Her face was afire with pain, but adrenaline drove her to her feet. She ran to the window and saw Kurt go under the house and come out with his rifle, which he shoved in the back of the ute. From the driver’s seat, he glared at her through the windscreen, so angry she could almost see sparks flying from his skin. His lips formed words: I’m going to kill him. She had no doubt that he would. In a spray of gravel, he revved the ute and roared from the yard, spitting stones at the fence.
For a moment Miki was paralysed, but she knew she had to move fast to get help. First, though, she had to cover the damage Kurt had inflicted.
The mirror revealed a puffy-faced stranger with a bloodshot eye and a fat lip. Her tongue had three cuts where her teeth had gone in, and she had a mark on her cheek, a crimson splodge like a rose. It was as if a bear had attacked her—a big brown bear with rough paws. A raw sob rasped her throat, and one of her ears buzzed like bees in the apple blossoms. There was no time for self-pity. She wound a scarf around her face so only her eyes were showing, then grabbed a knife and dug the nail from the windowsill—no need to be careful anymore. She tipped the recycling from the crate, leaving cans all over the floor, then she dropped it from the window without bothering about the string. As she clambered out, her face was pulsing with pain.
It had started to rain outside, and she was thankful nobody was around as she raced up the street. She had no plan except to go to Wendy who knew about Kurt and had offered to help. But Miki pounded on Wendy’s door to no answer. Next door, Bonnie was leaping at the fence. As the rain thickened, Miki hovered on the doorstep, stressing about what to do, desperately hoping Wendy would arrive. Max’s dog Rosie came from behind the house and snuffled Miki with a wet nose. She pushed the dog away firmly—her mind was elsewhere. She couldn’t suppress thoughts of Kurt speeding up the forest road and taking the turnoff to the tree. She could picture him bouncing along the track, stopping at the tree, pulling out his rifle and loading it. She’d worried before about the risk of him losing control with that gun. And now, enraged and shamed over his belief a man had tampered with her, he wouldn’t be rational.
She decided she couldn’t wait any longer. She would go to the visitor centre, and if Geraldine wasn’t there she would head straight to the police.
Her face throbbed as she hurried downhill, and by the time she opened the front door to the centre she was soaked through with rain. Geraldine was at the desk with a book in her hands. She looked up, surprised. ‘Is that you, Miki? Take your scarf off. Don’t worry about being wet.’
Miki quickly shrugged off her coat and unravelled the scarf.
Geraldine’s features contracted. ‘My God! What’s he done to you?’
‘We need to call the police,’ Miki said. ‘Kurt’s gone after Leon.’ Her voice was husky and her speech slurred because of the cuts in her tongue.
Geraldine grabbed the phone, dialled a number and passed the handset over the desk. Miki had never used a telephone before. They hadn’t had one on the farm, and since then their only phone was Kurt’s mobile.
Fergus answered her call and asked how he could help, and she explained the situation, amazed the words came out calmly, as if someone else was speaking, someone who knew what they were doing. She described to Fergus the exact location of the big tree, then read out coordinates from a map that Geraldine spread in front of her. It was almost like a dream; Miki felt as if she was flying up near the ceiling looking down on herself with her ruined, bruised face.
‘Thank you,’ Fergus said. ‘I’ll get onto it immediately. I’ll call the special operations group and they’ll have someone up there soon.’
Miki handed the phone back to Geraldine, whose eyes overflowed with pity as she hung up the phone. ‘What are you going to do?’ the older woman said. ‘You can’t go back home.’
Tears tracked warm down Miki’s sore cheeks, stinging the skin. Geraldine pushed past the counter and laid a gentle arm around her shoulders. This simple gesture broke Miki open. The great well of her suffering burst from her in a paroxysm of sobs.
‘You poor thing,’ Geraldine said. ‘You need to be free of that man.’
‘I’m worried about Leon.’
‘Me too.’
Geraldine hugged Miki in a way she hadn’t been hugged since she was a child, and it felt good, a release. Geraldine was soft but strong. She was warm and loyal, a friend to lean on.
