear him, he’d vomit and let his hands shake and body sweat until he’d got the fear and stress out of his system. Because he was so frightened of getting caught and his mum finding out.

  His heart rate had slowed now; it was a cat that had scared him, not Bulldust stepping out of the darkness to give him a flogging because he’d spoken out of turn. Anyway, even if George and Chris had heard him speaking to Charlie, they wouldn’t dob him in. They were good blokes.

  A set of lights rounded the corner onto the street and drove towards him. Bill squinted towards the pavement and, using a light pole to help him, got back onto the sidewalk. No point in being hit by a car when there was still work to be done.

  Bill heard the car’s engine change and realised it was slowing down. The agitation he had been feeling before flared into his chest and throat. Walking even closer to the fence and staying in as much light as he could, he tried to hurry, to get to the safety of his
home. He could lock all the doors then and not come out until tomorrow.

  ‘Billy, mate, what are you doing out this late?’ The friendly face of First Class Constable Joe Ross smiled out at him. ‘Big night, huh?’

  ‘I’m walking home, Joe, not driving,’ Bill answered, hoping the dread wasn’t showing on his face. He found a smile. ‘You must be pleased about that?’

  ‘Course I am! Do you want a lift? I can run you home.’

  ‘Nah, mate. I’m only a block away. All good. Cheers.’

  ‘Be safe.’ Joe gave a wave and continued on with his patrol.

  Feeling more sober than he had all night, Bill quickened his pace and concentrated on getting home. Out here in the middle of the town he felt very exposed. Give him the bush any day.

  Five minutes later he bounded up the stairs of his house and slid the key into the lock. It took him three tries. Almost falling inside, he slammed the door shut and leaned against it, letting out a breath, his eyes closed.

  ‘What the fuck have you done, Bill?’

  Bill would’ve known that voice anywhere.

  Chapter 8

  Dave was up before daylight. He wanted to get to the office and speak to the SES team leader and get the latest update.

  Gently he kissed Melinda goodbye. She didn’t stir.

  He looked in Bec’s cot and saw her lying on her back, thumb in her mouth and eyes tightly shut. He hoped she’d stay like that for a while, because Melinda could really use the rest. Maybe she was acting the way she was because she was tired.

  Letting himself out into the morning air, he looked over at the pinks and reds beginning to stain the sky. A couple of deep breaths later and he realised the air was humid and oppressive this morning. Maybe there would be thunderstorms today. He hadn’t seen the weather forecast for a while.

  Melinda had switched the TV off after the news headlines were finished so they could eat tea in peace. Of course the conversation about her parents staying had been brought up again just before they were about to go to bed and Dave had known that whatever he said, other than ‘Yes! Let them come and stay in our home’, would get him into a world of trouble. So that was what he’d said. He’d deal with the fallout later.