The House At Flynn's Crossing

by Elisabeth Rose

  Barely drawing breath, he lay still, waiting for the agony to subside. He could move his right hand now but the shoulder must be damaged, because every movement sent shock waves up his arm and neck. The remains of a deflated airbag lay on his lap and another draped over his shoulder. He peered through the broken windscreen trying to assess where the car lay, how precarious its position on the slope. Where exactly was he?

  He forced his battered brain to remember. Driving somewhere. Going to Brisbane. Antonia. Late, in a hurry. Drizzling rain. Roos on the road. How far along? Through Whiterock, over the ridge … then what? Nothing.

  Antonia. Beautiful, beautiful Antonia. Had to get there for her.

  The short cut wound over the ridges. Not much traffic, quicker if you knew the road. He did. He was late for Antonia. Couldn’t let her down.

  Phone. He groped at the centre console between the front seats. Not there. Could be anywhere. Wait for help. Better to stay in the car. Too wet outside.

  He drew a shuddery painful breath. How long?

  ***

  Antonia kissed the sleepy twins goodnight. Thank goodness they’d stopped to eat when they did, because this pair were asleep most of the way home and could barely stumble from the car to their bedroom.

  She phoned Simon but he didn’t answer so, annoyed, she left a message. Had he found Flynn? Had he tried? She made herself tea and sat at the kitchen table with the phone in front of her. Who could she ask? Something had happened to him, she knew with a deep certainty. He was hurt somewhere, unable to contact her.

  She found the local police number and rang it. She knew the constable, Pat. He’d been into the cafe a few times. A friendly man heading for retirement but happy to finish his career taking care of the local area. His main job seemed to be issuing traffic violations, sorting out the odd punch-up and chasing one or other of the Kurrajong Cardews when they decided to try their luck with a bit of theft or vandalism in Flynn’s Crossing and surrounds.

  ‘Flynn’s Crossing Police, Constable Symonds.’

  ‘It’s Antonia, Pat.’

  ‘Hello, love, how are you? Something wrong?’

  ‘Yes, well, no I hope not. I was wondering if you know where Flynn is.’

  ‘At home or at the pub, I’d say. Why?’

  The words poured out in a torrent. ‘I’ve been away for a couple of days and Flynn was supposed to pick me and the twins up at the Brisbane airport today at about twenty past four but he didn’t turn up and I can’t contact him. His phone isn’t on. I’m worried he might have had an accident and be hurt somewhere.’

  ‘Mmm. Have you checked his house? He could have been taken sick.’

  ‘No, I’ve only just got home. I hired a car and drove. The twins are asleep. I can’t go out.’

  ‘All right, love. I’ll drop over to his place and call in at the pub on my way. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Thank you. He wouldn’t just forget to come and he’d call if he couldn’t get there. I know he would. Simon saw him at two at that protest and said he was in a hurry to go somewhere. That would have been to collect us.’

  ‘I agree. Do you know which road he was taking?’

  ‘Not for sure. He took the main road out when he drove us on Sunday. Through Kurrajong and then across to the M1. I came back the same way.’

  ‘No sign of a breakdown or an accident?’

  ‘No.’ But would she have seen anything?

  ‘I haven’t been notified of any accidents in the area but I’ll put out an alert just in case. If the police were involved they’d have his car registration information, and if they couldn’t contact next of kin, they’d contact me.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll get onto it. Goodnight, love. Try not to worry. Flynn’s tough as an old boot.’

  ‘Okay, yes. Thanks.’ He was being kind but he was wrong. Flynn was flesh and blood. He could be hurt and he could die. No one was immune to pain and suffering. She was about to disconnect when a question popped into her head. ‘Did Simon phone you earlier?’

  ‘No. I’ll keep in touch. Sit tight.’

  The phone went dead in her ear. Why hadn’t Simon called Pat? That was ages ago, about seven-thirty, now it was after nine. He said he’d phone the police and the hospital and she’d bet he’d done neither. Flynn could be lying somewhere injured and in shock. It was raining too. He could be out there all night. If Simon had called earlier Pat would have had several hours of daylight to search in, now it was dark and wet.