‘Now,’ Geraldine said, slowly withdrawing. ‘We need to get you somewhere safe so you can calm down and get cleaned up.’ She gave Miki an umbrella and key and directions to her house. ‘You can sit in the kitchen and make a cup of tea. I’ll be home as soon as I can, but you must promise not to leave, because then I won’t know where you are. Have a shower and warm up, turn the heater on. The drying rack’s in the laundry. Put your clothes by the heater and use my dressing-gown.’
Miki hesitated. ‘There won’t be anyone home?’
‘I live on my own.’
Miki took the key and wrapped the scarf around her face again before heading out into the weather. The wind tried to flip the umbrella inside out, so she pointed it into the rain and hurried down the street.
Geraldine’s house was a little blue weatherboard with white window frames and a line of rosebushes along the footpath. A playground stood across the road near a grassy drain: two swings and a slide, deserted because all the children were at school. Around the back of the house, Miki collapsed the umbrella and unlocked the door. It was strange entering Geraldine’s space; she felt like an intruder spying on someone else’s life.
In the laundry, she shed her wet shoes and paired them up near the washing machine, then peeled off her coat and hung it on the clothes rack. The pain was almost unbearable as she removed the scarf, which had glued itself to her face in the rain. For a moment, she thought she would faint, but slowly the burn subsided to a dull throb.
It was quiet inside except for the sound of rain on the roof. The house felt calm, though Miki did not. She was cold, shivering, her clothes wet, her head filled with worry about Leon and Kurt. She lingered at the laundry door, not quite bold enough to go in. Somehow it seemed wrong to impose, even though she’d been given permission. She’d never been in anyone else’s house before. But she couldn’t stand there all day. After stripping down to her underpants, she carried the clothes rack through to the lounge room, tiptoeing on the cream-coloured carpet, then set the rack in front of the gas heater and switched it on.
Geraldine had said to use her dressing-gown, and now Miki went to find it, creeping tentatively through the house. Everything was neat and fresh-smelling, like washing powder and soap. The kitchen was small and tidy; no dishes on the sink, everything wiped and put away, just like at home. On the table, the newspaper was folded as if it hadn’t been read, and even the fruit in the bowl was neat.
Miki slunk through to the bedroom. Geraldine had a double bed, and on the bedside table sat a reading lamp, a packet of mints and a pair of reading glasses on top of a book. The bed was neatly made with a folded mohair blanket on it, and Geraldine’s slippers were on the floor peeping from under the bedspread. The dressing-gown hung from a hook behind the door—it was pale pink with red roses like the ones in the garden. Shivering, Miki put it on. The bathroom was old but clean, like at the shop, but with a nice deep bath. Miki took a towel from the linen press in the hallway and showered to warm up as Geraldine had instructed. She kept her head bowed so she wouldn’t have to look at her face in the mirror. Everything felt swollen and wrong. If she saw her reflection she might cry and the tears would sting the grazed skin.
Afterwards, wrapped in the dressing-gown, Miki sat in the lounge room facing the street. She was edgy, waiting for something to happen, but she wouldn’t know anything until Geraldine came home, and who knew when that would be?
The rain was still falling, and the day felt interminably long even though the small crystal clock on the mantelpiece said it was only ten o’clock. She couldn’t control the kaleidoscope of h
er mind and knew she’d go mad if she didn’t distract herself. Geraldine’s bookshelf was by the sliding door into the hallway. Miki went to inspect it—maybe books could save her once more.
The books were carefully lined up from tallest to smallest. The top shelf had spines all the same. Among them she saw Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre and Tess of the D’Urbervilles: her favourite, familiar titles. But there were so many others: Emma, Pride and Prejudice, Persuasion, Les Misérables, The Picture of Dorian Grey, Great Expectations, The Mayor of Casterbridge, Anna Karenina, The Portrait of a Lady, Madame Bovary, Frankenstein. A whole world of books she might borrow one day. On the lower shelves, Geraldine had a collection of newer books. Miki scanned the titles and longed to read them.
Even in her fear and pain, she felt something opening inside her. Her life had changed. It had started with finding and taking the key. And from the moment she’d launched out of the kitchen window this afternoon, it had altered irrevocably again.
There was no going back.