  Who were his next of kin? Did he have anyone besides parents in Perth or Fremantle or wherever they were? She knew nothing about his personal life. Who would be listed on his phone? The councillors. Margie was very much in favour of the resort development. They’d hatched the plan together. Apparently she knew Baldessin personally and it was her idea to ask him. So said the grapevine.

  A flip through the phone book and Antonia dialled. Margie knew nothing but she was immediately concerned.

  ‘That’s not like Flynn,’ she said decisively. ‘He must be in trouble. I’ll send Bernie over to his house.’

  ‘No, don’t. Constable Pat’s going,’ said Antonia. ‘I called him when I got home a little while ago.’

  ‘Good thinking. We’ll stop by anyway, and if he’s not there at least we can take a drive along the Whiterock road and see if we see anything. He might have taken that route as quickest.’

  ‘Now?’ Rain lashed against the kitchen window and pounded on the tin roof.

  ‘Yes. If he’s had an accident he could be stranded out there. There’s no reception when you’re on that road and not much traffic. Hell of a night to be stuck.’

  ‘Gosh. Be careful in the rain.’

  ‘I’ll call you. Bye.’

  Hell of a night all right. Margie had refrained from saying what she knew they both feared. Flynn was injured, too badly to seek help, and unless he was found he’d be spending the night outdoors in the rain and a rapidly dropping temperature. Winter was mild in this area compared to Sydney, but the mountain areas were becoming chilly at night now. Please let him be in the car and have some shelter. Exposure could be lethal to someone seriously hurt.

  Antonia picked up her mug of tea with a shaky hand and put it down. Cold. She got up to make more, then wandered into the living room clutching the warm mug between her hands, trying to ward off the sudden chill enveloping her. Don’t think the worst. There were other reasons. Maybe he was at the pub. Maybe the BMW had broken down. Maybe he’d become involved in the protest and forgotten about her.

  But she knew that last bit was wrong. He’d left the protest and Margie would know if he’d been involved in urgent council business. It had to have been for the airport pick up.

  He hadn’t stayed in Brisbane with his friends, or friend, longer than planned either because he was here on Tuesday.

  ‘Where are you?’ she whispered. If Flynn wasn’t here in Flynn’s Crossing, her life would suddenly have a huge gap in it. A Flynn-shaped hole she hadn’t realised he’d been filling. Slowly but surely he’d insinuated himself into her life before she realised he was doing it. He’d ignored all her protests in that breezy way he had—not ignored exactly, kind of sidestepped with nifty footwork so that she found herself agreeing with him after all.

  But it wasn’t just her, everyone would miss him. Even those people he annoyed. They’d realise he was a driving force in this town and without his energy and enthusiasm the place would slowly wither away. The same way she would.

  Flynn had brought her alive, dragged her into the light, forced her to make decisions and respected her choices. More than that, he’d expected and allowed her to make those decisions where Simon tried to stifle her, unintentionally of course, but the effect was the same. He wanted to bend her will to his using love as the lever.

  Flynn didn’t. He cared for her and was very fond of the twins. But was it love? There was physical attraction, she knew, but after their frank conversation and her declaration of her life as a no-man�
�s-land he was very careful not to make her feel uncomfortable in his presence. A few light kisses on the cheek was it. The way her Dad and Frank did when they greeted her or said goodbye.

  But kisses from Flynn had a hugely different effect. His lips sizzled on her cheek, sending hot blood racing in her veins. And when he stole a second kiss at the airport she could barely breathe. Did he realise? Did he care? Maybe he was more than happy to relegate her to the friends basket with the likes of Margie and Cath, and Donna at the pub.

  She didn’t want to be relegated.

  ‘I want to be special,’ she said aloud. ‘I want to be special to Flynn.’ Tears leaked out and fell as fast as the rain outside.

  ***

  A car engine. Flynn roused himself from the stupor of pain and listened. Definitely a car, changing gears as it climbed the ridge. Thank God. Water bounced off leaves to drip relentlessly through the broken windscreen and onto the dashboard, where it flowed in a constant chilly stream onto his legs and down to pool on the floor. Branches scraped desiccated fingers along the roof.

  The engine grew louder, carrying clearly over the patter of rain. High above him. How high? How far down the slope was he? Panic burst in his chest. Would they see the BMW? Was there a trail where he’d crashed off the road? Would it be visible in this sodden blackness? If they weren’t looking for him they could drive straight on, oblivious.

  He stretched out a hand and felt for the dashboard to turn on the lights. Couldn’t reach the switch with his right hand, the pain was too intense in the shoulder and his left was just as useless because leaning across felt as though a sword was driving through his chest. Broken ribs, for sure. He didn’t want to puncture a lung. He collapsed back, straining his ears for telltale sounds that the car had stopped. The engine ground on, louder then fading as it turned and headed away round the next bend.

  Gone.

  With the despair came uncontrollable shivering. He had nothing to cover himself. No jacket, no rug. He closed his eyes and sank into the darkness. Images and thoughts wheeled in slow motion through his head, dancing on the pain racking his body.

  Was this how it ended? Was this his punishment for the other life lost in a car crash all those years ago? To die alone and in pain, suffering? Years ago. Yesterday. A life for a life. Two lives. His life wasn’t worth two lives.

  Antonia’s was. Antonia was pure gold. Diamonds and pearls. She was worth all the treasure in the world. She came towards him smiling. Her fingers caressed his cheek, her soft lips pressed on his. He kissed her and drew strength and warmth from her body. She murmured words he couldn’t hear, spoke softer still and drew away. ‘Stay,’ he cried but his voice was silent. No sound came from his throat. She turned and the smile turned into a grimace. Disgust.

  ‘Murderer,’ she said.

  He called her name but she was gone.

  He had nothing. He was nothing. A broken and useless carcass. Good for nothing. Nothing.

  A heavy thud on the roof jerked him to consciousness. Scuffling in the branches outside made every hair on his head stand on end.

  ‘Help,’ he croaked.

  The scuffling stopped.

  ‘Help.’

  Silence.

  Had he slept? Antonia had kissed him, so soft and lovely … He was alone. The pain had backed off. A silvery sliver slanted across the bonnet of the car. Moonlight. Eyes staring wide in the blackness, he could make out lighter patches of night sky through the windscreen. The rain had stopped.

  Antonia … beautiful wondrous girl, Antonia. Strolling into his life and blinding him, Blindsiding him. Innocent and lovely. Adored her instantly.

  If he survived this he’d tell her... And if they were still on speaking terms after she knew, he’d ask her, beg her if necessary, to give him a chance.

  A chance is a fine thing. Fine. Fine line. Fine line between pleasure and pain and this was pain. No pleasure here. Not for Flynn of Flynn’s Crossing.

  If she said no, he might well die. Right here. Die. But he couldn’t—not without asking her. Not without finding out. He had to stay alive.

  He had things to do.

  Questions to ask.

  Flynn forced himself to straighten, ignoring the sudden pain in his shoulder and leg as he levered himself into a different angle. Using the broken steering wheel as a prop, he dragged his left leg back and pushed up, propelling his body agonisingly slowly towards the passenger seat on the higher side of the car. If he could reach the door … but the centre console was in the way, wide and bulky. Difficult even for an able-bodied person, impossible for him.

  He fell back panting, lying awkwardly across the seats, teeth gritted against the agony, eyes clamped shut.

  Darkness overwhelmed him.

  ***

  Pat didn’t phone but Margie called at eleven-thirty.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘But it’s impossible to see anything properly at night, and with the rain. Pat’s sending people out first thing in the morning. He said Flynn hasn’t been admitted to any hospitals.’

  ‘Thanks for calling, Margie, I’m … I’ve been …’ A sniff betrayed her.

  ‘I know, Antonia,’ she said gently. ‘Go to bed. There’s nothing you can do at the moment. And it’s thanks to you we even know he’s missing.’