43
Leon was hot-footing it down the trail from the plantation when he heard a loud crack. Everything had gone quiet before the storm hit. He could feel thickness in the air, an eerie silence, and the sky was brooding, lightning sparking somewhere in the distance. The thunder was closer now. But something wasn’t quite right.
Another crack. Bark sprayed from a nearby tree, and instinct hurled him to the ground. It wasn’t thunder—it was a gunshot!
He knew immediately it was Kurt. Who else would it be? Back at the shop, Kurt had asked where he was going, and stupidly Leon had told him. He had no idea why the guy had followed him here. But now he had discovered Kurt’s secret, there was plenty of reason for Miki’s brother to track him down and shoot him—of that Leon was sure.
He squatted in the damp scrub, listening with every cell in his body. Rain began to patter softly on leaves, and a breeze shivered in the canopy. Birds chirped. Bark rustled. Leon couldn’t tell where Kurt was, but he knew he had to move or he would end up in a grave beside that buried money.
Staying low, he crawled across-slope away from the track. The understorey was a rubbish heap, and everything was out to get him. Sword grass snagged his skin. Twigs crackled. He manoeuvred carefully. Kurt would be waiting on the trail. One loud snap and the man would know where to find him.
Leon couldn’t believe this was happening: it was simultaneously terrifying and surreal. He was an animal cowering in the undergrowth and Kurt was the hunter.
What had triggered Kurt to chase him? People had been visiting this part of the forest for weeks now without Kurt going after them, so it didn’t make sense. Something else must have happened.
Leon puffed as he struggled through scrub, and the forest breathed too. Then the rain eased and stillness settled again. He was aware of every sound, every tiny movement, every nuance of the bush. The peppery scent of the shrubs. The dense smell of wet earth. The misty light. The touch of leaves on his cheeks. He saw how cloud had settled over the forest like a coat. He heard thunder rumble.
When his knee snapped a stick, the noise radiated through the quietness. A loud crash downslope told him Kurt was coming. Instinct commanded him to run, but sudden movements would give him away. He fought to calm himself so he could think. There must be eighty metres between them, so he had some time.
A shot rang out and slapped into a tree somewhere. Not very close. Kurt was just guessing; he didn’t know Leon’s location. Stooping low, Leon crabbed over a slippery log—then skidded and fell, vegetation collapsing beneath him. He paused and held his breath, hoping Kurt hadn’t heard. The crashing stopped: Kurt must be listening too.
On hands and knees Leon went on, trying to increase his distance from Kurt. Soon the way opened a little and, semi-crouching, he ran. The terrain was awkward and uneven, and he worried about making noise as he shoved through the scrub. He needed to find somewhere to hide.
He came to a thicket of grass and wriggled in. Fern fronds waved overhead, and through them he could see the dull sky. He groped for his phone to check for reception, but the screen was smashed and the phone wouldn’t work—it was useless. He slipped it back into his pocket. Squatting, he waited, listening for Kurt.
Now that he’d stopped moving, his mind started racing. Thoughts and images flashed at him like fireworks. He saw himself lying dead on the forest floor, eyes glazed, a bullet hole in his head. He saw his mother’s face as she phoned him again and again, to no answer. His father sitting shrivelled and yellow in bed. Grandpa in his lonely room staring at a door that never opened. Bonnie running circles in the yard, racing along the fence then sitting quietly watching the road. Food rotting in his fridge. The Parks staff waiting for him to return this afternoon; Terry helping to organise a search party.
Life wasn’t meant to be this: fleeing in fear from a predator. It was meant to be so much more than what Leon had achieved so far in his twenty-six years. It wasn’t meant to be stolen.
His breathing slowed and his mind refocused. All around he could hear the sounds of the forest. He was like a rabbit, ears and eyes tuned to detect the approach of his hunter. Each crackle of bushes could be Kurt. Were those footfalls—that steady, even crunching? Should he flee?
He couldn’t bear to wait any longer. Worming out from his hiding place, he scraped free of ferns and took off, quicker this time and panicky, stumbling across the contour and then down, making too much noise, forcing through banks of vegetation, wattle flowers dehiscing yellow dust as he shoved past. If he could somehow get to the main track, he could sprint to the Toyota. But which way to go? His sense of direction was skewed. All the trees looked the same.
He came to an area of tall regrowth trees and bashed his way through, turning uphill to confuse Kurt. Sticks and litter crackled underfoot, but he couldn’t afford to go slower.
At a recently logged site, he stopped to listen. The open space ahead with no trees was a risk—he had to reach cover. He sprinted downhill, leaping over debris, dirt and piles of dead branches, smashing through tree crowns and bark mounds. A stick caught between his legs and he fell, grovelling, stabbing a twig into his palm. Adrenaline launched him back to his feet and sent him racing towards a patch of bushes lower down where he could go to ground and catch breath.
As he reached the edge of the clearing, a loud crack cut the air and dirt splattered near his feet. Kurt was shooting at him again. Leon leaped into the air, crashing over a log and skewering his shin on a fallen branch as he dived into the scrub while more shots pinged around.
Kurt’s voice echoed across the logged coupe. ‘You fucked my sister, you bastard. Now I’m going to fuck you.’
In the cover, Leon squatted and gasped for air while bullets smacked into trees. What the hell was Kurt on about? He hadn’t touched Miki. This guy was so crazy he didn’t know his own sister. Leon tried to think what to do next. He was wet with sweat and fear, and he could smell himself: sharp and rank. He considered his position. He was mud-caked and covered in cuts, a blood-soaked sleeve from a gashed arm, a shredded shin. The reality of his situation almost drew a sob from him. He had to stay calm or he would break.
Through the leaves, he could now see Kurt out in the clearing, studying the bush with the fierce, clear-eyed focus of a predator. He was in a red coat, easy to see, and Leon was thankful that his khaki uniform provided some camouflage. He inhaled and held still. Kurt was scanning for minutiae; one small sound or movement would give him away.
The drizzle was changing to rain: intermittent fat droplets splashing on leaves. Leon knew the downpour was coming. When Kurt started striding downhill, he moved too, slipping from the thicket and weaving through trees, ducking under tree ferns, past the tipped-up end of a fallen tree whose buttressed roots made a wall he could hide behind.
Working his way across the contour, he came to a gully where myrtle grew shady and dark. It was boggy, and he slithered down a steep slope to step through a stream, soaking his boots in black mud. The other bank wa
s strewn with debris, and he stumbled across it. His foot punched through a rotten log, caught in a crack—and he fell, slopping into the mud and twisting his leg.
Something gave way in his knee, a sharp pain, and it took him a while to kick free. He imagined Kurt creeping towards him and aiming the gun. Then he heard a noise nearby: Kurt just across the gully, coming downhill.
Leon burrowed through ferns, releasing a shower of spores onto his head. His leg wouldn’t support his weight properly, but he hobbled on—if he couldn’t run, he was done. Hiding behind ferns, he waited to let Kurt pass, alert to the sound of footsteps crunching through undergrowth, flashes of red coat only twenty metres away, the long shaft of the rifle, the grim set of Kurt’s mouth. Leon froze and held his breath.
When Kurt had gone past, he moved on again, weaving downhill. Tall trees gave way to rainforest where it was softer and quieter: myrtle and ferns, sticky expanses of mud. Moisture made everything slick, and he skidded on a log and slammed to the ground, winded. As he tried to drag in air, his head was enveloped in dangerous lightness. If he fainted now, Kurt would shoot him and leave him to rot. No one would find him.
He forced himself up on astronaut’s legs, unhinged from gravity. Then he saw Kurt again and lowered himself slowly into the mud. Kurt had crossed the gully and was stalking uphill, scanning as he went. Leon lay along a log, then thought twice about being caught and the difficulty of getting up to run. But Kurt was so close it was risky to move.
He could see Kurt’s legs as he came by. What if Kurt bent down and looked under the log? Should he wait for that moment, or should he do something to defend himself now? He could knock Kurt down and try to wrest the gun from him. But if he hit Kurt, he had to do it properly.
Leon’s mind had never been clearer. Now was the time.
Lashing out with his feet, he kicked Kurt hard and it was like hitting a tree. The man went down, and Leon scrambled out, looking for the rifle. It was on the ground beyond Kurt, who was facedown in the mud. Leon knew he couldn’t get there first, and then Kurt rolled over, snarling as he scrabbled for the gun.
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