  Antonia went to bed but worry gnawed relentlessly, snatching her from the brink of sleep countless times. Now she knew how her parents felt when she disappeared from their lives. Devastating, crippling anxiety, robbing her of breath, swamping her brain, leaving her a brittle shell of herself. If she transferred this feeling of loss to one of the twins, she’d be incapable of coherent thought, go mad with worry. Now she understood when people said it was the not knowing that was worst. The imagining and the helplessness, the frustration, the incapacity to do anything but wait.

  But her dad had never given up on her, neither had the police. She wouldn’t give up on Flynn. On that thought, she drifted into a restless sleep to jerk awake with the screeching of parrots flying overhead. Pale dawn light crept through the blind.

  Flynn! Was he found? Antonia sprang out of bed then stood swaying for a moment, gathering herself as her body reacted to the sudden vertical activity after insufficient sleep. A quarter to five. The twins would sleep until at least seven.

  Showered and dressed, she sat in the kitchen and spooned in cereal and banana, tasting nothing. When could she call Pat? The search should be well underway by now. Who would go? Locals. The volunteer firefighters probably, from the areas along both routes. They knew the terrain, knew the danger spots, had the equipment to handle emergencies.

  She dumped the bowl in the sink then walked out to stand on the front verandah. The silver rental car sparkled in the sunlight. That had to be returned to an agency in Kurrajong by this evening. She’d have to ask Simon to help this afternoon after work. He could follow in her car with the twins. There wasn’t anyone else she could comfortably call on to help out. Only Flynn and he was... where?

  Movement next door caught her eye. Her elusive neighbour was out snipping at the sunburst of flowers along his front fence.

  Antonia sprinted down the steps, across her front yard and along the footpath. He looked up, startled.

  ‘Good morning, Josef,’ she said. ‘I’m Antonia, I’ve been wanting to say hello but I keep missing you.’

  ‘G’day.’ He returned his attention to the flowers.

  ‘Your flowers are lovely.’

  ‘They’re all right.’

  She searched her brain for something to say and came up blank. He wasn’t helping. He edged away slowly, trimming dead leaves and flowers, ignoring her. Antonia gave up. She didn’t have the energy to persist this morning. She turned slowly and went home with the urge to sob welling in her throat.

  The twins were still fast asleep, exhausted after yesterday’s adventure. All in all they’d coped well. She scooped up dirty clothes and loaded the washing machine. Still only six am. Her early burst of energy was wearing off. She yawn
ed and began making more tea.

  Someone tapped on the door. Constable Pat with news? Heart in mouth, she ran to open it.

  But it was Josef, holding a large bunch of the flowers she’d admired. She only recognised pink carnations and white stocks along with some big bright daisy-looking things.

  ‘These are for you,’ he said and thrust them towards her. ‘For the shortbread.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you very much.’ She smiled but a tear escaped and she dashed it away.

  He peered at her, frowning. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘No … well, yes. Flynn’s missing.’ Another couple of tears trickled after the first. ‘I’m worried.’

  ‘What do you mean missing?’

  Antonia gave a brief summary then said, ‘Would you like to come in? I was making a cup of tea.’

  ‘All right.’

  He tottered after her, pausing to inspect the changes she’d made to the furniture arrangement in the living room.

  ‘Still got Jean’s couch,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I don’t have much of my own so I was pleased some of her things were left here.’

  He grunted. ‘Thought you’d get rid of the old stuff. Want new.’

  ‘No. I like some of her things to be here. Sort of a link to the past, you know? She lived here for so long I can feel she loved this house. I think that was why I loved it too. Right away.’

  ‘I reckon you and Jean would have got on real well,’ he said.

  ‘You and she did?’

  ‘Yeah, we were mates. After my Greta died … Jean made the best scones I’ve ever eaten.’

  ‘I like cooking. I’ll have to have a go at scones.’

  ‘Your shortbread was pretty good.’ He chuckled and she smiled.

  ‘Thanks. Come into the kitchen and I’ll find a vase. There was some glassware and crockery left here too. I found a box in one of the rooms.’

  She opened a cupboard and reached for a big cut glass vase.